Years
ago when my niece and nephew were young, my brother decided to take them
through the ice caves in upstate New York. It was a popular tourist attraction
and he figured that his 8 year old daughter and 7 year old son would enjoy it.
What he didn’t count on was being pulled in two directions.
You
see, the minute they entered the ice cave, my nephew yanked his father’s arm
and started bellowing, “Let’s go Daddy! Let’s go!” But my niece planted her
feet in one spot and pulled his other arm, crying “I don’t want to go in! I don’t
want to go in!”
Forget
the stalactites and stalagmites. All my brother remembers about the experience was
yelling “Slow Down!” and “Come on!” depending upon which arm was attached to
which kid. But somehow they made it through the ice caves.
As
an indie writer trying to make my way, I know the feeling only too well. I’m
constantly caught in the middle trying to decide if I should be using what available
minutes I have to write, or to market my books.
Writing
and marketing have become the yin and yang of my world. They’ve got to work in harmony or I won’t
survive this game. Then why do I feel so guilty when I’m doing one thing
instead of the other?
My
characters plague me all day with their continuous dialoguing in my head. But
my social network is constantly reaching out for attention, too. Which writers’
conferences to attend? Who might be
interested in interviewing me? What brick and mortar bookstores are eager to
sell my novels? It’s all about contacts, contacts, contacts. And I can’t do
that if I’m thinking about the grisly body that my protagonist just found.
I
know. I know. It’s all about time management. At least that’s what they teach
you in school. Maybe set a block of time for writing and another for marketing.
But believe me, it’s not as easy as it sounds.
Like
it or not, I’ve become my brother. I’m moving through the ice caves in two
directions. But I’m moving. And right now, that’s the best I can do.
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