Just returned from Broolyn, where I met with David Black, my literary agent dude.
Upon handing in the first draft of my latest book, I planned on sorta kicking back and relaxing. Well, that’s impossible. A. I don’t really know what kicking back and relaxing entails, and B. I’m a self-employer author without health insurance. That doesn’t allow much time for pina coladas and Erik Estrada film festivals.
The book world is mega-tough right now, because fewer people are reading; because of the digital movement; because Borders is about to close up (That’s true—the chain won’t be around much longer). There seems to be a panic, and editors, agents, publishers, authors are all spinning around, wondering what to do. Personally, I used to dream of one day establishing myself so I could eventually write the book of my dreams, money be damned. Well, now I’m pretty established with books, and I don’t think that luxury exists. I have two kids to feed, a mortgage to pay, a career to sustain. Can I devote two years to, say, Vanilla: My Ice, Ice Story and survive? Probably not.
So I compromise. I stick with sports, but try and find topics that fascinate me. My big mistake with Clemens, I’d say, was that I wasn’t 100% fascinated. I liked the book, felt the topic was interesting and worthy. But was I riveted the way I have been researching Mark Eaton these past two years? No.
OK, babbling over …