Wednesday morning, a day before I am yet again going to get the “Marketing Your Book” talk from the self-publishing marketing guy, Ben, I could barely get out of bed. Pickleball in a couple of hours. My aging limbs want to scream. NO! Stay in bed. Never write another book. Act your age. Saying ‘act your age’ really pisses me off. I’ve never acted my age. That has become a problem in my senior years. I still throw tantrums like a toddler. When I was a toddler, I was a perfect little gentleman. A weird kid, maybe. Liked to wear ties. No longer. Here I am whining away about selling books, a great book, by the way, and on the telly, Zelensky has travelled all the way to London to meet Boris, Parliament, and King
Charlie. Turkey is in a shambles. Syria’s screwed up, as well. Nothing new there. Just more of it. War and shambles. But, my biggest worry, clearly a First World Worry, is that I have written a book and only a fool wouldn’t want to go on THE NEW BOOK HUSTLE. That’s what I’m calling it. Foolish or not, I have written a funny book. Dark in places but witty and readable. It hasn’t arrived yet, but I am remembering my first book. Ten years ago it was. I was sixty-six. A little more energy back then. And possessed of the hunger for acceptance. That first book had flaws. One reviewer even suggested I rewrite it. Another commentator said, make it non-fiction. They sell better. Good advice all. I went on a bit of book toot. Richmond. A book fair. It was fun, but few sold. That’s the thing. Low expectations.
There are billions of books out there. Only so many can catch the public eye.
Wednesday Noon, I’ve been home an hour. Getting hungry. Every second
Wednesday, our house gets a cleaning. I am confined to my den until the hygiene
procedure is complete. Its usually a two and one/half process. As I wait, the death toll in Turkey and Syria is rocketing upwards. Twelve thousand so far. At breakfast it was seven thousand. God knows what it will be by dinner. Marketing a book seems so petty in comparison. I added ‘in comparison.’ Probably unnecessary. Publishing a book is even more so. The dollars I am investing in bringing my manuscript to life could be used so much more productively as a donation to some on the ground charity. While I am cognizant of that, I am in for the long haul. The book is a thing. I am an author. The book is my thing. Damn, I am starving. Hyperbole! I am a well-fed writer. And I appear to be avoiding serious commentary of the subject at hand ―The New Book Hustle. Wednesday Evening, I need to wait. I’m good at waiting. I kill part of the evening watching The Runaway Train, which is a super steroid thriller that keeps me on the edge of my writerly butt. No real thoughts of ever jumping on a runaway training. I do wonder if it is a metaphor for marketing. Thursday Morning, almost 20,000 dead in Turkey. A fact. Depressing as hell. And shortly, Ben will call. I will engage in a serious conversation about marketing The Life of Gronsky.