Say What?Posted: January 27, 2011 | |
I have just been informed by Mr. Slow that I need to write a book.
“You heard me.”
“Yes, I heard you, but I would like to make sure that I am not hallucinating.”
“I want you to write a book.”
“Can I just read one instead?”
What in the world has gotten into him? I’m barely coping with blogging. Not to mention I have to read my stuff in excess of umpteen times just to get all the mistakes out. Don’t get me started on my affinity for the run-on sentence or the alternating overuse and underuse and mostly misuse of proper punctuation. And I am so not censoring out my favorite words of the profane. I happen to like “shit”, “douche bag”, and “motherhumper”. I do not wish to be edited, my limited (but nonetheless my own) creativity messed with, my words wrangled and taken out of context. Besides…
“There is a crap load of skill books already out there.”
“I’m not talking about skill books.”
“What kind of book are you talking about?”
“Tell your story. How you got into motorcycling, how you overcame your fears, what it means in the context of your life.”
“Who would wanna read that shit,” I’m thinking as he continues to elaborate; “I’m not that good.”
“You’re good. You have a talent for writing. You could make money doing this. Figure this, if you get your book on Kindle, you could make $7.00 for every $9.99 download.”
I wonder where he’s getting his figures from, but I’m quiet and listening; because making money to finance the next set of tires or the next performance upgrade without having to deal with the drudgery of my job and the heartless drama of office politics that goes along with it does sound extremely tempting. Pipe dreams, I say. But one can dream. However, I’m already dreaming… a dream several sizes too big for my stature. Now I’m being told that I should write to finance my ride.
That’s a whole lot of pressure to put on one shy little woman. I know that much. He’s giving me too much credit, is not seeing this objectively and probably has forgotten that I do not do well with self-promotion. I hate selling. Especially myself.
In time, he will forget about this writing thing and leave me to the riding thing. One can hope. Even though the thought is somewhat sweet. Sweet indeed.
…and as I hit the publish button, I am treated to this: