There are one million business-related details that seem designed to suck the fun out of the indie publishing process. I’d love to sit huddled in the basement thinking about monsters and ghosts, instead of puzzling out advertising plans and taxes.

 

But I would also love to get adequately paid for my work (hypothetically, it could happen some day. Don’t burst that bubble, okay? It’s Christmas time, for crimmey’s sake)

But good news, I killed one of my lingering business irritants! Selling my wares via an American website, my earnings are automatically taxed by the U.S. government. To be specific, they withhold 30% of the money in anticipation of your tax filings in the future. Now, my country (Canada) has a tax treaty with the U.S. That treaty eliminates the 30% withholding IF you can prove that you qualify.

And so I studied the exemption qualification process, furrowing my brow in a vain attempt to understand. The stumbling block that kept me from completing it was getting the right identification number. Did I need an ITIN, an ETN, a WTFISTHISBULLSH*T number? And whatever the actual needed number was, the process demanded that I send my passport, driver’s license, blood sample, hand-etched pictograph of my entire family tree (or certified true copies of each). That costs money. In fact, it was goign to cost more than the meagre amount of revenues sitting waiting for me in my smashwords sales account.

Remember when I said I studied the process? Well, I did a pretty awful job at that. Details have never been my strong suit, so it is reallly astounding I’ve ever written a logically consistent sentence, much less 4 novels in a continuing series.

Anyway.

With the help of the internet, I reread this minor detail: “Or, provide your non-U.S. tax identification number”. That sounded strange and mysterious. Why would I, as a regular Canadian, have such an odd thing? Finally, the answer came to me (okay, I googled it and found the real answer 3 pages in): that number is my Social Insurance Number or S.I.N. You know, the number I got when I was 14 but still haven’t memorized? That one.

With that one revelation, a point of minor but perpetual stress was removed. I used my SIN to complete the tax forms on Smashwords and Amazon (for ebooks and print books, respectively), and moved on with my life. It is astounding how the whole bookwriting machine can grind to a halt while the accounting department puzzles over some financial minutia. So my lesson to you all, especially to my fellow Canucks thinking about self-publishing,  is this: sometimes, the answer is much simpler than you think it is.

 

I marvel at the ingenuity of my internal saboteur. This week was supposed to be focused (and I use the word ‘focus’ very loosely) on the next steps to take in book promotion, with a side order of planning the next project. Oh, there was also a blog post about author branding thrown in there too.

So I hopped over to the admin page for this very blog. With a concealed snicker, my inner saboteur makes a suggestion. “Hey, why don’t we take a look at your yearly stats? I bet you’ve reached a huge audience.” And like a sucker, I take a look. I read the miniscule number of unique visitors who have shown up here over the last year and my ego deflated like a cheap balloon.

Did I have dreams (or less charitably, delusions) that there was a legion of fans following along with every post, eager for news of the next book? Of course I did. That’s how human beings get through their days. Imagination! But along comes “facts” and “reality” to rain on my parade.

I’m not going to lie to you all and say that I quickly picked myself up and kept trucking along. I was under the metaphorical blankets for a couple of days. Success seemed totally impossible. Yeah, I can keep churning out stories until the end of time, but you can’t pay your mortgage with stories.

So how did I pick myself up and go back at it? Not easily, I can tell you that much. (lack of income woes go to the next level when Christmas is looming around the corner). But here’s the recipe so far:

1: acknowledge successes, despite their size. Hoping for the easy big win made me blind to the little wins that keep happening. A win is a win.

2: Get stubborn and feisty. Yeah it’s not going gangbusters right now, but I’m going to keep at it. Wanna fight about? That’s what I thought, internal critic. Shut up and let me work.

3:Embrace the weirdness. This is the life I’m supposed to be living. Even with all the bumps, disappointments and panicked moments of being directionless, writing is what I do. And I want people to read the stuff I write, so I am going to keep putting it out there.

 

I’ve worn glasses since the age of 9. If I want to see and function normally, I have to wear them. And I have never, in that entire time, liked the way I looked in glasses. They have been a necessary burden. I hated going to get glasses. It was stressful, confusing, and always disappointing.

Why stressful? Because I overthink everything, so trying to accurately answer the optometrist’s questions (Which is better-1 or 2? More blurry? Sharper? I DON’T KNOW) creates a bundle of anxiety. I put off getting new glasses until I could barely see through the old ones.

But after 7 years with the same beat-up pair, I finally relented and went to the optometrist a couple of weeks ago. I went because my friend Jeff worked at the place, and he assured me that they would make it a less stressful experience.

And he was right: the exam went much more smoothly than it ever has for me. Of course, this led to the second challenge for my overthinking brain: choosing frames. I was prepared to get wound up and anxious as I flailed around trying in vain to find a good pair of frames.

I walked resignedly into the showroom, and felt an immediate swell of relief. My pal Jeff was there. I started trying on frames and asking his opinion, which he gave freely. I knew I could trust his opinion because a) he knew his stuff and b)he was an honest and kind friend. (Not that I thought about it that way at the time).

As I hummed and hawed, Jeff came back over with a set of frames. “Here try these” he said. I slipped them on and felt something I had never felt at the eyeglass shop: happiness. For the very first time in my life, I had a pair of glasses on my face that made me feel good about my appearance. And I had them because of my friend.

Jeff was always looking out for his friends, the first to help, the first to care about your challenges, the first to cheer your triumphs.

I hate having to write about Jeff in the past tense. He died suddenly last Friday, and my life is poorer for the absence of his unmistakable kindness.