The monkey has my back

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I’ve said it before, and I’m sure I will say it many more times, marketing yourself is a tough business. I thought writing a novel, or three, was going to be the most difficult bit, but blatantly shoving myself into people’s worlds, and down their throats, carries much more of a burden than writing the damn books.

Several times, I attempted to make myself familiar with MailChimp as a way to reach out to a broader audience, and several times I hung my head to admit defeat. I was still wearing my writer pants and the marketing outfit I was struggling to get into was a horrible fit.

Today, I took the chimp by the, uh, horns, and we acclimated. While I currently have a scant list of followers on this new marketing platform, I created and sent out my first newsletter. I even figured out how to add a button on the landing page of my author website that now enables people to go to the site to sign up for that newsletter.

I have made a promise to myself to keep the reports brief and engaging while allowing anyone who has enjoyed The Waking Hours and/or One Eleven to follow the progress of the next four books in The RELATIVE Series. If you want to come on this crazy journey with me, please click the link below and take your seat on the roller coaster that is now my life.

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And for anyone who has read either of the first two books, please leave a review on Amazon or Goodreads. Reviews help authors more than you know!!

The branches, and the tree

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If you have been following me on this blog, you will know I have self-published two books on Amazon that are part of a six-book sequence called The Relative Series. I am new to the writing world, and have been doing my best to maintain a structured writing schedule. Weekly Zoom meetings with my friend and mentor, Neil, have kept me on track (for the most part) and held me accountable to meet a weekly deadline.

The creative aspect of constructing stories that come from the depths of my imagination is a dream come true. Since I was a young child, I have built worlds in my mind, developed characters who lived in those worlds, established conflict, and designed fitting endings for each tale that I had manufactured.

Along the way, there were always signs to tell me that I should forge ahead, to throw caution to the wind and put each and every word onto a page, and last night was no different. I have three white boards in my living room to help me keep the timelines of each book so they flow properly into the next story, and one of those white boards spoke volumes last night.

Writing a series of six books is daunting enough, but making sure the timelines throughout the generations match up is overwhelming. While sitting in my living room as the sun went down, the outline of the tree I planted in my mother’s memory after she passed away magically shadowed the white board holding the family tree of my series. I got the message loud and clear, now back to the story board I go!

Imposter Syndrome

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I had never heard the term imposter syndrome until recently. Admittedly, I was on a huge high after self-publishing my first novel in January and receiving such great feedback from family and friends. My mood was heightened even more when I started getting fantastic reviews from strangers. My lockdown was spent writing, and many others had the time to catch up on their reading, which was certainly to my benefit.

I self-published book number two at the beginning of May and, while it is getting great reviews as well, the momentum doesn’t have the same feel as the first book did. After Googling trends about book publishing, the general consensus was book sales dip as Spring begins springing and doing outdoor activities seem more appealing after spending the colder months indoors. That compounded with the end of the stay-at-home orders should be enough to make my brain understand it will take a bit more time for my second novel to gain some traction, even though it is selling well locally and people are enjoying it even more than my first book.

But my brain did not buy into my logic. It went into self-deprecation mode, and I found myself feeling like I was merely posing as a writer. Thankfully, I have a solid group of connections who are willing to play Cher to my Nicholas Cage and deliver a well-timed slap to my face, Moonstruck style, circa 1987.

After having added 800 new words last night to the fourth book in my series, I am back on track. The handprint is still visible on my cheek, but I seem to have come to my senses and reminded myself that I have talent as a writer. They should make pills for this.

Have you ever been a victim of Imposter Syndrome?