Nobody Cares About Your Beans

My beans.

I'm not much of a talker. Never was. When I was two, my parents became concerned that I still was barely speaking. Or talked baby talk to my older sister, who would translate for me. Nothing much has changed over the years, except that my sister abdicated her translator role at some point, leaving me to fumble through communication on my own.

​What does this have to do with writing? My slow acquisition of speaking skills seems rooted in my inability to Speak Up For Myself. Add in a native Midwestern reticence to toot one's own horn, and I have abysmal skills at self-promotion.

I learned to communicate through writing. It's what I do best. I've managed to become traditionally published: a dozen novels and over a dozen short stories. With that track record, you might imagine I'm preparing to buy my own island. Nope. Like the vast majority of authors, my writing barely earns me a profit - forget earning a living. I am a competent writer. Some have called my work brilliant. There. I said it. But promoting my own work? I cringe at public bragging and buy-my-book pitches.

What does this have to do with gardening? I realized long ago that non-gardeners aren't interested in my beans. I might wax poetic about growing, picking, and eating the fruits of my labor, but few other people care. Unless I'm handing them a bag of my home-grown produce. On occasion, I've received painful comments about my small tomatoes or oddly shaped cucumbers not matching their grocery store counterparts. 

Writers are at this point nodding in agreement. You sweat blood to create your story. You give a free copy to friends or family, believing it is a great gift, the emotional equivalent of handing them a gold bar, or bag of heirloom tomatoes (gold and homegrown tomatoes being equal in value by the ounce). And you get crickets in return. No review on Goodreads. Maybe a sympathetic "nice, job, dear" that makes you question the meaning of your existence.

A lot of my angst is My Own Darn Fault. For a decade, I've treated writing as a side gig. My day job pay and benefits were adequate, and writing was what I did for fun. Now that I'm retired, I can write full time.

At this point in the game, I realize it's not about the money.  Just like I garden for my own enjoyment, and to supplement the groceries, writing is what I do to stay sane, and hopefully provide a few bucks toward a  vacation once a year. So don't expect me to become a rabid promoter. I'm still too Midwestern reticent to jump on a soapbox and shout about my beans and short stories.

But you just might hear a little more often from me on social media.
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The Body in the Cattails - A Rose Creek Mystery - Book 1
The Body in the Cornfield - A Rose Creek Mystery - Book 2
The Rock Shop Mystery series

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