Chaos

It starts with the website. I keep it up to date, I really do.

My Home page is one exuberant jumble. Anything new and exciting gets thrown on top! Too bad my edgy little poem about night crawlers got submerged in the book clubs section.

Launch of the sequel—done. Book is on Amazon and needs reviews. Remember to beg friends. L.A. Times Festival of Books—fees paid, booth training on calendar. Interview with John Crowley on Book Talk Radio—love his pukkah pukkah British accent. Just got the link. Big success, namely I didn’t drool. Only semi-coherent, however, because I didn’t give away any spoilers.

About those book clubs: It’s my best—a group of people with my book on their lap? Pure unsullied joy. All dates on my calendar, but not yet sorted in my head. Not sure I remember who is who.

My daughter’s friend? Her group’s there, too, in the same month. 50-year old spring chickens, but so what? My protagonist is young—why not my readers?

There are some new names on my email newsletter mailing list. I must write them down in the correct category and compose another newsletter. But what will I tell them? That the third book in the series is on chapter 21? It was on chapter 21 in the last newsletter! Write the darn book already, a voice says. When? I ask. At midnight? That’s my time for tossing and turning with insomnia.

The crisis occurred during a routine promotion for the sequel. It was one of those complicated forms with links and ASIN numbers and 250-word summaries and loglines and promo price versus original price and on and on. It’s OK. I have this information. I’m organized up the kazoo. Problem is, I started with the sequel and midway through started giving information for the original. Then I paid for the promo and submitted it.

Total mind crash!! It’s started, I wailed to my husband, the beginning of the end, the start of brain leakage, or marbles rolling down the hill, as my sister would say.

Maybe you need a break, my husband said mildly, you know, eight hours at the computer may be a bit much. He never criticizes, just makes rational suggestions. It drives me insane.

What if your computer crashes? He says helpfully. Answer: I’ll kill myself.

Maybe do a backup, he suggests. When he gets into this kind of mood, I seize up. I’ve run out of computer storage space, is the problem.

Back I go to the computer, to Canva, to design a banner for the L.A. Festival of Books.

My mentor, a dear friend, wants to assist—to keep me sane.

I’m drowning in emails, I complain.

He will help me wrestle them to the ground. Let’s divvy them up, he says, divide them into priority categories:

1)    Essential:

Invitations to book clubs
Consultations with my new web designer
Info about L.A. Times Festival of Books
Family emails—grandsons, daughters (yes, they are important too.)

2)    Addictive, but non-essential:

Info from Vintage Writer buddies
Announcements of webinars and podcasts on how to stay sane
Messages from beloved sister in Cape Town

Messages from readers who love my books

Messages from readers who hate my books (they are God’s creatures too)
Messages from friends with no agenda
Facebook and social media

3)    Totally Frivolous and Unnecessary but Essential for Sanity:
Authors Guild forum

If I were to take a break to write about the writing life, I would sag under the weight of it. Where to begin? Where to end? What’s the meaning of life?

Hang on a second, I have an interview on the joys of self-publishing.