This is what happens when you impose a moratorium on yourself. You end up sitting in a garden centre cafe with a laptop and nothing to write. I’ve just been making a list of things to do if I decide to extend the moratorium beyond twelve months. Give it up completely.
I could go back to doing the garden and spending my weekends in the mountains getting wet, infinitely preferable to thinking of more ways to sell a book now and again. I’m sure these moments affect every writer; the realisation that the enthusiasm to tell another tall tale will end up on a webpage and a folder on the hard drive and found in two thousand years time by aliens with metal detectors.
Maybe it’s the weather. Lancashire has nothing in common with Bermuda, doesn’t have the clear air of Switzerland. It doesn’t have giant hornets either, so I suppose it has some advantages. At work someone knows someone who is selling a canal boat, but the price is a shade over my budget. Buying a boat would be a project that could replace the writing.
I think I discovered the mystery of the free ebook on Amazon. Apparently it’s free in the .com Kindle Store, but for the life of me I still can’t replicate the conditions necessary to view this fictitious webpage. The people who can see it/have found it must have x-ray vision. There was a spike in downloads on March 1st. Don’t know what I did that day that brought attention to it, unless I sat on my own phone and accidentally downloaded multiple copies of my own book.
When I posted advanced copies of There Will Be Blood to various individuals, the woman in the post office had to type the addresses for the proof of postage receipts. She earned her money that day because some places in Germany, Holland and Finland have fiendishly long names. She’ll be glad to know I don’t plan sending out any more copies.
I’ve just had another look at Wattpad. Authors are advised to interact and follow other authors with similar books, but I couldn’t find anything that wasn’t a romance disguised as some other genre. Maybe the answer is staring me in the face. Should I introduce an erotic strand into the series: buffed up clowns, Jilly Cooper meets Noam Chomsky, sociologists getting intimate with each other’s isms.
I’m sure I could knock out a saucy novel in the next ten minutes. Let’s give it a go. . . .