I knew I’d take a
hit on word-count, going in with that attitude. Here’s the thing. I wanted to.
More time reading and more time organising meant less time writing. I’d
radically reinvent time if I could, but I just don’t have the space.
Last year I put out
a million words. I think I may have been lucky to read a dozen books that year.
More than likely, I managed half that.
Did I fare badly,
one orbit later? I published a third of a million words this year. Life
stumbled in the way. Would I have been happy with a greater output?
No. Truth is, I’m
grumbling about managing a third of a million. Should have settled for a
quarter. Yes, writers fear burnout if they are smart about writing too damned
much.
What does the
future hold? Jetpacks for all. No, wait, that’s some weird American 1955 future
world. So my future holds water, if nothing else. As the year’s end loomed, I
felt I wanted to achieve a realistic writing goal.
Realistic goal?
Write an instant smash-hit genre-defining cast-iron classic. Realistic? No.
You’d employ steel of a stainless variety, for starters. This is what I went
after. The Amazon carousel on my blog holds up to ten items. I had nine sitting
there.
Put a tenth item on
that carousel by year’s end. Doable?
Done. And now?
Finish projects I started. Help other authors. Continue blogging. Begin a new
archive. Engage with the internet, now that I have the internet.
How much did adding
the internet affect my writing? I gained the mystical line to the web in September.
By then I was hovering around 300,000 words of output in one form or another. I
could have closed off another project and added 100,000 to the total, putting
me one novel shy of a half-million.
Instead, I found
myself spending a huge amount of time throwing some blogging plans together for
the world’s first ever READ TUESDAY.
There was much to learn. And there still is.
The wind howls at
my back, pressing on the windows. Hell, it could be a Scottish summer I’m
describing, with the amount of rain that worries the panes. I write from the
depths of winter.
*
Yes. Begin a new archive. I recommend doing that by first
putting the old archive in order. Recently I discovered Amazon has no outward
memory. I updated book blurb by adding bold type. To feed that massive change into
Amazon, the whole book must be republished. You gain a new publication date as
a result.
Internally, on the
Amazon dashboard, the original date of publication is preserved. Saves a lot of
hassle if your ability to keep records is somewhat lacking. Watch out for those
quirks.
*
So now there are ten items on my carousel gadget. Ten
products. Go and buy them. Buy one, at least. Okay, at the very least, go and read the start of one of my books on Amazon.
They are all free to read at the start. What’s stopping you? Nothing.
I know. World
doesn’t owe me any favours. Well, I turn up to write these books. The people
who turn up to read them are few and far and rare and…entertained. I don’t much
care for the notion of reaching my audience one reader at a time. Good, but
slow.
Those who turn up
to read the stories like them. Spread the word. Get people reading. Yes, do it
for me. The more people do that for me, the more stories I can write. It’s a
virtuous circle – if you believe what I do for readers is virtuous.
Being a digital
author with no access to the internet was hard. I published from my phone. This
was easier than blogging from my phone. Now that I have access to the internet,
I am swamped by advice on how to crack that audience and make myself millions.
I don’t care. Seriously. I think what I should be doing is writing and
publishing more stories.
Should I automate
my Twitter feed and aggravate everyone with endless plugs for my work? I’d
rather post a photo of a cream bun I am about to demolish. (Been there. Done
that.) That’s how much I care about the dreaded Search Engine Optimisation and
the much-lauded (and derided) Return on Investment.™
If I turn myself
into a robot, only the machines will read my work. Right now, I have maybe half
a dozen people and two weevils reading my stories. They are uproariously
entertained. It can’t go on like that, of course. Weevils are not noted for
adherence to tales featuring gerbil porn.
*
What was that about? Stating a mission? That, with the
internet at my fingertips, I should now devote myself to grabbing an audience
through fair means or foul? I love writing stories. They can’t take that away
from me. So I’ll look into gaining an audience without turning into a clockwork
writer.
Bzzzt.
*
READ TUESDAY was
set up as a winter sale day for books. How many books did I buy? None. My book
embargo is in place. Finish writing what I started and finish reading what I
bought. On the day I plugged other authors and their discounted works, I
couldn’t walk an extra step in the book-buying direction. A mile in those shoes
is a long bloody trudge…
And so I have
resolutely battered sale after sale out of my way. Each mightier than the last,
to steal from Tennyson. Even chopping down more than a book a week, I’ll be a
long time chewing through those free shelves I’ve stacked up and racked up.
Support for authors
comes and goes in many forms. Featuring people on the blog. Going backstage and
chatting about formatting problems. On the 25th of December 2013, I
was recovering from a massive meal and giving copyright and contract advice to
another writer.
Yes, that was my
Christmas.
Writers are always
on the job. I should have been editing MURDER
BOX, which I published on the 27th anyway. Mr Scrooge let me
have a minute or two off.
*
The future? Helping more writers, even when I haven’t the
time or inclination. For I’ll never have the time. I am always stuck with the
inclination. Somehow, I’ll get by.
Writers call in and
leave notes. I’m being told, in dribs and drabs, that my stories are
entertaining and that I’m going to make it in this business. We’ll see. There’ll
be more to discover on the risks and rewards of editing. Books are built to be
consumed.
(Though I keep
looking at H. Melville, and end up backing away each time.)
Just there I wrote
a story about murderous characters and their waspish comments. For many
reasons, MURDER BOX was one of the
hardest stories I’d written. I was glad to see the back of it when I was done.
But I still enjoyed writing the awkward thing.
If you read this
far, go all the way to Amazon. Pick up a free Kindle reading app. Then grab one
of my stories. Grab some other writer’s story, too. No rivals here. ;)
*
After writing that post, I felt like slashing the hell out
of it. Changed my mind. Thought it negative. Well, I say positive things behind
the clouds. So I’ll end with this…
Thanks. To anyone
who picked up my books in the recent sales. I’ll thank everyone for the honesty
of their reviews. Behind the scenes, I received help from assorted authors who
made a point of giving their time to me even though they had no time to give.
(Cough, Vanderkarr. Splutter, Biozarre.)
And I helped
authors. Sitting there on the 25th of December encouraging a writer
to get out of her publishing contract as soon as physically possible, I knew I
was doing good. Offering to format and edit stuff so that writers had a shot at
getting out of a financial hole. That was good too.
I’ve yet to commit
to a single project in that area. If my next year’s word-count is lower than
this year’s, I’ll shoulder the blame of editing other writers into publishing
existence with a song in my heart. Must choose that song.
Insert your choice
of song in the comments below.
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