Being Philosophical About My Book

I don't remember the exact reason I decided to create a paperback version of Running From Herself. I'd certainly never done it with any of my other books. (Granted, most of them are novellas, so the paperback would be pamphlet-size.) I remember David Gaughran saying something about always creating a paperback version ~ oh, I remember why now ~ he said that your ebook will look like a bargain next to its paperback price. (Yes, that worked out great.)

I think the main reason I did it was that I knew it would be my last book, and I wanted a physical representation of my nine years of toil. 

I actually now possess three physical copies, because I messed up the first two versions. Beginners luck rarely applies to me. When I began the process of creating my paperback version, I read everything I could find, and I was still lost. I had the manuscript, so that wasn't a problem (I thought), but I sure didn't know how to format it. I finally spent $147.00 on Atticus, which turned into a huge imbroglio. The software is the exact opposite of user-friendly; it's not intuitive at all, and buttons that should be a no-brainer don't exist. Trying to simply upload my manuscript was a nightmare. It would upload some chapter titles, but not all of them, so I'd have to start the whole process over again, which went on for a few tries, requiring me to try to delete the versions I'd already uploaded. It was like being lost in the woods and when you try retracing your steps, you end up back where you started. 

Finally, I achieved what looked like an acceptable version, so I somehow found a "convert" button, and sighed with relief. Except when I tried to upload it to KDP, there was no way in hell that KDP would accept it. First I thought it was just a random error message, but I quickly found that something fatal was involved. I had no choice but to give up.

Then, after wasting money I couldn't afford, I stumbled upon KDP's paperback template (free!) That, too, was not user-friendly, but I somehow got it to work. Of course, I had to dispense with chapter titles entirely because of the template's weird configuration, but I was determined to get a version I could upload. 

When KDP accepted it, I was then faced with creating a cover. Again, no clue. I tried Canva, and sure, I discovered a way to create both a front and back cover, but no spine. Well, that obviously wouldn't work. In desperation, I clicked on KDP's cover creator, found that I could upload my original cover and it would automatically add a spine with the book's title. All that remained was for me to do the back cover blurb. 

I was so pleased with myself, until I received my author copy in the mail. Wow, did I mess up the back cover! It had repeated words and sentences that trailed off into nothingness. Turned out I'd worked so hard to get the back cover to "look right" that I didn't recheck my wording. 

I went back into KDP, fixed it, then ordered another copy. (This time it wasn't free.) Great. Finally, I had an intact paperback!

Oopsie. 

It wasn't until I messed around with Spoken and created an audiobook that something during playback struck me as odd. "I wouldn't write it this way," I said. "Why would I start a thought and not follow through on it?"

I went back to my Word doc and discovered I'd somehow deleted an important passage from my manuscript. Worse, I'd submitted it that way to a few writing contests, which I paid good money to enter. (Can I please get that money back?)

So, here I went again. I fixed it, re-uploaded it to KDP, and again ordered a physical copy. This time, I'm pretty sure it's okay, although I haven't read it, so I don't actually know that.

And that's the thing ~ I haven't read it, and I won't. Know how many times I've reread this f*cking story? I can't even listen to the entire audiobook. In fact, once I stumbled upon my screw-up, I stopped listening and haven't gone back.

All I wanted was to have a copy I could hold in my hands. That's it. It's sitting on a shelf right now, and even my husband doesn't have a clue it exists. Of course, he doesn't have a clue I've ever written anything, much less eleven published works. No one knows. (Could I be the most insecure author on earth?) See, he'd want to read it, and I couldn't abide that. I know when he's being honest and when he's trying not to hurt my feelings. My fragile ego couldn't take it. 

No one but me has bought a paperback copy of Running From Herself, and that record will sustain itself. But it doesn't matter. I wasted a lot of money, time, frustration, and despondency to get that one physical copy, but I have it.

I realistically can't ask for anything more.