The Duke of Morrison Street appeared for sale on Amazon while I was visiting my parents in Nevada for the Thanksgiving Holidays. I had a proof copy along with me. My sister read it and liked it. She thought Malady Manor was funnier, and I have to agree. I am pleased when a person stays interested enough to read all the way to the end. I have tossed a lot of books aside on the grounds that they were too boring to live. I am no Hemingway and I know it. I figure if I can hold a reader's interest long enough for him or her to complain about the quality, I am as far up the literary ladder as I am likely to get.
My sister did, however, find a typo. The bane of my existence. What can a poor boy do?
I hesitated showing the book to my family. Having it around brought up all those conversations about whether I will be rich and famous like John Grisham; the choice to publish it myself; my motives for writing it in the first place, and how the book relates to the amount of money I can put in my bank account. I have struggled with those questions too much, and whatever answers I have seem particularly weak when given to my family across a table filled with turkey and gravy.
I went to a meeting while I was visiting. The next morning my mother asked about it. I told her that all my old friends were there, but in Nevada they had different names. That is the way it felt. It was a birthday meeting and a couple of old timers reminisced about the old days and people long gone. I had never been to that meeting before and was not a member of that group, but I knew those old timers too. In Fairview, Oregon they had different names.
Now I am back on the banks of Salish Ponds. I have to come up with a marketing plan. I would rather work on the next book, but I won't do that until I have a sale or two of this one.
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