On Writing: 1
Oh the things I dreamed up as a youth. On June 4th of this year, I achieved a dream that began as far back as I can remember: I published my first novel, Occhi Belli, through traditional channels (Wild Rose Press). And it’s been nothing I’d imagined when I was just eight years old writing murder mystery short stories dreaming of one day writing a beautiful, fantastic novel.
Writing can be quite lonely. Sometimes I try and write in a coffee shop so that I can feel the energy of the people around me, but it’s tough to focus that way. No, it’s best if I hole myself up in my little green room (or whatever room has become my writing room) and plug away. I wrote Occhi Belli in the green-walled room in my garage with a Guglielmo Meltzeid painted portrayal of Portofino staring back at me. Italian inspiration for a novel that takes place, at least half, in Italy…although I’ve never been to Portofino. There’s also a long spiderweb attached to my lamp and up to the ceiling that I’ve kept there now for at least two years. No spider though; it must have left me a long time ago. Only the web remains, but it reminds me of a life once lived and the creation that lived on.
I suppose a part of why I write now is that something I’ll leave behind once I am gone. Although who’s to say my novel(s) will continue to be printed must longer than the contracts that bind them? I say novels because I do plan to write more. I have the stories brewing in my brain, but it’s been difficult piecing anything together because of the looming opening (hopefully) of my new Italian small plates wine bar eponymously called Occhi Belli.
No, I wasn’t able to get the restaurant opened before the launch of the novel. I was dreaming of a grand night of a book launch at the new restaurant with wine and food and book signings and friends and one hell of a party, but none of that came to fruition. The unheralded publication of Occhi Belli came and went. June 4th. The book can be found in specific places, but there’s no agent pushing to sell to big time publishers who then sell to big time stores with book signings, interviews, talk show gags, the whole works. That’s what I dreamed up as a kid at least. Nowadays, does anyone even read? I mean really read? Hell, I find it difficult to sit down and read and I’m supposed to be a writer and subsequently a reader. Damn that social media.
There’s no marketing pushing the book, there’s no one talking about it. And why would they? It’s a novel lost in the slew of things to read. One day published; next day forgotten. If it sounds like I’m complaining, I am, but only really about my lack of will to really put myself out there and do the damn marketing myself (fear, lack of knowledge of the industry?). If you want something, go after it right? No one told me it would be easy. Hell, I published through a small publisher. What can I expect?
As a kid, I dreamed that writers wrote and that publishers did the rest. I suppose at one time that was probably the case. Not anymore.
I suppose I know what I need to do. Get the restaurant open. Get writing again. Get excited to talk about the novel and future novels. Good things will happen right? Yes, yes they will. One has to believe.
Tim
PS: The first half of this post I wrote thinking in a Scottish accent (probably because I just finished watching Dept. Q on Netflix, which I suggest doing) and the last half back to my own normal boring voice.