Sweating It Out
It's hot -- 91 F when we passed a sign at Rusty Wallace's car dealership this afternoon. And I'm stuck here at the computer, copying the text of my first published book, Building Passion, into Word, so I can send it off to an e-publisher -- in hopes yet again.
My glasses steamed up -- and it wasn't because I was copying a love scene.
As I do this, I question my sanity. Why write for electronic publishing? At this point, it isn't paying all that much unless one writes erotica. I don't.
Why don't I wrote for print? Because print publishing is driven by marketing departments, rather than editorial departments. Books come out like sausage, rather than the fillet mignon the writer envisioned.
Why write at all? Good question.
I write because I have stories in my head, and if I don't let them out, I get headaches.
I write because when I talk, no one listens.
My glasses steamed up -- and it wasn't because I was copying a love scene.
As I do this, I question my sanity. Why write for electronic publishing? At this point, it isn't paying all that much unless one writes erotica. I don't.
Why don't I wrote for print? Because print publishing is driven by marketing departments, rather than editorial departments. Books come out like sausage, rather than the fillet mignon the writer envisioned.
Why write at all? Good question.
I write because I have stories in my head, and if I don't let them out, I get headaches.
I write because when I talk, no one listens.
posted by Jane Bierce | 4:37 PM
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