If my first book is a mid, does it matter?

More specifically, to whom does it matter? I am the author, and writer training tells me to write for an audience. I primarily wrote it for myself, and yes, when a person writes for themselves, there is always, always an audience in mind, no matter how much they deny it. Following this line of thought, I did write it with not just Pinoys in mind. I also wrote it for an international audience, because I wanted to share my and my Pinoy atheist friends’ lived experiences.

My book launched in March 2025. It sold more or less a hundred copies and got no love from social media influencers. I tried that track of marketing, but it seems to have backfired. Let me try something else. How about spreading it among the Pinoy atheist community? I haven’t tried that before.

As a child who experienced emotional and verbal abuse, it was hard for me to take the three-star ratings from the social media influencers. Inwardly, I berated myself and called myself a failure. But that is just one of my voices. Another voice in me said: Bravo! You wrote your first book and got it out. That is what matters. I sometimes believe this voice more than the other demeaning one. But it does not negate the fact that its evil twin exists. And I call it evil because it is the voice of my Shadow. (I’m referring to the Jungian archetype of the Shadow, so it’s capitalized.)

If I hadn’t been brutalized emotionally as a child, I might not have felt this much pain. But yes, I am hurting, no denying that. Beneath that pain, though, is understanding. Actually, I have already accepted the verdict: my book is a mid because my writing is dry, documentary-style even. And if I aim to get better reviews, I need to improve on this aspect. The challenge, then, is to learn how to do that. Ignoring my insecurities and focusing on the other voice—the kind Mother—gets me there. (I’m referring to the Jungian archetype of the Mother, so it’s capitalized again.) Book critics are not the enemy. The enemy to be conquered is within me.

I reason that it is because my father never allowed me to take up the college degree of my dreams (Mass Communication, English, Journalism or Something) that I am not a “good” writer. But I’ve learned, sitting across the room with therapy patients, that blaming external forces for one’s miscarriages in life results in pain. Blame to pain. I’m not going down that rabbit hole. Fine, my father played a huge part, he set me back, but I’m a fully grown adult now. Tomorrow, if I decide to forget who I am and my past, I can enroll in a school and learn whatever I did not learn back when I was a fresh high school graduate picking out my college degree. Not that I have to. The world is pretty amazing now—writing opportunities everywhere and on all kinds of platforms. It’s not what you have, it’s how you work it.

Yesterday, I saw a small Toyota car in the parking lot of S&R. The back was open and the driver was folding up the seats so he could stuff more things in. This small car was able to fit a shit ton of groceries, more than what would fit in an underused SUV. I thought: I can be that small car. I may not be built for heavy-duty literature, but I can adapt. Sometimes looks can be deceiving. And look—there are many non–literature-related graduates out there who write well.

Perhaps I need to address the elephant in the room now. Why compare myself to others? Because it is inherent in all human beings, and this urge must not be denied. Psychology and social studies show that we do that to know our placement in the social order, because we are social beings. Nothing much makes sense if we cannot connect it to how we relate to other homo sapiens, especially those near and dear. The trick is knowing who is your near and dear, and not caring too much about the rest.

Are you listening to that, dear Melany?

So yes, I did that IG detox and it’s almost over. I’ve learned to apologize less and to discern, discern, discern. To whom does my voice really matter? Who reads my essays? Who is my audience? More importantly, with whom must I refuse to compromise myself when I dish out my works? These questions lead to more questions. Huh.

The fact of the matter is, I’m on the PhD route right now. (It’s another way of writing my life forward.) Who knows where this path leads—what books will come out of it, if there are going to be books, or some other print outputs. But this is the road I’m walking; I commit to it, and I’m excited for tomorrow. I don’t know where it leads! What will I find? Who will I meet? What will I do? I surmise I’ll know what to do when I get there. So, lezzgo!