Sunday morning and I’m sitting under the veranda
listening to rain tap dancing on the roof.
Flicking lazily through the latest edition of a writing magazine, I come
across an article on successful marketing and I can’t help thinking about my
own rapidly sinking sales figures. I
must find ways to raise the profile of my books.
The article suggests spending a frightening amount of
time on social media sites, submitting book reviews, (to who I wonder?), arranging
promotions, compiling databases, writing regular newsletters to send to anyone
willing to read them. The list of ‘good
ideas’ goes on.
When, I think do I get time to write the next novel?
The article continues with success stories written by
authors who it seems have been advertising guru’s in previous lives or have had
careers in publishing or some other such organisation.
The day is becoming as miserable as my mood and I regret
stumbling across this article. Turning
the page I see colourful adverts that are full of promises but in reality are
designed to maximise the profits of the service providers.
Sinking deeper into despondency I decide to cheer myself
up with a chocolate biscuit and a cup of coffee but I notice that birds are
gathering in the trees at the bottom of my garden. They come together a spontaneous community,
creatures searching for shelter as they wait silently for the weather to
improve, then suddenly a dove begins to coo, it's the
sound of hope, a sign sent to encourage me to direct my thoughts more
positively.
My list of ‘good ideas’ is almost complete and flicking
through the remaining pages the rain stops and the birds go mad with relief. All I have to do it seems is to follow the
directions from my list of marketing strategies and like the smiling faces on
the pages of my magazine I too can become a bestselling author.
So I’m let to believe!
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