I went public with PBW about a month ago. Seems longer, doesn't it? But up until the interview with Mad Max, I didn't publicize the weblog. People found their way here because they were friends or friends of friends. We tried to keep it secret, or as secret as you can on the internet without passwording it.
When I did go public, I was tempted to play nice. I can be a nice woman. Sometimes. Go on, wipe the beverage snort off your monitor. Maybe nice isn't the right word. My mother cursed me with that wretched word. I will forever think the epitome of anything is nice.
I'm not here to be loved. I'm here to write.
I journal online to talk about what it is to be a writer, and not to con you or ram one of my novels down your throat. You want the promo, you know where it is. There are enough pros out there who make only kissy noises about publishing so they can sell books and win awards. I had this outrageous analogy -- sweet one, too -- about this type of pro, but I won't use it. Let's just say, they have to swallow enough without getting it from me.
Bottom line, this is not a nice industry. Why else do you think I do so well in it?
If you're a writer and intend to make it your profession, you should go in armed with as much knowledge as you can collect. If I can contribute to that in any way, then you'll be better prepared than I was, and that's the point of the exercise. Saving you some scar tissue, and maybe a little wear and tear on the knees.
Now that I've bludgeoned this topic to a messy demise, a shout from the other side of the fence: Author Kate Rothwell has set up a site for a book reviews contest. Would that everyone who disagreed with me came up with such a creative and fun response. Kate, you want a donation for the contest? I'm good for books or some bucks, e-mail me.