I suppose I have less to talk about. There’s three possibly quite nearly finished manuscripts sitting in my lap, and I’ve only got time to publish one of them for the immediate. That’s exciting; isn’t it? Unfortunately, I’ve been so productive as to price myself out of a job–spending my free time trying to find productive ways of burning my free time.
I might have mentioned before that I’m as close to self published you can be, the major distinction being that I’m represented by an actual publisher. As a consequence, I have a lot of free rein–both to explore the medium and to hang myself with, but it does nevertheless present possibilities the likes of Mr. Martin and Mrs. Rowling can’t possibly equal. I am my own master, and whatever I see fit to enter my text, whatever I deem effective, is utterly my own decision. Writers, but creative types in general, engage in a lot of self-censorship long before the manuscript even sees the eyes of an editor. I wonder if I’ve been wrong all along, playing to the strengths of what might as well be a different industry rather than playing to my own. There’s an author, long dead; I can’t remember his name. He filled several pages literally with punctuation and nothing else. I can’t even remember why. But it’s nevertheless meaningful. I could include content as rude as I’d like, so long as it doesn’t run foul of criminal statute and common law. Even the Biblion is filled with rape, incest, murder, and masturbation. Most published book in history.
Keep in mind I’ve got a book coming out Black Friday, but I intend to have it up for preorder several months beforehand.