Tag Archives: motivation

Another bout of writer’s block and finally! Chapter III

Hi there, I’m not dead, in case you’re wondering. Just took a little, ahem, two-month break from any creative activity whatsoever. Ok, almost three-month. And it wasn’t even a break, it was more like a coma, in which I couldn’t bring myself to enjoy even reading or fantasizing about anything. Nothing at all, least of all working on the novel or painting. It’s like my body and my mind rebelled against any further demands on my time. I stopped doing anything not directly related to keeping my job and spent my free time wisely by going to several doctors, demanding to know what’s wrong with me. Finally, my physician sat me down.

“The bad news,” she said, “is that there’s nothing wrong with you. Physically.”

She went on and on about stress management and yoga, and I made feeble promises to “look into that” but of course didn’t. I am back with the living now, and it’s only thanks to an emergency vacation to Queensland and the renewed hope that I will move there someday. If you are by chance contemplating moving to Australia, do consider Queensland. Yes, it’s hot and humid, and full of bogans, but they are nice, happy ones. You could move to the cold, miserable Melbourne and I guarantee you would find plenty of bogans, only they would be depressed and aggressive. Plus, I must have finally reached the age where I find high concentrations of humans no longer exciting, instead oppressive and suffocating. I’m old.

Ah, but back to the exciting news! One week in the sunshine, away from angry customers and meaningless bureaucracy, and I am back! Today was the last day of my leave and I managed to break the inertia by not only writing a whole new chapter but by painting as well. I don’t have a progress photo of the latest portrait, instead here is me working with my new friend, rescue Eclectus named Archie (I am using water soluble oils and only linseed oil as solvent, in case you’re worried about toxic fumes). He is actually interested in what I’m doing:

And now, for the proof that vacations are important and necessary, and so worth the money. The chapter I feared I’d never write.

 

CHAPTER III

I forgot all about it for the rest of the week, mainly because I was dead tired. Melbourne winter and taking public transport to work in the city meant that even if I wasn’t sick, I was either getting over “something” or fighting off the next something else. Work was stressful, as usual, and I ended up taking thick folders home almost every night, even when I knew I was just going to fall asleep on top of them. Even Clare seemed a bit down. We had a new starter, some young hot shot, and one of the partners did an awkwardly overenthusiastic introduction of him, after which the new guy talked for at least twenty minutes about his resume and aspirations.  I expected Clare to drop a burn about it, there was enough material in that speech for a whole stand-up routine, but she just went back to her computer.

“What about the new bloke?” I said, trying to get something out of her.

“Who, Joe? What about him?”

“What was that thing he said about what it takes to succeed? I swear, he was looking at me when he said that. And what’s with the suit and the haircut…looks like a real estate agent, doesn’t he?”

“I guess.” She shrugged. “They are all like that, aren’t they?”

“I guess.”

She turned back to her screen and I turned back to the nagging thoughts about my life, specifically on how it did not turn out the way I expected. I’m not even sure what it was I expected, just certain that I never wished to be so consistently miserable, with both short-term and long-term forecasts indicating further downpours of gloom, with possible strikes of bad luck. There was the seemingly unsurmountable mountain of divorce to cross, and who knew what awaited me on the other side? Most likely rejection, by men I was hoping to date and men or maybe even a woman I was hoping to woo in an interview. Just six more months at Rich&Richer and I could look for a different version of it without getting branded a flight risk. I wasn’t looking for a promotion, just a place that didn’t provoke suicidal thoughts.

“Rose?”

I jumped in my seat, then inwardly cursed myself.

“Yes, Mr. Bigford?”

“The landfill people are here.”

“Oh!” I shuffled through the papers on my desk and pulled out a folder. “Here’s all the background info. I’ve put tabs in, so it’s easier to find – starting from when it was a bluestone quarry. I managed to find some newspaper articles on the illegal dumping, here, I put the red flags at the top. The EPA notices are at the end, and I have drafted some speaking points, here. Preliminary, of course.”

He thumbed through the pages and I could see he was pleased. A wave of pride came over me, so strong that I almost choked up. William Bigford was never big on praise or even smiling, but I understood why, he had a certain image to maintain. He wasn’t fatherly, but then again I was not familiar with any expressions of fatherly love. I just wanted approval, desperately. I was willing to work overtime for it.

He looked up from the folder. “Tell you what, Rose.”

I swallowed hard.

“Why don’t you go get us a couple of lattes and a cappucino from downstairs? Here,” he shoved something in my hand, “get something for yourself, too.”

He left with my folder and for a minute or two, I just stood there, looking down at the twenty in my hand.

*

I was in the kitchenette making yet another cup of green tea, when the new guy walked in. I wasn’t trying to schmooze him, he just kept opening one cupboard after another and finally I felt that I had to say something.

“Cups are here,” I pointed out. “Are you looking for cups?”

“Yes,” he said and smiled at me. Genuine, non-real-estate smile. “Thank you so much.”

“No probs,” I said. “If you need Stevia, I have a stash. There’s only sugar. Unless you like sugar.”

“Thank you. I don’t use either. I drink black coffee, no milk or sugar. But thank you very much.”

Up close, he didn’t seem at all stuck up, maybe even nervous about starting a new job. Maybe even nervous about making new friends.

“I’m Rose,” I offered my hand.

“Joe,” he shook it. Not in a crashing macho way, just a normal handshake. And eye contact.

“I’ve heard all about you,” I said. “This morning, I mean. Quite a CV you have there.”

“Oh,” he said and started to open and close cupboards again. “I hate talking about myself, but it’s expected sometimes. Where do you hide your coffee?”

Something inside me fluttered. He was nice. Nice, normal, funny, not to mention successful. Maybe even single.

“Well,” I said in a conspiratory tone, “You’ve come to the right place. We have an all-in-one coffee machine – one push of a button and you can have your free espresso in just a moment.” I gestured with a flourish to the large black apparatus in the corner.

“You don’t say,” he whispered, leaning towards me. “Free coffee in a law firm charging clients by the minute? Surely, this is an oversight of the management?”

I squinted at him. “It’s proven to be a generous return on the investment.”

“How so?” He moved to inspect the machine.

I looked at his back. Broad but not bulky, the V accentuated by the perfect cut of the silvery-blue suit. I forced myself to look away.

“For starters, there’s no need to go downstairs and waste valuable company time. Imagine seventy-six employees taking what? Three daily breaks of ten minutes each?”

“Unthinkable.” He turned and smiled again.

“Not to mention productivity. The caffeinated workforce–”

“Rose!”

My heart dropped back to the deep dark hole, where it belonged. “Yes, Mr. Bigford?”

I have learned to read people over the years of trying to please first my father and then Alex, but you didn’t have to be a mind-reader to know he was pissed off. Employees of Rich&Richer are not supposed to chit-chat anywhere in the office, unless said chit-chat is billable. He shoved the landfill folder into my hands.

“Call them and set up another meeting, next week.”

“Yes sir.”

*

I put Joe out of my mind for the rest of the day. It was easy – a skill you learn with years of experience in squashed expectations. A man like this most definitely has a partner, I told myself. He wasn’t wearing a ring, but Australians are notorious for getting married only after about a decade-long engagement, a house and a couple of kids. And he’s too pretty and well-groomed to be straight anyway.  And new to the company. With time, he will figure out my place on the ladder and will start passing me folders rather than looks. Best to be disappointed early, before it hurts too much.

It was Friday and I was planning to excuse myself from the after-work drinks, on the account of being under the weather, which was true, but Clare practically begged me to come. She wanted to tell me about her Tinder dates, but I think she just didn’t want to go home.

“Okay,” I said. “One drink, and then I’m leaving.”

It was a two-for-one happy hour and we each had a margarita, and then another one. Damn it, I just love margaritas. I love licking the salt off the rim, which is stupid, because the salt costs practically nothing. Plus, it makes you bloat.

Clare was getting animated from the alcohol and reliving her most recent date disaster, but I could not stop checking the door.

“And then he said he would like to bite my neck! Rose!”

“What?”

“Did you hear what I just said?”

“Yes. The guy was awful.”

“Yes, of course he was, but did you hear why?”

“He wanted to bite you?”

She let out an exasperated sigh. “He’s into BDSM! He wanted to tie me up and hurt me.”

“Oh. I didn’t know you’re into that.”

“I’m not! Seriously, what got into you today?”

“Nothing.” I rubbed my finger along the glass rim, but all the salt was gone. “I so need another job.”

“You and me both. How about another drink for now?”

I was about to say no and that I need to go home, when Joe appeared next to our little table. “Hi there. Can I get you ladies a drink?”

Clare snorted. “Ladies? Which ladies are you talking about?”

Joe seemed unsure for a moment and I slapped Clare’s hand, only half-jokingly. “Why, thank you, good sir. If I could trouble you for a margarita, I would be much obliged.”

“Make it two,” Clare said, and once he left, whispered to me, “What’s going on with you?”

“Nothing,” I said. “What’s going on with you? Why are you mean to Joe?”

“Joe? Are we on the first name basis with the real estate agent?”

“Stop it,” I slapped her hand again. “He’s a nice guy, you’ll see.”

He came back with our drinks and he was nice. He listened to Clare’s Tinder stories and my stories about Pa and his cats. He told his own, mostly about growing up in Queensland and then about his parents divorcing and moving to Sydney with his mum. None of his stories mentioned a partner of any kind. He offered to buy another round, but I insisted on paying, like I always do, even though I usually end up kicking myself for it later. “You need to let the man take care of you,” I could read in Clare’s eyes. “Don’t be so damn self-sufficient and persistent.” She didn’t touch her purse all night.

Joe helped me put Clare in an Uber when it became clear she couldn’t risk getting on the train with some shady characters that might pick up on the fact she was no longer entirely there. He waited until I got an Uber too and kissed me lightly on the cheek before walking away. He was nice, but for some reason, I wanted to cry.

*

When I opened the front door, as quietly as was possible, given the rusted hinges, it was probably around midnight. I took off my shoes and tiptoed in the dark towards my room.

“Rozochka!”

Thieves and robbers don’t call you by your pet name, but I almost had a heart attack during the long second it took me to realise that. Pa’s voice was coming from somewhere in the living room.  I found the switch and turned on the lights – he was lying on the sofa, rubbing his eyes.

“Sorry, Pa. Why are you sleeping down here?”

“I wasn’t, Rozochka.” He struggled to get up, so I had to help him. “I was waiting for you.”

“Why? I told you I was going out.”

He blinked at me. “I wanted to talk to you. How was your day?”

“My day? Pa, you stayed up till midnight to talk about what I did at work? Even I don’t want to talk about it.”

But we did end up talking for another hour, although it was mostly about why he didn’t join the University of the Third Age. He did go to the city, just as he promised, but the crowded tram and the crowded streets got to him.

“Everybody was pushing, Rozochka. Zey were so unhappy. I was unhappy.”

I tried suggesting that he might go mid-morning, after the rush, or on the weekend, even though I knew there would be tourists, even on a miserable day, but he was adamant.

“I like here. I can walk. I walk to vet and store, and nobody is pushing me.”

I was too tired to argue and that’s where the whole thing might have ended, if only I wasn’t so damn persistent.

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The happiest day of my month

It’s five am. I’m awake and I’m the happiest I’d been in a long time, maybe even a year. I wrote over a thousand words yesterday! And not just any words, the first chapter of that next novel that has been stuck in my head for so long. I’m still marveling at how easy it was to do, especially considering that I have had trouble writing anything for almost two years, even regular blog posts. How did I do it, you ask?

I simply decided that I don’t HAVE to write a book. The solitary year it would take me is just too much of a mountain, a burden, a crippling task. First I thought I will just write short stories, maybe see if I get enough of them to compile into something worthy of publication. But the story I wanted to write doesn’t easily fit into a short format, it needs time to unwrap its many layers. So I once again decided to try and publish it as an online serial.

So this is what I’m going to do. I will publish it on this blog, chapter by chapter, as it comes to me, without worrying too much about copy editing and comma polishing. It would be a challenge in itself, because it’s scary for me to show something I’ve written before I’ve had a chance at mulling it over for a long time or getting a native speaker/editor to fix the grammar and spelling. I just hope that the flipside will be that I won’t lose the momentum I gathered yesterday. After all, that’s how I wrote my first novel – it was a joke email to my sister, and had she not laughed and demanded more, it might have just stayed an email, forgotten in the sediment of thousands of other jokes I wrote and said to her. So if this serial post thing works out and I finish it, I still have a chance to turn it into a published book. After all, that’s how a few bestsellers started – The Marshian and if I’m not mistaken, The Twilight. Yes, traditional publishers would probably frown on this, but then publishers have ignored my many attempts at publishing Isa Maxwell series, so what’s new?

I decided that I won’t give up painting either and will weave into my new method – each post will have a new or updated painting to go with it. I have almost finished painting one of the characters and about to start on another one, my very first male portrait.

So that’s the plan. I will post the first chapter in a couple of days. Right now I will get back to writing and who knows, I could write another thousand words before my actual day begins.

Wish me luck!

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100 days of self-brainwashing: Day 1, Ted Talks

I’m in Cabo, y’all! Having a grand time – here’s the proof:

  

After the miserable Melbourne winter, the heat and the sun are doing wonders for my well-being, and I have even started writing again. It’s easy to do when you have all day to do what you want:

I wrote 1,600 words on the first day. I was elated. Then the next day I wrote 900, the day after it was 600, yesterday it was 260, and today I have written nada, if you don’t count this post. Why, do you ask?

I thought I was lazy at first. Too much sun, food, tequila, you name it. Everyone else around me moving at a snail’s pace. Wanting to savor every moment, as if the ocean would cease to exist the moment I stopped staring at it. All very good reasons, except in the back of my mind I knew it was more about the uphill battle of publishing this third book. It was more about knowing that I have not yet made back my investment into the first two, about how hard I will have to work to sell each copy, to get reviews, and above all to keep going against the grim odds. I could very easily just relax, keep working on my career, which is going gangbusters, and let this little dream die a quiet death, like the one in which I was going to be an actress (four years, forty roles, whole of career earnings: $2,000).

The only problem is, without a big, ridiculous dream, I feel like something is missing. I’ve been miserable for the past few months, partly due to that miserable weather I’ve mentioned earlier, and partly because I got myself locked into a routine of going to work, giving it my all, then coming home to collapse and recover just enough to put in another day. Sounds familiar? Where’s Ana from ten years ago, the one that went to Australia on a tourist visa, convinced against all odds that she was going to get a job and a work visa sponsor? The one that signed up for triathlons and kiteboarding and could run 10K every day? The one that was abused so badly by her manager, she decided to become a manager herself? The one that thought “I can write a book, start a blog, and publish against those very glum odds”?

That fit, excited, and energetic Ana had not only the big goals in mind, she truly believed that she could accomplish them. And after some pondering this morning, I’d realized that I started it all with self-brainwashing. I was living in the US at the time, and I was miserable. The weather was great in Florida, I can’t blame it, but my first marriage was hell, and I was caught in a corporate hamster wheel of produce-get promoted-produce some more. Then something miraculous happened. The terrible first husband insisted that we move out to the boonies, where he could safely smoke dope and shoot deer out the window. That’s not the miraculous part, by the way. The move resulted in two major changes: we couldn’t get cable TV and I had to commute almost an hour each way to my corporate hamster job. I was bored at home, and I was bored driving. So I started reading and listening to audiobooks in the car. For some miraculous reason, the local library had the entire Tony Robbins audio collection and after a few hours of Tony insisting that I could do whatever it was I wanted to do, I was hooked. At the time I thought all I wanted was more money, as if that could fix my terrible, terrible marriage, so I kept reading and listening, and reading some more. I got hooked on psychology, motivation, self-help, and anything that promised to grow my mind. After a few months of that self-brainwashing, I realised that I didn’t want more money. What I wanted was to leave – my terrible husband, my hamster job, and unfortunately the US. It was a huge gamble, but it has paid massive dividends since.

So that’s what I’m going to do again. Brainwash myself again. I have started today by listening to a few TED talks, because I could still stare at the blue ocean while various successful people told me that I could do it, whatever it was. This was my favourite one:

It’s also the one from which I stole the idea of challenging myself for 100 consecutive days. It’s too early to tell, but hey, this blog post is 775 words, which is a whole lot better than yesterday. I’ll come up with something else tomorrow and see what happens.

 

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I have a dream. Again…

Look who’s back! “Who dis?” I hear you say, and yes, you have every right to forget me – I’ve been gone for three months. In cybertime, that’s like a generation. I’m sure new Twitter stars have managed to rise and implode since then, but I wouldn’t have known. I was too busy getting married and starting my new job.

Speaking of getting married – look at this happy couple!

registry-steps   walking-in-cbd   nighttime-in-cbd-2

You almost can’t tell that it was 39 degrees Celsius, which is just over 100 degrees Fahrenheit…crazy, but that’s the January in Melbourne for ya! I know that some of you can’t feel your toes right now, but trust me – you wouldn’t want to feel like you are cooking alive, either.

And yes, I’ve been at my new awesome job for almost three months, and yes, it’s incredibly demanding, but enough excuses already. I want to tell you about a wonderful thing that happened yesterday.

I came home late, as usual. Good thing that Josh cooks, because if not, I’d be surviving on tuna cans and stale bread. Early to rise and late home from work makes Ana one tired woman. So tired that a mere thought of sitting down to finish that third book or even write a new blog post creates involuntary spasms in my legs, which usually results in a couch faceplant, supplemented with trash TV. Every now and then I would also feel intense regret that the writing dream is over, and then pass out to start the early-to-rise cycle all over again. Sounds familiar? Yeah, it sucks.

I’ve tried beating myself up, writing daily plans, and setting up a reward system, but nothing was working. That is, until yesterday. I was in the shower, trying to wash off the daily stress, when I sort of spaced out. I was fantasizing about how my life could be different, when a story idea came to me, as vivid and real as one of those hallucinations I had when I was high on opiates in the hospital bed. When I came to, the bathroom was full of steam and my mind was full of plot twists, characters, and whole scenes.

My sister-in-law came over to have dinner and watch “Married at First Sight,” so I had to play hostess for a couple of hours, but all I could think of was the new story. I could not wait for the stupid show to be over, so that I could write down the idea, I was that afraid to lose it. I jumped onto the computer as soon as I could and did not get off the chair until Josh started yelling from the other bedroom that we had to get some sleep. I could not stop thinking about it this morning. I told my sister. She liked it. In fact, her exact words were: “Yep, here we go again!”

Yes, indeed. Here we go. A completely different new novel, a psychological thriller with little comedy, if any. A male protagonist. More character development, although I’m in love with the plot too. And I have a feeling I will be able to spill it onto the page in a couple of months – last night I could barely keep up with typing out the ideas as they were flooding in.

I don’t know what you’ve been up to in the last three months, and sorry again for disappearing, but if you’ve been self-beating and self-hating over a writer’s block, perhaps it’s time to try spacing out in a hot shower. Let me know how you go.

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The full-time writing gig is almost here, plus pics of my writing room

With just a couple of days left till I’m a full-time writer (for five months, but still!), I’m feeling the pressure of my ambitious writing plan. To be honest, I have not been writing much lately, partially due to some traumatic personal stuff I’m going through at the moment, and probably because I’ve been deferring writing for this time when I will be free from work stress and thus magically transformed into a writing machine. As a result, my tracking spreadsheet looks like this:

Bad writing record

The zig-zagging red “goal” line shows that I have twice already given up and reset my goal, only to fall short again. This can’t happen over the next five months, otherwise I would have wasted my long service leave, which I’ve been accumulating for eight years…it can’t happen!

So, I have started by setting up my environment. Virginia was right – oh, what a difference a room of one’s own makes…and here is mine!

IMG_2791

Terrible photo, sorry, can you tell how fabulous is the desk? Made even more so by the fact that it set me back just $10 on eBay. I mean, $10 AUD! That means it was practically free in American dollars! And the chair was just $25 from a garage sale.

My Italian Greyhound approves…everyone, meet Bubbles:

IMG_2737

I have managed to write a thousand words today, which is a far cry from the 3-4K I mean to write every single day for the next three weeks or so. Still, having a space to go and sit at the desk, all official-like was better than my usual lounging in bed or on the couch, which inevitably led to Internet surfing.

I plan to also dangle a carrot in front of my nose, for further motivation – I just made a deal with myself that if I complete my weekly plan, I will get a 45-minute massage at the end of the week. If I overachieve the plan by at least 25%, I will get an hour-long massage. And if I don’t complete it…well, there will be an extra grueling gym session on the weekend. Oh, I didn’t mention – I plan to also lose a couple of kilos during the five months. These are quite possibly pipe dreams, but who knows? I am trying to pound into my cerebral cortex a message of “your life could be like this every day.”

Speaking of pipe dreams, here’s another one. I finally unpacked an artist’s easel and a huge canvas I’d bought about a year ago:

IMG_2792

The big white canvas is just as frightening as my current word count and the number on my weight scale. Still, with a plan and daily discipline, I should be able to do it all, right? I started by taking stock of the “current state”, as I usually do at work:

  • Published books: 1
  • Drafted words: 33,330
  • Paintings: 0
  • Kilos: 62.6 (that’s 138 pounds)
  • Klout score: 61 (more on Klout in the next post)

Let’s see where I get to by 1 August 2016!

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You’re on your own. Sorry.

Let me start yet another controversy by saying:

Winning a writing competition or landing a traditional publisher is not a guarantee of author success.

Ok, ok, stop shooting! I know, those were my goals not long ago, and they are traditionally equated to striking gold and really “making it” as an author. And yes, winning a Pulitzer, perhaps, can make a difference. Or, you know, landing a million-dollar deal which gets you a ton of publicity. However, I now know the simple fact that publishers would invest very little into promoting your book, unless you are Stephen King.

Before we get into the argy-bargy of traditional vs self-publishing, let me illustrate my point with some evidence.

Exhibit A: Pitch Week

I just found out about this competition and I was actually going to write this post about it and encourage everyone to apply. Then I’d decided to check the current sales ratings of past winners. See for yourself:

Death by Roses by Vivian Probst is currently hovering around one million overall ranking on Amazon.

Stony Kill by Marie White Small is around 300,000 with the best category ranking at 13,000-plus.

Girl Walks Out of a Bar: A Memoir by Lisa Smith is getting published in another six months.

The winner announced in July of this year is yet to be published.

“But this is probably some small potatoes award,” I hear you say. “Surely, something like Amazon’s Breakthrough Novel Award means publicity and big bucks?” Lemme check…

Exhibit B: Amazon’s Breakthrough Novel Award

Remember, winners of this award got a traditional publishing contract and a hefty advance, plus ongoing publicity through the Amazon listing of past winners. This was a HUGE competition, even though it has now been discontinued. So how did the winners fare? Yeah, ok, some of them became bestsellers, but lets examine the less fortunate ones:

Crossing by Andrew Xia Fukuda – current rank #173,062 Paid in Kindle Store. Worse than my self-published debut.

Catcher, Caught by Sarah Collins Honenberger   current rank #233,775 Paid in Kindle Store. Much worse than mine.

Stalina by Emily Rubin  – current rank #245,024 Paid in Kindle Store. Ditto.

Fresh Kills (Berkley Prime Crime Mysteries) by Bill Loehfelm current rank #1,058,230 Paid in Kindle Store. Whaaat???

Fully Involved: A Firefighter Story by Jackson Harris current rank  #1,144,996 Paid in Kindle Store. OH. MY. GOD!

I didn’t have the strength to continue. Have a look for yourself at the long list of Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award past winners. But before you go and start slashing your wrists, let me say this:

You can be a successful author.

I truly believe in the above statement, qualified by “if you are willing to work hard enough for long enough.” In a way, I felt liberated by my findings – they made me realize what I already knew – there’s no point in hoping to win an “author lottery” and spend years chasing a traditional publishing contract. I’d spent a year sending query letters to over 70 publishers and agents, and the best response I got was “it’s funny, but we don’t know if there’s a market for it.”

So don’t give your power away by believing that someone else has to judge your book worthy. Do your own research. Become a better writer. Become your own publisher, marketing guru, PR rep, and cheerleader. You are the best suited person to mange your business. Yeah, that’s right, I said it – treat it as your business, work on it, invest in it, and grow it.

Like, now would be a good time!

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Filed under Self-publishing and marketing, Shizzle, Inc.

I’m gonna beg you like you’ve never been begged before…

If you’ve read Shizzle, Inc, you’ve probably recognised the above as an almost direct quote…and if so, you’re the one I’m gonna beg – could you please, please post a review on Amazon, Goodreads or both?

I already have 13 reviews on Amazon, all positive, so it’s not about that scary initial silence, where you’re not sure that publishing your book was a good or even decent idea. It’s just that there has not been a new one posted for several weeks, I’m tired, it’s raining, and to be honest – just feeling a bit blah about everything. I need your help pushing along with my writing plan and you have no idea what a boost of energy it is to wake up in the morning to find out that a new review has been posted.

So if you’ve read Shizzle, Inc and liked it, could you pretty please write a few words about it? Of course, on other hand, if you’ve absolutely hated it, then I’m sure you have better things to do. I bet there’s dust behind that fridge and your sweaters need re-folding.

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