The Big A, The Little Writer, and Ignoring the Parrots

I was in my 40s when I dove off the cliff, in the middle of a comfortable job combined with a terrible personal life (oh, there could be a book about those years from 39 to 43, but not until I'm assured a certain bad boy is underground) and decided I could record an album of original songs. Because I had a job and a leased place to live, and I paid for all that myself, I was not exactly the description of the "starving songwriter." I knew plenty of them: my male co-writers who had writing deals with Nashville publishers, and who had wives with good jobs so that the writer in the family could afford to take 100.00 a week songwriting gigs.  Me: ummarried, proud, unwilling to sell out, trying to get a bad boyfriend kicked to the curb without getting beaten up or having my place torched, and when finally single, unwilling to marry for money, just to have...money.

Makes the world go 'round, doesn't it? I watched friends marry into Nashville society, and watched them being miserable, watched them appear in the social magazines, looking elegant and empty on the arms of their benefactors . They lived in estates, drove the cars presented with a huge bow on Christmas morning as offerings, in trade for their souls, to my way of seeing.

So, in 1999, I made that first album. My mom, God bless her, stepped in with the production money to get the recordings done, because I had about 500.00 in the bank at that point, and a stack of bills, and two horses to feed. I got turned down by a producer, even with the money my mom provided for recordings, because it was not a standard amount. But without him, I recorded an album.  THAT album, and had it turned down by a folk label, the only western label in town, and an Americana label. So I went and released it on my own label and the first week, I sold 3 copies. Three. To friends of a guy I was dating. 

What was I thinking? No selling platform, I wasn't touring, had no idea, really HOW to tour. But four years later, there was a happy accident, and a festival promoter fell in love with the songs and hired me on a whim, and suddenly I was on a plane to California, all expenses paid, to play a festival for twice what I made in a week managing a saddle shop in Tennessee, and I sold 2000.00 worth of my formerly failed CD.

So. There is that story. And I treated the idea of a book the same way as I did the music business. Oh, I tippy-toed around, had no idea what I was doing. Ignored the people who said there was no way for a new writer to get a publishing contract. (Baloney) And I ignored the writers who wanted to fight the idea of selling on Amazon. Hello. HUGE selling platform. Of course they take a percentage, they have the platform! The big "A" sells BOOKS. "All writers except the top one percent are starving," the parrots said. "Good luck selling more than 100 books in the life of the book," the parrots yapped. "You'll have to self publish to get published," they squawked. I've ignored those pretty parrots.

Because I am poking newly found feathers into my wings as I flap. There's no choice but to flap and build wings while I learn to fly. I've already stepped off the cliff.   

Stay tuned,  Juni Fisher