The past few weeks have been nutty. I published the book, had a book signing, and have been working tirelessly to get it out into the world. Because I self-published the book, I instantly went from author to publicist/salesman/everything else over night. In the shuffle of it all, it became easy to forget the purpose of what I wrote. In my attempt to make sure the book is a "success" financially, I almost forgot what it is I set out to do.
In the past 3 weeks I have received countless messages from people who read the book. People who shared how my story touched them. People told me that they laughed with me. They cried with me. They relived their own struggles while reading about mine. My story gave them hope. My strength gave them strength. And that was the point, wasn't it? I used to think to myself, my story needed to be told. I knew that my life had been crazy for a reason. It couldn't have been happenstance. The whirlwind that was my early years wasn't just a ball of confusion. It was the perfect storm. It was meant to bring me out on the other side stronger, wiser, and battle tested. When the dust settled, I became aware that my story could probably give hope to folks who have been through enough to make them need a little hope.
Like I said, in my hustle to make my book a financial success, I almost forgot that there was a reason I didn't wait on the big publishers to help me tell my story. There is a reason I did it myself. I wanted to tell my story. I wanted to share myself with the world. I wanted to open up in a way that I rarely have, in hopes of touching other people. I've gotten texts. I've gotten emails. I get messages on FB daily. The messages are clear. Whether I sell 12 books or 12 million, the book is a success.