I should probably have titled this blog “Procrastination” since it’s the November blog and I’m writing this on December 2. But in my own defense, I’ve been very busy helping our Rotary club organize the annual New Port Richey Holiday Parade, which will be happening next Saturday, December 9. It’s a very large parade with 133 entries, some of which include multiple units. The Rotary Club of Holiday has been involved in this annual tradition for several decades.
But I digress.
Last Christmas, I received a black T-shirt with the words “write on” emblazoned on the front. I often wear this T-shirt in the hopes that someone might comment on it, thus providing me with an opportunity to tell them that I'm an author and that they should buys my books. Alas, nobody has ever asked me about it.
Two weeks ago, however, I happened to be wearing this same shirt when I visited the local grocery store. I went to the deli counter focused on ordering some smoked gruyere cheese. The man waiting on me said nothing other than “may I help you”, but another woman behind the counter asked me, “Are you a writer?”
The shirt I wore being the farthest thing from my mind, her question caught me off guard. For a brief moment, I thought this woman must recognize me as a published author. Perhaps she’d read one or more of my novels. Although in retrospect, the chances of this happening are about the same as me winning the Florida Lottery — but it’s possible.
I stood there, blissfully ensconced in my fantasy, looking at her with a very self-satisfied smile on my face, too flattered to immediately reply.
“People probably ask you that all the time,” she said, breaking the awkward gap in the thus far one-sided conversation. I continued to stare at her stupidly, basking in the warmth of her recognition. “Your shirt,” she clarified, pointing.
My fragile little bubble popped. “Oh,” I said, now deflated. “No. Actually, you’re the first person who’s ever commented on it.”
She smiled pleasantly, then returned to whatever task had previously absorbed her attention. The man slicing my gruyere presented me with my packaged order. “Anything else?”
“Oh. No, thank you.”
Being an unknown author can be very lonely. I went home, put my cheese in the refrigerator, and sat down at my desk to decide whether or not I should continue writing novels. After spending a reasonable amount of time wallowing in my self-doubt, I decided that the world would, indeed, be a better place if people read my books. I just had to figure out how to let people know that I am a writer.
I decided to retain a social media consultant. Fortunately, I happened to know one, somebody who knows how to actually use social media effectively. I’m pathetically inept at using tools like Facebook, Instagram, and TikTok. This young woman, Lexi Schmitt, put together a three-month plan, which I hope will help to extend my reach out there in the vast universe of books.
So, you will be seeing a new look and feel in many of my posts going forward. I’m certain that three months hence, when I wear my “write on” T-shirt, people will stop me in the grocery store and ask, “Say, aren’t you that famous author, John R. York?”
“Why, yes I am.”