Mathew Kellerman's Blog

I’m an amiable sort of person. I strike up conversations with those at the till when I’m getting groceries, have long gabs with my local purveyor of teas, and enjoy a playful relationship with the nice lady at the cheese shop wherein she will bully me into spending absurd amounts on Le Maréchal or Comté Symphonie. I enjoy talking to people, and my trusting nature makes me a believer of the mantra that there’s always something to learn if you would but listen. It’s a simple pleasure, keeps me rooted in the world, and discourages misanthropy.

Enter the phone, that tiny rectangle of evils. I get a lot of spam calls, to the point where I don’t like answering if I don’t recognize the number. This goes against my friendly nature, and I route a lot of work stuff to my personal cell because I’m a workaholic who enjoys being reachable. On top of all of this, there’s a growing trend among higher ups to have delisted numbers, effectively cancelling out any assistance by showing up as UNKNOWN rather than, say, their company or name. It’s truly a gamble every time I answer.

I’m old enough to remember having a single landline in the house, with my sisters constantly fighting to control the line while the odd call would come for my parents or an uncle would want to ask me what I wanted for my birthday or Christmas. I enjoyed answering the phone and feeling important. The caller would ask for so and so and I would pass it along – simple enough, and I discharged my duty well. Probably passed several telemarketers to my parents, because that’s who they asked for, and who am I to screen calls? The real breakthrough came with the invention of Caller ID.

The best part of these old phones was that it was always missing and low on battery.

When that first appeared, it would show a name only if you had personally saved it into the phone’s memory, otherwise it would only display the number that was calling you. I’m not good with numbers. Not in the math sense – I can SOH CAH TOA creditably – but in the remembering of numbers. If you tell me to remember 58, I’ll probably say it was 85. Or was it 74? I know it had a 2 in it… Phone numbers, obviously, were a mysterious jumble to me. All I knew for sure was area codes: 403 for Red Deer and southern Alberta, 780 for anyone north of us.

So, when my eldest sister moved north for a number of years, I always assumed a 780 number was her calling. This assumption worked well for me until one particular dinner. We were having giant sandwiches and soup – a classic dad meal that was a favourite of mine – when a 780 number should happen to call. Being the closest to the phone I grabbed it up, saw the number, and told everyone it was sister. Answering, I was met with a funny female voice. Oh ho! says I, she’s having a giggle, pretending to be someone else and asking to speak to “the parent at home.” Stop pretending, I tell her, then jump into a lengthy description of our sandwiches. You see, I had been fighting my dad earlier that day in the grocery store, insisting that he had surely never used mustard before (ah, youth, how foolish you are!), and that we needn’t buy it. It was about the 5 minute mark, with the poor woman trying to get a word in while I described our meal and was just getting to the soup – a fine minestrone, if you please – that the line suddenly clicked dead.

“She hung up,” I told my family confusedly.

My dad took the phone and checked the number. “That wasn’t your sister,” says he.

Apparently, I had conducted a long conversation about sandwiches and soup with a telemarketer. The result? We didn’t have a single spam call for roughly 3 or 4 years. Probably got a note put on their call lists that this number belongs to a crazy person with a penchant for meat and bread and not letting you talk to the adults.

Technology has advanced rapidly since then. Not only do we have several fine varieties of mustard, and access to imported meats and cheeses (see above for my cheese bully), but we now have crazy things for spam calls that I don’t really understand. Apparently, they can hijack a local number and route a call through it, making it appear local. They also don’t even have someone on the other end anymore, preferring a robot telling me that Amazon has misplaced a package or the CRA is going to sue me for unpaid taxes. The strangest of all is the silent line that clicks once and then hangs up. I suspect this is how they do the local number trap and apologize if anyone is getting spam calls from my number.

I feel like, if I could get a good old fashioned person on the line trying to get my credit card information, I could regale them with tales of Croque Monsieurs and Reubens and get back onto the Crazy Person list. Bring back that personal touch, Scammers, if you’d be so kind.  But until then, if you’re calling me for anything important, please leave a message and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.

It can be found in stores. It can be found online. It can be found in at least one library (here’s looking at you, Kalamazoo Public Library!). I was able to do that stereotypical thing where you pose in the bookstore with your creation. I hope the store feels cheap and used, like a prop, as I did not purchase anything that day. Yes, The Awakening is out there, and being out there, it is receiving praise. I’m very pleased to see that I’m being well received by reviewers.

Readers’ Favorite Review Page

Recently, I received 3 five star reviews from Readers’ Favorite, a notable player in that field. I also entered into their contest, which offers various prizes such as marketing services, potential representation by agents, or even a movie or T.V. deal. Results are announced in September, so we’ll see how I do. Most likely no awards shall be given, but I’ve been surprised before.

This fantasy offers resonant themes and readers will relate to the clash between beliefs. This propulsive, deftly plotted novel examines themes of power and faith and their connection to fanaticism. Through the diverse perspectives of the Herald, the Warrior, the Zealot, and the Devoted, readers are confronted with the complex nature of belief and how it can inspire, manipulate, and ultimately shape history. The sophisticated characters and the exquisite writing are among the elements that make this an enjoyable read. From the Herald's impassioned rhetoric to the Warrior's unwavering loyalty to the old gods, Mathew Kellerman creates an atmosphere where conflict festers. The Awakening is a masterfully crafted fantasy with intriguing characters. While it is a story to entertain readers, it also makes them think about what they believe in and reflect on how beliefs can be structured to manipulate people.

-Christian Sia, Readers’ Favorite reviewer

All my reviews received by ARC readers, variously posted to Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Goodreads, even Apple, are similarly flattering. If I didn’t engage in so much self-deprecating humour, my ego would be out of control. This one, for example:

The story was a compelling journey that definitely exceeded my initial expectations. The characters are intricate and complex, maintaining an air of suspense until the very end about their fates, even though this was not meant to be a mystery novel. You either love them or hate them, but either way you are passionately invested in their futures.

A definite page-turner and brilliantly written. I loved the four-part story from different character perspectives. The author managed to keep the narration continuing masterfully throughout the parts and the time jump, all while staying true to each character's unique personality.

The storytelling was masterful, and the dialogues were engaging and even witty at times. Some moments had me laughing out loud. The world-building paints a vivid picture of the Cities of Wisdom and the looming Shadow, making the reading experience immersive and enjoyable.

Exploring themes of faith, power dynamics, and the repercussions of challenging ingrained norms adds a thoughtful undercurrent, elevating the fantasy narrative.

I will be excitedly be looking out for more from Mathew Kellerman. Happy reading!

-Apoorva, Goodreads

So there, I have validation. The time, effort, and money I spent on this novel was worth it. If you’d like to leave your own review, I’d appreciate it immensely. Visit bookstores, online stores, or the Kalamazoo Public Library to get your copy today!

That’s all for now.

I wrote a book.

This isn’t a shock to anyone, as I’ve been talking about it for a few years and badgering everyone I know (and many I don’t know) to read it. But what’s actually important is that I published a book. It’s out now. It’s done. You can buy it. Go buy it.

My First Novel - Published on Dec 3, 2023

I’m rather proud of how it turned out. And the best part is, much like Frank Sinatra, I did it my way.

I did it all.

I hired beta readers to read my early manuscript. On top of feedback from friends and family, I was able to improve parts of the story that didn’t make sense.

I hired an editor, who did a fantastic job and worked with me to polish the revised manuscript into something consistent. Consistency is key, she likes to say, and I’m glad she could bring some of that into my tense. It’s very difficult to remember whether I’m in past tense or present, sometimes.

I hired designers - MiblArt - to create cover art for me. They were incredible to work with and I would highly recommend them to all indie authors. Very affordable, very fast, and very responsive.

I bought a software called Atticus for formatting. I would also highly recommend this for indie authors. It’s easy to use, has great features like chapter headers and customizable templates, and works really really well. It was easy to make my book look professional, and it exports to both print and ebook formats. Can’t speak enough about Atticus.

And finally, I used BookSirens to get Advance Reader Copy readers. ARC readers are a great tool to generate some hype for your novel. Basically, people sign up and get a free electronic copy of your book with the expectation that they will read it within a given timeline and then leave you reviews on places like Goodreads, Amazon, Barnes & Noble, etc. etc. This helps with sales, as everyone is more willing to buy something that others have left reviews for.

The self-publishing route was actually a lot of fun and much easier to do than the traditional publishing route. I have a lot of opinions about trad publishing now, having become familiar with the industry in my own journey, but I will keep those to myself.

I think it’s the future, particularly after seeing what’s available from distributors. It’s really great, and having done all this for The Awakening, I know I’ll have an easy time getting my next book to market. Even the marketing isn’t horrible - though I would caution indie authors who are looking at purchasing a Kirkus Review. I did, and while there was enough in the review for me to put a line on my book, I think they need to re-evaluate what constitutes a “professional reviewer.” A synopsis of the book is not a review, but thank you for liking the story and giving a verdict of “Get It.”

So that’s it. My first novel is finished. It’s out in the world.

I am content.

The sun was coming down hot - hotter than it had any right to for the waning days of September. It was as if Summer had kidnapped Autumn and was coyly, unapologetically flaunting herself before us. Taunting us like a criminal clearly guilty, yet protected by her rights. Innocent until proven guilty, while we were the ones being sweated under the light.

Fahr Brewery Lagers

Perfect for any occasion. No I am not sponsored by them, I just really enjoy their beer.

There were five of us that day; six if you count Timber, a juvenile and high-energy border collie. Mathieu, Timber’s lord and master; the Manders, Sarah and Stephen; our host, Jeffrey, who despite the heat was working the grill; and myself, taking what shade I could while nursing a lager.

“Alright,” Jeffrey sighed in relief. He took a step back from the grill, used the hem of his apron to wipe the sweat from his brow, shook his ginger head, then began pulling the meat onto a tray.

Burnt ends.

It was the first course, but certainly not the least, for Jeffrey was a master of meat. We tucked in greedily, just barely restraining ourselves, for we knew that the brisket, smoking since the night before, would follow shortly. Then there was the baguette and cheese, Mathieu’s ode to his country, and the assorted fruits and berries the Manders had supplied. My own humble contribution, a pumpkin pie with cream from the farmer’s market, awaited us for dessert.

A veritable feast whose proportions made you forget the evening heat for a time. We munched away merrily, making conversation and sneaking Timber bits of food when Mathieu wasn’t looking. All-in-all, things were going well.

“Hello!”

The word startled us, the voice so innocent, and the source unknown.

“What was that?” Sarah asked, and we all wondered if it had been but an imagining.

“Hello!” came the greeting again, drawing our attention to the gate.

There, peering through the hand-hole, was the grinning face of a small boy. Pale-haired, rosy-cheeked, and blue-eyed - the lad smiled at us expectantly.

“Oh, that’s weird,” Mathieu remarked in his French drawl.

We broke out laughing, the situation so bizarre and unexpected that we couldn’t help ourselves. “Hello!” I called back, and we all waved at the boy who, satisfied, withdrew from the gate.

“What the Hell is going on?” Stephen laughed. “What kind of wierd-ass town do you live in, Jeff?”

“I don’t know!” Jeffrey pleaded in mock despair.

“Bunch of feral children roaming the streets, terrorizing adults!” I joked. “What horror have you brought us to?”

“We’ll sick Timber on them,” Mathieu offered, always quick to steer the conversation to his puppy.

“Or throw barbecue at them,” I countered.

“Get out of here, you!” Jeffrey pretended to yell dramatically, fake throwing his food at the gate.

We all laughed and got back to the business of eating.

The sun was beginning to dip behind the great forested hill to the west when we all pushed our plates away and reclined in satisfaction. We murmured our appreciation to the chef, each of us picking a different dish to compliment, and nodding along as the others gave their flattery.

Jeffrey, bashful as ever, thanked us for our kind words, and then lit a joint. After a long drag, he passed it round.

“We should go for a walk,” Mathieu opined. “Let the food settle and give the monster a chance to lose some energy.” Monster was his nickname for Timber.

Being that the night held the warmth of day, the moon was bright, and none of us had any good alternatives, we set off into the quaint streets of Diamond Valley. We chatted about nothing, commented on the difference in housing prices between the city and here, and generally meandered unhurriedly towards the hill whose dark shadow loomed before us. The sky was losing its last traces of colour to the monochrome of twilight as we stepped off the pavement and began our ascent of the grassy slope.

Mathieu threw a ball, delighting in the speed of his dog as she raced after it. I was watching the trees, for little birds were still flickering about as they settled for the night.

“Good girl!” Mathieu said as Timber brought him the ball. “Anyone want to throw it and give me a break?”

Timber

She’s a good girl.

No one volunteered.

“Hello!”

We all froze in place.

Poking his head out from behind a tree not far up the hill from us, the little boy from the gate grinned down at us.

“The fuck?” Jeffrey exclaimed.

“Hello!” the boy greeted us again.

“Hello!” came the innocent voice of another child, this one appearing off to our left.

“Uh…” Sarah started.

Timber gave a cautionary woof before hiding herself in Math’s legs.

“This is weird,” I said, and no sooner did another child step into view and greet us. “Hi,” I answered all of them suspiciously.

The three children grinned happily, emerged from behind the tree trunks, and stood stalk-still. Staring at us.

“Weee… should go,” Stephen offered, and we all readily agreed.

Turning to make our way back towards the street, we were suddenly confronted by five more children staring up at us.

“Hello!” they said in unison.

“Get out of here!” Jeffrey called down to them, this time in earnest.

This response they did not care for, and the children began to frown. “Hello,” they repeated menacingly, and as if on cue, another seen youngsters appeared out of the gloomy street.

I turned to Jeff: “Can we get back to your place another way?”

“Yeah, any street. Small town,” he answered, then led us down the hill to the adjoining road.

“Where are you going?” the children asked after us, beginning to follow at a passive walk.

We reached the street, only to be greeted on both sides of the road by large groups of wide-eyed boys and girls aged 8 - 12. As one, they locked eyes on us and let out their familiar call: “Hello!”

We broke into a jog, panic setting in. All around us came the eerie greetings, incessant in the dark, unlit street. We ran for our lives, the moon’s pale glow all that illuminated our path. Not a single light came from the flanking houses, yet the eyes of the children glistened like the wan stars above.

Up the concrete steps to burst into the house, our party crowded into Jeffrey’s living room and bolted the door. Breathless and in shock, no one spoke a word, our eyes moving from one another in search of comfort and explanation.

I moved to the window and gingerly peered out the pane.

“Good God…” I swallowed hard.

A vast and seemingly endless horde of young faces stood impassively staring at the abode. They were on all sides, filling the streets that hemmed in Jeffrey’s corner lot.

“What do we do?” Sarah squeaked. No one offered a solution.

“What do they want?” Mathieu asked, his mind searching for solutions as if it were one of his renovation projects.

“You could always ask them?” I suggested, to which Math replied by busying himself with a cowering Timber.

With the dignitas and courage of a Greek hero, Stephen stood, patted his wife’s hand reassuringly, and moved to the door.

“Stephen, no!” Sarah pleaded unhappily, but made no moves to stop him.

He stepped out, his face locked in a granite stare that bore down upon the youthful horde who happily looked back at him.

“Hello!” they greeted him.

“What do you want?” Stephen demanded, to which the children only giggled - a great, giddy mass of sound that flooded the neighbourhood. “Why are you here?” he asked again, and received the same giggling retort.

As one, the children took a step forward and, to his credit, Stephen held firm, shrinking not an inch. Would that we all had such courage! No, he only stood taller, and took a step towards them, playing a game of chicken that he didn’t quite understand.

“Go away!” he bellowed, and the children took another step forward. Stephen advanced as well.

“Hello!” they greeted him as one.

Well that was all he could take. Sucking in as much air as he could, Stephen let out a great roar, then began shouting the greeting back at them even as he advanced into their midst. “Hello!” he cried with as much vitriol as the word could manage. “Hello!” he badgered them, spittle smacking their young faces as he raged through them, meeting them greeting for greeting.

And the children loved it. They smiled happily as he leapt between them, taking satisfaction in every acknowledgement they received from this adult. It continued for close to an hour, them saying hello and Stephen returning the sentiment, and with each time it the back-and-forth happened, it seemed that another child was suddenly gone. They didn’t just blink out of existence, but slowly faded away as if crumbling to ash.

Stephen collapsed to the ground panting for air. The night was quiet now, and the moon seemed a bit brighter. Even the street lights had come on, sending a soft orange glow onto our champion as he knelt in the street. And of the children: all that remained were smouldering piles of ash.

Burnt ends.

The rest of us emerged from the house, dazed by the stillness of the mountain air. Sarah wrapped her arms around Stephen and helped him stand, while the rest of us shook his hand and offered our admiration.

Turning to his wife, Stephen looked her straight in the eye. “Sarah,” he said bluntly, “We’re never having children.”

The fog settled upon the lake, blanketing the sleepy mountain town in a haze of vanilla and bergamot. The sun was high, yet its warm glow held no chance against the spreading warmth of the Waterton Fog.

It gripped you. Surrounded you in its embrace. Sinister and comforting all at once.

A Waterton Fog

Probably the best London Fog I’ve ever had. Handcrafted from real vanilla and an Earl Grey with the perfect amount of bergamot.

The placid waters of the lake began to stir, pregnant with threat. This was no wind, though the valley was prone to gusts - no, this was something else. Something far more powerful. Far more ancient. Ripples began to spread and grow. Birds took flight to escape, and fish jumped to escape what was coming.

A golden edge, crispy and perfect, pierced the deep blue waters. A new mountain, rising to join the surrounding Rockies, but it was not like the others. It was thin, pock-marked, and of soft dough made. A glorious disk, unthinkable in proportion, disturbing in its perfection.

It took position, hovering above the land, casting a shadow upon the land.

It stole the sun’s power, emitting a blinding light of its own as it lorded over the lake.

It was covered in a generous helping of whipped cream and berries.

I was terrified and in awe. What’s more, I was excited, and succumbed to a devoted worship of the beast. I let it in. I felt it fill me. And then, as quickly as it had come, it was gone. But I knew that it was still with me - it was apart of me now. Fueling me with a religious fervour. It was at that moment that I knew the truth. Ancient. Primordial. Undeniable.

I knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that I would return to Waffleton’s.

I consider myself a calm person; perhaps to a fault. A personality test once concluded that I was in the 3rd percentile for Enthusiasm, which I found hilarious. In a room of 100 people, 97 of them would be more enthusiastic than I am. For anyone who has had the misfortune, this is very evident. Not only do I practice stoicism, but am pretty spot on to the description of the philosophy. Placid, calm, restrained: the most you’ll get is a cocked eyebrow or a smirk. Except where humour is concerned. I do love a good laugh, and will laugh at most anything.

I am a physical representation of man’s eternal struggle. Like Sisyphus, I shall toil without end, until such a time as I leave this life and become something new.

There’s probably a thousand reasons for this, but one I’ve been thinking about lately is my inherent romanticism. The ancient world has always fascinated me. The mythologies and legends of the Greeks, Romans, Carthaginians, Celts, etc. etc. are all so fascinating - particularly when you’re learned enough to dissect them. People usually hate high school English classes, but the way they teach you to think about every little detail is a great skill. In a created work, everything has a purpose, no matter how small. Particularly in the visual mediums. Sure, there’s explosions and gripping drama in focus, but that caterpillar in the left corner has deep metaphorical significance, don’t cha know!

But back to the ancients.

A rather large and all-encompassing concept they had was that of Fate. Personified in various ways, Fate was a force that held dominion over the gods themselves. Nothing escaped Fate’s influence, though it could be bargained with. Along with this was the concept of luck, or fortune. Fortuna, the feminine Roman deity, was widely venerated. Some even considered themselves to be favourites of the goddess, bound to succeed by cosmic will.

In Colleen McCullough’s fantastic Masters of Rome series, Lucius Cornellius Sulla is one such favourite. But there was something about his relationship with Fortuna that was fascination to me: the fact that his luck would only hold so long as he didn’t allow himself true love. If he followed his heart, and continued his pederasty, the goddess would abandon him, for she demanded his heart. Having achieved his goals, he chose to let go of his luck and retired to his estates. Finally, Sulla was allowed to do what he wanted: namely, live a life of debauchery with actors and other miscreants.

Fortune, it seems, was willing to pick favourites, but the cost was great. Fate, I would argue, works on similar principles. You can bargain for a better one, but only if you’re willing to sacrifice for it. Isn’t that true of life? Dr. Jordan Peterson talks about this a lot, about the need to sacrifice for the sake of the future. I would heartily recommend everyone watch his lectures on YouTube.

I’ve always considered myself to be a lucky person. I win draws a lot, find elusive parking spots, wind up in good situations almost by accident. I trust to my luck almost reverently, and will admit to superstitions. A coin flip solves a good deal of my choices, and more often than not, it works out for the best. Fortune and Fate seem predisposed to help me, so I trust in them and calmly plod along in life. Undisturbed, for the majority of the time, and content to just experience things. Like a caterpillar on a leaf, crawling along happily and unbothered by this random hand that’s been placed before me. Why, I might as well just crawl up onto it - all roads lead to Rome, after all.

Why does my camera suck?

Because I’m stubborn and refuse to “upgrade” from my BlackBerry.

I was in a little bookshop a few years ago with a dear friend of mine. As we browsed about the cramped aisles we happened upon a little tome entitled The Red Book of Luck. A curious little hard cover, it’s filled with little stories, anecdotes, and facts about various luck-related items. I was quite enamored with it, but didn’t quite feel compelled to pay the price. A trinket, really, despite the significance it held to my personal beliefs. But, if I was meant to have the book of luck, then Fate would bring it to me. Sure enough I was gifted it next Christmas. Luck, you might scoff. It’s simply that your friend is a wonderful person. I would agree, and say I’m lucky to have her.

Needless to say, I’ve always identified with Sulla after reading Ms. McCullough’s novels. I’m being driven ahead by some sort of force and am too modest to say it’s talent. It’s quite relaxing to feel like everything will work out. Fatalistic, but in a good way. A lot of the negative connotations about Fate stem from the opinion that it’s fixed, thus negating free will. But like the Romans, I believe Fate, and Fortune, can be bargained with. All you need to do is figure out what they want in return.

Admittedly, I have no idea what they want.

The result? The universe balances out. This is probably true for most people, if they really think about it. For me, I have a never ending series of ups and downs. If something good happens, I expect something bad is close by. When something bad happens, I’m eager for whatever good will be on its way.

Last winter I crashed my car - total write-off. Come spring, I randomly got a big raise and an extra week of vacation; I didn’t ask for either. I bought a new mattress recently, lucking into an amazing deal that saw me get an unopened floor model meant for an unopened store for a steal of a deal; but, I almost gave myself a hernia at the gym and am now unable to do much but sit around getting fat for a few weeks.

My life is a sequence of gives and takes, ultimately putting me even at all times. Makes me laugh, but also wonder: What is it that Fortuna wants? And, if I find out what it is, is it something I’m willing to sacrifice to finally get ahead? Like a caterpillar I shall plod along, and should Fate decide it’s time for me to enter a cocoon, to enter a transformative state, then I shall.

Maybe if I lose my nose I’ll get a literary agent.

I decided to write a book.

I’d always enjoyed writing, and made my first attempt in kindergarten. It was bad, but I think I’ve improved since then. Writing has been a hobby of mine for years, after all, so I’m bound to have learned something along the way.

Perhaps it’s just the rigidity of writing that appeals to me. It’s not messy (or shouldn’t be) and follows very specific rules (or should, you uneducated heathens). Writing is considered, in comparison to speech, and as such, seems more true. Less ruled by emotion, and yet able to convey it to a much larger degree.

A lovely leather journal. Not mine, but lovely.

But I digress. I decided, one fair spring day when COVID was young and no one knew what to think of it, to write a novel. A difficult task within itself, but if thousands of people can do it every year, then by gum, so can I! Being an odd person, I had a couple leather-bound journals sitting about the house, so I took one of these and began writing. Cursive, of course, because it looks lovely and I needed some practice. Really, who writes in cursive anymore? I do, now, which really goes against my architectural training of neat, blocky letters.

For just under two years did I scribble nobly onto those creamy pages. Yes, I sat in coffee shops (I like coffee and baked goods), and parks (watching geese and ducks on a hot summer day from the shade of a tree is a great way to get those creative juices flowing), and other stereotypical writing places. I wanted the real writer’s experience, you see, but opted out of the beret and existential crisis.

When that final XX (because apparently that’s how you end manuscripts) hit the page, I began over, typing it all out and editing the story. Eventually, I had a completed manuscript. I’d written a novel. I felt proud, happy, and like I could stop boring my friends with incessant talk about my writing. Surely the hard part was over.

Lots of people write stories. Many would like to see these in print. Now, I suppose you could go out to any old printing store and order up as many copies as you wanted. You could even get it bound into a true, professional looking book. But how do you get that book onto shelves in those brick-and-mortar stores so that you can walk in, stand around, and wait for someone to ask “Hey, isn’t this you?” as they hold up the dust jacket?

You need a publisher. They have the connections and the pull to call up those stores and say “Hey, have I got a product for you!” But publishers are finite, and the amount of would-be authors coming at them is reminiscent of the Mongol hordes sacking a village. So they’ve built up their defenses; stout walls of stone, with towers every thirty paces. You can’t get in anymore. Well, you can, as there are smaller publishers out there. But the big guys shoot arrows at you over the crenelations and taunt you.

Enter the literary agent.

They’re sort of like sentries, standing guard over the publishers’ gates. You need to convince them that you’re worth admittance, and then they’ll let you inside and see if someone is interested in what you’re peddling. Okay, says I, I’ll find me a literary agent.

Ha ha!

Just like publishers, literary agents are finite, and the great horde has been foisted onto them. What’s more, they’re quite choosy, as those they pick from the throng will speak to their reliability as agents, and have a direct consequence on their careers. So they want you to query them. There’s a multitude of articles, blogs, rants, videos, and diary entries about querying, so let’s just say it’s a demoralizing process that makes you want to revert to a time you were illiterate and couldn’t write more than a few badly misshapen letters.

It’s a challenge. I’d say it’s much worse than writing the novel. I also suck at it, so got some help from the Query Shark (https://queryshark.blogspot.com/). Apparently it’s good to have supplementals these days, because agents like to really make their potential clients cry. Thus… this.

I’ve built a website; not so bad, as I wanted one for my architectural portfolio anyways. But apparently a blog is needed, so as to build a mailing list. A blog! At this time of day, at this time of year, in this part of the country, localized entirely within my kitchen. I’ve never had such a thing. I don’t even have social media, apart from LinkedIn, which I use to see design and construction products.

But here it is, and a maiden entry to boot. Fortunately I have no followers, or readers, so this entire ramble hasn’t wasted anyone’s time. Could you imagine? Reading all of this just to find out its an announcement that I’m going to be a (half-hearted) blogger now? Such is life.

Well, to you, imaginary reader, I leave this closing comic. It is apt for how I feel.