The task of rescuing the self published book from the death spiral around the drain into which it is born is daunting and thankless. Much like writing it. Well, that’s not all true. The writing can be enjoyable. It was for me, anyway, those moments where you chuckle at your own ingenuity and failures. It takes a masochistic sonofabitch to sit down at a writing instrument every day with loathing for the process in their heart. But they do it, I’m told, and in the process create some fine pieces of work. Everyones goes forward in their own manner, but anyone who has pushed the self-publish button learns that what follows is harder and more loathsome than what went before it.
How to make your novel get off its knees, rise up above its brothers and sisters, raise its arms overhead and issue a heart rending war cry that carries over the masses trying to do the same; this is the task at hand.
After several ad campaigns on Amazon, I’ve decided to pay for an independent review from a highly respected resource: Kirkus Reviews. It’s pricey. It’s dangerous. They are not obligated to give you a decent review just because you’ve paid dearly for it. But, having come this far, well shoot-let’s finish the bottle, eat that ugly worm and see what happens.
Worst case, they return your retrograde material and your money to you with a form letter, no review, and a condemning digital smirk. Best case, they pin a Kirkus Star on your work, one of the most sought after literary accolades, and you swing to the next rung. It takes eight weeks to hear back from Kirkus. One cannot attach too much to it, yet it’s one more step forward into the unknown, and I’m grateful to have made it this far.
