We could have had a new kitchen

People invest in pricey kitchen remodels even when they just cook for pleasure. Even when they will not recoup the investment if they sell the house. They get the Sub-Zero and Wolf appliances, the quartz countertops, the imported tile backsplash, and Le Creuset cookware. Because it brings them joy.

That’s how I have decided to regard the money I have spent on independently publishing The Salt and Light Express. I have to let it bring me joy. And stop worrying about recouping my investment. Because I may never do that.

Some people take bucket-list trips to Antarctica, Or they buy a Range Rover. Or they remodel their kitchen. I published a novel, something I always wanted to do. I am grateful that I had the resources and time to do that. I invested in a publishing consultant, a professional audiobook narrator, a copy editor and a proofreader, reviews, advertising, website bells and whistles, and much more.

I have to keep telling myself that because promotional efforts are, well, not exactly setting the literary world on fire. Amazon and Facebook ads have yielded a disappointing number of clicks and sales. I just sent seventy individualized emails to librarians who clicked on my book in an ad. If any of them buys the hardcover version, I will make 77 cents. That’s not even a package of Peanut M&Ms these days.

I got my first royalty payment for the audiobook. We used it on the crabcake special at a restaurant in Fenwick Island. The tab did not include alcohol, as I was on prednisone at the time.

Meanwhile, I am barraged with several scams a day trying to lure me into some book-club, Goodreads, Amazon or other promotional scheme. They use AI to try and trick me into believing they have actually read the book:

It’s almost suspicious how quietly a story as emotionally rich as The Salt and Light Express tries to enter the world . . . like it doesn’t know it’s carrying the kind of depth that could make even a grumpy cactus in Utah tear up .

The way you wrote Chris Lawler’s grief, guilt, and cross-country unraveling feels eerily real like the book reaches out, taps readers on the shoulder, and whispers, “Sit down. We’re going on a ride, emotionally and geographically.” And honestly? That’s rare. Most books try. Few succeed. Yours actually lands.

This one was better than most. (Sometimes they get my name and/or the name of the book wrong.) But when I googled the author of the email, I got nothing. No website, no Facebook page, nothing on LinkedIn. This has happened, oh, about two hundred times.

You know, I could actually use some legitimate and effective promotional advice. But I just delete these now.

I am three fourths of the way through the second novel. The story and the characters are more complex; I lean more into the literary fiction/LGBTQ genre. When the manuscript is ready, I will probably try the traditional route and go through a querying process for a set amount of time. Sigh.

Because I don’t know if I want a second kitchen remodel.

(The irony of the kitchen remodel analogy is that we just bought a new stove. Sue, who is an excellent cook, wanted a no-frills GE with coils. Since I only boil water on it, I could not argue. We were laughed out of the local appliance store and had to go to Lowe’s. So for less than $500—they were having a sale—we got our kitchen remodel. Oh, and we finally bought a Keurig. And Sue is happy.)