The Great Abysss: Post-Publication Depression

OK, I've finished it, gotten my novel out there into a few Barnes & Noble stores and on Amazon; I've sent out sample copies to a few friends and prominent New Orleans folks; I've sent copies to newspapers in four southern states; I've started to set up a European book tour and sent out a press release.

But nothing.

It's silent.

Books aren't selling.

No one has noticed; no one has said, "This is a great book. A must read. A New Orleans classic."

Nothing. Nada. Zip. Zed.

I flip through the pages wondering, really, was the seven years and thousands of hours and thousands of dollars really worth it? Did I write something of note? Or, at the very least, a 'good' book?

I don't know. I can't judge. But maybe someone, SOMEWHERE will pick it up and rave about it.

I suppose I need to be patient. Some books take 20 years to arise from the heap of pulp.

It's moronic to worry about, since it really doesn't matter. What matters is that an artist does the best work possible at that point in their life.

And I do know that I have done that.

It's Tough Serving Two Masters

Chekhov started his career as a doctor. When he began to write, he was pulled in two directions until his short stories started selling and he was able to be a full-time writer. Later, when reflecting on that period, he wrote of how difficult it was to "serve two masters."

To keep things going economically, to provide capital and time to invest in my writing, I research and publish information technology reports. It's been my primary career for over 25 years, but I really wish I could devote all my efforts to my novels, plays, screenplays, essays and poetry. (yes, poetry, but I will not publish it until I'm dead and gone!).

I was complaining about how serving two masters scatters my mind, how it frazzles me and prevents me from going all out as a writer. But a friend of mine listed all of the horrific life situations many famous writers overcame, and as he went, I realized, really, I ain't got it so bad. I mean, I live by the Pacific Ocean and also have a place in the beautiful mountains of central Mexico. In the last year or so, I've been to three Cuban cities, seen plays on Broadway, went to Las Vegas, San Felipe, La Paz, Cancun, Puebla, Chouloula, Ensenada, and seen bullfights in Tijuana, Mexico. My compatriot writers had it pretty tough: John Fante went blind and dictated his last few books and screenplays; Thoreau and Walker Percy had tuberculosis, which weakened them, causing Percy to write mostly lying down, and sending Thoreau to an early grave; William Burroughs was a lifelong heroin addict; Carson McCullers spent her life in depression; Hemingway was most assuredly bi-polar and an alcoholic, as was Faulkner, Fitzgerald, Bukowski, Capote, Tennessee Williams, Kerouac and many others; Poe was a flat out nutcase; Wilde was sent to a cold, damp prison, even Shakespeare was a pothead.

So you just have to play the hand you're dealt, and do the best work you can. And the craziness, the strain, the strife and struggle can be a great influence on the art itself.

The Publicity Game

I sent out copies of my novel to Brad Pitt, Nicolas Cage and Harry Connick, Jr. They all have ties to New Orleans: Harry is a hometown boy who made it big; Cage had a house there for a while and loves to come into town to party (I've seen him at a local pub and also the Ritz, partying hard); and Brad bought a house on the French Quarter and does some volunteer work in the rebuilding effort. I threw in Tom Hanks and comedy agent Bob Gersh (manages John Goodman) for good measure.

Who knows? Maybe one of them will actually get the book and take an interest in it.

One of the background characters in the novel is based on Cage, and in a movie version, he or Hanks could play the protagonist Hank Clayborn perfectly (washed up high-tech exec comes to NOLA to drink and be an artist). Pitt or Cage or Hanks could play the wild man Lotto from the book, and of course, John Goodman would be great as the Ignatius Reilly-like Cletus Landry, the key fortuneteller on Jackson Square who plays a big role in the story. I'm sort of glad someone talked me out of killing him off at the end of the book.

I also sent off books to the Times-Picayune mysteries book reviewer, and Chris Rose, the affable local columnist, as well as the book review guy at Gambit Weekly. Then I sent a copy to an an arts editor at the Biloxi Sun-Herald and book reviewer at the Mobile Press-Register, and tried to make contact with people at the Jackson and Memphis newspapers.

It's a pain in the ass, and you never seem to be done, but you gotta do it. At least, someone's gotta do it, and when you're a one-man show, you do everything from cooking to washing dishes.

Success, One Step at a Time

This morning I awoke early to call London. Finally I got through to the right person at Waterstones, and he is taking steps to introduce my novel to the UK market, and to set up some promotional events. I also called Prague, (or Praha as the rest of the world calls it), and tentatively set up a signing event to kick off my European tour -- after nearly a dozen previous attempts. So now I have Prague, Berlin, and quite probably London. How about Paris or Madrid?

Then I took my morning walk on the beach and I felt I am making progress, one step at a time, and soon others will see my footsteps, before they are washed away by the tide of time.

That Incubation Feeling

The best part of writing a book is in those first days when ideas flow freely and you are not constrained by such bothersome things as plot, character development or proper grammar. An artist friend of mine in New Orleans called it the "incubation" phase, and I suppose it is common to most all creative processes.

It's when an artist or writer is most alive, when new territory is charted, when there is a sense of total freedom and the only thing that matters is the pure joy of creating something unique and new.

I can't wait to get started on my next book. That's the fun part!

After the Writing

I've finished, or at least I think I have, and the novel is live on Amazon and available for stores to order. It's nice to have that done, I feel good about it, but now I have to change gears. Up early, I called London for the 5th or 6th time, trying to get in touch with the Waterstone's contact who doesn't reply to my email messages or return my calls. This is the part I hate, at least in the beginning, since it drains any creativity from you, and there isn't time for a respite. But even if everything were hunky-dory and a major publishing house had picked up my book, there would still be this promotional phase. Only it would be dictated to me. At least I can craft the promotion of my choosing.

Back to work.