Moral Midgetry

Well Irregardless is available. The Amazon.com link is live. Go ahead, click, this blog will still be here.

There was a point when my book, Irregardless, was about to be published that I found out the brother of a friend of mine was also going to get a book published. It was a manuscript he had shopped for a while. I was happy for him when I heard the news.

Then his deal fell apart. Turned out the offer came from some pay-to-publish jerk-off outfit. I was genuinely sorry to hear that, but there was another part of me – a big, fat, huge part, really – that thought maybe that’s not so bad for him.

From everything I was going through at the time I could have told him (and did in fact ask that my friend pass it along) that getting a book published is a huge pain in the ass.

Now, I know there is nothing worse that listening to someone whine about achieving a dream. I think my main problem is that I am just plain sick of this book. I have lived with this thing for six years now. Six fricking years. And It’s taken me through every emotion possible. I’ve loved and felt proud of it. I’ve hated and been sickened by it’s very existence. I’ve mourned and bemoaned the fact that no one will ever see it. I’ve cried with joy when it was accepted by a publisher.

But there was one constant through all those times: I read the book. And then I read the book. I edited, revised, reworked, and rewrote. And reread.

I can only approximate, but I feel that I can say, without hyperbole, that I have read this book sixty-kajillion times. I don’t care how good a book is (and I do think it’s pretty good - but I’ll admit to some bias) you cannot read anything that many times and have it mean anything to you anymore. I’m done with it. Thank God it’s finally published.

I truly hope you enjoy it. But if you don’t, there’s nothing I can do about it anymore. And I’m okay with that.

It’s yours now.