I Think I Died

But I certainly did not go to Heaven. Instead, I seem to be stuck in book-purgatory where all those writers go who haven't made the best-seller lists. Lately, I haven't even been able to attract a single reader; nor a smidgen of reviewers of those four-thousand downloads of my free promotion of SIROCCO. What gives, people? Like it, hate it, just tell me already.

Naturally, I am depressed asking myself 'What's wrong with me?' Or maybe I should be asking 'What's wrong with my books,' instead?

Perhaps the fault lies in that I haven't thrown up another novel lately. I am working on Book 4 of my Legends of the Winged Scarab series. However, true to form, I needed to do a lot of research and kept nitpicking to achieve the perfect 'literary' feel .... "Ugh," you say? Well, in my book (pardon the pun), it is still required to produce the best erudite writing I can.

Then, the thought hit me: Perhaps, I haven't sprinkled in enough violence and raw sex. Talking about research. I am a happy hermit in a retirement community; so, what do you want of me? Memories of my long-past trials and tribulations? Wouldn't fit into that series (okay, you can always read Edward, Con Extraordinaire - FREE - and get a glimpse of an extraordinary encounter with a persuasive scoundrel). Other than that, I'll be damned if I'm going to tell all. Too deliciously private.

Now my quandary is: Do I stay dead - or am I to arise like Lazarus. After all, Easter is just around the corner...

"Okay, Borg, there is only one thing to reignite the interest of your readers. Let me quote Nora Roberts, 'Ass in Chair,' the one thing that produces books."

Got it. Back into the chair to finish Book 4 - Coming soon, provided said chair et al retain their springs.