It just seems I spend my life waiting. The only real feedback I've had on my new novel The Glass Character is from friends and family, and, well. . . It's not that they don't count at ALL, but let's face it, their bias is plain to see.
It's hard to hold on to anything they say. I'm not getting much in the way of detail, just the same "I really enjoyed your book. I liked it better than the other two" (and it seems that, as time goes by, the other two steadily get worse). I wish I knew what part of the story people liked. I wish I knew what characters they loved, hated, or were bored with.
Since none of this is forthcoming, at least not yet, I try to content myself with Blingee, an alternate to gif. I'm beginning to realize these backgrounds look sort of like the Ed Sullivan Show when Janis Joplin or Jefferson Airplane came on: there'd be this pulsating, psychedelic goo projected behind them and it would sort of mush around in time to the music.
This is a form of play for me, a way of losing myself, and boy do I need it now. I want this book to succeed, big-time. I don't know how I'll do it. I'll try magic, wishbones, voodoo, anything. But I realize how capricious is success in any endeavour. It's not a matter of trying hard, or persevering, or even of talent. It's supposed to be "who you know", but my own efforts at who-you-know-ing haven't panned out so well. It all breaks down in the execution.
It's hard to place your book in the hands of people who can determine its success or failure. There are hardly any copies left in my box now, I've given away so many, even to exotic locations in Great Britain, from which I have almost no hope of hearing.
But we have come this far by faith. I remember when I wondered if I would ever write seriously again. Just getting through a day was a gargantuan task. Slow step by slow step, year after year after year, I brought myself and Harold to this point, and by God I am determined to continue until one of us wins.
Order The Glass Character from: