I am a writer by night (yes, like a vampire) and a vampire by day (yes, I’m a publisher) and I try to keep the two separate. I cannot publish myself – it’s too much like public diddling – nor can I let my authors see me pulled off working their books to work mine. Tacky.
What to do. What to do. At the moment I’ll do nothing but let a few friends read it and see if they liked the sex. I’ll excerpt the blow job scene and email it to my 86 year old friend Ruth. I’ll sit around thinking “dear lord above I finished a novel” and reach for candy, which I surely deserve.
I’ve written oodles of books, most without my name. All non-fiction. I’m not a pornographer. I am a ghost. (You go think about that for awhile.) This is the first time I have thrown my sizable being into fiction and come out the other side. If I end up putting it in a box under the bed, I’ve still accomplished more than I ever imagined.
‘cuz listen everybody. This fiction-writing is hard stuff.
The mighty, the Few, the Novelists.
Off for some more champagne.