There’s a persistent myth that self-publishing is what you do when traditional publishing says no. That it’s the back door, the plan B, the option you choose when the dream didn’t work out. I believed that myth for longer than I care to admit, and it coloured everything, including how seriously I took my own work.
Imagine if someone gently but firmly pointed out that you’d been cooking for the dinner guests’ parents rather than for the dinner guests themselves. That’s roughly how it felt. I’d been so focused on whether the book was responsible, relatable, and reassuring for grown-ups that I’d forgotten to make it irresistible to a five-year-old.