Doom, doom, doom, do-be, do-be doom. I had one of those mornings. Doom. I took my cat, went back to bed to reset my brain. It worked fine until the cat decided I was too hot and went away. Its fault, the little furball of heat. The cause for my feelings of doom (okay, not saying the doom word again because of it causes Gir’s Doom song playing in my head, and that would take the gloom away) was I woke up thinking my tax forms. Now you get me. I got advanced taxes for the possible income coming from my book. This caused me to spiral into madness and depression. My mind to scream: “You are not going to make it.” And no, I didn’t get off that easily, it went on saying, “You are nothing.” “What you made is shit.” “You are making all the wrong choices. How can you even think about resigning?”
Yes, my mind is a dick, and it has a lot more to say. It sees all the faults in my book and marketing: the cover’s contrast, weak marketing “strategy,” being lazy and unsocial on social media. And all this is the cat’s fault. He should have ignored the heat wave and lied with me as a mass of burning cinder next to my ever warmer husband. But no he (the cat) had to be insensitive and get up and remind me I as well have to leave to work.
I guess it’s normal to dread before a publication date (August 12). Still, I don’t like it. Reality sucks, and I would like to say crit to it. I hate that my mind panics. I understand it might be a good thing, aiding me to push towards action by inspiring me somehow to kill the tumult inside me. But I don’t want to act on my first instincts when I’m like a deer in the headlights. First, I have to calm down and not to force my cat to endure my craziness. I tried to watch the sky while listening to piano music, but the sheer clouds and the piano sonata made me cry. (I know I’m a complete basket case now. More than often enough I can be rational, in control of my emotions, and serene, but waking up five in the morning thinking tax forms derailed me.) Even when my mind is contaminated, a few decent ideas popped up as soon as the doom machine turned its gears. My thoughts momentarily went on thinking about Amazon Ads, BookBub, and Goodread’s giveaways. I have to look into them before my head spin out of control.
The thing is if I had had a publishing strategy, I might have avoided this. Then I would have been following steps, feeling the value of my actions and knowing I was doing things the right away. That is a huge mistake on my part. I wouldn’t have even had to invent those steps, I could have just followed Reedsy’s advice… (Wait for a second while I go bang my head against the wall)… But I found some steps undoable. What tripped me was the word “street team.” It sounded alien, still does. Now my mind is starting the blame game again and the usual fix (writing, which makes me happy and serene) isn’t working. (Shit, I just saw a customer carry a chocolate bar. Maybe I should tackle her, run away with her chocolate, and move under a bridge. Yes, I’m bad and drafting this at work. One of the reasons I have to quit. It is not that I don’t love bookshops, but the reality doesn’t meet the romantic idea. It can be boring and horrific. Sorry to burst your bubble.)
I’m not sure how to end this post. I don’t have a resolution, a high note nor any wisdom. Just a great urge to go home, find my cats, and form a pile. Yes, of course, me under them, I’m not up for that much of doom!
Sorry about the post and thank you for reading it. If you see me, make a funny face. I seem to have lost the comic in me, then again I might have never been one. Just a satirist and they (me) deserve all they get.
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