So, here we are at the very end. This is where things start to get interesting. After six months of bitching and complaining about friends and editors and marketing people, after all that screaming and blaming the universe, I am now down to the last 300 printed pages to read myself, out loud, Shari’s orders.
This mess of a manuscript has been professionally edited three times, it has cost me all my friends. It’s been read by 25 beta reader and corrected it a thousand-thousand times. It now comes down to this.
I worry about my friend in China, other than Rob, my only remaining Facebook friend. What will we have to talk about other than sending LOL’s and 🙂 faces back-and-forth across the Pacific Ocean.
All these people telling me it’s good, me calling it the Great American Novel. Shari even being nice to me, Rob still offering good, sound advice…
What if they are all in cahoots? What if I suck and my best work really was a grocery list, one where I made a ton of typos, one loaded with echoes and grammatical problems. What if they are all in on the joke. What if even Amazon and Barnes and Noble are in on it. What if all seven billion of you bastards are in on it, just waiting for me to hit the “publish” button.
I know Rob has a publish button, and it’s red and it has a siren, I prefer Sireeeen, sounds cooler that siren. Lights flash and I’m pretty sure confetti comes down from the ceiling when he pushes it.
You dirty bastards, all of you. I bet my 3 Twitter followers are in on it too. Those webcam girls who just moved into my area and are looking for some NSA fun, all of you. You stinking conniving dirty bastards.
I’ll show you all. I’ll never publish it. I’ll deprive you of your fun, you twisted evil pricks.
A guy on Facebook messages me and asks if the book, when printed, will be big enough to line his bird cage. At first I’m pissed, but then I think we’ll that would be at least one sale… So I answer him back enthusiastically, YES!!! YES!!! It will be exactly the right size to line your bird cage.
My cousin stops by. He read the early drafts. He read the late drafts. He calls me a pussy and says, “publish the fucking thing”
I call my mom, she says, “oh, are you still trying to be a writer, that’s nice. Your cousin is a famous physicist, but I’m sure your book will be cute. Your cousin is a doctor, you know. Not a medical doctor. Just super smart, what was your little book about?.” I never liked that old woman…
150 pages to go…
100
WTF!!! There are only 25 pages left to edit, then ten…
FUUUUUUUUCK!!!
It’s done. The last and final edit is done. Draft #19 is it. This is it? The Great American Novel is ready to send back to Rob, for him to push the button with the Sireeeens…
WTF, Somebody hide my ass!
A year and a half has gone since I first got this stupid idea. A year and a half of my rapidly waning life kicked in the nuts with this wasted effort. Now they expect me to loose this on the world? I’d rather walk down Eighth Avenue naked.
I know it sucks, all seven billion of you lying bastards know it sucks. I ask the Chinese guy what he thinks. He says, “LOL, :).” I look at his FB profile, in Chinese, I stare hard at the unfriend button. I can’t do it. He’s the only friend I’ve got.
I call Rob, I ask him for another pass with his editors. In begging him. He says he doubts the book needs it. I’m panicking. I tell him I lost my final draft. I need to start over.
Then, on the phone I hear only silence… Then these words, “It’s time.” Like when the priest and the doctor walk out of grandmas room with very long faces, and you realize you just inherited the Buick…
FUUUUUUUUCK!!!
Nothing left to do now but wait to hear the sireeeen…
I hope all of you miserable bastards have a good laugh…
I just threw up in my mouth a little… As I get back into my fetal position.
It’s going to be a long winter.
Shari emails me, you’d better start lining up reviewers and newspaper articles and radio spots…
Oh shit, I forgot about that part…
Im kind of a natural born grifter. Maybe that will be the easy part.
Next, our hero enters the terrifying and ugly arena of self promotion.
