I suppose that it could also be called ghetto.  Whether you choose to call what I write ghetto or niche (profane or polite) it doesn’t change that fact that it is what it is.

Even as I write this post, I know that someone will snap  up pieces of it as a justification for their own choices.

I proved myself to myself in my youth.  Yes, I rant and I rage at times, but in those still, calm moments, when I am centered and at peace, I would not change what I have.

I don’t know how many of you ever listened to Frank Sinatra, but his song “I did it my way” has always touched a chord with me.  I always did it my way.

It was never easy and there was hell to pay for it more often than not.  My grandmother despaired of ever teaching me anything as a child, because for every good solid suggestion she made to me, I came up with a different (frequently less workable) solution to the problem we were discussing.

My daughter is like that also.  Many times I just want to slap her.  But then I have to shrug and grin, because we all know that paybacks are a bitch.  Everything that she does to me, things that infuriate me most, are the exact same things I did to my grandmother.

I keep dragging my feet about trying to get an agent, or even finishing something new to submit to an agent or a publisher.

It all comes down to ‘my way’ and wanting to do things my way.

While I would love to have books published by the majors, I would have to give them what they wanted.

My way.  My way is not their way.  I have enough fans and an audience base to enjoy.  But more important is my lifelong inability to compromise.

So instead, I will keep my niche and plant roses in the flower boxes of my ghetto, and be satisfied with what I have.

Because I can do it my way.

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