I really wanted to sit with cloth and thread today - any day this week - but there's been no time, and due to a very graceful, slo-mo fall I took last week, my right shoulder is complaining about lifting and holding anything, even a threaded needled, for more than a few seconds at a time. Typing is doable.
These days, a big chunk of a writer's time has to be given over to things that used to be handled by a publisher, if you were lucky enough to land one. On the front end, among many other things, editing ( I feel, yah, Dee). And on the back end, marketing. (I wonder just how many of those commas were in the right place?)
Before I forget, today is the last day you can get all three e-books of Prophets Tango for free.
The 'Zon lets us run a sale like this once every 90 days and for those of you who don't know, writers still earn money based on the number of pages read. No king's ransom, but I'll take it. So we take this gamble if we think we've written a page-turner. I can't imagine reading a book that wasn't.
Yes, I've rented my soul to the devil (Amazon) for a second ninety-day hitch. A commitment that keeps me from selling books elsewhere, but it's about the only way a self-published author can make any waves these days and there are a lot of friggin' fish in the sea.
So this whole week, which I really only picked out of the blue, has been a study in timing. Between tending Charlie (who gifted me this lovely cold), prepping, and cooking for Thanksgiving, I've been haunting the
web, dropping links, sending emails, yadda yadda yadda. And lest we forget, the night job at the whine mine, no days off for the holiday.
I am so ready to crawl into a hole on a beach and just wait for high tide.
Christmas decorations? Shopping? Fuggedaboutit for now.
How do you like my solution for not being able to lift the bird in order to make gravy?