That’s the question I’ve asked myself hundreds of times since I started writing fiction. Not at first. At first, writing fiction felt like opening a gift, especially the not-knowing-what-it-might-be part.

When my first short story was published I ran back and forth through our house (we had a long ranch) squealing with joy. Several more were published and a few minor awards came my way. While working on a memoir for my 103-year-old grandmother—a labor of love which resulted in a ring-bound booklet passed around to relatives—I stumbled on some interesting family history. That led to my first novel, The Journal, in which a woman’s search for her birth family goes awry when she discovers pages from a diary purportedly written by her great-great-grandfather.

I continued working on short stories, and a variety of inputs (a movie, a walk, thoughts about the Civil War and honor, courage, and sacrifice) led me to write one about a mentally-challenged man with an artistic savant’s ability to carve realistic likenesses. It grew longer and longer, eventually becoming Rayford’s Garden.

A top-tier literary agent offered representation, although she was unable to find a publisher. I only recently came to understand that her frustration with my inability to claim a personal connection to Georgia pointed not to anything lacking in the novel, but to the sensitivity inherent in a Northerner daring to write that story.

It was a good book, and I was proud of it. Despite the disappointment, I continued writing. I realized that just as I read fiction to find out what happens next, I write fiction for the same reason. I’ve written about fifty short stories, several of which have been published, and I’m now working on my sixth novel.

That all sounds pretty straightforward, but there have been many long stretches when I lost my focus, often thinking, Why Bother??? But recently I decided it was time to return. I missed writing. Self-publishing had become acceptable. I thought it would be nice to see my books in print.

But....it would be expensive. I’m not a networking sort. I don’t have ANY connections. I had lost touch with the writing world. Did it really matter if the book was published? Would anyone read it? Was this just a bruised ego looking for satisfaction? Then one day my husband walked into my office (which is actually a clothes closet with a window) and said, “This is your legacy. You have to do this.”

I hired a graphic artist who created the perfect and poignant cover and helped me with the technical challenges of getting the manuscript to a printer. I decided that even if I only printed enough copies for my kids and grandkids, Rayford’s Garden was going to become an actual book.

I don’t plan to hire a publicist. I don’t have an advertising budget. I won’t pay for reviews. I’m relying on word-of-mouth to bring whatever success it can achieve based on its merits.

Would I love to see it become a best seller? Of course. But nothing can beat the joy of holding the first copy of Rayford’s Garden in my hands.