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Let Me Tell You A Story

I’ve been preparing Fester for publication for what seems like several ice ages at this point. Even though the deadline is bearing down, it still doesn’t seem real. Right now, I am just reading and re-reading the manuscript, looking for typos and opportunities to polish up the story a little bit more.

This is daunting. I’ve been working on this story of and on for nearly thirteen years now. I’m pretty damn familiar with it at this point. Yet I’ve once again printed out the latest MS, and am preparing to review it yet again.

As I go through the oh-so-familiar chapters yet again, there are some I like reading, even for the umpteenth time, and some that are, at best, meh. Yet overall, the story holds up in my not so humble or unbiased opinion. I think it’s pretty good, fairly coherent, and very funny. I should be proud, for I feel I have written a good book. (That’s not to say that Jackrabbit was not a good book, but it wasn’t my story. It was John Dillinger’s; I just retold it and put a little twist at the end.)

However, while I was getting enthused about getting Fester to print, I ran across two statistics that totally harshed my mellow. The first was the total royalties I had earned since Jackrabbit was published in 2019. I won’t go into detail, because it’s damn embarrassing, but let’s just say it’s in the low three figures. A rough calculation indicates that I’ve earned enough selling books to cover slightly less than 5% of the out-of-pocket expenses involved in publishing: paying the cover artist, paying the editors, buying ISBN numbers, etc. I’ve recouped about one-twentieth of that; as for the hundreds if not thousands of hours spent writing and preparing the books for publication – bupkes, bubelah!

No matter. I didn’t get into this for the money. If I wanted to make money selling books, I would have opened a book store. At least that’s what I tell myself. The real object of the exercise is to tell a story – to entertain, and have the reader transported from their mundane issues and concerns to a world where they can be forgotten for a while. Noble AF, am I correct?

Then I ran into the second of the mellow-harshing statistics: that only about 25% of friends and family members who buy your book will actually read the thing. For me, this is a king-hell bummer, as friends and family members comprise the bulk of my audience. I guess the thought is that if they buy the book, that’s good enough. Well, it’s better than a poke in the nuts with a sharp stick, but it still kinda sucks. Because for me, this isn’t a moneymaking exercise, it’s a story-telling endeavor. I’d much rather you read a free copy than pay for one and leave it neglected on the nightstand.

What’s the point of this screed, then? I’m not sure–except it allows me to blow off a little steam. I’m not really too concerned about alienating my audience, since I’m fairly confident that very few people will read this, either. (And if you are reading this, I thank you sincerely.)

So, to sum up: some writers write to make money, but nearly all writers really want little more than to tell you a story. Indulge them.


Published inself-publishingwhiningwriting

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