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.