Saturday, October 3, 2020

Heartache and Unfinished Manuscripts

A phone call this week from yet another publishing company wanting to re-do my “Too Cold for Alligators” book from 2014 awakens the sleeping dragon in me. Yesterday, tears fell … tears of regret … and shame. Yes, shame. Shame I didn’t push harder back then. Shame I didn’t do more. Shame I haven’t finish subsequent books.

The little dragon raises her head in anguish, her eyes overflow, and the dampness shines on the scales of her cheeks as her heart shatters like the dreams she once envisioned.

I am a writer. I’ve always been a writer, but somehow, somewhere along the way, I’ve let her slip away. Other projects superseded the book writing, although I have two other travel books not finished and a poetry book which is finished and ready to be published (except for cover designs). Then, because I am an artist, too, there’s the latest books on “A Year in Pastel Painting 2019” and this year’s current one in process.

Years ago, I had two poetry chap books printed, “They Will Never Write Songs About Me” and “Dancing with Butterflies.” In 2008, I published through Lulu, “My Life Isn’t Flowers; A Journey Through Poetry and Pictures,” which I later had reprinted through Town and Country Reprographics, Inc., out of Concord, N.H. (The latter version had a much better design and printing.) Then in 2010, I published “Through the Window” through Blurb, with photographs of windows.

To physically hold in my hands a book that I wrote and chose photos for is hard to describe. The joy, the excitement, the feeling of accomplishment, the physical feel of the covers, turning the pages and seeing my work look so professionally beautiful reminds me of holding my sons when they were babies, touching their skin, and smelling that clean baby fragrance.

Having a “real” published book (“My Life Isn’t Flowers”) was the last time I remember my mum being proud of me. It was that book that made her see me as a true writer. She loved that book, even though she always said my poetry was sad (because I write about real life).

“Too Cold for Alligators” (TCfA) was a change from poetry and short stories. This was a personal travel memoir recounting one of the greatest adventures of my life – a solo driving trip to Florida and back. Doing the trip was a huge endeavor and writing about it and including many photos … a dream come true. This made me want to be a travel writer and two other driving trips, 2015 and 2016, made the dragon roar in joy.

However, life changed. The publishing of TCfA cost me a lot of money, and now I am leery about spending more. I am a writer … marketing and selling make me want to crawl in a hole and hide. I just don’t have that “gene” in me, and that’s my downfall.

Oh, I’ve done all kinds of reading and getting advice on marketing, but I just can’t bring myself to put in the effort – there are so many new projects (writing and painting) taking my time. I enjoy the creativity. I do not enjoy marketing and selling, so to publish new books and not have the energy to market, promote, and sell them myself … I just can’t do it.

Tears dry and crust in the dragon’s eyes. With heavy heart, she lays her head softly down over her curled body. The writing will continue, but something is lost when it can’t be shared.

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