All this Charlie Kirk media madness and the manhunt have depressed the hell out of me. We live in a madhouse surrounded by awful, depraved people. So I needed a break. So I’m writing about something lighthearted instead. My apologies. I’m sure on Friday more horrible things will occur to drag me back into the madhouse.
Publishing a book.
Step two complete! I sent off my manuscript to the one traditional publisher that I’m confident isn’t ideologically opposed to the political position of my protagonist. Now I’ve got to write a “query letter” and send it out to a bunch of agents to see if any want to represent me. And I have to make a list of publishers that will take submissions without agents. Once I’ve done all that, if no one bites then I have to self-publish it and then I have to market it (advertise, announce it on social media, run a Kickstarter, hire a skywriter to put my message over Manhattan, and get a Superbowl commercial).
Well anyway, that will keep me busy for a while. Based on all the advice for new writers that I’ve read, I intend to disseminate my story for free to all of my friends and try to get as much good word of mouth and favorable reviews as I can when it’s ready to launch. After all, I don’t want hundreds or thousand of readers and dollars. I need millions and billions! Like the holy texts, my book should be in every home in the first and second world. And dammit why not the third world too? Surely, I can squeeze the little bit of hard currency that they would normally buy food with and divert it into my coffers. Yes, yes. That sounds right.
Well anyway Larry Correia started a monthlong Kickstarter for his new book on Ark Press and within about 24 hours he had $150,000 collected. And what has he got that I haven’t got (beside thousands of devoted fans)? Unfortunately, that is exactly what he has that I don’t. Ah, the trials and tribulations of the unknown author. There should be a “Tomb of the Unknown Author.” It could be right past the colonnade of heroic sculptures of Homer, Moses and whoever wrote George Burns’ jokes. It should have an eternal flame that’s a large hibachi using charcoal brickettes as fuel. Some residue and aroma from a nice porterhouse steak would be fine and possibly a meat thermometer somewhere nearby.
You know I did learn that writing a story really is just for yourself. I found parts of the work where I said, “Now that’s exactly how it should be. Dammit, the writer nailed this perfectly.” And of course, I know I’m talking to myself but it’s immensely satisfying when the words evoke exactly the emotion you’re reaching for.
Of course, the tricky part is knowing (or hoping) that the scene will elicit that same response from someone or better still, many someone-s who will let the world know just what a genius the author is. I guess the definition of a great writer is when the whole world (mostly) is moved by what you write in the way you wanted them to feel.
Alright, that’s enough grammata-euphoria. I’ll only report back when something interesting (publication or a book deal) is imminent. Until then we can concentrate on the latest hideous atrocities on the streets of our cities and Trump’s latest poke in the eye to the Left and its minions.