I’ve read somewhere that the truly insane person can be diagnosed
because s/he keeps repeating the same action over and over again with no change
in results.
So.
I’m back.
Repeating. Thinking: maybe this time.
Another book is born. I will soon begin the usual scramble
through a zillion marketing ads, offers to make my book famous if I only sign
this contract or that one, advice from almost-famous authors about how they
have almost done it, sort of, reluctant scans of websites reaching out to damp
pleas for help from frantic, shell-shocked authors, their visions of fame and
fortune shot to hell by the blast of silence that followed their triumphant
yell, “I’ve finished it!”
Damn. I’m doing it
again. Becoming obsessive. Clinically.
But. Uprush looks
really good. Reads well. May sell well to women who have the urge to
look back. Not a huge audience, but my
friends love it. They tell me they love
whatever I write, though, even when it’s about pedophiles and serial
killers. They are good friends, very
good friends.
The thrill for me this time isn’t in the writing so much as
the fact that I have conquered Createspace, have actually built a book, page by
page, front cover to back, including a bio, a dedication page, and an icon,
and that is hard work!
I published this
novel as an ebook a few years ago, distant memories that I needed to write about
then and which I care about even now after all this time.
I’ve always wanted to hold these memories in my hands, feel
the print.
I got my first twenty books today. They are BEAUTIFUL. The cover is terrific. The book’s smell, as I open a copy and breathe
into it, is intoxicating. The font, thank god, is just right for older eyes.
The thing is, I now need to sell Uprush. Send my precious
newborn out into the world. Believe that others will find it as wonderful as I
do. I click my cursor, open the computer, begin.