It’s been so long since I’ve blogged that I forgot until last week that I hadn’t. I have more important things on my hands, such as working and dreaming and fantasizing
and considering a third book.
I can’t believe I just wrote that.
Here’s the thing–just because you don’t get an agent doesn’t mean you can’t sell. It also doesn’t mean your book isn’t good. I am terrified to do a book signing at my local Barnes & Noble. They provide the signs, the books, etc, etc, the manager, Lisa, told me so. But they don’t provide the confidence and the shoulder to cry on if no one stops at your table. On the positive side, my book would be in the local store, at least until it may potentially bomb. BUT that doesn’t mean you should give up. Writing is like a drug. Just because someone doesn’t like my story doesn’t mean I’ll stop selling it. Especially when people you know think that because you don’t have an agent, you obviously suck. “Published writers don’t live around here. They don’t happen to people we know.” Ah. Whatever. Couldn’t be farther from the truth. Then you have a bookstore chain who shall remain nameless, in the Pacific Northwest, that at first wouldn’t sell your book. Then they saw it in the Ingram catalog, which is the bible of booksellers, and suddenly it was worthy.
The writing is in my veins, pulsing. I don’t know if I want to write YA again. I sort of want to write a book for regular adults. But adults read YA, so I just don’t know. I do know, however, that my ideas could go both ways. It’s quite simple–I don’t write fluffy romance, or dystopia or horror. I just write real. Kinda dark. Kinda complicated. I don’t know why I’m drawn to those kinds of folks. So the genre really doesn’t matter. But the future characters are already haunting me, those pesky people. I am starting to see them everywhere.
It took me about eight months to write, a couple of months to approve editing, cover, agreements, yada yada. So overall, a year-long process, plus I was working full-time. One DOES NOT write a book overnight. I repeat, one DOES NOT write a book overnight. And if you do, no one will take you seriously. Think six months minimum. Many of my Twitter and Goodreads author friends are on their second year of the same manuscript. That’s real writing. Then the self-advertising, outside advertising, pimping the book everywhere, keeping up on stats and reviews and sales
and remembering your blogging which no one really reads. I’m not sure if I want to go there again. I could just do it for fun, see what happens. Maybe the third, fourth or seventh or tenth book might get signed. (Curse you, weird, racing, creative mind).
I miss the boys and girls of my stories. I think about them a lot. Like, certain music or places or dialogue will remind me. I can still feel what it was like to write in the basement at three a.m. with a silent house while everyone slept. I still feel that pull to do it again, even just as a hobby. But I also feel the pull to stuff my face with two boxes of mini Charleston Chews and alas, I’ll refrain. God, I love those things. Bless you Mr. or Mrs. Charleston, or South Carolina or wherever they came from. Now can you just make the mini strawberry and chocolate ones too?
I’ll just wait it out, see if the desire fades. I’ll keep my day job in the meantime.