Itís obviously time for my annual crisis of confidence.
Iím feeling twitchy and irritable, and thatís never a good sign. The universe is trying to tell me something and, as usual, I donít want to hear it.
The writing itself has been going very well this year so far, with new novels placed with Dark Regions Press and Darkfuse, new novellas and a new story collection coming from Dark Regions, and short story sales in several pro markets and high profile anthologies. All of this will get me a higher profile than ever before. My recent publications are picking up good reviews too.
ButÖ butÖ for me, thereís always a but.
The ebook side of things is showing signs of grinding to a halt. Whether this is due to the glut of free ebooks on the market, or just the natural end of a good period of strong sales, I donít know, but as it stands, Iíll be losing a big chunk of my income in months to come.
So that means thereís a new urgency for me to break new ground and find ways to make enough cash to pay the bills.
I said this at this time last year, and the year before.
ďIím unsure about my eye for the market. I write what I want to write, producing books that I would want to read. But Iím a fifty-something man steeped in pulp fiction from an early age. I want the big deal, to see my books on shelves in shops all over the world. Thatís always been the dream, but my obsessions just donít seem to cut it in the wider marketplace.Ē
And another year on, thatís still what Iím doing, still writing pulpy fiction that makes me smile.
The -big- dream that is world domination and the Hollywood deal is still far off, still the golden ring to strive for.
I love writing, love the pictures that flow in my mind.
But is this all there is?
Iím not big on retreating into a shell and gazing at my navel, but maybe thatís just what I need to do.
Or maybe all I need to do is keep writingÖ itís taken me twenty years to get here. If it takes twenty more to get where I want to be, so be it.