March 14th 2017
Today I ordered another batch of my novel. I won’t lie, this isn’t really how I imagined my career as an author going, with me having to pay my own money to receive my own books. And it’s not like the money I’m paying goes to myself, it goes to a printer. It’s… not a very profitable career, I’ll say.
I’m getting one copy printed for my Aunt, and to be fair she did give me a tenner to cover the cost, which was technically my first ever book sale. Except it costs £10.83 to get my book printed in hardback, and that’s without including the cost of delivery. So, like I said, it’s not a very enterprising way to go about selling my book.
Thing is, at this point I’m not really interested in making money from it. I sent it off to a load of editors/agents and never got any approaches from it, so I’ve kinda lost hope in being handed a book deal, which is why I’ve taken the liberty of getting it printed myself – otherwise no-one’s going to read it, and that seems like an awful lot of wasted time.
I was always quite shy about it, and I still am in many ways, but I’ve begun to realise that people actually reading your book is a reasonably important part of being a novelist. That’s why I’m becoming increasingly unafraid of, you know, letting people read it.
When I was on holiday last week someone asked me what I do for a living, and I said I’m a writer. They asked ‘what, like books and stuff?’ and I said, ‘well, yeah.’
That’s quite a big deal for me. But the issue is that I still struggle when asked the question – as I always am – “What’s your book about?”
I’m beginning to think that the only acceptable answer to that question is to give them an Amazon link and say “Read it, and find out.”
Until tomorrow, I just have to put it on Amazon first…
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