Have you been watching the Olympics? I had a realization while watching. The Olympics is kind of like writing. Keep reading to find out.
Gymnastics at the Olympics
I was watching the Paris Olympics on the TV. After all, as an honorary Greek, it is my duty to make sure it’s being done right.
The gymnastic events were incredible. One night, while watching Men’s Gymnastics, the arena buzzed with anticipation as the next athlete approached the uneven bars. With a single, powerful leap, he catapulted himself onto the apparatus, becoming a whirlwind of motion. His body moved with such speed that he became a blur. Gathering momentum, he launched himself skyward, performing an astonishing sequence of four somersaults with an elegance that seemed to defy gravity, before deftly gripping the lower bar with both hands.
But he wasn’t finished.
Harnessing even more speed, he soared again, executing four more breathtaking backward somersaults, his every movement a testament to years of dedication and discipline. The crowd held its collective breath as he prepared for his final move. With absolute control, he ascended once more, his body straight as an arrow, before elegantly diving toward the floor. At what seemed like the last possible moment, he twisted midair, landing firmly on both feet.
And then the unthinkable happened.
As he steadied himself, his foot shifted ever so slightly backward. The crowd gasped in unison; the air thick with disbelief.
According to the commentator, he had spoiled it all by taking that small step.
“Oh dear, that’s a shame. Perhaps the next guy will do better.”
This poor chap had been practicing gymnastics before he could walk. For the last five years, he had practiced for ten hours a day to master his art and reach perfection. But according to the commentator, he had thrown it all away.
Writing is like an Olympic sport
I couldn’t help but think of my writer friends. We are a strange bunch. Isolating ourselves in closed rooms with only a keyboard for company. We spend months and years perfecting our art, obsessively ripping out our souls and reproducing them on paper. And then it all finishes with two simple words: “The End.”
We return to the world, uncertain of what to do next. Things have changed. The kids have grown a bit. Our spouses appear older. We do too. Because we have been so focused on our work, we have missed out on a significant part of life. Therefore, we need to justify our months or years of isolating ourselves and publish our work.
Trying to get our books published is another drama. Unless you are part of a dysfunctional royal family, been paid by a high-profile politician to keep your mouth shut, or committed mass murder, it seems you have almost no prospect of being accepted by a literary agent or mainstream publisher, so if we want to see our books in print, we must self-publish.
After paying an editor to machete his way through our lovingly written manuscript and chopping away what we consider to be the best bits, we need to pay someone else to format it for publication. We know that statistics are not on our side. Most self-published books will never sell more than a few copies. But this does not deter us. We’ve polished our manuscript until it practically glows and launch it into the public domain with dreams of gold bestseller glory dancing in our heads.
Finally, launch day arrives. We step out into the arena. We imagine readers lining up around the block, or at least someone clicking “Add to Cart” because they like the cover. Perhaps we even imagine confetti and marching bands celebrating our arrival as the next great author of our time. We envision that perfect landing. Or at least not out of bounds.
But instead of the clamour of adoring fans, the first sound we hear is the ping of our very first Amazon review notification. Excitedly, we click to open it, expecting to read words of praise and adulation.
Alas, there it is: an anonymous one-star review, staring back at us like a grumpy cat that’s just been told it’s going to the vet. We’re like that gymnast who landed his dismount, but inadvertently took that step back.
We are devastated.
I tried to take comfort in the fact that maybe, just maybe, this anonymous reviewer was actually a literary genius in disguise—whose opinion could actually save me from future embarrassment.
But in the end, I was more fortunate than most. Happily, my first book went on to sell many thousands of copies and receive hundreds of five-star reviews and only a handful of one star (all anonymous).
But they still sting.
The publishing industry is critical of self-published authors. But some of my favourite books of all time were refused by multinational publishers who shot themselves in the foot by not recognising potential. Harry Potter was rejected by no less than twelve publishers. 50 Shades of Grey was originally self-published as an eBook and print-on-demand in June 2011. Even A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens struggled and was self-published.
In many ways, writing is like an Olympic sport. We keep working, keep going, hoping to reach the top spot on the podium.
So dear readers, please. If you ever read a book that you didn’t enjoy, before you press that one-star button, add another one or two for effort. We will love you for it. Remember, we cannot all be gold medal winners. Sometimes like that Olympic athlete, we have to take a step back to steady ourselves. But we have tried our best.
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