THE SADISTIC PLEASURE OF WRITING AND PUBLISHING.
Part 2.
So there I was, a self-published author. Yes, you bastard, you did it.
You can imagine I was so goddamn proud of myself. Seriously, I was. But it was not the end of the journey but the beginning of a new adventure, an unsettling one. Because if you think the hardest part is to write, think again. Remember what I wrote in part 1: writing is not different from cooking. Well, up to a point. Here’s why.
As a chef, after the years in kitchens, I was used to handling the pressure of the Saturday night service, of the Mother’s Day brunch, the urgency, and the heat. Tickets dangling from the printer, equipment breaking during service, the cooks who are calling in sick, and guests complaining.
But there is one big advantage in kitchens: you always get answers. You send a plate, and a few minutes later, when the server comes back, you know if they loved it or they hated it. If you fucked up the temperature. If it’s too salty or has too much sauce. If it’s undercooked, overcooked, or too spicy. If it’s great, or if it sucks, and… in the worst-case scenario, it’s bland as fuck. But at least the verdict comes back no matter what, whether instantly or at the end of the meal. Sometimes it hurts; sometimes it brings a smile or a feeling of accomplishment. But at least it exists. In the end, working in a kitchen is not always fair; it’s brutal, but there is clarity.
This is where witting is different. You spend three days, three weeks, or three months on an essay. A year or two on a book, then you hit Publish and… Nothing happens. Absolutely fucking nothing.
You are just sitting there, haunted by a thousand questions. Especially when you self-publish. Because you have no editor to reassure you or tell you what’s right or if you’ve screwed up. If it was badly written? Is the title weak? Was the back cover catchy enough? Was it published the wrong way? Did I butcher the launch? Did people disagree? Was it not interesting? Did the ending drag? Was it too short? Too long? Or is it just a flop, pure and simple?
So you wait. You wait again. And you wait even more. You wait for what you created to finally be noticed and have some feedback on it. And because it was my first book, I wanted—I needed—to hear a voice. Any voice. Someone, anybody. But not from the people I knew. From strangers. I was desperately trying to catch the sound of a review, comments, and ratings. Any tiny fragments drifting in from people I never met. Even random messages in different languages, I’ve written them in English as well; It’s actually fascinating to compare the two versions because the tone couldn’t be more different. Both books have a different vibe and a different rhythm. Same bones… but different blood. Anyway.
As nature hates a void, human nature fills the blanks. And hypocrisy quietly joined the conversation. Before publication I promised myself and proudly announced to anyone willing to listen that I would not care about sales. What a load of crap. Of course I would. The first few days I casually checked to see if anything was happening. Then I became obsessed with it. My mood mirrored the sales, whether they went up, slowed down, or just stalled. I wanted to understand why it was moving. Why wasn’t it? Why were five copies sold on Tuesday and none on Wednesday? Would it be the predictable failure I was fearing or an improbable success that I was secretly hoping for.
But the needle did not move, and I was still fucking clueless. So I told myself that there could be only one logical examination: this book is garbage. It’s awful. I wrote a turd. I suck. It was getting obvious that nobody would read it.
Then I started doubting everything. Maybe the ones who did read it will hate it. Maybe they loved it but never will post a review. Maybe the algorithm buried it. Maybe the title failed. Maybe it wasn’t the right day. Crap, I was losing my fucking mind there.
At last, ego started whispering. I tried to convince myself it could not be that bad. So I wallowed in a chaotic period of self-delusion, which I enjoyed, I must admit. Yeah, I can be that shallow too. Who the fuck isn’t?
“No. It’s not me. It’s them. Those brain-dead, useless idiots simply didn’t get it.”I want to reassure you; it didn’t last very long. Thankfully. Still, it felt like I was sucked into a black hole that swallowed the few parts of sanity I managed to save after writing three hundred pages.
And that’s the part that doesn’t exist in the kitchen. Uncertainty. Because you learn as you go, you have feedback along the evening; you can adjust your recipe, the presentation, and the seasoning. And you know when you’re done: when the tickets stop, when the service ends, and when the dining room empties. Then time stops, and that’s when the chef has his reward: silence.
When you write, you can only guess. So you wander. With writing, there is no closing time. Every time you reread the manuscript, you are always tempted to change a sentence, a comma, or an adjective. You never stop wondering if it’s good enough or if you had more time, would it make it better? And most importantly, when to stop before you just make it worse.
That’s a different kind of endurance because the cycle never stops. You lock yourself in an endless mental loop because you just can’t shut down your brain. You wish you could find some peace…silence. Until it comes. Then you discover it cuts both ways, because when it settles, it feels like purgatory for a writer. If I ever considered myself as one. I still don’t.
There is one thing that I realized through this chaos: people who decide to write a book, whatever the outcome is, whether it works or not, don’t get enough credit. And neither do those who decide to publish on their own, whatever the reason they choose to do so. Because you basically have no idea of what you’re doing or where you’re going. You’re entering completely unknown territory. There are no guidelines, no manual, and no rules to follow or to respect. It’s not that easy. It takes a lot of courage, resilience…and faith. You have to believe in yourself. As there is always a little part of us even in the meaningless articles we produce, writing and letting go tests you in a sneaky way. It reveals a lot about who you are, your flaws, your dark side, and your temper and finally shows your real character.
I always thought it took guts to stand in front of a stove during a Saturday night service. But I’ve discovered another kind of courage. I found out you need more mental strength to keep going in front of your computer than behind the stove, even though it tests your body. It requires balls to sit alone in front of a screen and to face your thoughts, writing something that matters to you. To publish it anyway, knowing it may disappear into complete indifference. Then having the will to start over again and opening a blank page the next morning as if none of that mattered.
I’ve survived thirty-two years working in the chaos of restaurants, front of house and back of house. I never imagined a laptop would challenge me more than a Saturday night service. And as a chef, you rely on your technique and your experience. As a writer, sometimes all you have is the belief inside yourself that the next sentence—and the next essay—is worth writing, even if no one ever tells you it was. Even if no one will ever read it. That’s a form of mental endurance that many creative people recognize, regardless of whether they’re writers, musicians, or artists.
Cooking is different; it’s one of the most altruistic jobs in the world. You spent your life cooking for people you’ll never see. Just to give them pleasure, and you’re with a team.
Writing is opposite; it’s a solitary pleasure or torture. It’s actually weird that it can be both at the same time. But you don’t necessarily write for others; you just hope you’ll be read by people you’ll probably never meet. It’s a different kind of service. Because in the restaurant, the dining room tells you when you’ve done a good job. As a writer, you have to decide whether you’ll keep cooking even when the dining room stays silent. And sometimes you’re not even sure there will be anybody in the dining room.
As a GM or chef, I was and still am addicted to the pressure of service. When I finish a service, I’m drained; I’ve been wiped out and beaten up by the mayhem. But even on my knees, I can’t help feeling overwhelmed by this strange feeling. I’m happy. Whole. At peace. And the next day, I come back begging for more. So I put my jacket back on, eager to jump into the trenches. And I can’t wait to have my ass kicked again. Yes, it’s borderline insane and masochistic. I agree.
The funny thing is, writing didn’t cure me of that addiction. It added another one. Because my first book left me butt naked, vulnerable, empty, and out of breath. But I couldn’t wait to start the second. And I got right back at it, begging for more. Like a lunatic. The only difference is I’ve learned my lesson. So when I finished it, I pressed "publish," but this time I turned off my computer, picked up one of my guitars, and moved on to something else.
8/08/26
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I have a shameful secret: I’ve recently discovered that, in addition to all the traumas
and unresolved issues I’ve carried since my teenage years; I am a masochist. Yes, I know; it’s insane. Trust me, it was quite a shock for me as well. I already had a flawed personality; I never thought it could be even worse. The thing is that I must be honest about it because it changed my life. The difference is, now I know I’m not alone; I’ve seen, read, and talked to some of you freaks with the same affliction. And I am sure that among those lunatics, some twisted minds are reading this article right now. So, wave if you recognize yourself. But for me, this is how it began.
Two years ago, I had just turned fifty-three. At the time I was enjoying the perks of being an executive chef in a successful Mediterranean restaurant. I have been happily married for the past twenty years, and we have a beautiful daughter and a potato couch golden retriever. I have a fulfilling job, no financial concerns—I thought I had it all under control. Finally. After a chainsaw lifestyle filled with more questionable choices and countless mistakes than common sense and an inconsistency that borders on genius, I was contemplating a long life of struggles, hard work, and sacrifices, and I was rightfully hoping to taste some of that quietness that comes after the storm, the allegedly wise era of the fifties.
Wisdom, my ass, because my last whim was about to ruin all this apparent tranquility. And honestly, now that I have had time to reflect on it, I wonder what the fuck I was thinking. What exactly crawled through my deranged brain the day I decided this sounded like a good idea?
Me, writing a book.
What the hell was I expecting, and most of all, who the hell did I think I was? Bourdain? Thompson?
Fucking moron. Idiot.
The truth is that I was told that writing was some sort of liberation. Well, it was somehow—but not only that. For me, it was more of a relief. It felt like releasing a pressure valve. It was like a therapy session without the shrink. The problem is that once I sat down on that metaphorical couch and started unraveling what was going on inside my head, I found a fucking mess. And I found there was only one way out, and it wouldn’t be through a back door or an emergency exit. I wouldn’t get that lucky. It became clear that writing would not be an escape; quite the opposite. It would end, at best, as a ruthless bare-knuckle brawl against my own bullshit.
The hell with it; I decided to go all in anyway. So I laid it all out and spilled my guts in a strange mix of emotional archaeology and unhinged exhibitionism. But as I dug through emotions no one asked to see, I excavated skeletons that were buried for a reason. I uncovered parts of myself that weren’t meant for daylight. And others that probably should have stayed there. Yet somehow, I dragged them all back to the surface anyway out of pure self-centered masochism.
And it felt good. I ended up confessing in those pages like a guilty sinner looking for absolution, conveniently forgetting the most basic form of dignity. Because it was shameless. Indecent. But it was delicious. Addictive. Reinvigorating. And somehow, it was… necessary. At least for my own sake.
What nobody told me, though, and what I found out pretty quickly, is what happens after you’ve stripped in public like a demented pervert. What follows once your words are out there. When it’s all printed, published, and thrown into the wild.
I'll tell you, nothing comfortable. I am dead serious. Just a weird and unexpected sense of loneliness, the biggest void I’ve ever felt, and the most disturbing silence I’ve ever heard. Because I ended up facing myself in the mirror, with nothing else to stare at but my soul.
What surprised me, though, wasn’t the silence around me but the one inside me. That ruthless bastard, who had probably been lurking for a while, came from the darkness and knocked me out with a sledgehammer. The blow was so loud that I could feel it vibrating in the walls. It hummed inside my brain. I felt exposed, vulnerable, and without boundaries. Empty.
But once that strange feeling faded, for the first time in my life, I experienced a kind of inner tranquility. Like somebody suddenly had pulled the plug on all the noise that had lived inside me for decades. But I was not out of the woods yet.
I found myself in a position I knew damn well too well. Every day in my kitchen, I create a dish. I write the recipe, cook it, plate it, add the decorative bullshit on top, put it on the pass, ring the bell, and send it into the dining room.
And writing wasn’t that different.
The manuscript was finished. The cover was done. The back cover was written; it was sitting on my own personal pass. All I had to do…was press publish.
Yet I didn’t. I hesitated. I read and reread, wondering if the text had to be changed or if that had to be shorter. Then the everlasting existential fucking questions:
Is it too raw, too intimate, too dark, not politely correct enough, etc.?
After torturing myself for two weeks, I was going crazy. My brain started running circles like a caged animal.
Then one day, after another sleepless night, I had enough, so I turned on my computer. I went onto the websites where I uploaded the EPUB file for the digital book and the PDF for the paperback, and I decided to let go. Fuck it. I pressed publish.
You will tell me that somehow, it was easier because it’s a self-publication. Well, yes and no, in part because I never wanted to bother dealing with traditional publishers. My decision was motivated mostly by laziness and impatience because I kind of knew what was next:
I send the manuscript. I have to wait for a response. If it's green-lighted, I would have to endure some revisions and corrections. Eventually, suffer through suggestions to tone it down. Wait for the ok for the cover.
Wait, wait, and wait some fucking more.
Fuck it. Too long. Patience has never occupied much shelf space in the scarce inventory of my few virtues. I must confess that arrogance played a role as well.
Why the hell should I care about what they think? To be perfectly honest, I don’t give a rat’s ass about their approval.
Speaking of which, something funny happened along the way. I had a publisher that got in touch with me after reading the draft of a chapter. Not that I cared to share it with him, but a friend of mine sent it to him, and the guy contacted me by email. Poor bastard, he had no fucking idea of the kind of idiot he was dealing with.
He told me that he liked it, and he could provide me a two-page report on it.
When I read that, for about three seconds, the answer that popped in my head was “Sure, I’ll print your report…and wipe my ass with it.”
That primal—wait, let's be fair and let me rephrase—neanderthal reaction.
was driven by my inflated ego, more impatience, and my natural allergy to being told what to do. Of course what I actually answered was far more civilized. Yes, it happens to me occasionally.
But the truth is, I wasn’t interested. Not because he was wrong, and maybe he wasn't, or not because I knew better—that would be a first. But I simply wanted the book to remain mine. Elegant or clumsy. Successful or forgotten.
What I mostly wanted was honesty. Authenticity. And there is no fucking way that I’d smooth out anything just because someone thought it might sell better.
Good or bad. Everything will stay right where it is. Exactly the way it is. And if you don’t like it, beat it.
I’ll make it or wreck it.
And in the end, even though I know it might not seem like much to some who consider it unworthy or trash. Well, it's my trash, buddy. Mine. So I’ll own it and wear it as fucking loud and proud as I can.
The funny thing is at that time, when people around me found out I wrote a book and that it got published, they looked at me differently. Something changed. Their eyes narrowed, their ears perked up, their attention locked. As if suddenly every sentence coming out of my mouth were expected to be profound, intelligent, and insightful. As if I belonged to some exclusive intellectual elite. A freak from a sacred order, a secret society of eccentric literary weirdos capable of stringing three coherent words together and somehow filling page after page with them.
But the moment I say something stupid instead, I could almost see the question forming behind their eyes:
How the hell did this guy manage to write a book?
I must admit that most of the time I took great pleasure in giving them the dumbest answer I could think of. Out of pure provocation, most likely.
So it was out. And I was bombarded with the same goddamn question by friends and family:
How does it feel to write a book and to publish it?
Well, when it went live online, I was in front of my Mac. I felt some satisfaction; I was pleased. But nothing soul-shattering.
Receiving the paperback, however… that was a very different story. Holding it in my hands and feeling the weight of its presence. Seeing my face on the cover and my name on the spin. Reading my own goddamn words, engraved in ink forever on the pages, it was a strange, almost surreal sensation. And that silent shock resonated so loudly, it rattled my cage. I couldn’t help feeling an overwhelming pride in the accomplishment. I won’t pretend otherwise; having it in front of me was something huge. Because books have got a certain presence.
In French we say, “Ça fait chic; putain, c’est la classe.”
Should I even translate? Is it absolutely necessary to add more cursing so far, knowing I am only at the first part?
Ok, let’s put it in a nice way: “It has gravitas. Happy?
But for a few days, I just sat there, staring at the ceiling and my laptop like a zombie, wondering what to do. Thinking, “Now what, moron?”
So yes, that’s the million-dollar question. Now what?
Honestly, this is where it gets intriguing, because I thought the most difficult part was behind me. That I was done.
I was dead wrong, because it was just the beginning of another battle.
Writing and publishing were both tricky, but I managed to accomplish them with varying degrees of difficulty. And with more or less success. But learning to live and deal with what came after… That is another fucking mind job we are about to get into. Because I don’t know about you, but I certainly wasn’t prepared for this one.
End of part 1.
8/06/26
THE SADISTIC PLEASURE OF WRITING AND PUBLISHING.
PART 1.
NEWSLETTER
NO SPAM.
NO SPIN.
THE GOOD STUFF ONLY
Sharp stories, honest conversations, and the occasional badly behaved opinion. Delivered when there’s something worth saying.
BY SIGNING UP, YOU AGREE TO RECEIVE EMAILS FROM FOODNBULLSHIT. UNSUBSCRIBE ANYTIME.
© 2026 FOODNBULLSHIT All rights reserved.
Contact:
alexandrefenot@gmail.com