Not So Subtle Message

Ernest Hemingway said, “There’s nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at the typewriter and bleed.” Amen, brother, amen.

Back in April, I began writing a book I had in my head for a while. As a pandemic project, it was perfect. It gave me some structure for an hour or two in the morning, and I looked forward to that time. The entire time I was writing it, I knew my audience would never be in the thousands. I figured I would peddle it to 100-150 people I know, and that would be good. So I wrote it for me, and a few of my friends, knowing I would self publish it. One person out there in Blip Country has seen it, and has helped on it. Thanks, friend.

Since finishing, it has become one endless string of frustrations in the publishing end of things. From trying to find a publisher (without a deposit of an arm and leg), to shipping considerations, to working on an old Mac that cannot load the latest InDesign software, to this, perhaps the icing on the cake: An artist who would not approve my usage of a highly filtered shot of an image of his for the cover of the book. That one is hard to describe.

I thought self publishing would be easier. I will persevere, and eventually, possibly, get my book out there.