Why I Self Published my Book Be Surf: A Surfer's Brief Manual for Living

We all entered contests when we were kids, I think, at least most of us. Inherent in those contests and competitions was the process of being judged, being evaluated. We often got numerical scores which told us if we did well or not, and even if we felt we had done very well FOR US, some old guy with gray hair who’d been judging gymnastics since the era of Nadia Comaneci, could tell us we did very poorly indeed.

But when it comes to my writing, I don’t want someone else to decide if I get to release my words into the world, and how. I don’t want to hold my breath and wait for the score.

There were many reasons why self publishing (aka independent publishing) was the path I chose when I released my book Be Surf and why it’s the path I plan to continue down for my future projects.

The primary one I’ve already alluded to: I’ve got things to say, and I don’t want someone else to determine if/when/how I have the right to say them. I have very little tolerance for feeling controlled or subdued in any way. I would have broken out of the barn every night if born a horse, and the idea of a committee judging my work and potentially blocking my path is anathema. It doesn’t work for me. It works lovely for so many others—thank God as it’s the main way I’ve encountered so many of the books I love—but it does not work for me.

Alongside that, I am an extremely impatient wild boar when it comes to doing something I want to do. With self publishing, if I wanted to release a book tomorrow (or like 72 hours), I could. The fact that with Be Surf there was nothing in my way for that, save a few formalities as I went through the uploading process, was amazing. And let’s be real—when it comes to our dreams (and writing has always been my dream), the fewer things cluttering our path and giving us a reason to make excuses like “I really should be putting away the laundry rather than writing”, the better. I began writing Be Surf in February or March 2020 and I published it end of August 2020.

Just to belabor this point even further: The idea of the traditional publishing cycle made me want to take a nap. I thought about the fact that I could work for a year or more to get a traditional deal, then work another year or more on the manuscript and I just couldn’t bear the thought.

Moreover (thank you, Merri Weinberg for teaching us all of the best transitions in AP English), I’ve always wanted to do things my way. It’s not necessarily better, but it’s mine. I feel on the outside I have always presented as a rule follower but the truth is, when it comes to the important stuff, I’ve always wanted to make my own rules. I have a father and a mother who abided their own ideas and I’m over the moon for that.

Take all this and add more transparency with sales and the feeling I can promote it in ways that feel authentic to me, and I thank the universe daily that this is the path I find myself on.

Additional resources:

If you’ve ever thought about writing a book but, like me, the thought of traditional publishing overwhelmed you, I suggest the following two books:

Joanne Penn, Successful Self-Publishing: How To Self-Publish An Ebook, Print Book And Audiobook

and

Helen Sedwick, Self-Publisher’s Legal Handbook

Elizabeth Gilbert, Big Magic: Creating Living beyond Fear

Steven Pressfield, Turning Pro: Tap your Inner Power and Create your Life’s Work

First Step to Forgiveness

I work with a holistic health coach and this week, she suggested I pick a topic that I felt I had a lot to say about, and start writing consistently about it.

She named a few suggestions but the one that jumped out at me immediately was forgiveness.

“Forgiveness,” I said. “That’s the one.”

After my mother took her life, I slithered and wiggled around through life like a mud bug for a long time.

I wanted to be Anywhere Else By Inside of This Skin.

The thought of all the terrible things I’d said to my mother—the thought of of all the venom spewed in teenage angst, years before she died, the thought of all the times I’d lied to her, put her last in terms of plans. That, coupled with the fact that I’d chosen to step back over the last couple years of her mental illness—had opted out of being there in a sense—these things corroded my heart.

And I came to believe, in no conscious way but in a deeprooted, invisible way, I simply came to believe it that I was no good. That there was no goodness inside of me and that I was at the core no good.

Do you know what it’s like to feel no good?

That feeling of wanting to shake out of yourself like a robe, that feeling of wanting to obliterate all sentient thoughts and feelings by any means necessary so they can’t haunt you?

That is suffering. And for me, it came from my own self—the narratives I was writing in my head, the awful words that truth or lie, I was repeating to myself, quickly eroding my sense of self worth.

It took me a long time to recognize that I was missing forgiveness—that a lack of forgiving myself was the thing that was ruining my life.

I felt despair that there was no undoing the awful things I had done and said to my mother before she died. She was gone—her pulverized bones and flesh a part of the ocean we’d swirled her ashes in and her spirit Somewhere Else.

There was no second chance.

After a few years of this gray, heavy, dark despair—after a few years of mud crawling my way through life, of sinking like a stone—one day I finally wondered: Is this really what I’m committing to?

Hm.

This is a very long life.

Am I really going to spend it committed to misery, hating myself?

This feels…a little…like…no fun at all?

I recall I was on the Green line train in Boston, ascending from the underground Kenmore stop to Commonwealth Ave and suddenly there was light all around me.

Perhaps, I thought, I could try a different way.

And the path to forgiveness opened up, like a secret trail in a mess of brambles I hadn’t seen was there. And it was a very very long path but I had begun.

Permission Slip for Being and Making

I have felt conflicted for a long time about the fact that I like to write a lot of different things and equally as conflicted about that fact that I feel, at times, I have two voices in my writing. To the point of the former—sometimes I like to write about cosmos and beauty, sunlight and air. In those moments, I feel there’s a voice that’s ethereal, quiet, true, innocent in a way. To the point of the latter, there are times I like to write about the most mundane and absurd situations, with deep irreverence. And I forgot to mention I love, along with non fiction, to write fiction, children’s stories, poetry and more.

And there’s been this deeprooted fear that if I were to own all of that—if I were to say hey I do all these things and hey I think there’s two people inside of me, each taking turns at the mic—well, I feel like You wouldn’t make sense of me and You’d be disoriented. My voice wouldn’t be cohesive, my brand fractured, my bookshelf dizzying and no one would understand Me.

And I’m very tired about worrying about it.

I must call a few things out at this point.

1) Nobody—literally nobody—has ever given me any reason to think this. No one once has ever said, “Sara. I’m confused. Over here, you’re talking like Cindy Luhu about the clouds, rain and birds, and over here, you’re talking like a truck driver about losing your mind waiting in line at the post office. Does not compute.” This is a big story that I dreamt up some time long ago and decided to let burden my heart and my path.

What I’ve realized is this—I’m not giving you enough credit and I’m sure as hell not giving me enough credit either. We don’t begrudge our favorite actors—their definitions of themselves a mile long “actor, singer, dancer, producer, writer, oboeist, orchid farmer”—for this, nor do we begrudge our crazy uncle who cooks bread, gardens, grows fruit trees, works in insurance takes photos (read: actually that’s my dad). When you meet someone at a dinner party (remember those?) and they say “I really like to read, but I also like to skydive” you don’t say “No. Sorry, you get one thing.” But that’s what I’ve been thinking! I only get “one thing” so I better figure it out and cast the rest out.

So here’s my commitment to giving you more credit. Here’s my commitment to releasing the fear that you can’t handle it, this phenomenon that Elizabeth Gilbert describes in such a playful way in her book Big Magic: Creative Living Beyond Fear:

“I think we can all hold two mutually contradictory ideas at the same time without our heads exploding.”

2) The idea that I’m responsible for, or can change, what people think of my writing is actually hilarious. This is hubris to the core. It’s also a completely unnecessary worry. While we all want Cousin Sue to love the gift we gave her for Christmas, once we pick it out, wrap it and lovingly hand it over, our work is done. There is no more responsibility and there can be no convincing Cousin Sue that “Really! I can see your face, you look skeptical, but you’re going to LOVE this tank of newts!” if she doesn’t like the tank of newts you got her. The writer’s responsibility is to make the work, release it and move on. Carl Richards wrote about this with precision a few years ago in an article for the NYTimes. Releasing yourself from worrying about both whether your readers like it OR they hate it with fire—releasing yourself from that fear is freedom.

3) I’ve done a lot of hiding over the years with my writing, which is, at the core, who I am. I’ve done a LOT of writing in my closet, slithering around like Gollum and only showing a part of thatwritingakame outward. That is also very tiresome. It’s like living in a house made of all windows but trying to only let the world see you in your party dress. No one sleeps in their party dress! No one makes tomato sauce in their party dress! This too, feels like an antiquated practice, that must be released and discarded. To extend the metaphor, this is the part where I declare: Along with my party dress, I like to wear a big cowboy hat and boots with spurs; on Tuesdays I wear boas and pleather and tube tops. And now you know everything.

4) Lastly—you find your people. Life just has a way. Some people’s heads MIGHT explode when you say you like to sail and you also like to make small soldier figurines. They’re not your people and that’s ok. You find your people the way water molecules are attracted to one another; you recognize them and suddenly you’re moving towards one another. There is room for everyone.

So, this epistle is my permission slip for writing what I want and being who I am, absolving myself from worrying about that, and trusting my lovely readers and humans can handle it. Those who can’t are still lovely humans and I’m just not their cup of tea.

I’ve been carrying this hilarious worry around like a big boulder that, even when I set it down for a brief moment, I plunked it squarely in my path to where I’m trying to go. Have you ever carried something like that, and then set it down for good? Then released it and you are so light you’ve grown wings? That’s what we’re doing here, people. Marianne Williamson said it well: As we’re liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others. (Read the whole beautiful thing here, and walk on air the rest of the day).

This is my permission slip to stop worrying about all of it and just sit down, write and share.

It can be your permission slip too.

xoxo

Additional Resources:

I loved this interview with Joanne Penn and Wendy H. Jones, the latter writes both detective books and children’s books. And she really doesn’t worry about it! She’s like “No sweat, ya’ll, I’m a multifaceted human.”