This is another Not a Real Post.
I know all three of you reading reading this are horribly disappointed.
But I've decided to take on something that could possibly prove to be a bad idea in one form or another, and I'm going to just go ahead and say it out loud. Although it will probably come back to haunt me when six months from now, someone I know who for some reason decided to read my blog and saw this post is going to ask me about it, and I'm going to be all, "Huh?" and then they're going to remind me about it, and I'm going to be really embarrassed.
So, to (hopefully, possibly) avoid that eventuality, I'm going to put it out there that I'm working on a book. And by "working on," I mean I've banged out roughly three chapters thus far, with only a vague idea of where I'm going with it.
But I kind of like it. And I'm kind of excited.
If publishing were what it once was--sending off outlines and rough drafts and final drafts to editors in stuffy offices with stacks of other works-in-progress on their desks, in hopes of garnering any shred of interest--I probably wouldn't do it. My ego is an extremely fragile thing, and rejection letters would more than likely put me in a funk that, frankly, no one wants to deal with.
But it's obscenely easy to self-publish these days, with all of the digital tools at our disposal, and Amazon's Kindle is more than willing to take 30% of my asking price. Turns out they don't really care if it's any good or not, as long as they get their cut.
Works with me.
The best books, in my opinion, are the ones with that indescribable "it" factor - those which keep us up for just one more chapter, that leave us worrying about its characters in the moments when we are entrenched in real life, unable to to sit and become engrossed in their stories.
I hope to write that kind of book.
So, um, someone buy a copy when the time comes. Just for my ego's sake.