I just got back from a family trip to Florida, and I'll have you know that while paddle-boarding off the Gulf coast I saw a manatee and two dolphins. They all swam up, popped their flippers out of the water for a round of enthusiastic, pro-mammalian high-fives, and then swam off to their salty homes. As they vanished from sight, they turned and saluted me one last, tear-filled time. Yup...some of this is DEFINITELY true.
Okay, then. Moving on.
We're getting down to it, now. Thirty days. Thirty days to make my final corrections (based on some kick-ass feedback), put together the digital format, approve the print proof, and submit both for commercial sale through Amazon. Then, the marketing push. Ads, more blogging, and of course irritatingly shoving my name into as many online spotlights as I can.
As a self-publisher, I've learned just how many disciplines I have to be a master of (“master”, of course, being an optimistically used word in these contexts), and how much preparation goes into the forcible ejection of this heavily nurtured work of fiction into the choppy seas of the commercial market. No matter the result, I feel utterly enriched by the process. The rewards have been plentiful from both sides...the soul-spilling creation of the narrative, as well as the more mechanical preparation and assembly of the consumable package.
Even having only a small bucket of feedback thus far, I can say my confidence of the end product's quality will be high. I don't think I'm wasting anyone's time. Yeah...that was the question I asked myself as I screwed and bolted this thing together: Am I wasting anyone's time? Would I consider MY time wasted if I were to read it without my status as its author?
No. I would not. Regardless of the book's reception, regardless of whether it is savored by the world or spat out, I am proud of what I've created, and will continue to be after its public baptism. My child will be able to hold it in her hands years from now, and possibly let my grandchildren hold it, as well. Maybe its existence will make me more knowable to them and their progeny, when I'm not around to speak for myself. Yes, I know how self-indulgent this sounds. It's perhaps a bit too melodramatic and pretentious. Yet, in writing this book, I feel like I've driven a flag into the temporal bedrock of the year 2016 A.D. Wherever this story finds itself twenty, fifty, a hundred years in the future, it will be a permanent marker of who I am and when I lived, and it will have brought me peace.
Back to work.
Okay, then. Moving on.
We're getting down to it, now. Thirty days. Thirty days to make my final corrections (based on some kick-ass feedback), put together the digital format, approve the print proof, and submit both for commercial sale through Amazon. Then, the marketing push. Ads, more blogging, and of course irritatingly shoving my name into as many online spotlights as I can.
As a self-publisher, I've learned just how many disciplines I have to be a master of (“master”, of course, being an optimistically used word in these contexts), and how much preparation goes into the forcible ejection of this heavily nurtured work of fiction into the choppy seas of the commercial market. No matter the result, I feel utterly enriched by the process. The rewards have been plentiful from both sides...the soul-spilling creation of the narrative, as well as the more mechanical preparation and assembly of the consumable package.
Even having only a small bucket of feedback thus far, I can say my confidence of the end product's quality will be high. I don't think I'm wasting anyone's time. Yeah...that was the question I asked myself as I screwed and bolted this thing together: Am I wasting anyone's time? Would I consider MY time wasted if I were to read it without my status as its author?
No. I would not. Regardless of the book's reception, regardless of whether it is savored by the world or spat out, I am proud of what I've created, and will continue to be after its public baptism. My child will be able to hold it in her hands years from now, and possibly let my grandchildren hold it, as well. Maybe its existence will make me more knowable to them and their progeny, when I'm not around to speak for myself. Yes, I know how self-indulgent this sounds. It's perhaps a bit too melodramatic and pretentious. Yet, in writing this book, I feel like I've driven a flag into the temporal bedrock of the year 2016 A.D. Wherever this story finds itself twenty, fifty, a hundred years in the future, it will be a permanent marker of who I am and when I lived, and it will have brought me peace.
Back to work.
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