The Wages of Sloth

by Janis Patterson

I’ll admit I’ve never been much of a go-getter. There are so many more attractive things to do than work; I’d rather do what I want to do (and I’m the only one who feels like that, right?) Fortunately for me, most of the time I want to write; writing is what keeps me as sane as I am, whatever that is. And let’s face it, the insane covid idiocies haven’t helped anything at all!

However, even I was shocked last week when after vowing to get my act - and my desk - cleaned up I found eight (I think) finished manuscripts, needing only covers and ISBNs to release, plus half a dozen novellas which I had planned to make available in paper - not counting the six or seven (can you tell I’m hazy on numbers?) books I have had reverted from trad publishers.... all waiting to be covered and released.

Holy guacamole! I knew there were a couple of releases I should attend to, but I swear these have been multiplying on my hard drive like mushrooms in the dark! 

Not that I have been totally remiss - I just put up my very first Vella serial novel (GHOSTS OF BELLE FLEUR - 36 episodes, first three free and releasing today - hint, hint!) and am still hard at work on a non-fic history book to say nothing of having a life, but good grief! 

I can see a lot of publishing going on in my future, so be prepared for a release blitz that rivals my first foray into self-publishing in 2014. The Husband is not happy. In 2014 I had gotten back all the books I thought I would ever get returned, so knowing I don’t respond well unless I have a deadline I decided to give myself a strict release deadline. I come from a newspaper/advertising background where there is only one excuse for missing a deadline - death. Yours. 

In 2014 I released a book - freshly edited, formatted for ebook and paperback and with a brand new cover - to every major etailer every two weeks from 1 June to 31 October. It almost killed me, and The Husband got so tired of seeing nothing but the top of my head as I bent over the computer he literally kidnapped me for a weekend in Vegas to celebrate my birthday. That was fun, but it made one release day two days late, and my newspaper/advertising blood cringed. Thank Heaven the shade of my father didn’t rise up and haunt me for such egregious behavior! (Actually, that wouldn’t have been so bad - I still miss my dad even after forty plus years and would love to talk to him again, with or without him having a physical body.)

If there is one thing obvious from this little tale, it’s that I like writing. I don’t particularly like the work of self-publishing. But - I like the unholy circus of rewrites, more rewrites, waiting, and pittances for payments less. I do like the control and the money of self-publishing. True, I have never sold as much with selfing as with trad, but I’ve made equal or better money. Hey - I can be bought!

So... for far too long I have lounged around doing fun things like writing, cleaning the house, travel, excavating the library, in other words living a life, and must now buckle down to business. Those books are not going to publish themselves, and I (1) can’t afford to hire some company to do it for me and (2) wouldn’t even if I could because I have become accustomed to the bliss of pure control. Unfortunately, bliss comes at a price. I am prepared to pay it. 

After some foot surgery a couple of years ago I had to stay in bed for over a week. The first day was unbearable, but after that I came to like the enforced inactivity - I could feel all virtuous for doing basically what I liked to do - nothing. I even coined a word for it - slothing - and claimed the sloth as my spirit animal. Even though I’m now about to embark on this publishing marathon I’m not giving him up. Sloths are cute. Let’s see if I can teach mine to run.