Bitch bitch bitch. My second book should have been out in May. Whatever, missed that, look forward, more time with the edit, more time for promotion, more more more.
Fine. Then it’s supposed to be out in August. Uh huh. Yeah, missed those deadlines too. Then I get a guarantee, a verbal assurance that the book will be out in October. Yes, set up events. We’ll have the books there for you.
F UUUUUHHHH CKKKKK.
It’s the twelfth of September, and I have no idea when my book will be out. No idea if it’ll be available for my events promoting it. No idea if I should continue to schedule events.
I’m back to getting no response from my publishers when I email them.
Here’s what I suggest. Get an agent. Get an agent, and let her deal with all this shit. It makes more sense to me all the time why writers have hissy fits. Why they sound like prima donnas. They’re screwed over all the time. They’re screwed with royalties, and promotion, and every person who lends her copy to her friends. And sometimes, they have no idea, after months of work and waiting, when their fucking books will be available.