Friday, September 10, 2010
I have come to the conclusion that there are four people left on the planet who have not published a book, and they are probably in the editing phase as we speak.
My Facebook page has over 4,000 friends listed on it (I attribute this to my sunny personality and good clean livin'), and by extremely unofficial count--meaning I didn't count at all and am exaggerating for comic effect--3,996 of them have "Author" listed as their first name or profession. I'm getting inundated with requests to attend book signings and launch parties in states and countries I have never visited, which would cost more to travel to than buying up the entire stock of this person's book and pushing their Amazon numbers through the roof.
(By the way, if I invite you to MY book signing and you'd prefer to buy up all copies of NIGHT OF THE LIVING DEED and drive my Amazon numbers through the roof instead, don't let me stand in your way.)
Now, I have nothing against other people publishing books, other than unbridled envy at their sales numbers. But it does make you--or at least, me--wonder if anybody is reading books because they want to, or simply because they are friends or relatives of the author.
I know, you're about to email me or leave a comment that says YOU read 17 cozy mysteries a week out of the sheer love of the process, and I believe you. There's just a certain overwhelming feeling of being one among millions, trying to jump up and be heard, that I think others can probably find some empathy in, no? All you other authors out there?