On New Year’s Eve, our way into the new year was with a whole lot of clamor and clatter. My Dad would, as was his way, fire off weapons. A shotgun in specific. As many pulls of the trigger as the coming year demanded, I suppose. CHOOM CHOOM CHOOM.
Your Authorial Mission Statement — by which I mean, your hot fresh tasty goal as a writer in the New Year — is — wait for it — waaaaait for it — “You will put yourself in there, and out there.”
“What the hell does that mean?” you’re asking me. “And isn’t that two mission statements?” Just — shh. Shut up. Relax. Don’t nag me.
Depending on who you listen to, you’ll find that self-publishing is either: a) The best thing since blowjobs and lip balm, or b) The worst thing you could possibly do (next to thrusting your private parts in and out of a badger’s mouth). Self-publishing is neither the next coming of Book Jesus, nor is it a self-inflicted perdition.