1. I am not the only writer who goes into bookstores to remove her book from the plain old shelves, where it’s appallingly easy to miss, and relocates it to its proper place on the splashy display table. Apparently all writers do this. They told me.

2. All readers are different. In the olden days when I only read other people’s books, I would read, at best, one review and base my purchasing decision on that. When it’s your own book, you read all the reviews. And it’s nothing short of astonishing how diverse they are. I’ve had readers infer some of the craziest, most wonderful, and occasionally disturbing things from this book, none of which I ever knew were in there in the first place. All of it counts. All of it’s legit. And all of it is wildly contradictory.

3. People care a lot about covers. One reviewer complained that the angle was “unflattering.” Others worried about the ickiness of carrying around a book featuring a picture of a girl in her underwear. Others dismissed it as chicklit because of the cover. And a few people thought it was cool. I’d never thought about book covers before. Now I worry about it a lot.

4. People who don’t write novels are oddly impressed by people who do. Sometimes I suspect that each and every person in the world is a secret, would-be novelist, because I’ve never been met by anything other than gob-smacked amazement that I actually have a novel in book stores. You should see the faces people make when you tell them you do. It’s beautiful. It’s like they can’t believe such a thing is possible. I admit, at times, I believe the same thing. But honestly? It’s no more astonishing than a great deal of stuff people do all the time.

5. It doesn’t get easier the more you do it. I’m still holding out hope that this state of affairs will change, that one day I will discover the One True Process that facilitates novel-writing in a pain-free way. But I’m not holding my breath.

6. The more I write, the higher my standards are as a reader. Sadly, this same phenomenon wrecked the movies for me. I used to finish and thoroughly enjoy most novels I read. Now, I’m lucky if I finish a quarter of them. I see the author’s sad wish-fulfilment fantasies so readily now. I see the flaws, the skimmed over middle sections, the wandering pointless sub-plots, the contrived and unreal characters. Undoubtedly, I see these sins because I commit them each and every day. It’s probably good and useful that I see them so clearly in the books I read, but darn it, it sure has taken away some of the joy of reading.

7. I am freshly unprepared for any other type of work. I’ve done lots of things in the past. I’ve been a waitress, a secretary, a film producer, a prop stylist, a substitute teacher. You name it. I was reasonably proficient in a few things too. Just don’t ask me to do any of those things again, because, honestly? It’s over. I’m not saying novel writing is a day at the beach or anything (refer to # 5), but I can’t even conceive of doing anything else now. I’m a goner, a lifer. This is it for me. So it had better work out or I’m deeply, deeply screwed.

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