So if anyone was wondering how it feels to publish a book, it feels like giving limitless amounts of people permission to read your diary, it feels like the bile at the back of your throat cloying when someone at the gym walks up to you and quotes your words back to you, it feels like arguing with Kindle Direct Publishing because their review system makes absolutely no sense.

Three years ago I made the decision to pursue my writing career. That meant basically accepting that I was going to live in a one-bedroom rented house with my husband until either a literary agent picked me up or he became a millionaire!

Neither has happened.

Instead, I have written three books, am currently immersed in my fourth, and have taken the difficult, or at least judgement-inducing, step to self-publish.

It’s not like I've given up on print media; I still love the feel of a book in my hands and keep trying to turn the page of my I-pad screen whenever I am using the Kindle App, but in my experience so far, the publishing world doesn't want me. There is only so many times you can hear the words, ‘we’re looking for someone more commercial’ before you realise that what you have to offer; simple stories about complex people, isn't what publishers think they can sell. The experience is comparative to the boys in high school who told me that although I had a nice rack, they were looking for someone blonder, skinnier, and all-around more textbook ‘bangable’. I would love to add more explosions, nudity, and swearing to my novels, but that just isn't me. So where does that leave me?

Here, pretty much. Devising a cover, creating a profile, finally, reluctantly, stepping into my generation and making a social media footprint (don’t get me wrong, I’m not paranoid, but it was one of my proudest accomplishments that the government couldn't track my thoughts through use of Facebook or Twitter). It left me sitting in front of my computer after spending hours registering with Kindle with my heart hammering against my rib cage, sweat stinging my upper lip, and five jittery words twitching on my lips: ‘I make to publish now?

That’s right. No matter how self-assured you think you are, no matter how much you think the world needs to hear what you have to say, the moment that your cursor hovers over that button, crap gets real. Do I really want this? What if they hate me? In that moment I felt so vulnerable, and it wasn't delicate and beautiful like television would have you believe, it was rip-your-ash-covered-sackcloth- shirt-biblical-style terrifying.

There is nothing like opening yourself up to criticism, but you choose what you accept. Everyone is entitled to their opinion, and even if several people are of the same negative opinion, that doesn't define me. The only thing scarier than being told you’re bad is being told you’re good, because then you have something to live up to. In all of it I just hope that at the end of the day I am content with who I am and how what I do represents that.

So yeah, I clicked the button, I made to publish my first novel Energy. Now all that’s left is to hope, pray, and hide!