When I was in high school, I dreamed up these characters I’ve kept with me for almost 15 years. They were colorful characters inspired by guys and girls in local bands I looked up to, each one with their own unique backstory. There was Alex, the sort of fish-out-of-water heir to a tire company. There was Charlie, the Moog synthesizer-playing cheerleader with a ostomy bag. There was Kit, a Lebanese emo teen who was basically three mental illnesses dressed up in skinny jeans. And so many more who became good friends to me this past decade.
As of writing this blog post, I’ve finally written the second arc of the story. And it feels good, like I’m finally accomplishing something. But in a way, it feels almost empty.
What’s the use of writing a story if no one reads it?
I’ll admit I’m not the best at self-promotion. If I was, I’d probably be a much bigger writer and musician. I’d say I don’t know how to put myself out there, but I think it runs deeper than that. I’m scared of putting myself and my work out there, because doing that opens up room for judgement, and I don’t handle that well.
The only time I dealt with massive amounts of hate online, it was from right-wing asshats who hate me for being queer, which fucking sucks. But I feel like if someone hated me for my work, as opposed to who I am as a person, that honestly feels worse. I can’t change who I am — that’s a problem with the haters. But to hate the things I lovingly created, that I put time and heart into, that really stings. A lot.
But that’s the price of fame, right? I want people to fall in love with my characters and become as invested in the story as me. If I want my story to get “out there” and gain a following, I’m going to have to be vulnerable, as difficult as that may be. I don’t want my story to be forgotten to time.
I may never be the next great creator, but I want to make a name for myself.
JESSA JOYCE 