Monday, April 7, 2014


I got at a notice the other day from Amazon informing me I earned a grand total of $100 on the book that month. I should be grateful that anyone buys the book at all, let alone pays real money for  it.

Obviously I wrote the book to make tons of money. A mainstream publisher will ignore the typos, give me huge advance and get it on the NYT Best Seller's List. My agent will sell the option to United Artists.  Terry Gross will interview me and laugh her delightful laugh at my jokes and cleveer remarks. I'll be able to send my youngest daughter to college.

Sympathetic friends tell me at least the book is out there for my children and grandchildren to read as an epitaph of a well-meaning author, even if it doesn't earn a dime. No, no, I correct them, the hell with posterity. The intention is to sell my soul to the devil,  bartering my private  thoughts and experiences for filthy lucre.

Now I got to get off my ass and launch a publicity campaign, begging for reviews and bookstore events in paces like in places like Concord, 
Joliet, Illinois , and Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia.

I need to put on a zebra costume and hawk the book in a goofy video that will go viral on YouTube.

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