Eight years? Who celebrates eight years? I missed every previous anniversary, and I will probably miss most of the others, so suck it up.
Anyway, eight years ago today my first novel came out. Immortal Clay is a critical success and a financial sinkhole. Seems that some parts of it were a bit much for people. Mind you, this book did establish my unbroken practice of never writing a normal sex scene, so there’s that. I took “Carpenter’s The Thing, but after we lose” to its logical extreme, so it shouldn’t have surprised anyone, but here we are.
I’m hoping to take another run at book 3, Bones Like Water, next year. Yes, it’s been delayed. Writing cheerful apocalypses requires a certain amount of stability, which we haven’t had since 2016.
Part of me says, “Eight years? What have you been doing, wasting your time? You should have had thirty novels and a television contract by now!” But then I look at my fiction brag shelf and realize it’s bigger than many authors build in their lifetime–I mean, I’m no Blaze Ward or Rex Stout, but it’s not a shabby showing.
If the book didn’t do as well as I hoped, what will I do about it? I will continue flensing readers out of the indifferent mass of humanity, that’s what. After all, the best promo for an old book is a new book.