Since I was first published, I’ve discovered that “author life" is not much different than “normal life." However, everyone around me seems to think I’m this famous celebrity now. They ask me these uncomfortable questions, like “how much money do you make off of each book?” and “how many copies have you sold?”

Um, I really don’t think that’s your business.

Most of the time, I tell the truth, because it’s family and friends asking these questions, but I still feel like someone is intruding on my life. Like, do you REALLY need to know how much money I’ve made in the past three years, even after I already told you that this will not be my career?

Everyone expects me to be the next JK, or the next Rick Riordan (Thank God for that—If anyone ever made movies about mybooks like that, I’d be just as sassy as he is about it).

Anyways...

Everyone always wants to hear about how famous and successful I’m being, but what they don’t understand is that I’ve already opened up to them. I may be an open, friendly person (or, at least I like to think I am), but I still need my silence. I wrote these books as a coping mechanism when I lost my grandmother. Do you have any idea how much emotion is in those books? Do you have any idea how much of myself is engrained in the Johnson brothers? Do you all think that I published my books just to get famous?

The answer to that last question is no, just in case you couldn’t figure that out for yourself. If I wanted to make a career out of this, I could have waited, looked for a publisher and an agent and be sitting in a Barnes and Noble somewhere, hoping someone came up to the table to buy a signed copy. But, I’m not in it for that kind of life. Sure, I’d love to read some fan fiction, hear all the crazy head cannons and theories and holy crap—I’d pass out if my book became a movie (and Hans Zimmer composed the score), but I’m not in it for all of that. I’m published because I had a story to tell. I believed that my novels are different than everything else out there, and it deserved to be read.

Last year, I did a presentation at a literary event at a local arts center. Less than 20 people showed up, including my family members and some neighbors. After I finished talking for 45 minutes straight about myself (which is a weird concept I’m still trying to get used to), someone approached me to talk to me. Pretty much everyone came up to say “thank you” or “congratulations,” but this person had something different to say. She was an older woman, probably retired, with gray hair. She told me she’d been trying to write a children’s book for years, but gave up. However, after hearing me talk, she wanted to finish it now.

Do you know what that feeling is like? I just stood up there and described my writing process. I didn’t sugarcoat anything or make any of it sound glamorous. I mentioned the part about writing as therapy, but I didn’t think it was anything special. Either way, I’d said something right. I inspired someone.

In the end, it doesn’t matter how many copies I’ve sold, and how much money I’ve made. Movies and Tumblr posts can never compare to hearing someone say, “After hearing you speak, I’m going to start writing again.” That’s what it’s all about. Writing might be a career for some, but for me, it’s just a way to express yourself. I wrote because I had to, but I published because I wanted to.