Mike, me, here with morning mocha. Not in the mood to write in 3rd pers. Don’t even feel like any linearity to this paragraph, those promised to follow. But that’s nothing new. First mocha sip... Two sample chapters due by noon. Who stapled this deadline to his inner-board? He did. I mean, I did. Am I going to submit them? I might. Play the game with these monkey-minded publishers. I’ll let them have a couple manuscripts, as I can’t afford to self-sponsor book-length works. Not now, anyway. So... Guess I’m submitting. To where? How do I even go about this? What do I want? Winemakers with their own labels don’t have to worry about appeasing larger corporate bodies, publishing houses. They make wine that they would drink, wine the consumer would sip.
Small business owners don’t have to answer to anyone, but their customers. Publishers can be bullies, as I understand. A writer friend of mine, with a name you’d know, recoils from and repudiates the publishing world. And with similar reasoning. Need to publish Self, I again resolve. Don’t know why I even go back and forth. Especially when you appreciate, I appreciate, that I’ve ALWAYS wanted to own my own business. When I was younger, I used to pretend that I owned a card shop. Baseballs cards, primarily, but some Football, Basketball. A handful of Hockey, even though I can’t stand the sport, conceptually or practically, actually.
So what should I do with these two new chapters? Should I even organize them? Probably going to hold off for now. Just need to stick with the habit of “write-and-release,” like another artist coadjutor of mine. He spends his life in the studio, creating. Literally walking away from his chair with a new marketable manuscrip, every time. I know I write enough to live in the like. So, Self-publishing every minute, every day. Every transaction, no matter how bland, plain, one-dimensional.
In approaching this as an English professor, I see the more logical development, authorially, harnessing to what grips integrity, individuality. My right knee, bothering me again. This better not keep me from running today, or ever, especially on the 24th. My writing, depending more and more on those unforeseen revelations whilst darting around Bennett Valley. So I guess that’s while I began this sitting with publishing indecisiveness; I had that thought, of throwing a couple chapters at agents, or publishers, while in that exhaustive sprint set Thursday night, one of the more enriching runs, for me, the writing, probably ever. And, to be frank, I’m tired of applying, to anything, for anyone, to anyone. Trying to prove my worth, value. Standing in some desperate recital, for a position, generating capital for someone else. No more, resolved Mike. I mean... I’m certainly not going to do that with my pages. Only aiming to allay mySelf, my readers. I would prefer fall terminally ill before having some pig publisher’s dictatorial marketing Literary death squads massacre my manuscripts. So, I Self-pub. I will, now. Fanatically. My new Orthodoxy. Glad my mind fluttered in the pattern it did, on Thursday’s night run. Another mocha sip, soliciting more sentences. 1000 words, for me--for us, my dearest of readers--by 11am. Goal, for me. Evaluated by, graded by, considered by ME.
9/10/11, Saturday, 10:03am