Last week I was in NYC. I don’t get to go to big bookstores where I live so I went into a B&N. Of course I headed to the mystery section which was fairly large. I always look for myself first. I didn’t expect to find any of my books except for the paperback of This Dame For Hire. Nope. Nothing. Nada. I tried to tell myself it was because they’d sold out. It didn’t work. I knew that wasn’t true. If they’d sold out why didn’t they reorder?
TDFH was my 18th published novel. But where was I? Not among all the other writers, some I’d never heard of, some self-published I was surprised to see. I wasn’t the only working writer who wasn’t there. Others were missing, too. I’m not naming names. But there were plenty of name brands, and why wouldn’t there be?
It was depressing. Demoralizing.
I went back to work yesterday and did pretty well. Today was a mess. I feel like throwing the manuscript into the water and deleting all copies on my computer and back ups. I know I won’t. But I wonder how much of my discouragement is laced with my bookstore blues.
Still, I’m on page 178 and I feel I don’t know what I’m doing, where I’m going or who these people are. My closest friend just told me she wishes she had a tape to playback to me because I always say these things.
But this time it’s real.