I didn’t
really understand how addicting writing fiction could be. It fulfills needs:
for approval, for enlightenment, for mastery of craft, for doing what feels
natural to do. In my case, I resent diverting time to write other things—like
these blogs, which serve largely as an advertising tool, and like creating
articles that actually pay the bills. Fiction writing has never paid the bills
for me—mostly because I abhor the time and effort it takes to cultivate a set
of paying readers. I actually enjoy the writing process itself. And while I
need and love an audience, it can be small, like a writing group. If anyone
ever makes anything from my fiction it will have to be some descendant
downstream with a talent for marketing.
But, let’s
get back to addiction. I noticed that my last blog centered on my epiphany that
I actually had a story to tell after writing 28,000 words of A Once-Dead Genius in the Kennel of Master
Morticue Ambergrand. Once armed with that epiphany I charged forward and
completed the book. I published it under the auspices of Penstemon
Publications. I had it reviewed by colleagues, and eventually by Kirkus, who
described it as “An enjoyable, post-apocalypse mind romp featuring
technologically bred demigods, future Stone Age tribes, and supercilious
worms.” Kirkus even compared me favorably with Kurt Vonnegut and Arthur C.
Clarke. (Yay!) The book became a finalist in the 2019 Colorado Authors’ League
Awards. But, to date, it has not generated income. It has consumed income.
So, of
course, I am writing a sequel: A
Twice-Dead Genius Comporting with Misunderstood Abominations. And I’ve now
written about 28,000 words and—I’m pretty sure I have another story to tell. Go
figure. This story (hopefully) will tie together A Once-Dead Genius with A
Singular Prophecy, another novel which I didn’t know was the prequel to the
second.
Here I go again.
I plan not to rush, even though
time could be an issue. I’m 72. I’m hoping if I write enough stuff and paint
enough pictures, someone will get the ball rolling and decide to buy everything
I’ve ever created—perhaps multiple times—and fill my pockets with cash. Should
I fall short of that goal, I will settle for a healthy “Well done!” from some
crazed individual who also thinks they just read a great story (when I get this
one written, of course).
Perhaps that crazed individual
could be you.
As a postscript: The image that
accompanies this text may turn out to be the cover of the novel-in-progress.
The trees are Mother Trees: the long-lived life stage of some aliens (The
Grovians) who have an alternation of generation life cycle. (More on that
later.)
