I wanna write, not sell. Selling’s for salespeople, who wear ties and
drive around all day and pull over into laybys for polystyrene and paper-packed
lunches.
That life’s not for me. I wanna write write write until the sun goes
down, the cows come home and other such cliches.
Recipe for anonymity that.
Who’s going to raise awareness of my books? Who’s going to tell people
they’re out there and that they’re worth taking a look at? Not the guy in the
layby. He’s too busy tucking into his cheese and tomato sandwich, figuring out a way to sell double glazed windows to people who just ain't interested.
If he ain't doing my selling, and if I ain’t doing my selling, Mr Fucking Nobody is doing my selling.
I’ve got to dirty my hands. Spend time I’d rather be writing, on looking
for ways to get people to read, review, and rate my shit. (These are the new 3R’s by the way.
I just invented them, there and then. But that’s another post.)
The only person who can get my name out there, is me. Me, me, me. It
really is all about me, me, me.
Thinking anything else would make me more deluded than I already am.
Which, for the record, is very very deluded indeed.
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