So I’ve shared my novel with a few friends and David Henry Sterry - Mr. Book Doctor, and now I wait. I have a sneaking suspicion that people aren't reading my novel, but I’ve been there myself. People who have written manuscripts tend to have a scary look in their eyes: part desperation, part manic insanity. I've run the other way myself, just like everyone seems to be doing with me, and I know why. No one wants to deal with people who are so egotistical they believe they can write a novel. No doubt it’s a manifesto of some sort, anyway since those writers are a crazy lot, right?
Meanwhile, I’m floundering without writing. I don’t like not writing. Even yesterday, when I got a massage from the
Chinese Acupressure guys with the massage chairs in the mall, I felt
uncomfortable. What? No one gets massages from these guys? That explains a lot. Anyway, after my massage, I picked up my free
gift with purchase at the Clinique department in Dillards. I’ve
been looking forward to owning yet another pretty bag and $65 worth of makeup I
don’t need, but after the initial rush of excitement, my gift seemed meaningless.
A free spray of Chanel No 5 lifted my spirits, as did a Starbucks iced caffe mocha, but the truth
remains; I’m only going to be happy when I’m writing. This stage of the process – the sales and
marketing part – is a necessary evil, though.
I’m showing the world I believe in what I’ve written enough to fight for
it. I’m showing the world my
determination. And yes, I’m showing the
world just how crazy I really am.
Meanwhile, the first reader who returns my manuscript will get a bottle of Clinique moisturizer (you didn't think I'd give away the whole bag did you?).