Let me preface this a bit.
I am an artist. That means that I am filled with doubt about my ability and whether people would even want to read my work. (I sometimes thing that’s the primary definition of an artist.) I have self-worth issues. To balance these out, I also have a pretty awesome fan base that assure me that regardless of my neurotic tendencies, They love the world I have built and the characters that inhabit it. (even, or especially the villains, in some cases)
My fans mean a lot to me.
While I’m waiting for my book to become available through Ingram and Baker & Taylor (distro channels) I have a box of books that I’m selling to fund a bigger box for my signing at the Lovecraft Bar in December.
I’ve made a habit of bringing a backpack with me with a few copies wherever I go. My co-workers, sometimes customers, heck even the awesome little Mexican lady at the Laundromat that dotes on my daughter, have been buying it. I even got a Facebook message from Roseburg, asking me to mail a few (Facebook now offers money transfer with no fees. which is pretty cool.)
So here’s where my title steps in. It’s all sort of surprising to me. All these books sold, I want to think that it’s the people around me humoring me. Like that old aunt or uncle that who always praises your work, but know nothing about it. “ooer, my nephew, hes such a good writer!” (I’ve had to suffer that about my technological abilities for decades “He’s a computer wizard!”)
But here we are, and my backpack has never failed to come in lighter than it went out, and perhaps,
I’m doing this right.