I have been creating stories ever since I was a child. I can still remember that a good part of my afternoon naps was spent daydreaming about worlds that exist alongside ours. After closing my eyes, I would start to see fairies and vampires, heroes and villains, and wars and kingdoms. 

Even during my elementary days, I would find solace in story-telling. I would often draw stick figures on the edges of my notebooks and flip the pages to create a motion picture. It was mind-blowing – as if I just discovered a universe where I have the power to create anything with my pen. I would just flip the pages repeatedly and be mesmerized by what I have made. 

During high school and college, I still dreamed of making stories. However, just like everyone else, my passion slowly died down as the years passed by because – guess what – adulting happened.

Then, December 2012 came.  

I was in a van going home when it suddenly occurred to me that I want to do something else with my life. I can’t precisely remember why and how, but I felt a deep longing to leave a mark in this world. I want to create something – something that I could call my own. That was when I thought of writing my first novel. With that renewed vigor, I began my journey. 

But little did I know that it’s a road of hardship and pain. 

I finished my first novel after almost one and a half years (I was a pantser back then!), only to find out that my story was way beyond the word count for my chosen genre, and I needed to slash one-third of the scenes. The world crumbled down before me. It was like telling me that all those six months of writing were just a waste, that all those long nights toiling on my keyboard was all in vain. However, I had no choice, so I revised. 

After another year, I started pitching my work, and oh boy, I never thought that it was like offering myself up for slaughter. 

Full of hope, I sent emails. In my mind, I knew that I only needed one yes. Just one yes, and I’m good to go. There should be one who would be willing to take me on. There got to be. 

But I was wrong. There wasn’t. 

Rejection letters started pouring in. 

My manuscript was ignored and rejected more than forty times. I know it’s not a lot as I’ve read authors who were rejected more than a hundred times, but still, it was a very disheartening sight. It was as if my manuscript has no potential. No one believed in me. No one believed in my capabilities. 

With my ego decimated and pulverized into nothingness, I stopped writing. Maybe it wasn’t for me. Perhaps it wasn’t meant to be. 

However, the power of dreams is not something that can be ignored. After another year, a story came to me. It was so enticing that I couldn’t help but consider picking up my pen again. Plus, the characters in my head were relentless that I should write their story. So even though I was afraid of being subjected to that hardship and pain again, I took another shot at writing stories. 

But this time, I’m taking a different route.

I’m choosing to self-publish my work because now, I’m saying “yes” to myself.