Congrats, Clare Wilson!

One of my oldest and best twitter author friends, Clare Wilson, is launching her second book, and my blog is part of the release celebration! Today Clare tells us about her experiences as a traditionally and self-published author. 

Congrats again, Clare! You've written another lovely book! How I wish I could be there for your launch party and get an autographed copy. Have a lot of fun! x

PS: And yes; you ARE an author!

Between a Rockin' Ebook and a Hardback Copy

There have been countless articles written on the merits and disadvantages of self publishing versus traditional. One thing is for certain, the world of publishing is going through its biggest change since the rise of the affordable paperback, and we as writers all need to roll with the punches.

As a young writer (relatively speaking), I have never been a part of the old-school publishing world. Any writer will tell you, the people getting lottery win advances are few and far between. Much to my frustration, most of these people tend to be celebrities either writing about their boring lives, or fulfilling their hidden dreams to pen fiction. How much of it is directly written by such people is another hot topic for debate, but as mere artists, ours is not to reason why...

Anyway, I wanted to talk a little bit about where I find myself in this mystifying new universe of books. I am not a self-publishing evangelist, nor, as I have said, am I a die hard traditional publishing stalwart. I strangely lie somewhere in a murky grey area betwixt the two.

My first book The Long Staff was published by Olida Publishing in October 2010, and the second book in this series The Ancient Exile is being officially released as of the start of May 2013. Olida is one of the many up and coming indie publishing houses, which are pushing the big boys to sit up and take notice. In my case, they are responsible for the hard copies of my Staff Wielder Books, and do not have the e-book publishing rights. While I don't know how common this is, it has given me a rather unique learning opportunity. I am responsible for self-publishing my book online, while my publisher has produced a fabulous hard copy of each title and also provides me with the benefits therein.

Since my book was released in 2010, my relationship with my publisher has allowed me to gain access to such organisations as The Society of Authors. I have visited a good number of schools as a 'published' author, and this has allowed me to reach out to an audience that wouldn't be more complicated to reach from behind my laptop.

I have also had my book appear at such prestigious events as The Edinburgh Book Festival and the Bologna Book Fair. Finally, a highlight for me was getting to appear on the official programme at The Wigtown Book Festival in 2012. 

Being affiliated to a publisher has also opened the doors to great organisations like The Scottish Book Trust, who have enabled me to perform at paid school events north or the border, something which greatly boosts a non-existent income. 

The one area which still eludes me is the bookstore... While I have had some great support from that rare breed, the independent bookstore, chain stores like Waterstones are much harder to crack. I don't come from a large publishing house, so getting in the door is extremely difficult, even with my publisher. 

Still, maybe as bookstores dwindle, this is something that doesn't matter to the same extent. There is a worldwide audience out there, and through the internet, no-one is unreachable any more, even if you need to be smart about where you look.

So, we come to my self-publishing experience. I find that I have learned a great deal, and also been given a great deal of freedom. The editions of the books which appear online are ones which I have been able to finally edit myself. Not only that, but I have control over the pricing of the books, and I can track sales figures at any time, rather than waiting for a statement from my publisher. I have been able to reach a great many new readers online through Twitter and Facebook, using my control over my ebook as a tremendous tool. 

Using KDP with my first book, I have been able to achieve more than double the figures in downloads than I have in hard copy sales, even if a lot of these were when my book was on special offer. 

So, in conclusion, where does this leave me? As I said, I am neither a self-published author, nor am I paid cash advances by a publisher with the clout to get me in shop windows or on TV book clubs. I am the little indie author who sits between the two worlds, belonging to neither, yet striving to succeed in both. I don't think traditional publishing is dead, but, like Professor X's new generation of humans, there are some super-smart writers out there, swimming upstream. They won't be ignored and they won't wait for an illusive deal with an agent or publisher.

Who am I? I write, therefore I am... I may not make a serious living yet, but I AM a writer.

Buddhapuss Ink: Celebrate Lover's Day with a Romantic Duo!

Buddhapuss Ink: Celebrate Lover's Day with a Romantic Duo!:

Celebrate Lover's Day with a Romantic Duo!

When you're in love, everyday is Lover's Day.

Sometimes people need a little incentive to express their love or to take a "leap," Valentine's Day is one such opportunity. Lover's Day is yet another chance at love. Some people get married on Lover's Day, others propose, or have a romantic dinner for two.

What do we do on Lover's Day? Because we love romance and readers, we want to giveyou a present for Lover's Day. In fact, we like you so much, one day isn't enough—we want to give you THREE DAYS of LOVE!

So, for the next three days, Tue 4/23 through Thur 4/25, we are giving away the bestselling kindle edition of The Distant Shore by award-winning author Mariam Kobras.

 

The Distant Shore is the first book in Mariam's Stone Trilogy, and here’s what her fans have to say:

~ Valerie Storey, 5 Stars, “Mariam Kobras has a real gift for description, and I loved the settings in particular; some of the passages read like poetry. Reading her book was the equivalent of taking a vacation—and to my mind that's the best kind of reading experience there is.”

~ Lauri Rottmayer, 5 stars, “Mariam Kobras has crafted a love story that you can really imagine. Her beautiful words create the images in your head drawing you into the story and the lives of the characters. I'm excited to read the next book!"

~Adele Adair, 5 stars, "Jon and Naomi's love story had me captivated and I was carried along on the roller coaster of their relationship. Her ability to set a scene transported me to Norway, New York and beyond. The journey she takes us on is not an easy one for her characters as they struggle to overcome years of separation and the differences in their lifestyles, hopes and dreams."

~Johanna Harness, 5 stars, "The set-up is straight-forward. Jonathan Stone, an aging rock star, still longs for the woman who walked out of his life years ago. His fan mail is usually screened, but this time his manager gives him a letter. "My mother's name is Naomi Carlsson," it begins. "We live in a small town in Norway called Halmar where she manages a hotel, the Seaside. She said you are my father." From there, the story tumbles out beautifully, structured with a sense of inevitability—and yet I still found myself surprised."

BUT WAIT, THERE'S MORE . . . 

We've also put the kindle edition of the second book in the Stone Trilogy, Under the Same Sun, on SALE for $3.99, 50% off. Yep, it's twice the love!

Both books are beautifully written, engaging stories, that will keep you turning the pages late into the night. Don't miss out on this LIMITED TIME OFFER! All good things have to come to an end so, even though we'll still love you on the 26th, this offer ends at midnight PDT on the 25th. 

No kindle, NO PROBLEM, Amazon has an app for that. You can read these ebooks on your computer, smartphone, or tablet. Just click HERE and get reading!

Our prescription: Take two Kobras kindles with plenty of chocolate and unplug the phone!

 

A Must Read!!!

I'm cranky today.
I'm always cranky when I've finished writing a novel, when it's no longer mine but my publisher's.
It's because I feel useless. Unamused. Bored.
And that's the time when I dawdle around on Pinterest, and read posts and comments on Facebook that I'd normally ignore.

Are you on twitter? Facebook? Pinterest?
Have you noticed how certain terms have come into fashion to catch the reader's attention?
I mean these here:

It blew my mind
To die for
A must-read!
Awesome!
Thought-provoking
Adorable!!!

I mean, REALLY? A poached egg on toast recipe BLEW YOUR MIND? Your mind must be a pretty wispy thing then. It's only an egg on bread, for crying out loud.
What are you going to say if an alien spaceship lands on Times Square? If you blow your mind on a squishy egg and a knitting pattern is to die for, what are you going to say when the really awesome stuff happens?

Another favorite is "a must-read". I can't even begin to wrap my mind around this.
I can see why the Bible is a "must-read" for anyone who wants to be a Christian. I can also see why, if you buy a new computer or DVD recorder, it might be a good thing to RTFM. But no novel in the whole wide world is a "must-read", and yes, that includes my own.

Awesome - a friend of mine, Charity, picked that one apart not so long ago. here's the gist of what she said:
"Cake isn't awesome. Shoes aren't awesome. The universe is awesome. I'm in AWE of the universe, but not of a frigging cake."
Good point, isn't it?

And so we come to thought-provoking.
Seriously? You need a pic of a baby with a smart caption to turn on your brain? You need one of those many psychedelic images on Facebook you make you think?
Dude, I have news. The real life is what's happening around you, not in your computer. Think about that, for a change.

Oh, and adorable?
I don't "adore" a kitten, or a smiling baby. I adore God. End of story.

Thank you for listening. I'll now go back to writing a book.

The Big Fat Lie

Yes, there is such a thing.
Yes, a writer can be bored. Says she, staring into the middle distance, while her brain is taking a hike.

There is no day as terrible as the day after submitting a novel. I have this habit of powering through the edits as if my life depends on it. It's a huge task, and I work day and night to get it done. I can't wait to get rid of the novel. Once the writing is finished, I want it edited, polished, and sent off within days.

I know; I'm crazy. I know, I should take a timeout after finishing the writing, hang out my brain to air, go downtown on a shopping trip, take a vacation. 
Thing is, it doesn't work for me. I'm a bit OCD that way. A novel isn't finished until it's edited and submitted.
So that's what I did during the past five days: I edited.
I'm one of those authors who are slow writers, who edit as they write. I learned to do that after The Distant Shore, after I spent weeks editing it, and cutting it down from its original 400K words to a more professional 135K, which were then accepted by the publisher,

Submitting a novel is a moment that I love, and dread.
I love it, because it means I've written another book (duh. I know.)
I hate it because I have no idea what to do with myself once I press "send".
Because the moment I do that, the moment it's sent off, boredom sets in.

See, I lied to my publisher. I told them – and I said it with conviction, too – that I didn't need to write. That I could, in fact, stop anytime, and still enjoy my life.
That's the lie.
The manuscript of The Rosewood Guitar left the house last night, just before midnight. Now it's noon, the following day, and already I'm bored.
I could clean the kitchen cupboards. Lord knows they need it. Or I could iron my hubby's shirts. Only he's so used to wearing them unironed by now, he'd probably faint.
I could… oh, I don't know. I could learn a new language, experiment with baking (not a good idea; trust me), or I could start knitting baby clothes for a future grandchild who is still only an idea in God's mind.

Or I could start writing a new novel, and prove my publisher right.
They told me that I wouldn't be able to be without writing, and they didn't even laugh, saying it.
I could pretend it's not really a novel, but just some writerly experiment, like, you know, I'm trying to see if I could write science fiction.
In fact, I don't even have to tell them that I'm starting a new project at all. Instead, I could just say that I'm doing nothing, and that I'm bored.
I have a feeling they'd see through me, but who cares.
They'd probably also tell me to start working on the blog posts for the blog hop this summer, when we release my third book:

But it's not the same. Blog posts are not novels.
Writing blog posts is a chore, writing a novel is a way of life. My way of life.
Which means there's really only one thing to do.

Let me open Scrivener. Let me set up a file, and create a folder with a new title. Someone make coffee please, and turn on the heating in my study.
I'll see you in three months.

Please Meet Martie Ingebretsen!

Today I have the honor of introducing Martie Odell Ingebretsen to you.
It's the release day of her novella Sweet William, published by my very own publisher Buddhapuss Ink LLC.
Martie is an exceptional writer. She's one of those writers who make me feel a twinge of envy when I read her words, wishing I had come up with her phrases, wishing I'd see the world through her eyes, at least sometimes.
Download her eBook. Read Sweet William. You won't regret it, I promise.

Here's my review.

 

Buy Sweet William here

On occasion you come across a story that is more like a monument, or a temple to the human spirit. A piece that is never forgotten. The words, the phrases, and the story it tells,weren’t written to entertain; but to endure and be a testimony to what writers can do.

Think of Willa Cather and her My Antonia, Tony Morrison’s The Bluest Eye, Doris Lessing’s Golden Notebook.

Novels that weren’t written to entertain. They were written to tell the tale of humankind, of suffering, adventures, liberation and the incredible love humans are capable of once they overcome the boundaries of society, habit, and custom. 

One of those stories is Martie Odell Ingebretsen’s Sweet William. 

Even though it is a novella, it manages to explore in wonderful, poetic language the way pain can reduce a man’s life to the lowest level of human existence—the daily fight of a life on the streets.

William, after losing his wife and child, his work, his passion, has chosen this path by default. He has chosen to be alone, his needs and desires pared down to sheer survival. His days are chopped into little rituals to give them structure, but nothing more. Emotions, contact, and communication are not things William wants. He lives with the certainty that by locking all these out he will also succeed in locking out pain, and memories, and loss.

But life loves William more than he loves life, and it wants him back.

Like a flower unfolding after a long, dark frost, petal by hesitant petal, William’s heart is opened by the patience and love of a few people who are willing to ignore his current condition, people who know he has much to give and who reach out to him.

Step by tiny step, he regains all the things he has either locked inside himself, or out of his heart.

I want to call Ingebretsen’s writing voice formidable, overwhelming, literary in a way that many authors won’t allow themselves to be. She must be a fearless, clear-eyed woman to write the way she does, and yes, she makes me jealous at times, when I wish I had thought of that phrase, and not she.

I want this author to write long, fat novels. I think she has it in her to write that thing we all dream of writing, The Great American Novel.

I want to hold that novel in my hands while I go on that exciting journey with her.

And I want to be first in line when Ingebretsen sets out on her book signing tour, to get my copy signed.

Now I can hear you say, “Well, she has to praise her. They share a publisher!”

But a polite, kind, bland review would have done the job. I could have said, “A great read, an interesting new author,” and everyone would have been pleased. Everyone but me.

I believe what I’m saying about Martie Ingebretsen. Watch her. If she keeps writing, if she does start writing novels, we’ll see her at an award ceremony someday, holding up one of the big awards.

Last week I did a short interview with Martie, and I want to share it with you now: 

When did you know you wanted to be a writer?

In high school I took a sociology class. The teacher asked us to write a synopsis of two different books.  I took the road less travelled. I guess you could even say I didn't follow directions, but I did take a chance. I wrote the papers in poetic form and got an A+ on both. That was a turning point in believing in myself, and also trusting a reader.

What was the first thing you ever wrote? 

My mother saved a story I wrote called The Little Raindrop. I was in second grade. I still have it somewhere. It was more coloring than words.   

What do you like to write best? Which kind of writing seems most natural to you?

I have been writing poetry since those first poems in high school. I enjoy coloring with words by writing from an emotional or spiritual level. I have always been a people watcher. I remember going with one of my friends to the airport to do just that. We would talk about what we thought they were thinking and where they were going and how they felt about it. Those are still important aspects in the process of getting to know the people and events I write about.

Tell us how you came to write Sweet William.

My husband and I owned a flower shop. Sometimes I would go with him to the flower market around 2 o'clock in the morning. The area was one where many homeless people slept on the street. I was bothered by what seemed to be their sad and crazy life. One night, in my comfortable home in a comfortable suburb of Los Angeles, the rain was coming down hard on an aluminum boat outside my bedroom window and woke me. I laid there wondering what the homeless were doing to stay dry and safe. The next day I started writing Sweet William.

How do you see the role of an author in today’s publishing world?

I think that authors are teachers. They give us a glimpse into the lives of people and places we would not otherwise be able to see. I have always been a copious reader and majored in English Literature in college. I learned a great deal from those books and will always be grateful for the teacher in each of them.

What are you working on right now? Tell us a bit about what we’re going to see from you in the future!

I would like to publish a book of my poems. I have several manuscripts ready. I am also writing a story about love and loss with a sprinkle of mystery. So far I like where it is going. I wonder how it will end.

If you had to describe yourself in three words, what would they be?

Peaceful, positive, thoughtful

What are you reading right now? 

The Last Track: A Mike Brody Novel by Sam Hilliard.

You’re sitting at your desk. Tell us what you can see.  

Well, I'm not sitting at a desk.  I'm sitting with my laptop  in a rocking chair in the living room.  I see a room that is small and cozy with a couch of pillows and an oriental rug, slightly worn.  Beside me in front of a window are many green plants.  Outside the sliding glass door I hear the wind chimes.  it's a beautiful day. 

The World of Khantara

High fantasy, romance, quirky humor and writing that reminds of Jane Austen - all these you can find in Michelle Franklin's novel Khantara! It's my honor to welcome her to my blog today, where she stops by on her blog hop to celebrate the release of her novel.
I will tell you this much: my favorite character is "the wren".

If you like fantasy, and if you appreciate a good read, this is for you!

Find Michelle's book here

Remembering Kindness: Vyrdin’s Dream 

PART 4

                Twenty minutes had gone since Vyrdin had left the farm, and he had not returned and closed the low gate when Mr. Carrighan came thundering toward him from the house. “Where you been, boy?” he growled, his good eye flaring, the veins in his forehead throbbing, his dry and crag-like mouth caught in a cracking flout. He grabbed Vyrdin by the collar and jerked him forward. “That kiln ain’t lit,” he hissed, giving his prey a fierce shake. “You’re gonna tell me where you been or I’m gonna take the hazel to you.”

                “The cleric, sir,” Vyrdin murmured, trying to maintain his balance as he was jerked about. “The cut on my arm wasn’t healing.”

                “You ask me if you could leave?”

                There was no answer.

                “You hear me, boy?” He jostled his captive, but Vyrdin remained silent, his eyes downcast and his head down in solemn contrition. “You’re askin’ for a birtchin’, boy,” he seethed, gripping the back of Vyrdin’s collar with the opposing hand and hurling him round.

                Vyrdin almost toppled over his own feet and regained his footing only to be met with the sight of his master’s free hand reaching into his overcoat pocket. He knew what was hiding there, was well aware of the pain he should be in a few hours hence from the sting of the delimbed shrags, and tensed his shoulders, tightened his fists, and winced in preparation of the anguish of what must follow.

                “Diathanes, Carrighan,” said a familiar voice.

                Vyrdin turned, and without looking up noted the brickmaker hastening toward them from the corner of his eye. Shame and indignation crimsoned his gaunt cheeks, and though he was not released, his master’s hold on him relented. 

                “Gearrog,” Carrighan exclaimed. He took his hand from his pocket and offered it to his visitor, eyeing him charily. “What brings you? You ain’t goin’ to Westren for the holiday?”

                “Can’t. Too much to do here.” Gearrog glanced at Vyrdin, whose face was turned to the side, and then at Old Carrighan, who seemed particularly discomfited by his sudden appearance. He seemed half a second away from doing something which he knew others might find intolerable, and though he appeared somewhat ashamed, he was hardly repentant: his hand was still grasping Vyrdin’s collar, the boy looked as though he were petrified, and altogether the brickmaker received the notion that he had interrupted something which he was certain of disapproving. “I just come by to see if you’re needin’ ‘nymore brick for your kiln. Saw the lad’s arm,” nodding to Vyrdin, “I says that need healin’, so I brought him to the cleric meself.”

                “That true, boy?” Mr. Carrighan said, in a heated tone.  

                Vyrdin looked away, his heart swelling with indignation, his eyes brimming with tears.

                “Practically had to drag the lad there,” said the brickmaker, with pointed circumspection. “Lad didn’t wanna leave.” He paused and gave Vyrdin a solicitous look. “Hope I didn’t cause no trouble.”

                “No trouble at all,” replied the feller, with marked coolness.

                A perfunctory grin on one side, a fleeting smirk on the other, and the brickmaker felt obliged to linger around the land, that he might assured of the boy’s safety. The manner in which the boy was being held, his refusal to turn around, the shifting looks of the feller, his vehement stares all suggested there being something amiss here, and Gearrog would see it if he could. He wanted there to be a something wrong that he might report it, but when Mr. Carrighan said his “Good night, Gearrog,” with stern finality, he was certain of observing nothing whilst he was around to witness. He must take his leave and pretend to go if he should catch him at doing something unwholesome. He nodded his goodbyes, hoped that Vyrdin was well, and turned toward town, looking over his shoulder as he went with marked concern.

                “It ain’t right when a lad’s ‘fraid to get his arm mended,” he murmured to himself, but he observed that the boy was being released, and his mind could not be easy.

                “Get back to work, boy,” said Mr. Carrighan, pointing Vyrdin toward the kiln. 

                Grateful that he had escaped what had promised to be a most brutal punishment, despite his humiliation, Vyrdin felt his fortune and began moving toward the far field. Pangs of intense hunger suddenly assailed him, and as the sensations of stiff fingers and cracking skin were once again upon him, he felt his spirits grow somnolent. “Sir?”  he asked, mortified and desperate, “I’m very hungry. May I have something to eat, sir?”

                “Somethin’ to eat?” Mr. Carrighan chuffed. “You think you deserve it, boy?”       

                Vyrdin knew the answer to this question: if he should say yes, he would be punished for insolence, and should he say no, he would be admitting his own folly at having asked at all. He remained silent therefore and left the fate of suppers and subordination to be determined. He felt the scowling countenance of disapproval and disgust bore through his curls. How disobedient and repugnant an object he was to have gone to the cleric that he might find some small measure of peace and care for an arm which he desperately needed for work. Should he have lost it, he dreaded to think of how vilely he would have been treated thence. A poor and famished orphan with only one arm was far worse than one with two, for as long as he proved his usefulness and asperity, he was given meals — when he deserved it — and shelter where he might otherwise have been forced to find both in a poor house. The Church could not want him any longer; he was too old to be taken in unless he meant to join the laity. Penance and privation must be his due, but he escaped both punishment and remonstrance here: Mr. Carrighan was in want of the plum pudding his sister had shoddily made and was therefore obliged to show his kindness on the holiday and forgive the boy for his lapse. Such a charitable act obliged Vyrdin to say his thanks, and as the master returned to the house, Vyrdin exhaled in relief, marveled at his fortune at having been spared two punishments in one day, and went to the far field, hoping to find the last remnants of a few dandelions about for grazing.

                Some of the kale, cabbage, and sunroot was still in the ground, and after eating a few of the tough leaves and exhuming some of the tubers, Vyrdin found himself able to continue with his work. He drew his scarf about him, tore through the sunroots, rallied his spirits, and with a few stalks of kale in his mouth, went to collect the wood for the fire.

                “Lad’s gonna freeze hisself to death,” said Gearrog, watching Vyrdin mechanically sift through fallen boughs of dried oak. A vicious glare toward the house, and the brickmaker was gone, hastening down the road with all the alacrity that his violent indignation could excite. He would not leave a boy to freeze in the cold, he would not leave him to go hungry when every other house was sitting down to table and delighting in all the revelry of the holiday’s first feast, and he would not leave him to feel wrong for doing what was right. 

See the entire blog hop here: 

 http://wp.me/p30w17-39

Don't miss the next installment!

Author – To Be Or Not To Be

A friend in the publishing industry just posted this question on Facebook:

"Just curious ... has being an author turned out to be what you expected? Or something completely different?"

She caught me at just right time and mood for a crabby, tired and uninspired response. 

This is what I said: 

 “It's more, and less. There's a hell of a lot more work involved, with all the promoting and marketing that is expected (even though I'm traditionally published), and a lot less money than I thought. 

It takes a lot more patience and good will than I expected too.

To sum it up, it's a job like any other, with ups and downs, bad days and good days, some perks, and then there are those moments when you want to throw everything in a corner. 

But it's also living a dream.”

There's really very little to add to this.

And yes, the question made me feel strangely crabby.

During the past four days I've written exactly three sentences on the novel that is due for submission in July. I have 50K words written, which is a little more than a third of the book, and time is running. I'm not a fast writer; 2000 words a day is my limit.

So yes, I feel the pressure. And I'm one of those writers with a hint of OCD: I deliver on time, which, for me, means I deliver a month before the deadline. This is something I'm proud of. No publisher will ever have to remind me of my deadlines. This I promise.

But here's the thing, and this is what made me crabby just now.

Once you're an author, a writer who has signed a book deal, you're also someone who works for a company. Don't fool yourselves: it's just that. A book deal is nothing more but a work contract. The moment a publisher accepts your first book, everything changes, and this is something you have to realize. 

This isn't a hobby anymore. You now work for someone, and they want to see profits.

An author friend (pretty recently signed, I want to add) told me the other day, "All I want is to be published."

Really, dear heart?

I tried explaining to her that "just being published" is not how this thing works. That a publisher acquires manuscripts to sell them, and the more the better. They don't offer contracts because they "just" want to publish a pretty story. They want to make money, and preferably a lot. 

Things are harder for authors these days. With self-publishing swamping the market with cheap or free books, it's harder than ever for publishers to place their books so they'll be noticed.

I know, because I'm there.

Publishers expect authors to pull their own weight, and rightly so. The book we sold, it's our product, isn't it? We created it, and like an engineer who developed a new car or plane, or a rocket that will take tourists to Mars, we have to stand before the customers and sell our product.

It’s not just about the book anymore.

If you want to be successful as an author, you have to be a pop star.

Do you know Neil Gaiman?

Look at him, and you know what I mean. He’s a pop star among authors.

So if you want to be an author and not stay “just” a writer—which is totally fine–but if you aim to get your stuff published, move your butt. Leave your writer’s den and the cozy silence of your home and shine.

Make people notice you, and if you can, make them like you. Make them curious about you, and they’ll start reading your books, too.

So, back to the crabby.

Yes, I’m crabby.

I’m crabby because I’m not getting any writing done, when I should be writing, because…

Here’s another thing. 

As an author, you have to think corporate. 

It’s not just you and your publisher.

It’s you, and your editor, your copyeditor, your fellow authors at that publishing house, and dozens more people who depend on YOU. You’re part of a corporation. You’re making money for others, and they are making money for you. 

One of your fellow authors has a promotion running?

Get out and help! Use your network to help sell their book, and when it’s your turn, they’ll help you. Hopefully. If they have the right attitude.

I’m helping a fellow author right now. That’s why I’m not getting any writing done, and that makes me crabby.

But it’s a good kind of crabby, because I know tomorrow my own promotion begins, and my publisher, my editor, and afore-mentioned fellow author will work their butts off to support me.

We are not alone.

We don’t have to be alone.

Okay. Now that I’ve gotten this off my chest I’m going back to recruiting twitter friends. I’m asking them to help me spread the word tomorrow, when my own giveaway starts. So far, everyone I’ve asked has gladly offered help, and I’m deeply grateful to them.

I think we’ll have a blast. 

So see you tomorrow on twitter, Pinterest, Google+ or Facebook, where you can grab a pretty neat present from my publisher and me!I 

I mean - haven't you always wanted to read one of my books and just never got a chance? ;)