Tomorrow I'll be hanging out at my friend Todd's studio as part of the Art-a-Whirl weekend extravaganza in NE Minneapolis. He's graciously invited me to share his space and try to sell a few copies of The Suicide Collectors and Wormwood, Nevada.
I'll be at Todd's multimedia studio starting at noon, having forgotten I was actually supposed to be there tonight, thanks to my current brain-drain temp job scoring high school essays (what's your favorite place? Huh? HUH? TELL ME OR DIE, FUCKNUTS!). It'll be interesting to see how many copies I can sell, as I've not exactly been the greatest self-marketing guru on the planet, at least so far into my writing career. Which seems strange, since I used to sell $280 eyeglass frames with $400 lenses without so much as blinking. I guess there's something about pouring your dark and twisted soul in a book, your whole existence for a long period of time, basically, and then being expected to cavalierly carry it around like it's a fucking pumpkin or something and sell it for cash money.
Thought, I have generally noticed that writers who are the best at promoting their books are usually the most superficial/lame writers around, so at least I'll have that feather in my cap as they lower me into my lonely pauper's grave.