Saturday, March 20, 2010

Writer Interrupted


By Michael

Writing? Who writes anymore? I market, market, market. In the past eight days I’ve driven 2,600 miles and then boarded a pre-dawn flight to Phoenix only to return to Jacksonville on a red eye.







Call me the Fuller Brush Salesman. Call me Willy Loman. I’ll sell you a magazine subscription and swear that it will help put me through college. I’ll sell you a copy of THE BAD KITTY LOUNGE and tell you that the sale will send me to the moon.




But write? I don’t know about that.











This is the predicament of having a new book – which is to say, it’s a good predicament, but a predicament nonetheless. During the marketing road trip in the first weeks after the book comes out, writing takes a backseat (literally if I arrive before a bookstore appearance).




Not that the tour doesn’t have its own pleasures. It’s great to meet readers, great to reconnect with friends. And there are few other places I would rather be than in a bookstore.

















But a successful tour leads to only one destination: the writing desk. So, after a few more bookstores, I’ll put fingers to keyboard and try to reconstruct what might look like a typical writing day.









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