So, I really want to get my memoir published. I guess it’s all about the literary prestige, although I’m not certain that literary prestige exists anymore. I’ve DNFed too many horrid books in the YA genre to count, and I haven’t stumbled upon a better genre to read thus far.
I started studying how to write a literary proposal earlier today, and it fried my brain. Errrrr. One whole page of the literary proposal (which should have its own table of contents) needs to be the marketing pitch: what I’ll do to market and promote my own book. It’s supposed to include things like, “I know a famous person who’ll give me a cover blurb.” You know, that would be something like this:
“I’ve never read a better book in my whole entire life, and I’ve been told I’m quite picky.” ~Stephen King
Yeah, so I’m screwed.
(He is rather picky, by the way.)
“Move over, War and Peace, there’s a new writer in town.” ~John Grisham
Or, I’m supposed to promise to do all this marketing stuff I’ve never even heard of like… uh… I have no clue. (I didn’t internalize the content of the books very well, did I? I was too busy grabbing an inhaler and fleeing into my house’s panic room.)
I’m supposed to have followers and a platform and numbers.
Then, the material I was studying upset me even more. The author of one proposal book I was reading posited, “Would you like to be officially published and on the dance floor with the literary elite, or would you rather hide at the refreshment tables for the rest of your life with the genre romance authors who only rake in $20,000 a month by self-publishing?”
And I’m like, $20,000 a month?! In whose universe? Each book I release sells maybe five copies. Five copies. And of course when agents ask how well my self-published books have sold, I’m supposed to lie and inflate that number. “Five” is the wrong answer. But the question always rubs me the wrong way, and I’m too honest for my own good, so I say five and let the agents gasp in horror.
Five. There’s room for growth, right? Right?
Sometimes, I write author blurbs for my own entertainment. Just, you know, pretend.
“My books were ahead of their time, but I never knew how to get my characters to age. All seven of them just kept repeating the same grade, despite my best efforts. Meg Kimball is a master at taking her middle-school characters from one consecutive grade level to the next, and for that I’ll forever be envious.” ~Ann M. Martin
Or this one:
“My massive, humongous ego feels threatened by Meg Kimball’s amazing writing chops. Pass the potatoes! Momma needs some smushed tubers on her plate. Stedman! Where are my chips?” ~Oprah Winfrey
So, we have a problem.
I felt so distraught and overwhelmed by it all that I literally fell asleep. Yeah, it was naptime. And I’d already slept until noon today. I think I might be hibernating. That’s fine. It’s wintertime. As long as I’m feeling rational, I don’t care how much sleepytime I need.
Another marketing option is to offer to independently hire a publicist. Um. The minimum cost of this is $5,000. I’ll consider it, but… what about my profit?! AAAUGH. I might be able to scrape up a few thou, but not five whole thou. (Did I just use the abbreviation thou? I’ve arrived.) I have faith that my memoir will sell, but this is depressing.
When I awoke, it was almost 9:00 PM. I leapt out of bed with a renewed sense of vigor and burst into song. The animals were duly impressed, but they scampered away.
I’ve just got to deal with this somehow. Did I mention that the book proposal should have its own table of contents? Yeah, I think I mentioned that. Basically, it’s easier to write an actual book.
In other news, my using the light box is out. I used it earlier today for fifteen minutes on my left and ten minutes on my right. (It’s supposed to be placed off to the side at 10:00 or 2:00, and I wanted to get equal exposure to both eyes.) (And don’t worry; I avoided looking directly at it. I entertained myself with some adult coloring books.)
Unfortunately, afterward, I experienced intense eye pain in my left eye. It was worrisome. I wound up going to the drugstore to buy some cheap eyedrops. I’d already tried my dry-eye treatment of blinking a hundred times, and I’d done it up to three-hundred, to no avail.
Around twenty years ago, I lost some of my vision by using a new computer monitor that was jacked up to the highest possible brightness and contrast settings. I didn’t know the brightness and contrast could both be turned down, and my vision got worse before I figured it out. (It took me two days to learn I could adjust the screen.) So I’m thinking that light boxes might not be for me.
But I feel great so far! So it’s all good. I think I got overwhelmed and just needed to sleep it off.
Tomorrow’s my fun appointment with the state-appointed psychiatrist. I’m looking forward to it. I ought to take a freakin’ shower. I haven’t had one in two weeks. Why is it so hard to get my sorry self into the shower? I don’t know.