As my book sales climbed towards the 100 mark I found myself
in a rut. Steve, my webguy, said I had to start thinking outside of the box. I
needed to withdraw and rethink my strategy. I didn’t know I had one. I decided
to retreat to my brother’s cottage along the beautiful shores of Lake
Peppermill (it’s really just a very large pond) site of my first great triumph.
Along these shores the Peppermill Lake book club discussed my book and told me
my book would be a bestseller, if only my name were James Patterson, Dean
Koontz, David Baldacci, etc.
I decided to do what all great writers do to clear their
mind . . . get drunk.
Like Hemingway and his rum, Wolfe and his martinis,
Solzhenitsyn and his gulag (isn’t that a Norwegian drink? And I thought he was
Russian. Guess it was the beard that threw me). Now add Crawford and his whiskey sours. How
am I ever going to be on the level of a Hemingway drinking such a feminine
drink? Not that there is anything wrong with that. In fact, I let my feminine
side show frequently. Besides, didn’t “Papa” blow his brains out?
Anyway, back to clearing my mind. Just got back from a swim,
or rather a float. I’m thinking I need to do something different to promote The Floating Man. Thought about chopping
my ear off, but Van Gogh already tried that, and it didn’t work out so well for
him. I guess from Van Gogh’s perspective I’m a rip roaring success. He never
sold a single painting in his lifetime and I’m rapidly approaching the 100
milestone.
God, I feel better already.
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