It’s party time next week! (Launch party time.) I have a million and one things to get to before the event. I seem to have misplaced my suit pants somewhere, too, which is the most annoying—and still trivial—issue du jour. The funny thing about success is that I don’t know if all of this planning, PR and marketing (the latter two services beginning next month), will pay off in the long run. Nonetheless, I decided when I was going to give this “writing” thing a go that I would treat it with the same seriousness one applies to a career. Over the course of this journey, I’ve had to amass connections in creative, marketing, advertising and literary professional fields. I’ve had to wear every hat imaginable. I’ve invested a decent portion of my savings as well; you know, that stuff you’re never supposed to touch.
You could say that I’ve gambled my life on this; you would be correct. But if you can push past the fear, the insecurity, the worrying over the gamble that you’ve taken, you can reach a state of clarity where hard-work and a bit of luck mostly determines the outcome of your fate. I guess that’s a similar journey to what my characters (and certain villains) take. Only the perils and threats with which they must contend are far graver than finding an audience. I am overjoyed, really and truly, that so many of you are enchanted with Feast of Fates. And don’t forget, that if you like the novel, if you are as passionate about seeing the rest of the tangled, sweeping tale I have envisioned, then the best thing you can do for me is to share your wonder with someone else. Tell a friend, a co-worker. Sure, I’d love it if they bought a copy, but lend them yours if hesitation presents itself.
Stories exist to be shared. In many ways, you folks—the ones who bought into my work—are a part of my gamble. You are the reason that I keep rolling the dice. Yes, authors will say: “I only write for myself.” I think that’s a rather narrow stance, and involves a measure of self-deception. If I was only interested in private monologues, I’d start keeping a journal. I’m not. I want to write. I want others to find wisdom, laughter, and even a little pain in my experiences. However deeply I entwine my metaphors in colorful characters and fantastic settings, I am, fundamentally, having a conversation with my audience. I am speaking to you—broadly—but the act of reading still remains a conversation. So for me, I do not write for myself, I write to interact with others. I write, because you and I can speak and share in pain, joy, and love, even though we have never met.
The real magic, lies not within my tales with their immortal kings and ancient powers. The real magic is that thread between people miles and continents apart, between page and mind, across gender and nearly every other divide. When I hear from readers, I know that connection has been made. A very real and extraordinarily magical link between souls and minds. Even more humbling to me, is that I can continue that conversation with your children, and their children, well after we are dust. I can’t think of a greater honor or task to which to commit my life. I leave you now, to work on some more of those “conversations”.
I wish you all a wonderful week, and you can expect scandalous and surprising photos from next Sunday’s event.
All the best,
P.S. If eyes are the windows to the soul, what do these say? She’s the most adorable and slightly terrifying animal at times.