I am up past midnight, fretting about how I am going to get more people to read this blog or buy my e-book 5150. It’s cheap as heck, and a superb read.
I wish I had more time, know-how and energy to work on viral marketing campaigns. I wish I could afford to pay some junior publicist to put the book in the media spotlight.
The book is a thinly disguised autobiography focusing on the time in my life when I suffered a break from reality. I want the mentally well to understand how mental illness feels…so I wrote the book in first person present tense. This forces the reader to follow the narrator through the mouth of madness. Very few people go that deep into psychosis and return to write about it. I think of it as a visitor’s guide to mental illness. Does anyone want to read it?
So far, I have sold six copies. This is after ten years of writing, work -shopping, polishing and editing it into a perfect story. This is after sending the manuscript to 125 agents and receiving 125 rejection notices. This is my deepest self-revelation…deeper than my homosexuality…deeper than my addiction. And it gathers electronic dust at Amazon, Barnes and Noble, Apple, and a few dozen more outlets.
So I am envisioning Oprah reading my book. What else can I do? I used to envision Dolly Parton listening to the Acres album. Another artwork that is gathering a virtual 1930’s Oklahoman level of e-dust. Oh and that movie I made about Mexican Wrestlers that finally broke my artist heart and made me turn my back on art in general to pursue material comfort. That one was for rent on Netflix and then one day disappeared as mysteriously as it appeared. I used to picture Dana White (UFC) watching it and hiring me to do docs about his fighters.
Dust in the wind. Or, as the Lady Chablis says in her autobiography “Hiding My Candy” – two tears in a bucket, motherfuckit.