I was bored the other night and glanced at a forum about self-publishing. So far, my works are self-published. I'm doing that for two reasons: 1) because I can and five years after leaving a salaried job that paid well, my wife was (rightly) questioning when I was going to generate some revenue from writing, and 2) because I'm convinced that paper publishers (rightly) need to be convinced writer's work will be profitable before they publish. I intend to approach a paper publisher...with sales figures as well as good writing.
Now...in the forum I was reading, some dingbat with a bad attitude tried to hammer a bunch of self-published writers by explaining that she is a painter of original art. She said, the has an attic full of original art, but that it was going to stay there until she got an art gallery to put on a show.
The writers reacted with a kind of hurt self-defense.
I think she's a dingbat. I ought to know. I was doing the dingbat thing myself...
I had three complete first drafts of novels sitting in the bookcase behind my desk. I hadn't submitted them to a publisher, mostly because I was more focused on creating than I was on selling. Three piles of paper that stood about 15 inches tall when stacked up on top of each other. Ppppppbbbbblllllttt! What the hell was I waiting for? A publisher to detect them through supernatural means? A chance to get (still another) rejection letter praising my writing, but saying they just didn't think there was a market for it at this time?
Nah. I'll prove there's a market. I'll make a market if I have to. Sometimes it pays to be the cocky little bastard I am...most of the time, in fact. :-D