What happens next.

     Hello and welcome, reader.

It’s good to be here. And I hope you enjoy reading today’s musings as much or more than I did writing them for you. Here we go.

Though I’ve had far more than my share of it, I’m always surprised by how quickly time passes when one is having fun. And as I’ve been writing fiction, I didn’t notice how long a while had passed since my last post here, either.

That’s mostly because, when writing a manuscript, I try my best to live the story along with its characters. And that makes me even weirder than otherwise. Which, on its own, is plenty weird enough for many people, and far too much for most others. Or so I’ve been told.

Now, near enough to three months since Things I Can’t Change came out, the rush of early success has moved on to the next batch of new books released on Amazon. And though pleased to have made it to #3 in Canada among new releases, I’m a wee bit disappointed, too.

And maybe at last convinced that traditional publishing is the better way to go.

Ten or so years ago, when planning to leave Harwill and the music business behind, I spent a few years shopping for an agent. I also queried a half dozen small publishers who were then open to direct submits.

Though I can’t remember the exact number, I wrote and sent many dozens of query emails. Most of them went without reply. But I searched both far and wide. I spent about three years doing it. Sadly, for me, the few replies were much the same. Though often commended for the quality of my prose, the common response was that my stuff was unlikely to sell in great enough quantities to make publishing it worthwhile.

But as usual, I persisted, and even got to make a few pitches, as I tried to make things happen the traditional way.

Of course, next to the rejections came a few compliments, along with suggested changes to make my first novel more saleable. Things like, set it on Mars, or add a few zombies, or better yet, make the hero a vampire. All of which, no surprise, I found unpalatable.

An unnamed agent suggested indie publishing.

Despite many cautions from people both inside and outside the industry, I checked it out. Then, with the support of equally stubborn friends, we launched Solitary Press as a print-on-demand imprint. With the help of Amazon’s platform, we now publish my novels that way.

While surely pleased by the results, there’s a long way to go.

Because from here, it looks like I’ve done a whale of a job proving how well the world’s literary agents and publishers know their business. And after publishing seven novels, I fear losing the interest of those few people supporting my work.

For me, the pertinent questions are: What’s the writer to do when his best isn’t good enough? Give up and stop writing? Press on, and stay true to his convictions, no matter the cost? Or change what’s written to something believed accessible to more readers? After all, one definition of insanity is continuing to do the same thing while expecting a different result.

What is the writer to do?

Now, most times, when confronted by either difficulty or failure, I tend to persevere. Mainly because I believe the road to success leads through that stuff. Not only that, but if a few setbacks are enough to keep a man from chasing his dreams, then it’s likely they didn’t belong to him.

And my hunch is, the answer to those questions can only be found by writing another novel.

Which doesn’t mean I’m planning to do the same thing but expecting a different result. Though I’m not denying any insanity claims. I’ve always been one of ‘those people’, and have never much cared who knew it.

Truth is, I’ve always believed the madness was necessary to my art.

Once again, I digress.

So, instead of wasting more time asking myself a bunch of questions whose answers I didn’t know, I spent the last few months writing a first draft of my next novel. Mostly because writing keeps me from stressing out about book sales.

Though I surely accept, to paraphrase the old master, that all first drafts are shite. If only because I know they’re necessary.

Anyway, the first draft of my latest new manuscript is done. As usual, I’m pleased to finish it. I hope it’s eventually a better novel than my last one.

But this time, I’m not sure what happens next.

I don’t mean that literally. As usual, I’ll apply the three draft method. First, a break of a few months, followed by writing a second draft. Then, repeat for a third one. After that, it’s rounds of copy and line editing, followed by proofreading, artwork, and setup.

Blah, blah, blah. My writing method is dependable enough.

What most concerns me is everything else.

Because, plainly, what I know about either marketing or selling books is somewhere between little and nothing. And maybe the novels deserve better than the support I’ve given them. Though I can’t be sure about that.

It’s as much a control issue as anything else.

Apparently, I’m not good at taking editorial direction.

Plus, I’ve got a bunch of style issues. Things like my heavy use of sentence fragments, the split infinitive, and refusal to end a sentence with a preposition. Grammar choices like these drive editors crazy.

Not to mention my continued focus on depicting the minutia of life’s happenstance among the downtrodden.

I have not been, nor ever will be, sorry for the fact I’m an uncompromising mofo. Here, as ever, it’s my way, or the highway.

Despite knowing all that, or maybe because of it, I’m not getting back on the find-an-agent merry-go-round again.

The truth is, since we started Solitary Press, I’ve been unwilling to make even small press submissions. The same goes for both agents and major trad publishers. From here, it looks a little like I’ve grown comfortable in the role of unknown and starving artist.

It’s something of a catch twenty-two. Which is an elegant way of saying I’m damned if I do, but screwed if I don’t. Or something close to that.

While funny enough, from a distance, it’s not in the ‘ha-ha’ way, from up close. That’s because if you focus in, you’ll see the joke is on me. And nowadays, I’m not laughing.

See what I mean? Weird at the best of times. Inscrutable for the rest of it. Maybe that’s it, there. It’s just not worth the trouble. Not when so many lower risk bets are available.

All the same, understanding doesn’t make accepting any easier.

So, there you have it. Is the writer suffering from a preponderance of doubt? Or a fondness for the ease granted by anonymity? Is he a no-account hack getting his just desserts? Or just another wasted talent? Is he lazy? Or burned out? As the reader, it’s your call.

For the writer, meanwhile, it’s more of the same.

Thanks for being here. And for sharing this with anyone you think might like to read it.

-              TFP

    July 3, 2023