The most dreadful thing has happened since publishing my debut Novel [in June]. And while it's a scary admission to make, the truth is I no longer seem to be so much a writer as I'm called upon to be a marketer. A particular problem considering that I'm not so good at it - selling that is. Okay. Maybe. But not breaking any records that I know of or have read about in the local newspaper.
Three months ago, newly minted book nearly in hand, I did have a multitude of plans ready to implement as soon as my book became available, ready to wave the same banner of enthusiasm which had carried me though the long process of publication.
But all that was before I came face to face with the fact that Authors are not on the same playing field as Rock Stars or Reality Show celebs -- maybe not even in the same galaxy. The public does not shell out mucho $ for books by debut authors nearly as freely or willingly as they might for Jersey Shore and Guidette T-shirts.
What's more (and this one hurts) your mother might actually only want ONE copy of your book on her coffee table, and even then, it's pretty shabby if you didn't actually sent her the single copy that she does have. (Causing you to miss out on a one hour jump on your rank, had she instead bought it on Amazon.) It's all just another of those surprises that sneak-up -- chortle madly -- then dash away before you can manage to grab the damn thing and choke it's neck.
Publishing --it sure as heck isn't about writing anymore.
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