After struggling and wrestling with it for a long time, I ended up with nothing, which left a heavy ache in my heart—not because of the prize money, but from the sheer frustration of effort wasted, a tangible negation of my own capabilities.

I felt both proud and crestfallen. Over a thousand subscribers and a thousand-plus tickets; that ratio was astounding, truly something that moved me deeply and made me proud.

My previous novel had barely scraped four hundred subscriptions by the end when I persisted with writing it for so long. This new book started with over two thousand subscriptions, even peaking above three thousand at one point. I felt immensely satisfied and thrilled, believing I had improved significantly. Now, dropping back down to just over a thousand, I don’t feel terrible, but when I mention it to other authors, they laugh, and my spirits sink low.

It turns out I really am far behind. This gap in ability is profoundly discouraging. So few readers, and I still dream of monthly tickets? That’s laughable... I should just stick to writing honestly, earn enough for basic living expenses, and accept that the ugly duckling will always be the ugly duckling. V