If I was a parent I’d be accused of neglect. I have to say 2017 was the least published year of recent memory. Not that I’ve been neglecting my fiction, but I had a non-fiction book accepted and I work full-time and commute to that job—you get the picture.
I’ve also had a personal epiphany. If you can write, you should get paid for it. I know a publicist (not my own; I don’t have one) and she says she won’t let her authors even write an op-ed if they don’t get paid. I guess I’d never get published then.
My Medusa novel had a flicker of hope for a few moments. A publisher actually wrote back asking for the rest of the manuscript. That’s never happened before. Then the editor disappeared. Even called me by the wrong pseudonym. I’ve gotta wonder about that because the second half of the novel’s even better than the first.
While looking for an agent for my non-fiction (couldn’t find one of those either) I came across several who said they liked quirky fiction. I’m just no good at selling myself. That’s a sin, by the way, in the publishing industry.
Between my pseudo and real-nyms, I’m pretty active online. When I sit in editorial board meetings, I hear about non-fiction authors who are famous but who don’t do a thing to promote their books. Publishing’s a funny world, I guess. I work in it and maybe some day I’ll understand it.
Over the holidays, which amounted to about five days without work, I managed to write a new short story. I haven’t had time to think about a publisher. I even came up with a new twist on a ten-time rejected story. What I lack is the time to take care of my babies.
I hate being a neglectful parent.
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