Let's get this out of the way first. I wrote this because I wanted you to know that my new novel, "Who Killed Jane?" is available now on Amazon. You can purchase the eBook for only .99 cents by clicking here (or grab the paperback for $12.99 if you're old school like me).
Do I want you to buy it? Yes.
Do I want you to leave an honest review if you read it? Please.
Self-promotion, email lists, social media shares and begging come with the territory. It's a necessary evil if one hopes to write the next book. And I want to write many more.
Time is ticking.
Okay nice, we're done with that. Hopefully you're still here although if you left that's cool too. I heard Facebook might have some political arguments that are a hoot to peruse. And what's more entertaining then following an online brawl between your aunt and your high school gym teacher arguing over vaccines?
Before I plunge into the meat of today's post, I have a second confession:
I'm not sure who online me is any more and I'm hopeful that I can create a bridge between garden John and book writing John.
For those who've been around since the early days, you know my story:
Started a garden blog in 2010
Gained some traction in the space
Posted a ton (most would argue too much)
Merrily mocked my gardening prowess and my kids
Fell in lust with ornamental grasses
Shifted from hardcore gardening content in favor of more storytelling with plants taking a backseat
Wrote a gardening/life lesson memoir
Stopped blogging all together to pursue book writing
Wrote book one
Wrote book two
Which brings me to current day. I've lost the mojo for garden writing. But not the act of gardening. I've worked harder on my plot this year than ever before. Most of that is pandemic induced but a big part of it was this: I could dig, weed and snip without trying to build it into a story. No funny anecdotes or witty bits required. Just hard labor and dirty hands. And shocker, you get a lot more accomplished that way.
Now having said that (my lord I love that phrase), my love for garden photography hasn't diminished. I still lay on the driveway and step bare foot in wet mulch to get what I hope is the perfect shot. I still make my family wait in the car as I snap one last pic of the afternoon sun hitting my Switch Grasses. I'm still a thirteen year old girl anxious to see my likes on Instagram. Just don't ask me to explain all that's going in the garden through captions.
What does all my rambling mean? Hell if I know. I guess maybe it's this:
For those who followed me through the gardening years, I understand if you bail. I'll be writing through this site only moving forward and I haven't got a clue where it goes from here.
Will there be plant pics? Always.
Could I pontificate about the joys of piecing together a novel? Prolly.
Will I make you cry when I post about my son departing for college in January? Yep.
I just ask that you give my writing a chance. And maybe buy a book or three. And praise my photos with fervor.
John
