It's difficult to believe so much time has passed since my first book was published, but it has been twenty years. I was so inexperienced that I was excited when I was offered a publishing contract by a questionable publishing house. (I didn't know it was questionable at the time.)
I think the novel sold three copies, for which I thank my friends. Otherwise, it collected dust while I watched it flop. Because I had no idea I was supposed to do anything to help it soar. I relied upon a publishing company who didn't communicate with me after publication. Needless to say, I was sorely disappointed and thought that maybe writing wasn't my thing.
But I pushed on. Probably out of sheer tenacity only. I just knew I didn't want that one book to be the sum of my writing career. So I wrote another book then another. They didn't actually start selling well until 2005. There have been ebbs and flows ever since, and I look back now and think that I don't regret the publication of that first book. Even though it didn't go anywhere and no one has really read it, it started my journey, and its resounding splat against the pavement as it crashed and burned ignited a spark in me.
So this is why I celebrate the anniversary of the publication of my first book that didn't sell.
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