It’s official. I’m sitting at the center of a perfect meeting between great fortune and very encouraging benefactors. As a result, an original short story I wrote has been put up for sale. As in money.
Me. Darla. My story.
In the words of the wonderful mentor who made this happen, for the very first time my material has been given “professional book packaging services”. He said he was tickled pink the first time and I couldn’t say it better. The e-book is beautiful! A part of me could die happy right this minute.
However, I know that this success is an illusion. I’m in print, but not for personal aggrandizement. The month-long charity sale in which I’m participating means I may not see a dime. And that’s fine, except this also means that I have no signed contract. There is no publisher. And at the end of March the ownership of the story reverts back to me.
Wisely, kind souls who’ve gone this route already have advised me to shop for the right fit. I understand the logic. What does this mean? It means I need to get off my behind and do some research.
Sure, my tremulous heart would love for somebody in the business to see my contribution and fall in love with me at first read. Yet I don’t dare hold my breath and be a wallflower. I can’t expect some awed publicist to find my work on that website and show up in my inbox with an e-card and bouquet of digital roses. This is the time to be practical.
For the first step, I’ve been emailing people with whom I have shared even the briefest interactions. You never know who might know who in this industry. The genre in which I’ve written might attract folks who tend to have extensively networked communities.
You never know. At the very least, I’m making another positive step to get out of my reclusive shell.
So far, I’ve spread the news across four continents. We’ll see what happens. You never know. Right?
The important part now is to quiet the self-doubting inner critic and keep my momentum going. I could easily let this fizzle out and turn to ashes. The characters in my head have other ideas. They want their stories to be heard.
Wish us luck! Uh, I mean me.