November 1998
by Mathias B. Freese, Freese Publications

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At 57, I self-published my first novel, i. According to conventional wisdom, it is much delayed. No one cares about whether I am published or not, not the universe, not even you, for you want your own book published. The world’s axis is oiled with indifference to the writer-to one another, alas. And to write anything of substance is a remarkable act of will, much in defiance of death. It is a puzzling self-commitment. And it is a cosmic shout throughout the human dominion that one exists, puny creature that you are.

So, let us put self-publishing into perspective: a self-contained universe, our human mind or the human spirit, communicated to the world: “Look! Listen! I have this to say.” To publish is to declare that one needs to be recognized, noted-“Attention must be paid.”

What prompted me to invest in self-publishing my own book is a knotted skein; of not having my books accepted over the years; of only recently, by chance, by luck, garnering surplus capital to make an investment in myself; of mourning the death of a friend, reminding me that the obverse side of carpe diem is tempus fugit.

I cannot clearly say why I sought out to self-publish. Life’s choices are nettles. You try to avoid them on a country lane and return home bristling with them. I nudged life just a bit.

Publishing my own book is more than a late middle-aged huberistic binge, much more than becoming a control freak over one’s own creative specie. Or even a need to conglo…IBPA Members – Click here to view the full article (login required).

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