Last weekend I was set up at Spooky Empire, a wonderful, local horror con. I had a ton of fun, even though a ten-hour day at a table is pretty long. So many great people, such a fantastic atmosphere.
Several con goers commented that I had a lot of books on the table for a ten-year publishing career. I will be the first to admit that I’ve been blessed by having publishers willing to invest in bringing my work to the public. Talented as anyone may be, there is still a frustrating serendipity to landing a book deal. Authors better than I are still casting nets upon the water.
As the final convention day came to a close, I thought about what my career goals had been when I first set out on this journey. The initial plan was to not lose money writing. That meant getting the eye of a publisher, and then that publisher getting the eyes of readers. Writing a stack of manuscripts that sat in a box would be a waste of time, time better spent making my yard look less embarrassing. I can say I’ve exceeded my initial goal, and financially I come out a little ahead each year.
My expectations beyond that are now very realistic. I know that I will never be a New York Times bestseller. The horror niche I write in is too narrow, the wonderful publishers that I work with don’t get that kind of exposure, and I can’t compete with the kind of talent in that rarified air.
The convention reminded me that what I have instead are some wonderful fans. Many are strangers who read and review my works from around the world. Then there are readers I have the pleasure of meeting personally. People who come back convention after convention to tell me how much they liked the book they bought last time, and then buy another. Readers who confess that a scene made them cry, a character moved them, a story made them think. When someone says they bought a book of mine two years ago, and they tell me about a chapter they loved, and describe it in more detail than I remember, I am blown away.
Some of their specific stories astound me. Reading Sacrifice made a man get back in touch with high school buddies. My Grant Coleman adventure series turned some pre-teens on to books, though the stories are written for adults. A parent of an autistic child came back to thank me for the compassionate, accurate portrayal of the autistic hero in Q Island. It’s amazing when I connect with someone so deeply across time and space through the written word.
So, no stranger will ever recognize me walking down the street. I’ll never see someone sitting in an airport reading one of my books. “Based on the novel by Russell James” will never flash in the credits of a Hollywood movie. And I am fine with that. The positive, personal contacts I’ve made have been priceless. I appreciate all of you more than I can say. And I’m a writer.
To all those people who work hard all week at a job they may not love, and then spend some of that precious cash to read a story I wrote, thank you. I do not take the responsibility of entertaining you lightly. I’ll keep at it as long as you keep reading.
That makes it your fault that my yard looks like crap.
