Brevity is the word for the day because I've got 2,000 words to bang out and not enough time to do it. That's the benchmark I set for myself. Sometimes I hit it. Sometimes not. It's more around 1,200 words. After that I start ripping off other writers directly by cutting and pasting passages.
As you know, I never work at home. I hate the idea of being in the house all day and night. Too secluded. I need people milling about. I need background noise - though I cut that to a minimum because I take off my hearing aids (that's right, bitch, I'm deaf) and put on my most excellent BOSE noise cancelling headphones which are worth every penny. I do all of this at Roosters cafe. I know the owner Thiu Nyugen. Actually it's like Cheers when I walk in as I know the whole staff. They even get my drink order, a triple Americano, going. It's a good vibe. I wrote the entirety of "Paradise Rot" sitting in that coffee shop.
My only problem is when someone sits in my fucking spot, man.
It's not a particular table, but rather a row of tables along the wall that have access to the ac that I need to keep my laptop charged while I bang out 2,000 (1,200) words.
Ranked in order of who should move out of my fucking spot, from idiot to elderly:
1. The guy in bike gear sipping an espresso.
2. Two or more people having some sort of committee meeting
3. Any couple
4. Someone with children (as if having the kid wasn't bad enough)
5. Retirees
So what I do is get my drink and then I sit and stare. I stare hard. The thousand yard stare you obtain from being in the shit during wartime. I send the harsh waves. Guess what? That shit works. I've never waited more than five minutes for a table. "It's a numbers game, Lar." Bullshit. I put the vibe out and it is received five by five (I have an admiration for military lingo).
More later. I just nailed a table.
Also, buy the book.
Thursday, September 26, 2013
Monday, September 23, 2013
How I handle fame, Part 1.
Jesus did I get pumped when Ereadernewstoday.com ran a blurb about my book, which created a lotta traffic. We're talking about 280 books sold in one day. It put me on the SAME FREAKING PAGE for the Amazon's top 100 list as CARL HIAASEN and JANET EVANOVITCH - at #6!
Believe that shit?
So of course, it went straight to my head. Here's an example:
Supermarket checkout lady: Did you bring your own paper bag?
Me: I did. Do you like to read, because I wrote a book that's gonna be a best seller.
And it was like that all day. I stood up during the showing of "Blackfish," which is a seriously depressing documentary, anyway - I stood up and simply shouted, "Number six, bitches. Number six."
I told my wife to refer to me as, "The Author, Larry Weiner" as in "Would the author, Larry Weiner, like green beans in his salad (no).
It's intoxicating. But that was yesterday.
Today, sales are tribbling (word?) in, I still need a shit ton of reviews and I find myself emailing a bunch of bloggers to review my book. And that's when Nucky Thompson from Boardwalk Empire pulled me aside and reminded me, "It's the long con we're going for, see? Don't be a chump."
Fuckin' A, Nucky. Fuckin' A.
Believe that shit?
So of course, it went straight to my head. Here's an example:
Supermarket checkout lady: Did you bring your own paper bag?
Me: I did. Do you like to read, because I wrote a book that's gonna be a best seller.
And it was like that all day. I stood up during the showing of "Blackfish," which is a seriously depressing documentary, anyway - I stood up and simply shouted, "Number six, bitches. Number six."
I told my wife to refer to me as, "The Author, Larry Weiner" as in "Would the author, Larry Weiner, like green beans in his salad (no).
It's intoxicating. But that was yesterday.
Today, sales are tribbling (word?) in, I still need a shit ton of reviews and I find myself emailing a bunch of bloggers to review my book. And that's when Nucky Thompson from Boardwalk Empire pulled me aside and reminded me, "It's the long con we're going for, see? Don't be a chump."
Fuckin' A, Nucky. Fuckin' A.
Monday, September 16, 2013
What the hell are you doing?
Well? Tell us. What the fuck (for emphasis) are you doing? For some reason, I ask that question a lot. I get asked it a lot too, but it's usually in regards to something I'm doing with food or dress. Lately I've been asking it a lot concerning my career, part two. I find this humorous for a number of reasons, among them the notion that the word "career" would ever appear in a sentence regarding me.
I worked in advertising and design as an art director and designer for 17 years. During that time, if someone asked me what the hell/fuck I was doing, I usually replied, "I dunno?" And it was true. I fell into that line of work and stuck around because it was mildly entertaining and you really don't have to work that hard. "Entertaining" and "you don't really have to work that hard" would make a great college course, along with, "Fuck it, I'll teach" and "Bong design - a survey."
The entire time I worked in advertising and design I felt mostly like an imposter. I didn't have the drive to want the awards (possible that I didn't have the talent either) or to try and maneuver my way through the various ad shops until I landed at one of the big names. I rarely took the work seriously though I fought an awful lot with account people, creative directors, etc.. I look back now and think it was the bipolar talking, but I knew it was something else - I didn't want to be there, but I didn't know where I wanted to be and there was an enormous amount of frustration resulting from those feelings.
I started writing in high school. Short stories, song lyrics, poetry - all of it horrendous - and what I wouldn't give to have them in my possession now. College came around and I found myself gravitating towards screenplays and t.v. pilots. And then I got married and moved away and fell into advertising and that was that.
But the writing was always in the background, wondering when I was gonna get back to it. Writing taunted me, called me names, added fuel to the "imposter" fire. And then one night I had an idea and I started to write it. And then I'd stop. Then start again. Then I fell into a deep depression. Many things brought me out of the cold, dark hole, chief among them - writing. It quickly became ritualized which in turn made the work flow. I stuck with it through all the rewrites and plot revisions. Most of all, I felt that I belonged in that world. Writing kept me one step ahead of the depression. And it provided an answer to that fucking question: "What the hell are you doing?"
"Writing a book," I answered.
"Good. Carry on," the question said.
"No shit, I'll carry on and who asked for your permission anyway?" I said.
"Chill. I'm just glad you're back in the game," the question said.
"Thanks. Sorry if I got a little defensive - "
"Forget about it. But enough of this blog shit. That second book ain't gonna write itself."
"Right. Thanks. I'm on it."
I worked in advertising and design as an art director and designer for 17 years. During that time, if someone asked me what the hell/fuck I was doing, I usually replied, "I dunno?" And it was true. I fell into that line of work and stuck around because it was mildly entertaining and you really don't have to work that hard. "Entertaining" and "you don't really have to work that hard" would make a great college course, along with, "Fuck it, I'll teach" and "Bong design - a survey."
The entire time I worked in advertising and design I felt mostly like an imposter. I didn't have the drive to want the awards (possible that I didn't have the talent either) or to try and maneuver my way through the various ad shops until I landed at one of the big names. I rarely took the work seriously though I fought an awful lot with account people, creative directors, etc.. I look back now and think it was the bipolar talking, but I knew it was something else - I didn't want to be there, but I didn't know where I wanted to be and there was an enormous amount of frustration resulting from those feelings.
I started writing in high school. Short stories, song lyrics, poetry - all of it horrendous - and what I wouldn't give to have them in my possession now. College came around and I found myself gravitating towards screenplays and t.v. pilots. And then I got married and moved away and fell into advertising and that was that.
But the writing was always in the background, wondering when I was gonna get back to it. Writing taunted me, called me names, added fuel to the "imposter" fire. And then one night I had an idea and I started to write it. And then I'd stop. Then start again. Then I fell into a deep depression. Many things brought me out of the cold, dark hole, chief among them - writing. It quickly became ritualized which in turn made the work flow. I stuck with it through all the rewrites and plot revisions. Most of all, I felt that I belonged in that world. Writing kept me one step ahead of the depression. And it provided an answer to that fucking question: "What the hell are you doing?"
"Writing a book," I answered.
"Good. Carry on," the question said.
"No shit, I'll carry on and who asked for your permission anyway?" I said.
"Chill. I'm just glad you're back in the game," the question said.
"Thanks. Sorry if I got a little defensive - "
"Forget about it. But enough of this blog shit. That second book ain't gonna write itself."
"Right. Thanks. I'm on it."
Thursday, September 12, 2013
Stay Golden, Pony Boy
Hola Fans!
That's right, I have fans now. I have over thirty (31) fans who bought my book. And! I have three solid reviews on Amazon. Sure, you might be thinking, "Really, Larry? That's what you're excited about?" I am, friend. I am. As I've mentioned previously, it's the long view that counts in the publishing game (no matter what I'm involved in - it's "The Game"- thus, "Soccer Dad Game" and "The Gin & Tonic game"). How many stories have you ingested in which someone or something started small and slowly built an empire? A shit ton. It takes years to get a college degree - I've sold 30ish books in 8 days. I like my odds.
But enough about the rise of Larry.
I'm reading a great book right now that I thought I'd hate. The book is "Sacre Bleu" by Christopher Moore. Check out Kirkus' take: An aspiring painter and unabashed romantic joins the greatest artists of the age in chasing his muse across fin de siècle–era France.
Nice, eh? I love Christopher Moore and am heavily influenced by him - though I thought "Fool" flat out sucked. But this? This book reads like a lilting comedy told next to a gentle fire with some bourbon and a nice crocheted blanket across your lap. It has the trademark goofiness you come to expect from Moore, but there's also a historical bent to the Paris of the late 1800's and the artists of that time. The man makes Renoir funny.
Just reading it inspires me. I'm staying golden, bitches.
That's right, I have fans now. I have over thirty (31) fans who bought my book. And! I have three solid reviews on Amazon. Sure, you might be thinking, "Really, Larry? That's what you're excited about?" I am, friend. I am. As I've mentioned previously, it's the long view that counts in the publishing game (no matter what I'm involved in - it's "The Game"- thus, "Soccer Dad Game" and "The Gin & Tonic game"). How many stories have you ingested in which someone or something started small and slowly built an empire? A shit ton. It takes years to get a college degree - I've sold 30ish books in 8 days. I like my odds.
But enough about the rise of Larry.
I'm reading a great book right now that I thought I'd hate. The book is "Sacre Bleu" by Christopher Moore. Check out Kirkus' take: An aspiring painter and unabashed romantic joins the greatest artists of the age in chasing his muse across fin de siècle–era France.
Nice, eh? I love Christopher Moore and am heavily influenced by him - though I thought "Fool" flat out sucked. But this? This book reads like a lilting comedy told next to a gentle fire with some bourbon and a nice crocheted blanket across your lap. It has the trademark goofiness you come to expect from Moore, but there's also a historical bent to the Paris of the late 1800's and the artists of that time. The man makes Renoir funny.
Just reading it inspires me. I'm staying golden, bitches.
Tuesday, September 10, 2013
Impatient little fat man
This is me:
1. I go to the gym, therefore I should look like Mark Wahlberg.
2. I release a book and should have Stephen King numbers.
3. I eat the Paleo diet so where is my six pack?
4. I'm nice to my kids so they should obey my every command.
Right? Cause and effect, where art though, you bitch? This book thing has given me a moment or two to reflect on my insolence and impatience. I'd go on but i don't have time to explain it. Just know that trying to accumulate readers on a daily basis is much like the crap that won't come out. You can feel it, but damn it all - it's not budging. Why? Not enough "Colon Blow" cereal? Too much roughage? Letting word of mouth sink in (we're talking about the book now - not shit - though the case could be made either way - nah, fuck that - this book kicks as - none of this "woe is me" bullshit) it's a waiting game and like waiting for Eli to put his goddamned shoes on in the morning, it is at this point that patience must persevere. Right?
I'm feeling kinda anxious and for some reason am fixated on feces - which could be a great title for a colonoscopy educational film.
Bah!
1. I go to the gym, therefore I should look like Mark Wahlberg.
2. I release a book and should have Stephen King numbers.
3. I eat the Paleo diet so where is my six pack?
4. I'm nice to my kids so they should obey my every command.
Right? Cause and effect, where art though, you bitch? This book thing has given me a moment or two to reflect on my insolence and impatience. I'd go on but i don't have time to explain it. Just know that trying to accumulate readers on a daily basis is much like the crap that won't come out. You can feel it, but damn it all - it's not budging. Why? Not enough "Colon Blow" cereal? Too much roughage? Letting word of mouth sink in (we're talking about the book now - not shit - though the case could be made either way - nah, fuck that - this book kicks as - none of this "woe is me" bullshit) it's a waiting game and like waiting for Eli to put his goddamned shoes on in the morning, it is at this point that patience must persevere. Right?
I'm feeling kinda anxious and for some reason am fixated on feces - which could be a great title for a colonoscopy educational film.
Bah!
Monday, September 9, 2013
Loss, you surround me.
I'm wrestling with the question of what to do with your life when loss enters it. It seems a bit insignificant to talk about the quest for publishing stardom when those close to you are in various states of disrepair of the soul. A friend's sister died. A friend's nephew died. A friend is sick. An in-law is sick. A brother escaped a dark fate - barely.
But how's the book doing!?
See? Not so important for the moment being.
My parents both died suddenly and though it was a shock, I was able to experience the grief in it's fresh state. Now I know the feeling of months passing by and of deterioration in the air. It's a prolonged state that leaves you caught between the world of the living and that of moving on. I comfort myself with the Einstein quote: “Energy cannot be created or destroyed, it can only be changed from one form to another.” I'd like to think our souls - our battery pack - moves on to some other thing. Where and in what form, who knows?
But how do we live our lives in the midst of someone's imminent departure - their transference of energy? We keep leading our lives, but doing so with a bit less verve and intent. We're waiting for a conclusion that is months, even years in the making. It's a state of underlying limbo. Makes the promotion of a book, the viewing of a movie, the workout, the family dinner lack just a little bit of color. It's missing just a hint of energy. We can't help but start missing them though they are present.
But how's the book doing!?
See? Not so important for the moment being.
My parents both died suddenly and though it was a shock, I was able to experience the grief in it's fresh state. Now I know the feeling of months passing by and of deterioration in the air. It's a prolonged state that leaves you caught between the world of the living and that of moving on. I comfort myself with the Einstein quote: “Energy cannot be created or destroyed, it can only be changed from one form to another.” I'd like to think our souls - our battery pack - moves on to some other thing. Where and in what form, who knows?
But how do we live our lives in the midst of someone's imminent departure - their transference of energy? We keep leading our lives, but doing so with a bit less verve and intent. We're waiting for a conclusion that is months, even years in the making. It's a state of underlying limbo. Makes the promotion of a book, the viewing of a movie, the workout, the family dinner lack just a little bit of color. It's missing just a hint of energy. We can't help but start missing them though they are present.
Friday, September 6, 2013
Bifocals, hearing aids, self publishing, oh frickin' my.
As I'm writing this, I'm moving my head in an up and down position, trying to keep the gradual split in my glasses lens focused in the laptop screen mode by pointing my nose at what I'm looking at. That's what the Lens Crafters woman said: point your nose toward what you're looking at. If I worked at Lens Crafters I'd tell people things like, "Hold your nose at 38 degrees south of the equator for optimal resolution," and "Your glasses make me look fat."
Up and down. Up...then down. Up - down. They say I'll get used to it. My next tattoo: "You'll Get Used To It" across a banner that spans a red broken heart with Cthulu pissing on the "Used" part of the sentence® Maybe inside a pentagram. But I'm not thinking about the bifocals as I'm already getting used to it writing this entry.
No, the real challenge comes next week when I get fitted for hearing aids. Beginning now, I'll receive $10 for every person who greets this news with, "What?" or "What'd you say?" I'd say the same thing OR I'd laugh and tell me to stop whining about it - there are children born without arms who learn to tie their shoes. And stop moving your fucking head up and down.
I'd like to take a moment to thank all the garage bands, concert halls and nightclubs I sat in, enabling me to have thoughts such as, "Blast away, bitches - I'm gonna live forever." According to my audiologist (who works in a completely excellent soundproof room) folks my age, 40-60, are coming in with demolished hearing. It is entirely a product of loud music and headphones. Right now I'm using my noise cancelling headphones as I write this. There's no music playing - just the silence. It's wonderful and a discovery ten years too late for me. My generation took one for the audio levels team.
I told my eight year-old that when I'd wear them, I'd be able to read people's thoughts. He's already cutting me a wide swath. Fuck it. I think about all those aging rockstars with tinitis, hearing imaginary televisions on in the other room and I feel comforted.
Let's segue in to self publishing before I need a cane.
I've done most of the reading and made all of the mistakes in the self publishing arena - which includes writing a blog full of improper grammar, tweeting to myself accidentaly, repeated postings on FaceBook and living the nightmare that there's a typo in my ebook. In advertising, you have soft and hard launches - the trickle effect followed by the deluge. It's a well-oiled machine that on most days reaps a healthy return. I'm finding with self publishing that it's more a "moist" launch. There's heat and pressure and atmosphere, but it tends to linger rather than explode. It really is a, "I sold A book today" kind of playing field that makes me understand why I've read author interviews in which they said the only thing better than a book launched is two books launched.
I'm workin' on it.
Up, down. Up...aaaannnd.. down. Up! Down-Up!
Up and down. Up...then down. Up - down. They say I'll get used to it. My next tattoo: "You'll Get Used To It" across a banner that spans a red broken heart with Cthulu pissing on the "Used" part of the sentence® Maybe inside a pentagram. But I'm not thinking about the bifocals as I'm already getting used to it writing this entry.
No, the real challenge comes next week when I get fitted for hearing aids. Beginning now, I'll receive $10 for every person who greets this news with, "What?" or "What'd you say?" I'd say the same thing OR I'd laugh and tell me to stop whining about it - there are children born without arms who learn to tie their shoes. And stop moving your fucking head up and down.
I'd like to take a moment to thank all the garage bands, concert halls and nightclubs I sat in, enabling me to have thoughts such as, "Blast away, bitches - I'm gonna live forever." According to my audiologist (who works in a completely excellent soundproof room) folks my age, 40-60, are coming in with demolished hearing. It is entirely a product of loud music and headphones. Right now I'm using my noise cancelling headphones as I write this. There's no music playing - just the silence. It's wonderful and a discovery ten years too late for me. My generation took one for the audio levels team.
I told my eight year-old that when I'd wear them, I'd be able to read people's thoughts. He's already cutting me a wide swath. Fuck it. I think about all those aging rockstars with tinitis, hearing imaginary televisions on in the other room and I feel comforted.
Let's segue in to self publishing before I need a cane.
I've done most of the reading and made all of the mistakes in the self publishing arena - which includes writing a blog full of improper grammar, tweeting to myself accidentaly, repeated postings on FaceBook and living the nightmare that there's a typo in my ebook. In advertising, you have soft and hard launches - the trickle effect followed by the deluge. It's a well-oiled machine that on most days reaps a healthy return. I'm finding with self publishing that it's more a "moist" launch. There's heat and pressure and atmosphere, but it tends to linger rather than explode. It really is a, "I sold A book today" kind of playing field that makes me understand why I've read author interviews in which they said the only thing better than a book launched is two books launched.
I'm workin' on it.
Up, down. Up...aaaannnd.. down. Up! Down-Up!
Wednesday, September 4, 2013
Making a book trailer & how to travel with a severed hand.
First, here's the book trailer:
Book Trailer
Now you're asking, "How did he transport a severed arm to Hawaii and what kind of freak shoots a severed hand on a crowded beach in Maui?"
Good question. Of course, you really can't tell it's Maui. It could be any beach with some resort hotels. But it was Maui. I would have preferred a beach in the Caribbean as that's where the book takes place but listen, when your wife has a conference in Maui, you're gonna get on the goddamned plane. The severed hand came from an online party favors store that had a wide assortment of severed limbs. Since the cover of my book has a severed hand holding a tropical drink, it didn't make much sense to buy the severed head.
So I get this severed hand and it looks real. Really real. So I start doing some test photos:
As you can see, it was a lotta fun. Soon I started planting the hand around the house for people to find. Even more fun than pictures. I'm thinking that this hand's gonna work out great. I'm bringing it to Maui (often a refrain of many writers). So then the question becomes, do I pack it for checked in luggage or carry on? I knew that if it was gonna get checked in the TSA folks would more than likely search the bag, maybe even put some kind of security alert on the bag. Some shit like that which could create problems. It's decided - carry on.
Now the problem becomes whether or not I'm going to fuck with the kids/people on the plane with it. The wife was slightly horrified when she learned I brought it onto a commercial airline. The kids thought it was just part of who I am. Dad's got a severed hand in his backpack. Pass the almonds. Things I thought about doing: Leaving it in the bathroom, putting it on the drink cart, shaking hands with a flight attendant, putting it on someone's seat who went to the bathroom, resting it on the shoulder of the guy in front of me - it could've went on for days.
But I did none of those things, because I'm not a fucking moron - and I fear my wife.
Anyway, shooting the trailer was easy. Took lots of shots of the surrounding beach and outdoor bars, palm trees, people frolicking. I had a general idea of how this was gonna go - beauty shots ending with a severed hand washing up on shore. To shoot that part I tossed the hand into the waves and hoped for the best. The best worked out great and to my astonishment not one person asked why I was tossing a body part around the shores of Maui. I shot the whole thing with an iphone, edited it with imovie. That's a wrap. It's a low quality affair mostly because I didn't know how to use imovie
(I have a college friend with two Emmys under his belt for editing - obviously I didn't call him) and make the right files sizes and whatnot. But in the end, the crappy resolution plays to the idea or so I tell myself.
Book Trailer
Now you're asking, "How did he transport a severed arm to Hawaii and what kind of freak shoots a severed hand on a crowded beach in Maui?"
Good question. Of course, you really can't tell it's Maui. It could be any beach with some resort hotels. But it was Maui. I would have preferred a beach in the Caribbean as that's where the book takes place but listen, when your wife has a conference in Maui, you're gonna get on the goddamned plane. The severed hand came from an online party favors store that had a wide assortment of severed limbs. Since the cover of my book has a severed hand holding a tropical drink, it didn't make much sense to buy the severed head.
So I get this severed hand and it looks real. Really real. So I start doing some test photos:
As you can see, it was a lotta fun. Soon I started planting the hand around the house for people to find. Even more fun than pictures. I'm thinking that this hand's gonna work out great. I'm bringing it to Maui (often a refrain of many writers). So then the question becomes, do I pack it for checked in luggage or carry on? I knew that if it was gonna get checked in the TSA folks would more than likely search the bag, maybe even put some kind of security alert on the bag. Some shit like that which could create problems. It's decided - carry on.
Now the problem becomes whether or not I'm going to fuck with the kids/people on the plane with it. The wife was slightly horrified when she learned I brought it onto a commercial airline. The kids thought it was just part of who I am. Dad's got a severed hand in his backpack. Pass the almonds. Things I thought about doing: Leaving it in the bathroom, putting it on the drink cart, shaking hands with a flight attendant, putting it on someone's seat who went to the bathroom, resting it on the shoulder of the guy in front of me - it could've went on for days.
But I did none of those things, because I'm not a fucking moron - and I fear my wife.
Anyway, shooting the trailer was easy. Took lots of shots of the surrounding beach and outdoor bars, palm trees, people frolicking. I had a general idea of how this was gonna go - beauty shots ending with a severed hand washing up on shore. To shoot that part I tossed the hand into the waves and hoped for the best. The best worked out great and to my astonishment not one person asked why I was tossing a body part around the shores of Maui. I shot the whole thing with an iphone, edited it with imovie. That's a wrap. It's a low quality affair mostly because I didn't know how to use imovie
(I have a college friend with two Emmys under his belt for editing - obviously I didn't call him) and make the right files sizes and whatnot. But in the end, the crappy resolution plays to the idea or so I tell myself.
Monday, September 2, 2013
The Long View
So now, whenever someone asks me what I do for a living, I don't have to give a preamble that I used to be an art director for over 15 years - but now I'm writing a novel. No, instead I can simply say that I'm a writer and that my book is available on Amazon. See? much less explanation and a little more credibility.
So I launched the book and posted on Facebook and created a group and knew the sales would be meh because it takes the long view to reach the ultimate goal as a writer making a living wage. So this is the start of what will be the continuance of novel writing.
But fuckin' A, the long view seems long.
"Buy the ticket. Take the ride," as Hunter S. Thompson put it. This is exciting stuff, putting yourself out there in front of friends (mostly) and then a few strangers. I didn't expect to feel vulnerable about it, but I found myself exposed - and loving it. The fact that one person other than my immediate family has agreed to read the book (let alone slap down a couple bucks for the privilege) is kind of mind blowing.
My thankfulness is vast.
So now, comes the long view - the marketing. More than the initial blast, the marketing now is a day to day activity to find new readers. This is how it goes. That inch worm knew his shit.
Namaste, bitches.
So I launched the book and posted on Facebook and created a group and knew the sales would be meh because it takes the long view to reach the ultimate goal as a writer making a living wage. So this is the start of what will be the continuance of novel writing.
But fuckin' A, the long view seems long.
"Buy the ticket. Take the ride," as Hunter S. Thompson put it. This is exciting stuff, putting yourself out there in front of friends (mostly) and then a few strangers. I didn't expect to feel vulnerable about it, but I found myself exposed - and loving it. The fact that one person other than my immediate family has agreed to read the book (let alone slap down a couple bucks for the privilege) is kind of mind blowing.
My thankfulness is vast.
So now, comes the long view - the marketing. More than the initial blast, the marketing now is a day to day activity to find new readers. This is how it goes. That inch worm knew his shit.
Namaste, bitches.
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