Notebook

Yesterday I came down with the first cold I’ve had in at least a year. Now I’m sitting here glassy-eyed, and my head is full of water. At least I think I can hear water sloshing around up there. And sounds are muffled as if they pass through water before I actually hear them. It reminds me of the old “Sea Hunt” shows, starring the late Lloyd Bridges. All I need are some flippers, an oxygen tank, and a bad plot.

Well, as it turns out, the latter I do have. It has been about two months since my novel, A Listening Thing, fell victim to the machinations of an evil publisher, who is now most probably in hiding. That is definitely where he belongs — though in his case I hope his hiding place includes evenly spaced bars and a grim-looking toilet about three feet from his pillow. Not that I hold a grudge, mind you. I would just get a kick out of seeing him get what he really deserves.

Meanwhile, I am resolved to carry on. The entire text of A Listening Thing is available here on the website. Amusingly enough, a few generic review copies have also turned up for sale online. I don’t know how they came to be in the hands of the people who are selling them, although I suppose it’s possible that the sellers are the reviewers, and vice-versa. This makes sense when you consider the huge number of books that are dumped on reviewers’ doorsteps. Of course, it’s a tiny bit disgusting that either they or a dealer would make money off a new book that I have written, and that I would make none. But this doesn’t really bother me, because, when you come right down to it, the more people who read the book, the better. I am also foolish enough to assume the situation is only temporary, and that sooner or later
A Listening Thing will be made available in book form to the reading public.

What happens between now and then, of course, is bound to be interesting. At the same time, I expect many of the details to be boring. Trying to sell a piece of writing through normal, conventional methods is not nearly as fun as doing the writing itself. It’s even possible that I won’t try to sell the novel at all, as silly as that sounds. I might decide on a more unconventional approach, and let the story of Stephen Monroe make its own way in the world — which is something, in fact, it has already begun to do. Maybe I shouldn’t stand in its way. That is, after all, an important part of the novel’s message. Keep alert, and be open to good things.