"I have not failed, I have just found 10,000 ways that won’t work."

That's Thomas fucking Edison.

WARNING! Pity party!

Okay, okay, let's get this out of the way. Book sales for the month of December are a grand total of 8. Where are all my brethren (Jews) when you need them? We're out 8 days here and you couldn't find it in your dark little hearts to spring for a book this Hanukkah? A little something something for your good behavior? And what about you, Goyim? Hmm? I know a shit ton of you. Put me on your lists. Santa, like the honey badger, don't care.

Never give up. Have you ever? Or have you said, "What is this fuckery?" and simply stuck with it? I know people dealing with their demons, whether it be health, money, blood flow to certain organs (not even) - we all have the struggles. 

I can honestly say the only thing in my life I have had to constantly struggle against is mental health. I'm bipolar (the mild kind, bitches. Full blown bipolars call their wives the next day from Peru, standing on the yak farm they just purchased) and I have had my bouts with it that plunged me into some serious darkness. But I had choices. Stay down there and bathe in the depression and anxiety or seek help - live a regimented life that includes exercise (Me? Believe that shit?), proper diet (Again, me?) and positive thinking (shut up). Also, drugs.

I never gave up on the life I knew I could have and those I could share it with.

But seriously, 8 fucking books?

I guess I should take the attitude that 8 complete strangers plucked down a buck to read a story I wrote that might enhance their life in a positive, entertaining way. But sometimes, it feels futile. Who am I among the millions writing novels that I should break out, make a name for myself - obtain a level of success worth boasting about at dinner parties for your wife's co-workers? Not that they're bad parties it's just that they're doctors and basically talk about colonoscopy technique. They don't, but it would be awesome if they did.

What did I expect? Rapid success (yes)? What qualifies as success? I've sold about 1,500 books to date. Chump change, but then I can't think of anything I've done that reached that many people - except all the years of bad advertising I did that were thrust upon the masses. No thrusting in novel writing. They gotta want it.

So? What do I gain by giving up? You know the answer to that as did Thomas Edison did - who by the way, in his later years consumed only a pint of milk every three hours. So y'know, batshit and success go hand in hand.

I stopped blogging because my ego was too huge.

As an author (it could happen), one strives to build a mailing list so that when the next masterpiece is released, you can notify people on your mailing list, then go Porsche shopping. Well I've been ignoring this blog because I didn't think it was being read because I wasn't getting any email sign ups. Right? What. An ego.

So fuck that. I'm gonna blog at least twice once a week every four days. It's good writing practice. And I'm a little sketchy about this whole mailing - whoops, I lost you didn't I? Enough of this.

Let's get the business out of the way: I'm selling enough books to keep me on the Amazon Top 100 list in three categories. Of course, the book sells for $0.99 so really, how many need to be sold to remain on that list?

I'm about 45,000 words into the second novel. Paradise Rot ran to 70k - that sounds like a goodly amount of words. Info about the new book: It's called, "Once Again, With Blood," and all I'll tell you is that our hero, Kyle Brightman, is back and this time it's vampires and blood banks. That's all you're getting.

Thanksgiving is almost here (how many people in the universe have written those exact words?) and that's all I got to say about that.

Okay - that's it for now - today's lesson: don't be a dickhead with spotty blog writing.

Don't hate the player, hate the game, unless you love the game, then nevermind

Ask me, "Larry, how much are you learning about the world of indie/self publishing?"Say it out loud, now. (Pause) "Good question," (vomits on your shoes).

You hear that phrase "Learning Curve" and think, "Sure, a learning curve. Everything has one," as if it's no big deal. It's a big deal. I knew getting into this writing/publishing game that my learning curve would be huge - I still can't spell rythmn and I'm learning about "black out freebie days," - however, feeling like a chimp was not something I imagined for myself.

Learning how to do things hurts. Knowingly running towards the thing you know is going to hurt you is lunacy but it still beats submitting to Chad, the young, hipster project manager who has an action item list for you. Chad, with the argyle cardy and horn rims.

While I feel as if I've launched myself into a spectacular Acapulco cliff dive, I can't help but feel elated at being a small business owner. I'm making all kinds of mistakes, costing me money and time. I'm second guessing myself. I ate one too many Medi-Fast snacks today (you're allowed 5 - but this shit works). I'm blundering towards success, but more importantly, I'm blundering towards something of my own creation.

And I'm loving this game.

I used to love - make that like - the advertising game right up until I hated it. That might happen here as well because I'm a fickle bastard. But this time around I'm nailing two birds: being creative and controlling my success. I'm finding that as each day passes, I'm writing more and I'm searching out new ways to publicize my book. I'm not working 8 hour days. I'm working 3 hours here, 2 there, another 2 over there. In other words, I'm working according to the rythmn (shit!) of my creative and marketing output.

I love the game and love the player (that's what 15 years of therapy does to you).

Now go buy the book. Then write the review. Go on, git.

Don't punk out.

So I'm what? 30 days into the book being released - but never mind that PR - I'm talking about Monday mornings, when you wake up and try to think of every conceivable way to get some more sleep. Awe my god, just 45 minutes - hell, half an hour would do it. But no, you've gotta get up and begin the process of getting your hump out of bed and starting the day. But the desire to cave is so huge, this must be what it feels like to have a meth addiction. Sometimes I wonder if it'd be better to open a meth clinic that kept you constantly high until you wasted away - certainly there must be some organs worth harvesting? I dunno - meth heads want to be in that state of bliss forever - me? I just want an extra hour in the morning. We all do.

Or at least to wake up when the sun actually comes out.

I've been thinking about the concept of punking out (which may be a west coast surfer/skater colloquialism - maybe not) and how it's a daily churn to try and keep a book out there, hopefully getting at least one more reader a day (which is kinda of where I'm at - maybe 2.5 readers). Are you sick of hearing about "Paradise Rot?" Nah, I'm the one sick of hearing about it. But still, I wrote it, I'm stuck with it. And I'm proud of it, like a story about you being drunk enough to get saran wrapped around a concrete pillar in a parking garage, naked. That shit happens. 

So I don't punk out. I treat every day of PR on the book like a Monday morning, minus the five minutes of staring directly at the kitchen wall while your kid wants breakfast.

That's my fuckin' spot, man.

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.

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. 

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."