So, when I’m not battling respiratory infections, dealing with stupid telephone companies, fighting with computers, arguing with very large publishers about compensation for their use-without-permission of things I wrote, or otherwise being productive, I’ve been writing fiction.
It’s not very good, but it’s cheap.
Anyway, my latest novel is now available for the Kindle, if that’s your thing – you can grab a copy here, if you like sex, drugs, and environmental terrorism. There’s also a paperback edition, which makes a great gift for the people in your life who like sex, drugs, and environmental terrorism. It’s available from Amazon, Barnes and Noble, et cetera. People outside the United States can get a copy right here for less than ten dollars, with free worldwide shipping.
On a related note, I’ve been publishing fiction as paperbacks and e-books since July 2010. In that time I’ve put out six titles, two of them novel-length. I’ve sold copies to people all over the world, gotten reviews from a handful of complete strangers, and made… well, next-to-nothing, by anyone’s standards.
Lest you think I’m kidding about my lack of success, I just received my first-ever royalty cheque for the books I’ve written. Yep, it took seventeen months for me to actually see a penny. Barely a thousand pennies, actually…
I’m seriously tempted to not even bother cashing it. I’d kind of like to tape it to the wall in my office, as a reminder of why I desperately need to quit this failed experiment in writing fiction.
Self-publishing only makes you money if you’re good at it. If you’re considering trying to wow the world with your fiction, remember Sturgeon’s Law, and the Occupy movement: 90% of everything is crap, and you are, almost certainly, among the 90%. I know I am.
I’m trying to finish up my next novel – a highly-derivative tale of life, love, and facial trauma – by early January, so if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to go write some more cruft nobody is ever going to read, now.