My Novel's One-Year Anniversary

A first anniversary's symbol is paper. Does pseudo-paper, as in digital bits, count? Let's go with yes. I haven't sold any actual paper copies of my novel, except to me, but at least I managed to shove out a few ebooks.

A writer shouldn't put all her eggs in one basket, keeping with my penchant for cliches. They're supposed to keep writing---more and better books. Well, this egg is the only one I care to cradle inside my basket, because there will never be "more" and certainly none better (and I've objectively assessed all my previous work).

Running From Herself isn't perfect. What novel is? But it's as close to perfect as I can do. I don't have an MFA; I never took any writing classes whatsoever, I didn't pay $600.00 for an online course. I learned how to write the hard way---by doing it wrong over and over until I finally did it right. That amounted to about nine years of wrong. 

This novel was borne of happenstance. Had I not done it wrong to begin with, as a bad novella, had I not been embarrassed to have that novella up for sale on Amazon, had I not chastised myself for such shoddy work, I would have never taken that bad novella, fertilized the hell out of it, watered it just right, nurtured it for a year, and bloomed a beautiful, wondrous flower (if I do say so myself).

Had I not taken some mild criticism to heart---that my novellas were lacking in depth, I wouldn't have deliberately set out to "show 'em" that I could write a deep, meaty story. I'd told myself that I'd never again try to write a full novel, but that challenge kept gnawing at me, so I had to try.

The most rewarding aspect of the novel, by far, was writing it. I loved writing this story; in fact, I was "in love" with writing it. I can't even express the euphoria I felt every time I sat down to write. Over the course of that year, the characters became real to me, and I needed to treat them right. The story wasn't only about Leah, but it was about Burt and Paula and Caleb; and even the minor characters deserved to be respected. 

It's easy to forget that feeling of joy when the little bits of feedback I received told me my baby was ugly. Well, that's not true. I received excellent feedback, but only a handful of it. Is there an author out there who doesn't imagine their novel becoming a smash success? I know it's nuts, but you've gotta be nuts to even do this job. Even me, with nine years of abject failure behind me, couldn't swat away that hallucination. I didn't actually think I'd have a hit, but I confess that I pictured selling in the hundreds, not the tens. I was excited to finally publish on March 1, 2025. I'd scoured the manuscript, listened to the readback at least three times, fixed what needed fixing to the best of my ability. There was still one section I wished I could improve upon, but my attempts only made it worse, so I finally admitted to myself that I gave it the best I could give.  

The disinterest with which my marketing efforts were met kind of stunned me, to be honest. Because I knew how good the book was, I assumed others would be intrigued enough to buy it. Maybe it was the blurb, but while I've redone the blurb a bunch of times since then, the basic facts of the story remain, just changed around a bit. I don't know if there's a "magic" blurb that'll cast a spell over a potential reader. Maybe. I'm not the best book buying representative, but for me, I pretty much just want to know what the story is about, to decide if it's something that would interest me. Even with that first iteration of my blurb, I accomplished that.

But I'm done trying to psychoanalyze readers. It's a hopeless exercise anyway. Now I'd simply be happy to have readers, even if I have to give my book away. That's what I wanted all along; money would have been an extra-added bonus. I know that free books are rarely read, but sometimes they are, so anytime I'm allowed, I'll run a KDP Free Book Promotion. 

I'm also focusing on Kindle Unlimited, to the extent that I'm focusing on marketing at all. If a person already has a KU subscription, there's absolutely no risk in choosing my novel. Not even a $2.99 risk. 😮

I thought I should commemorate the anniversary by dropping a snippet of the story here. Since I'm too lazy to scan the entire manuscript, I'm going with this one:

Burt was right all those months ago about elk hunting season, though the well-heeled out of staters chose to stay at upscale hunting lodges like the ones in Shawnee and Hulett; not in a turn-of-the-century downtown hotel with no amenities except for a crisp breeze fluttering through its second-floor windows. Still, the Chance-It was swamped with newcomers; strangers. Those hunting lodge towns must not have featured live music, because the Chance-It was the place everyone landed. The weekend before Thanksgiving likely allowed the rich hunters to escape home without feeling guilty. They were distinguishable by their carefully curated “casual” attire; designer jeans, blister-inducing cowboy boots that engendered a slight limp whenever one of them waddled off to the restroom. I didn’t care a whit about their wealth, but I resented them claiming chairs that rightfully belonged to the regulars. At least I hoped for my co-workers’ sake these dandies were big tippers.

Take a Chance had honed its act ‘til it gleamed. We’d failed with a few songs, judging by the crowd’s reaction, but at last we achieved the right mix of uptempo and two-step ballads and knew which ones to play when. Some of our choices were derived from pure experience, some from a spark of inspiration. We eschewed Jared’s more traditional tunes, not because we didn’t like them, but because we weren’t that band. Tonight the regulars claimed the dance floor; the newcomers were onlookers, but they did applaud appreciatively. We certainly weren’t about to change our set list to accommodate their cosmopolitan tastes, not that we could if we wanted to.

On first break, I beelined for Raul as I always did, but I was halted on my way to the bar by an outstretched hand.

“Nice, tight set,” the man said.

I thanked him, ready to move on down the aisle, but he refused to release my hand. “You must have been around for a while.”

“A month!” I shouted over the din.

“That’s impossible.”

I was mindful to always treat customers politely, so I smiled and replied, “Well, that’s a real compliment! Thank you!”

He finally released his grip and I made another stab at moving forward.

“Think we could talk when you have a free minute?” he asked, then reached for his wallet and snapped out a business card.

“I—I don’t know. We run on a pretty tight schedule.” I assumed he was too old to be hitting on me, but if he was, his executive expertise had just failed him. I crinkled the card in my hand and made my way to the bar, stopping along the way to exchange hellos with people I actually knew.

“That man bothering you, pequeño?” Raul asked as I leaned up against the bar.

“No, just a know-it-all,” I sighed. I uncreased the man’s card as Raul fizzed up a Diet Coke. Paul Gables, A&R, Silver Sound Music, Nashville, TN.

I froze. Was this a practical joke? Why did he want to talk to me?

Raul plucked the card from my hand and scanned it. “Hey! Leah! You gotta talk to him! ¡Al caballo regalado no se busca lado!”

My high school Spanish had rusted away, but I couldn’t mistake the excitement in his voice.

“But what does he want?”

“You’ll never know ‘til you go over there and find out.”

Could I wave this away? Should I wave this away? It was probably nothing. It was certainly nothing. I glanced back at the band settled at their table near the stage. Drew was scribbling notes in a spiral notebook—he’d taken his management role to heart—Blake and Manny traded good-natured barbs, while a girl adorned in a white buckskin jacket approached the table tentatively, gripping a pen and a Chance-It napkin in her hand.

What could it hurt to talk to the man? Maybe he was looking for a demo singer. That I could do from home with the right equipment. I could always use a few extra dollars. But who was I kidding? There were thousands of blonde twenty-somethings lined up along Nashville’s Sixteenth Avenue, salivating for just that chance. The mystery gnawed at me. I had to know.

I walked back and tapped him on the shoulder. “Will you still be here at 11:30?”

He smiled. “I will if you will.”

Oh, damn. He was hitting on me. Now I was embarrassed—for him. I was a pro at fending off advances, but this old guy…I had to hand it to him; his line was unique, especially the grand gesture of proffering his business card. But he definitely had the wrong girl.

I wracked my brain for a way out. “I—I have a fiancé,” I fibbed.

“That’s great! I have a wife and three kids! Hang on; I’ve got a picture!” Once again he reached for his wallet and pulled out a two-by-three glossy. “My wife Carlene, and this is Cody,” he pointed. “The ten-year-old is Gayle. Named after Crystal—you’re probably too young to have heard of her—and my little one is Marcus. Is your guy one of the band members?”

I stared at him, slack-jawed. Mister Gables had thrown me off my game.

“Okay!” I covered. “11:30 it is!”

 

So, happy anniversary to me! I'm going to celebrate by...going about my day normally. 

Thanks for reading along.