We have nothing to fear, except everything!

Angst over the unknown is common, I suppose. Everyone has it. I’m facing a good-n-plenny box of it. All of it goes with writing and selling books. (sigh)

Did you ever walk into a bookstore and see a lowly writer sitting alone at their signing table. You perhaps saw the poster going in, but you didn’t know the picture and you’ve never heard of the book before because you typically only buy books that you’ve heard about, or seen other people reading on the plane, or at the beach, or…whatever? There sits that lowly writer, looking kinda bored; the stack of books at their elbow remains, mostly untouched and they are obviously no where near the point of developing writer’s cramp from signing so many of those copies.

I just want to go over and hug them, sometimes, knowing full well that my turn, or turns at that table are coming soon. That until word gets around, not too many are going to just walk in and see the stack of books and me and then think: “At last! I’ve been waiting for this one!”

The beginning phase of promotion is what I dread, at this point. I know, I should be tickled shitless to have the opportunity, and I am. I’ve been making all manner of plans for signings and making them successful. I’ve read some of the horror stories from a lot of other writers who’ve been there and done that. I’ll be hitting up my daughter to round up friends on the ones here locally. They’ll be walking around the store with copies in hand and telling shoppers about it, directing them to the table, where, I hope-I hope, I’ll have a line for the required two hours of time I’ll have to put into a signing.

It all sounds good, but like any good plan (see a football playbook to know what I’m getting at here) there is that fretful, queasy feeling that it could all go horribly wrong…

Such is angst.

My pub tells me that he believes “Tormenta” will sell fifty thousand copies in Texas alone, more specifically; he said we should do that well between Houston and San Antonio, not including DFW or Austin, and the rest of Texas.

Here’s hoping that he knows what he’s talking about.

Then, there are the interviews. I never used to worry about talking in public. But, since I met, fell in love with, and married the Fabulous Feathermaye, she has made it a point to let me know when I’m just spouting words because I like the sound of my own voice.

Thanks to her, I now have to actually think about everything I say, bless her heart. I’m going to be on a lot of blog-talk radio, regular radio and will be doing a lot of interviews for papers and whatever media takes interest. The possibility of TV is looming out there as well (pause here for a sip of Maloxx) and that causes yet more angst: will my teeth come loose while I’m on screen? What if, like Nixon, I get on the screen and my potential readers see this knuckle-dragging idiot and think, ‘he actually wrote something?’ I can just imagine the worst, trust me, I’ve been there before…

Many of you know I used to talk in front of groups for a living. Of course, I was saying the same things over and over, coming up with as many ways to put across a point or two that I had to make stick solidly in the minds of those in attendance. I suppose, after a lot of planning, I can do that again, and I will.

The whole trick to what I write is that I’m writing it the way I would tell it; therefore standing up and reading it, complete with the voices of my characters that I can do to a tee (ham that I am) presents little concern. The possibility of the unknown question is the thing that puts the most fear in my heart. I have no idea what that question will be, either. So, the imagination runs rampant as I think of all the worst possible questions to have to answer, or ignore. And, if I ignore them, if I go all ‘Bobby Knight’ on the poor sap who is simply asking a question, what effect would that have? God knows…

(Note: no Bobby Knight rants)

Then, there are the critics. They say you should not look at your own press. Somebody is always going to be around to say something awful. Even the legends of the written word whom I look up to will tell you that. Many of them have become so large that they can simply do what they want to, as far as promotion. Their name sells books for them now. Hell, I grab a Larry McMurtry, or a Pat Conroy as soon as I see it on the shelf. I could care less what it’s about, I know I’ll enjoy it, and probably learn something about the craft just by reading it a few times. But, they’ve all dealt with critics in one way or another.

Perhaps this is what they mean when they say: writing is a solitary struggle. You have to face the fears, the angst and all the rest on top of actually putting out work that somebody will be willing to pay to read. No book can be all things to all people.

Okay, I’ve gotten it out now. I’ll draw back from the edge of that precipice, that dark gorge of fear and angst that separates me from where I am now and where I’ll be headed soon.

Wish me luck, gang. I’ll probably need it.