For your pleasure and to my delight,
has stopped by to discuss the fear of failure
and her latest release
Take it away Misha!
Fear of Failure
Thanks, Yolanda!
I have to admit, I like to keep a positive outlook
when it comes to my writing career. After all, writing on its own is one of the
most challenging things I can do. Stories are complicated things. Add to that
the idea that people will actually read a book I’ve written, that I’ll have to
depend on them actually liking it for me to make money… Yeah. Suddenly it just
adds another dimension to my doubts and insecurities.
And this is the root of my most persistent worry
since I’ve decided to take up self-publishing. I know that my decision to
side-step trade publishing was a good one for many reasons that I won’t be
going into now. I know that I’m good at what I do. Not just because my mom told
me, but readers who never knew me went through the trouble to get in touch just
so they could tell me how much they like what I’ve written.
I love those moments. It’s such a boost to know that
someone out there liked what I wrote.
But none of that takes away the fact that I basically turned away from centuries’ worth of conventional publishing wisdom in order to follow my own path. It’s a scary thought and for the most part, I’m completely alone in dealing with it.
But none of that takes away the fact that I basically turned away from centuries’ worth of conventional publishing wisdom in order to follow my own path. It’s a scary thought and for the most part, I’m completely alone in dealing with it.
Deal with it I must, though. Mostly by shoving it to
the back of my mind. I try focusing on what I’m doing to make my career a
success. I try setting big goals and small goals that are calculated to get me
there. I remember that every little thing I do takes me one step closer to
making it.
And then I write.
Anyone else
struggling with a fear of failure? How do you handle it?
About the Book
“First, do no
harm.” Blake Ryan swore that oath to become a doctor. Ironic, given that he
spent most of his thousand year life sucking souls out of other
immortals.
Things are different now. Using regular shots of morphine to keep his inner monster at bay, Ryan has led a quiet life since the Second World War. His thrills now come from saving lives, not taking them.
Until a plane crash brings Aleria into his hospital. Her life is vibrant. Crack to predators like him. She’s the exact sort of person they would hunt, and thanks to a severe case of amnesia, she’s all but defenseless.
Leaving Aleria vulnerable isn’t an option, but protecting her means unleashing his own inner monster. Which is a problem, because his inner monster wants her dead most of all.
Things are different now. Using regular shots of morphine to keep his inner monster at bay, Ryan has led a quiet life since the Second World War. His thrills now come from saving lives, not taking them.
Until a plane crash brings Aleria into his hospital. Her life is vibrant. Crack to predators like him. She’s the exact sort of person they would hunt, and thanks to a severe case of amnesia, she’s all but defenseless.
Leaving Aleria vulnerable isn’t an option, but protecting her means unleashing his own inner monster. Which is a problem, because his inner monster wants her dead most of all.
Amazon
US | Amazon Universal | Apple | Barnes
& Noble | Kobo
| Goodreads
Excerpt
This had to be what dying felt like. Floating
outside my body, waiting for that final link to my life to be severed, only
vaguely aware of indescribable pain. More screams than I could count rose up
around me. Hundreds of footsteps beat against tiles. I couldn’t open my eyes if
I wanted to. Not when it was easier to listen and wait. People shouted for a
doctor or an IV, or a thousand other things that made no sense. I listened to
all the chaos, trying to untangle it in my thoughts.
Soon, I could go. The peace around me was so relaxing,
completely out of place in the clamor I heard. I wanted it. To rest forever in
that peace. Why not? There was a very good reason, but I couldn’t call it to
mind.
A numb buzz shot through my body and shattered my
serenity.
It happened again. Only this time was more of a
sharp pulse. The third time jolted like lightning. The fourth…Hell. Suddenly,
the screams were coming from me. My heart’s relentless thundering added to my
torment.
Pain.
Everywhere.
My chest burned like fire. It hurt to breathe. Cold
air drove down my throat and into my lungs, amplifying the inferno in my chest.
My skin felt scorched. It couldn’t be. It wasn’t right.
I had to see. I had to understand why pain dominated
my existence like this. My eyes were fused shut. My breaths grew shallow,
trying to draw air when there was none. I tried to clench my teeth. I bit hard
plastic. A pipe. Cold air suddenly forced back into my lungs, out of time with
my own breathing. This was wrong. It wasn’t safe. I had to see. The best I got
was a little fluttering of my lashes.
A high-pitched beep shot through my head. It
repeated again and again. I wanted to reach over and slam my fist into its
source. My arm wouldn’t lift. Something kept it trapped. A scream rose up from
the depths of my soul, but the pipe jammed inside my throat stifled the sound.
I only managed a whimper, trying my best not to gag. More air blasted into my
lungs against my will. What was going on? I was trapped in my own body, but
why?
I needed to move. I had to move. Now. Before… Even…
Even though… Panic gripped me. The beeps increased at a frenetic pace. I needed to move. To be gone. Didn’t
matter where. Just not here. Not defenseless. Not trapped.
The air sucked out of my lungs. I gasped, choking on
nothing, strangled by invisible fingers. I tried to convulse my body. To twist
myself free of what’s holding me.
Nothing.
The air rushed back in a cold flood. Seconds later
it left, only to return in the same amount of time.
There was a rhythm to the air. In… out... in… out… The
breaths were slow—sleep-like. I concentrated on this rhythm, striving to clear
my head. If I wanted out, I needed to think. Calmly. Clearly. Eventually, those
irritating beeps slowed. I tried to focus past the sound.
Voices buzzed about me, adding to my need to see, to
do something to protect myself. No one seemed to pay attention to me. Good. I
could use that to my advantage.
I centered my every thought on moving my little
finger. It finally jerked, but collided against something solid. So the thing
trapping my arm was physical and too heavy for me to lift. It was better to be
trapped than paralyzed. With luck I could escape my restraints. I tried my
other hand, but it was cemented stuck as well. Right leg. Left leg. Damn it!
Both trapped. I had to move!
No.
No, I needed to stay calm. I tried to make larger
movements, biting the pipe in my mouth against the urge to scream in pain.
There was no wiggle room.
Fearing that I might be blindfolded, I focused on
blinking. It worked. My eyes opened and the blur faded, revealing ceiling
tiles. Why would there be tiles? Where was the canvas of hospital tents? The
distant sounds of bombs dropping? The power of their explosions rushing through
my blood?
No. That wasn’t right. I wasn’t there.
Where was I, then?
**********
Misha Gerrick lives near Cape Town, South Africa,
and can usually be found staring at her surroundings while figuring out her
next book.
If you’d like to see what Misha’s up to at the
moment, you can find her on these social networks:
Tumblr | Twitter | Google Plus | Writing Blog
