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.
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.