Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 104305 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 522(@200wpm)___ 417(@250wpm)___ 348(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 104305 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 522(@200wpm)___ 417(@250wpm)___ 348(@300wpm)
“Maybe. But I’m quite happy to publish my own books.” When he shrugged again, it drew my attention to his broad shoulders.
“As an indie,” I murmured a bit distracted.
“Despite what some believe, it’s not a dirty word. There always seems to be contention between the two factions. The reality is, traditionally published books aren’t any better than indie published, if done right. And honestly, it’s the best way to go these days. I can write and publish as fast or as slow as I need to. I can write what I want. I have full creative control over all aspects of my work, including the cover art. Unlike you. And let’s not forget, you have an agent and publisher breathing down your neck along with demanding, inflexible deadlines.”
It was impossible to say a word to contradict any of that. He was right about this, as well. While having a big publisher and an agent did help take some of the burden off me, it also increased the stress. Especially right now.
Publishing independently meant more flexibility. Any stress would be my own making, not from anyone else.
And the money… There would be less hands in my earnings and more royalties going into my own pockets.
Maybe with my next series I’d try going that route. My current publisher had first right of refusal for the rest of the Nick Foster series, however long it ended up being. So, if I continued writing my bestselling series—and I’d be crazy not to—then I needed to stick with my current publisher since I was currently locked in.
“Even though I don’t get the big advances like you, I also don’t have to worry about earning out that advance. I don’t have to worry about an agent taking a slice of my hard-earned pie. I might not be a household name like Agatha Christie, I still make enough to not only pay the bills, but to keep the doors open on this bookstore.”
“Why?”
His brow dropped low over his very dark eyes. “Why what?”
Originally I had thought they were dark brown like mine, but tonight they seemed much darker. Borderline black, even. It could be the store’s lighting. I was tempted to grab his chin and tilt his head toward the overhead lights to confirm if what I was seeing was right.
“Why keep the bookstore open if it doesn’t make you a profit?”
“This bookstore...” He shook his head. “Any bookstore is a treasure chest and the books are the spoils. To me and many readers, they’re more valuable than the most precious metal or rare gem. As you know, books, even fiction, expand the mind. They sweep people away on journeys they might never take otherwise. Because of that, I take any chance I can to get more people to read. From the kids in the local schools to the folks at the senior home. If they can’t afford a book, I’ll lend it to them. The bottom line is, this store brings me joy and it gives others joy, too. That’s all I care about. To me that joy makes me richer than having a lot of money.”
His heartfelt passion about books and reading was unmistakable. I found it fascinating, just like I had when he read aloud earlier. His voice had a rich, soothing timbre and it only took the few sentences I heard for him to suck me right into the story. After that, I regretted not coming earlier to listen to the whole reading.
But again, I was trying to avoid getting into any deep conversations with the locals to prevent awkward questions or coming off as rude. Unfortunately, something I tended to do, whether I meant to or not.
People with good intentions were always trying to tear down the walls I had set into place for good reason.
For me to survive.
For me to wake up the next morning and the next.
Did I want to? No. Not when it meant I had to live another day without Thomas.
But would I make the people I left behind suffer with guilt the way I did now? I knew how that kind of loss felt, how devastating it was, and I didn’t want to do that to anyone else.
That made me lock those walls tightly into place as a way to bind together my splintered pieces. So I could continue on.
Day after day. Night after night.
Taking one step in front of the other through the darkness. One day I might find the edge of those shadows and when I did, I’d let myself step back into the light.
However, I would not let anyone push me there before I was ready.
That was another reason I left Long Island. My friends and family were well-meaning, but they had no idea just how smothering they could be.
My agent also wanted the best for me because, in turn, it benefitted him financially. But his “concern” about me getting back on the writing track could be smothering, too.