BoneSong is finished! + an excerpt from ErRatic
I'm sitting here eating an apple with a big grin on my face. Last night, I finished BoneSong!!! My 24th novel! Ecstatic doesn't begin to describe the feeling...
It's been really difficult to keep up my enthusiasm lately. All writers have down time, when you worry whether you're ever going to become a household name. Whether your books will ever have a chance of being found in every library, and every bookstore. For most of us, it's never going to happen.
Novice writers, and non-writers, generally have the wrong idea. They believe that publication is everything! When you begin writing a novel, you never realise that you're signing on to be a website designer, publicist, salesperson - and many times - agent. The reality in today's world of independent publishers is no money upfront, and minor moneys quarterly. Promotion is generally totally via the Net, your book is one of thousands on Amazon, and availability does not equate to sales. Good reviews and contest placements make little difference. If you do get your book into a real bookstore, and your publisher isn't willing to pay $10,000, to have your book in a front display, you'll be lucky if anyone sees it.
An author who was published by one of my former publishers once said she could count on 250 sales from family and friends. She wanted the publisher to tell her where she should go from there, to make sales. Frankly, I wondered what planet she came from! 250 sales??? Most of the time, my friends want to read my books for free, and I haven't the heart to ask these financially tapped-out creatures to buy a book. In fact, most relations/friends actually feel hurt if I hint at such a thing. The reality (painful, yes), is that many of our publishers don't offer us free copies - they make us buy them. My first publisher made us buy 25 at a time, if we wanted any kind of discount! Needless to say, I didn't see my first print books for years! I finally found them at a library, and stood there goggling. It was an incredible moment, to hold my print books in hand! Wonderful!
I suppose writing novels can be compared to purchasing a lotto ticket. During that time your book is under consideration by a publisher, or out there, awaiting sales, you have the potential for being a winner. The dream is alive and well, and hope is ever-present. It is only times like this, when I'm tired and slightly burnt-out, from finishing a book, that I question what I'm doing.
Instead, I suppose, I should be grateful. I'm 18x published, and the people who read my work, generally enjoy it.
And I have enough hope, and enough projects ahead, to keep going. I suppose, if it comes down to it, I'm a writing junkie, with the next fix just around the corner.
Tomorrow, in fact.
Talk to you soon.
ND
N. D. Hansen-Hill
http://www.fictionwise.com/ebooks/NDHansen-Hillebooks.htm (all my ebooks...except Gilded Folly)
http://www.lulu.com/NDHansen-Hill (my print books)
http://www.NDHansen-Hill.com (my under construction new website)
http://www.cerridwenpress.com/productpage.asp?ISBN=1-4199-0409-4 (Gilded Folly)
Prologue
The woman glanced blearily at the clock. Three am, and Studley obviously needed to go out. He was whimpering, deep in his throat, and his cold nose kept nudging her arm.Damn dog! She reached out and gave the rough coat a pat. Zombielike, she stumbled across the room, to the front door, and unfastened the lock. "Out!" she commanded, punctuating it with a squeaky yawn.
When she opened her eyes again, He was there. The man was standing on the grass, just off the porch.
It was a very small porch.
She slammed the door and locked it, then raced through the house. In her mind she kept picturing Him running, trying to beat her to the back door. It’s locked...it’s gotta be locked.
It was, but she didn’t feel any better. No one had any business standing there, on her property, at three in the morning.
He was up to no good. She ran for the kitchen and picked up a knife in one hand and the phone in the other. The knife shook in her frozen fingers. Not a good thing. He’ll use it on me.
He damn well better not try. Her shadowy reflection in the window glass was that of a madwoman, brandishing a blade. Her staccato movements glinted across the toaster face, and she jumped, slashing the air.
Hysteria burbled up, like an unwanted belch...before sense clunked in with a nearly audible jolt. Window...nightlight...he’ll see me. Frantic, she dropped onto the floor, and punched in a fumbling "911".
If he saw me, I hope he saw the knife, too.
She shouted into the phone, "There was—!", realised she was shouting, and quickly hissed, "There was a man!"
Why the hell hadn’t Studley barked?! The damned dog had practically dumped her in the killer’s lap!
The Police Operator was offering instructions now, and the woman listened to them blankly. She’d just recalled something very pertinent to her case.
"N-Never mind," she said, replacing the receiver with shaking hands.
A dream. It had to be a dream.
But it wasn’t and she knew it. It was what she’d tell them, though, when they asked.
She sat there, huddled, too scared to challenge the near-dark. Her eyes were already scrunched closed, but now she drew up her knees and buried her face in her arms.
Shielded...safer.
Not really...
She couldn’t afford to move now, even if it meant lighting the house. She was too afraid of what she might see.
She nestled her head deeper, to block her ears. Too afraid of what she might hear.
She hummed a little whimper, deep in her throat the way Studley had. Just enough noise to challenge any other whimpers in the room.
When they came with the squad car to check out her call, she’d have to get up—but not till then. Then, it’d be okay—maybe even safe.
Why hadn’t Studley barked? That one was easy—now that she’d remembered.
About Studley. He’d been dead...for almost a week.
**If you'd like me to post another excerpt, drop me an email to tell me (sfnovels@gmail.com)!
