As I sit waiting for a thought to enter my head, I’ve glanced up and out into the garden and a little mouse is quartering the rockery beneath the bird table. A cute little thing with boundless energy, hopping from one rock to another.
It all becomes perfectly clear now why Chea spends so much time in that area. She has no idea what the fascination is because she has never seen a mouse. We did catch her the other day about to consume a baby dunnock. Its death was not down to her. It had obviously fallen from its nest. With bulbous eyes and gaping beak it was not the prettiest thing. Hard to imagine that anything so butt-ugly could metamorphose into something so beautiful. However … this has nothing to do with the title of this blog so …
The realisation that I am a fraud has finally settled in my brain. You see, I don’t think I am manic enough to be a writer. I see these (real) writers whacking out posts about how great their books are and if you don’t rush out and buy a copy now you are an idiot – and I just grimace. It probably works for them because they have the necessary balls to do it. I don’t. I’ve told you all this a fair few times and I’m going to tell you again – I can’t sell myself. I can’t write those posts and press enter. So if I can’t do that, then, why write? Why produce stuff, self-publish and then leave it sitting there?
Each time I write a blog and press ‘publish’ I think, ‘Oh, maybe I should have filled the page with links to my books?’ But did I? Do I? Nah.
I have the bloody things all over the place; Amazon, Smashwords, Feedaread. I reckon that’s where they will have to jolly well stay until I learn how to type posts and tweets with my eyes shut and press the enter tab.
And another thing, I find the distraction of the garden and the needs of my seedlings paramount. I have a polystyrene pack of baby cabbages calling me right now saying, ‘Gail, come and put us in the garden.’ Yeah, I know, if I hear cabbages talking to me I’ve frigging lost the plot.
Everyone seems SO serious and full-to-the-brim with writing and selling and stuff. How do people do that? I don’t think I can find the manic level of involvement to say that I am a ‘real’ writer. Bugger. That’s a real bummer, hey mate?
Don’t get me wrong, I can post a link on Facebook and twitter but ‘real’ writers appear to be in every ‘group’ imaginable. And they all talk the talk. I can’t do that. Maybe, at the end of the day it just comes down to the fact that I’m not prepared to do the cringy stuff and as a self-published writer you have to?
I can’t do hero-worship either. I just can’t. I love Johhny Depp. I don’t mean ‘love,’ I mean I think he’s OK. A good actor who isn’t typecast. And if he knocked on my door one night after his car had run out of petrol he’d be invited in and offered a drink - but it would be in a mug and he would have to drop the airs and graces if he wanted running to the petrol station. I don’t believe that just because someone is pretty, rich and successful it gives them any right to place themselves higher than anyone else.
I’m rambling – sorry.
I’ll end on something that does please me immensely – Chea. Her trips out into the garden with me have lengthened She adores the garden and I find massive pleasure in watching her antics. Every insect is a fascination to her. And bees are now ranked as her favourite. A very dangerous favourite, I might add. It’s only a matter of time, minutes most likely, before the patting paw pats a little too hard and she is left with a sting in her pad. But the only way to learn something is by experience. Yesterday she was sitting in the dry soil playing with a spider. It was a very one-sided game. She hasn’t quite grasped why her playmates suddenly stop playing!
The sun is shining. I have the day to myself. Should I whack out a few links to the books? Should I flood out Facebook with book covers? Find the link to Smashwords and tsunami twitter with it? Well I could – but have you ever tried ignoring the voices of ten baby cabbages drifting down the garden and towards you? It’s a heart-breaker …
I shall try harder tomorrow. The reading public will never know what hit them.
Take care my lovelies x