I like my privacy. Most writers do, right? That’s why we’re depicted as lonely creatures, holed up in a cabin, off the beaten path, deep in the woods where we survive on only the characters in our head. Where we can talk to ourselves. Laugh out loud at our witty dialogue. Where we can down chocolate and caffeine for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Where we can stay in our pajamas all day long, or all week long, not shower or wash our hair.
Several months ago, when my sister, RB, began shopping around her latest finished manuscript, we discovered something truly horrifying: Publishers now expect you to promote yourself. Listen, we are not happy about this. We want to sit in our little writerly towers and churn out works of true brilliance. Works that will thrill, and amuse, and rake in copious amounts of big bucks so we can pay the mortgages on said towers.
The true evil of the brave new world in publishing: self-promotion.