The Dying Light

As I write this, I'm sitting in a recliner by my window.  The sun is going down.  A few stray birds are out in the tree making noise.  Every once in a while I vehicle drives by, tires hissing on the road.  I've just spent the past hour or so working on the cannibal manuscript, getting it ready for Kindle.  The two short stories on there sell, not a lot, but they sell.  I think the novel will do better.

I had music playing while I edited it.  Old blues.  Very old blues.  It didn't totally fit the story, but the songs can be creepy, and that did fit the vibe.  Old country music would've been better, but I don't exactly have that sitting around.

The novel was with a publisher for quite some time. In the end, it was with it for too long, and I yanked it.  A six month wait time had grown into a year, and when I put it on Kindle I not only eliminate the middleman, but I'm also free to continue to shop it around, which I may do depending on sales.  Selling a few thousand copies will be splendid.  Even a few hundred will cause me to celebrate.  Sell enough, and I'll be able to focus on the writing one hundred percent.  No, Kindle is not ideal (especially since I don't own one and have no desire to change that), but it does make the work available, which is the main goal.

The light outside continues to die.  My back, thanks to a run-in with the recycling container, is screaming at me for a hot soak, which I think should happen.  I want to forge on, though.  Get this novel up and available.  I'm finding it hard to concentrate, though, as my back is at a pain level of twelve and feels quite unlike its normal pain, which has become a hard friend over the past decade or so.

Maybe I'll soak soon.  Water as hot as humanly tolerable.  Jets on.  Muscles fighting to relax.  I'm at a good scene, however.  A scene where a legless man describes just what type of hell my protagonist is in for.  It's one of my favor encounters in the story.  It was also the part I had the hardest time writing.  Maybe I'll mull it over as my skin turns lobster red.  Or maybe I'll just press on ... and hope I can get out of bed in the morning.


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