What kind of published author I want to be…

I’ve given this a few days’ thought; I’m an indie author, okay, that’s very nice but…  What kinds of books do I want to release?

Well, I came up with two types of tales, and one manner of novelist.  I want to release relevant books.  Thoughtful novels.  Stories that for whatever reason grab me, don’t let go, even if they need the editing machete.  Okay, sounds good.

And I don’t want to work so hard.  That’s mostly due to my husband, who at forty-seven is already pondering retirement.  Not any more than sending me real estate listings from various locations: Honey, wouldn’t this be a great place to live?  Now, he’s not going to retire for several years, but it’s on his mind, while I’m just getting my publishing engines revved.  But I’m not young, and while I start early in the morning, no longer am I so driven to work until my husband gets home, four-ish most afternoons.  While it might seem odd, entering my second year of indie publishing, I just don’t want to work long days and weekends, unless I’m writing (like right now).

I’ve released a good number of books, eight indies, one with a small press.  Dianne Gray asked how many novels have I written.  Well, over forty.  The last four years have been full of words, just packed!  But as of right now I’m only planning on publishing maybe half of them, which includes those already out.  Just not enough time to sort them all, even if I stopped writing today.

Which I can’t, too many ideas teeming.  I came up with another around two thirty this morning, jeez!  The last thing I need is another plot.  (But it is always fun to make a new playlist for said idea…)

The books I culled weren’t inherently bad, just needed too much work, or weren’t relevant to me anymore, not thoughtful enough.  Those three are my manifesto, of sorts.  Not that I’m militant about it, just that sometimes decisions whack upside my head, that light bulb you know; aha!  I wasn’t actively thinking about books to publish or what kind of author, blah blah blah.  But my husband’s recent absence left gaping holes in my days, my evenings, my heart.  Time to ponder, time to write, time I should have spent scrubbing the shower.  Thank goodness that chap loves me.  I guess if I’m not working long hours as a writer, plenty of time will remain to clean the bathroom.

Maybe I’ll rethink that not working so hard clause…

 

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