My Particular Lack of Promotion

Why do I punish myself . . . I’m a masochist. Masochism is an eponym — a word named after a person. Leopold von Sacher-Masoch was an Austrian writer in the nineteenth century who described the gratification he got from his own pain and humiliation. There are many self-proclaimed masochists out there today.

Oh glee! The word was named after a  writer. That explains it.

I cause myself pain. Not for any sexual gratification, but for some warped belief that I must worry, berate, exhaust and embarrass myself endlessly. Daily. Hourly.  I must get my book out there. I must sell. I must become a best seller. I must or DIE.

I’ve become a beggar, a madam of books, and the worst; a salesperson. Ugg! If you have a blog, I’ve talked to you. No, I’ve begged you to feature my book. I’ve posted the link on my Facebook page ad nauseam. I can no longer look my friends in the eye.

My author friends have gone so far as to create ads for me so they don’t have to look at the same cover over and over again. Sweet.

I’ve spent our vacation money on Facebook advertisement. Seriously, who does that? I’m hoping my royalties will replenish our savings. Laughing hysterically. Picking myself up off the floor. My royalties may get us into the local museum. If we’re lucky, a stop at the local fast food joint after our outing. Oh, Yay! The rewards of endless late nights, pouring my heart out. Fast food is evidently why I do this?

Those in the know, the authors who’ve got Best Seller linked to their names, advise the wannabe’s to write. Please, explain to me when I’m supposed to write when I’m too busy offering my soul and my body to anyone who will give me space for my book.

I’ve come to the conclusion that whatever I’ve done in the past doesn’t work so I’ve turned to a more unorthodox method. I light candles, I chant, and I’ve built a pseudo offering to - Seshat an Egyptian goddess of writers and her male counterpart; Thoth, the Egyptian god of scribes and writing. It’s a fairly new approach. Results are pending.

However; my new techniques are very relaxing. I lump them into the same practice as yoga. If nothing else, I’m calming my butt down and smiling instead of wearing the scowl that always graced my face. That’s a step in the right direction.

At least the new methods take no more than thirty minutes a day. Plenty of time to start my next book. And best of all, I can look my friends in the eye, again.

What’s my point? I don’t have one. I guess that’s my point. There are no set rules. Do what you can live with, not what kills you or makes your life a miserable hell. Write because it makes you happy. Get off the roller-coaster that’s propelled by nervous authors who promote everything in all ways remotely connected to the masochistic practice of self-promotion as if it’s a sure fire way to a best seller.

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Pat has written seven books: Stolen Hearts released in 2013. The Call, Love on the Double T, Love’s Deception, and The Exchange to be published in 2014. Also in production are Bear Run and Jana Morgan, PI.

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Words Escape Me

I’ve stopped writing. It’s not a joke. I wish it were, but I can’t think of a freaking thing to say. I’ve frantically read the posts about writer’s block, but seriously, they don’t pertain to me.

I’ve never considered myself to be a writer, so the advice doesn’t apply. Not an honest to God writer like, Norah Roberts or some of the other famous well-known romance authors. I DABBLE with words. They poured out of me when I could write. Not necessarily in a way that made sense, but at least they flowed through my fingers and ended in some makeshift form onto a page. Now, all I have is a blank screen. It’s been that way for weeks, and it’s beginning to freak me out.

Writers tell you to write every day. Sorry, but I’m sick of writing grocery lists or things-to-do lists. Does that count? Is it writing? It’s barely two-hundred words, certainly not the minimum twenty-five hundred words they recommend. I don’t have twenty-five hundred words in me.

Deep down, I knew this would end. I was an accountant. Accountants don’t write. They understand numbers, not words. At least now I have a cause for my dried up brain.

My writer friends try to encourage me. “Write anything,” they say.

“Like what? I can’t think of anything. That’s the problem,” I counter in despair.

“Write one sentence. It will come.”

“Okay.”

I open a new word doc and write, ‘Mary loves John.’ I DON’T THINK SO.

“It’s not working,” I lament.

“Then read. It will inspire you.”

So I read. And I read. And I read. Great books and not such great books, but I read. All day. All night. I read until, my eyes blur, and I fall asleep clutching my Kindle. 

It doesn’t help. I hate the authors. How dare they flaunt their talent in my face?

“Trust me, you’ll get it back. One of these days, it will be there.”

“Shut-up, you wench.”

I hear laughter. My friends find this amusing. They’re laughing at my distress. They are so not taking me seriously. But it’s better than the ‘tut-tut’ of sympathy.

“It’s back,” I lie. “I’m writing.”

“I knew you would. What’s it about.”

“It's the best, ever. It’s a secret.” More lies.

“Can’t wait to read it.” The ‘pat’ response to any writer. I’m beginning to see how fake some of these phrases are. No one can read that many books. Not even me, as I devour at least six a week; more if I don’t fall asleep.

“How’s it coming?” My concerned writer friends ask.

More lies. Always lies. I pretend I’m about to unveil the greatest book since the Outlander series took the romance world by storm. Instead of Mary loves John, I should start with; Claire loves Jamie. Maybe that would inspire me.

I disappear for days. Not literally disappear, but I am absent on social media and messenger. My lies begin to get to me.

I gradually make my way back. I miss the quizzes. You know, like; which house should you live in? Castle, if anyone is interested.

“Hi.” What else can I say? I throw it out there hoping they haven’t forgotten me.

“Hey,” I was worried about you. I called, but you didn’t answer. I thought you were probably deep into your manuscript.”

Oh, God! I must confess. “I scrapped it.” It’s better than saying it didn’t exist. A half-lie.

“Why?” 

“Outlander has already been written.” I start to laugh. Hysterically. Losing it.

“Oh my God! You need help. Write a blog.”

So I did.

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Pat has written seven books: Stolen Hearts released in 2013. The Call, Love on the Double T, Love’s Deception, and The Exchange to be published in 2014. Also in production are Bear Run and Jana Morgan, PI.

Join her on:
http://www.facebook.com/AuthorPHudson
Tweet on http://www.twitter.com@AuthorPHudson
Read her blogs on https://patriciahudson1011.wordpress.com