Reading Proust's In Search of Lost Time has already done quite a number on me. It is the most beautifully written prose I have had the luxury of falling into, and the most thought-provoking novels (mostly due to its sheer size and scope).

And so I find myself, like the Narrator, savoring my virtual madeleine, trying to recapture the past; return to a life that wasn't this complicated.

I started out a reader, as future writers must. But then I took the dangerous step and put my own pen to paper, trying to emulate those famous scribblers. This was done purely for fun, and never a serious attempt to publish anything. Years went by, and my reader self remained addicted to books, while the writer came out of his shell every five years or so.

Then the whole "self-publising" thing became a "thing" and people (1/1000th% of the authors publishing their works) were making tons of cash pushing out their own works. Heck, I could write, right? Sure! I was a freaking master, I was better than... better than... ach, I don't even want to admit what my foolish mind had conjured.

What in the name of all tire manufacturers was I thinking?!

Yes, the traditional route is frustrating. Apart from a poem I wrote at 15, I had nothing out there. So to think that I could some great fantasy epic and beat out the greats was flat-out ridiculous. But yet I flailed my wings at the gates time and again, hoping that somehow my next book would become the big hit and I'd be on easy street.

Then Proust helped me open my eyes and look back into the past, a past where reading was the important piece, and writing was done for fun. Yes, I write and I publish. I have a cool thing going with Rooster Republic, and I even have a small novella I *might* put out into the ether, but it will be a quiet thing.

The madeleine is almost gone, but there is a memory still there: A young kid, with his dad's old fountain pen, a ream of paper, and a stack of books. He's reading, then writing; crafting new worlds, plots, poems, and stream-of-consciousness. He's emulating the greats and the so-so's. But he's enjoying every minute of it.

I want that back.

This is why I have unfollowed a ton of authors on Twitter, not out of bitterness or unkindness, but because I am sick of 1000 promo feeds about your latest 5* review. Maybe you do have the next bestseller out there, but I'm really sick of self-promotion. Hell, I'm as guilty as anyone in doing it--it was all part of the next step to my indie success (or so I thought).