I’ve been thinking about cover art and blurbs and such, and I can’t tell you how stressful that is. I’m beginning to think writing the book was waaaaay easier than all the stuff that comes after.
Karen says I ought to hold a contest and have my students come up with possible cover art. Which I could do, and maybe give like a giftcard or something to the winner. However, there’s a little part of me (alright, a BIG part of me) that thinks that rates a 10 on the Gouda Scale. But what are my options, otherwise? I can’t take a photo to save my life, and let’s not go into my painting skills.
And then there’s the whole “author picture” thing. That’s a debacle in waiting. I’m about as photogenic as roadkill. (And no, this is NOT a call from my devoted friends to protest otherwise, well-meaning and lying as you would be.) Ugh. I don’t even want to think how obnoxious getting a professional-looking photo will be. It’s not like I can ask Chris to take it. He takes ghastlier pictures than I do. Ugh. Ugh. Ugh.
And Goddess save me, I have to find people to blurb my book? If there’s one thing I despise (but secretly crave it anyway) is affirmation and notice from others about my writing. The thought of approaching anyone and asking them to read La Petite Mort and say how great it is, fills me with absolute blood-freezing dread. I go out of my way to be unnoticed, quiet, fade-into-the-woodworky. Asking someone to read my book and hoping they’ll like it enough to say some kind words is like a nightmare to me. I think I’d rather extract every last tooth from my mouth, sans Novacaine. I don’t even know who to ask. Who even really wants to blurb a book? Isn’t it kind of phony anyway?
I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking I’m the most ungrateful, idiotic, ridiculous person in the world, who just got her book accepted and ought to be hella grateful, and instead, here is she is bitching about it. You’re damn right I’m bitching about it. I am grateful–I’m not a complete moron–but is it wrong to be just a little freaked out about the extra associated crap that goes with the acceptance of the book? The pictures, the blurbs, feeling like a big bleah-head??
(Not that feeling like a big bleah-head is new for me. I feel like that quite often.)