Begin Again Again

The long and short of it appears to be, alas, that Sarah Tolerance sells well in hardcover but tanks in mass market. Tanks so badly that the chains see my name and wince and won't want to buy anything I write, even cookbooks or dry historical treatises on fish wrangling. This is probably, to a certain extent, my fault for creating something with its own genre (it's a mystery! no, it shelves in romance! No, wait...it's a dessert topping and a floor wax!), and for my inabilty to be an aggressive self-promoter. I'm good in person--put me up in front of a crowd and I'm grand. But the idea of calling a bookstore and asking if they'd like to schedule a signing fills me with dread.

Meanwhile, I've been asked to write something else, under a new name. This is an old story; I'm not the first writer this has happened to, nor will I be the last. I'm fortunate that my publisher likes me and my work and is willing to try something new.

So I'm working on something new. Or trying to start. And what with having a baby in the house (that would be the puppy) and feeling like I need to reinvent my work habits all over, while researching a period of which I know very little, and to try to write a whole new book in a whole new genre, I'm a little daunted.

Fuck that. I'm a whole lot daunted. I don't know what the hell I'm doing, and mostly what I'm doing is staring off into space and clearing my throat a lot. I have to believe that sooner or later the old habits will reassert themselves. But in the meantime it's painful and aggravating. I'm sorry for venting all over this space, but I need a little ventage and, oh, well, there it is.

It's gonna be a great book. Eventually.