Content Feed

Spent six months writing the novel. Spent eight months writing the back-cover blurb. Finally hired a professional blurb writer. Paid $500. He delivered perfection: 'A breathtaking journey through the human soul.' Published. Sold 10,000 copies. Readers raving. Met the blurb writer at a party. 'Your blurb moved thousands,' I said. 'What's your secret?' 'I use the same one for everyone. Just swap "soul" for "heart" every other book.' 'But... you read my manuscript?' 'I'm a blurb writer, not a reader.'

Found my first manuscript from 20 years ago. Read page one. Called my mother. 'Why did you encourage this?' She said: 'I didn't. I said it was nice. That's what mothers say. I also said your haircut was nice. Look at photos from 2004.'

Proofreader found 847 errors in my manuscript. Worked three weeks. Fixed 846. Published. One reviewer found the last one. It's on page 1. It's the title.

Author bio needed. '(Name) lives with two cats and regret.' Publisher: 'Maybe something happier?' Fine. 'Three cats.'

Book signing day. Arrived early. Table: ready. Pens: uncapped. Books: stacked. Two hours later. Table: ready. Pens: still uncapped. Books: still stacked. No people came. Except the chair. The chair came. The chair stayed. The chair saw everything. I don't use that chair anymore. It knows too much.

"Your secondary character outshines the protagonist." "I know." "You should fix that." "I can't. The protagonist knows too. He filed a formal complaint with my outline. Demanded better scenes or he walks. The secondary character offered to mediate. For a percentage of the royalties."

My character broke the fourth wall. Cute at first. Winked at the reader. Charming. Now he's emailing me. Subject line: "Quick question about dental." He wants to know if fictional characters qualify for health insurance. I created him three weeks ago. He's already asking about retirement.

My protagonist refuses to enter chapter 12. Says there's a murderer in there. I haven't written chapter 12 yet. Now I'm afraid to write it too.

My Word document is named: "Final_Draft.docx" "Final_Final.docx" "FINAL_ACTUAL.docx" "THIS_ONE_FINAL_v7.docx" "FINAL_I_SWEAR_v23.docx" "send_this_one_no_wait.docx" My therapist has seen the pattern. My editor has seen the pattern. The pattern continues.

Dostoevsky's ghost appears at my writing desk. Picks up a page. Reads intently. Eyes fill with tears. 'This,' he whispers, 'this is what I spent my whole life trying to achieve. The raw humanity. The existential weight.' I nod, humbled. He clutches the page to his chest. 'May I keep it?' Of course, master. He vanishes. I look down. My manuscript is still there. The grocery list is gone.

Book signing event. One person in line. My mother. She wanted directions to the bathroom.