What’s a Successful Writer? Don’t ask me – I’m the one Asking the Question.

Three weeks into my jaunt around Eastern Europe; first time I’ve felt the need to write anything. Too busy being content, perhaps.

When I left I had three books in the top 500 on the Amazon Kindle All Books charts. Burn, Baby, Burn had just achieved 100 days in top 100, was drifting slowly down from its high point of the top ten.

Not bad.

My second book, Blood, was just outside the top hundred and my take on a crime novel for softies, Heat, was around the 500 mark. A good time to move on, I thought.

Do something else. Another project. A fresh challenge.

I’ve not looked at my book sales for three weeks now. A complete break. Not the easiest addiction to conquer, but as long as I keep myself busy…

Here’s the thing: A couple of months ago I met a publisher. We talked about my books. He wanted to publish my future books, conventional books that are sold in bookshops. He was full of enthusiasm, eagerness personified, waxing lyrical about ‘projects’ and how he saw my writing career developing. Heady stuff. I told him I’d think it over, consider all the options. He looked disappointed, probably assuming I wanted to try to get a better offer from the two other publishers who’d approached me since my books began to sell in such ridiculous numbers.

I wasn’t ever intending to approach rival publishers. The dilemma I faced was far simpler. It hit home when he started talking about next year’s book, and the one after that. That there’d be assistance, help, advice at every stage of the process. All I had to do was deliver the books at each stage of their development for editorial advice and/or approval.

The word ‘deadline’ was never mentioned, but it was implied. The origin of the word is unclear, but I’ve always assumed it had a military background, referring to a line drawn in the dirt around a group of prisoners of war where a ready-made stockade wasn’t available. Cross the line and you’re dead. The repercussions for breaking the dead line were grim. There’s nowhere near the same drastic connotations in modern usage of the term, so why did I feel so trapped?

Working to the timetable of others has no appeal. I’ve been self-sufficient most of my adult life. Why change now? Yes, I’d make money. A lot of money, according to my putative publisher.

Is that enough?

I’d build on my existing success, he said. Achieve far more than I’d been able to do on my own.

Is that enough?

I thought it all over. Decided to walk away. Not just from the offer of publication, but from the existing books as well. I’ll write other books – I have three novels in my head and, far more practically, at least 50,000 words written on each project. When I finish them, if I finish them, will be my decision. The subject matter, the plots, every written line, will be mine alone. Not someone sitting in an office somewhere making decisions on my behalf.

I know I’m not like most other writers. Well, I can live with that. A good friend expressed astonishment at my decision to go ‘swanning off’ without any idea where I’d end up just at the time my books were achieving success. ‘You’re a successful writer,’ she said. ‘Take that next step the publishers are offering and who knows where you could end up?’

Well, exactly!

I’ve been very fortunate so far. Had experiences denied to most people. My wife’s my best friend and we’ve always valued self-sufficiency over material possessions. The house is sold; the last house we’ll ever own, we’re free spirits – why take a chance on losing that freedom by becoming tied down to deadlines and the dictates of others?

So, what is success? Being wealthy? Becoming famous?

Or is it something far more prosaic: contentment?

I hope so as that’s the only definition that interests me.