wondering why in the hell my books sell or why in the hell they don’t sell and I’d never come up with an answer.
There is no answer.
Sometimes books sell.
Sometimes books don’t sell.
Some books sell better than other books.
Some books I might leave in an outhouse to be used as toilet paper sell like gangbusters while other glorious books languish, unread, unremembered, unsung, unsold.
I just received an online newspaper chock full of advice on how to increase my sales, promote my books, my person, my platform.
I swear if I read one more word about how to prostitute myself I’m going to… to… make some sort of empty threat.
Here’s what I have to say -
Which means – Saint Mary’s church in the hollow of the white hazel near a rapid whirlpool and the church of Saint Tysilio of the red cave.
Because that makes more sense and it’s about as useful. And I can work on my pronunciation. Besides, I was there.
Thus I’m going to change the subject.
You know what’s really cute? When my big bird, Tibby, eats her Frosted Flakes – now don’t go reporting me to the bird police – my little bird, Little Girl, cleans the crumbs from Tibby’s beak like a remora cleaning a shark.
Tibby likes to dip her Frosted Flakes in water first to soften up the sugar frosting. She sucks all the sugar off, turning the flake around and around with her beak, and then she eats the flake.
She doesn’t like the low-sugar Frosted Flakes nor does she like generic. It’s Kellogg’s Frosted Flakes or nothing.
Hey, what can one do? She’s been eating Frosted Flakes since she was a baby and she’s healthy as a horse.
So, an Ichi-ban update. Today we took the sling off and observed him to make certain he wouldn’t try to rip his staples out. So far so good. He’s still feeling pretty miserable. Poor fellow.
Yellow Jacket Report – more in the yard than ever before. I take my life in my hands every time I walk to the car. Why don’t they just die off already?
Even though it’s hot out, I wear heavy jeans, a t-shirt, a thick under-armor shirt over the t-shirt and a black hoodie with the hood up and pulled down over my face and the sleeves pulled down over my hands. It’s sick. Someone is going to mistake me for a mugger.
You know, some days… Going stir crazy stuck in the house.