Pursue Your Unique Passion
The words flowed easily from my fingertips as I typed about blog tours. But then, Jesse's voice echoed in my mind, reminding me of something more important to share with you. Something that I believe in with all my heart. You are unique. Your writing is unique. And when you find the thing that makes your heart sing, pursue it passionately and without hesitation.
Just today, I had a call with a client whom I hadn't heard from in over a year. He had recently come into some money and, after much contemplation, decided to re-market his book. It was a reminder that every day is publication day for us authors. We must never stop spreading the word about our books, whether it be through free promotions or engaging with readers through social media and other forms of communication. Every interaction counts. Let your passion for your writing shine through and watch as others are drawn to it like moths to a flame.
The client, who we will call Mike, sounded hesitant over the phone as he explained his plans for the book. It was clear that despite his initial excitement, doubts had crept in about whether this venture would be successful. I listened intently, letting his words linger in the air before responding.
"Mike, I understand your concerns, but let me assure you that your book has a unique story to tell. Your words have the power to resonate with readers in ways you may not even realize. Remember why you wrote this book in the first place. Let that passion drive you forward."
There was a moment of silence on the other end of the line before Mike spoke again, his voice more determined this time.
"You're right. I didn't spend all those late nights and early mornings crafting this story just to let it collect dust on a shelf. I want to share it with the world, no matter the obstacles."
I smiled to myself, feeling a surge of pride.
Fiction Break
Hurricane Delilah
By Liz Dubelman
Honestly, I don’t know why I’m so angry all the time. People ask – my mom, Ms. Powell (my teacher), Mr. Hernandez (my 9th grade counselor). I wish I could tell them, but when I open my mouth and say I don’t know, it comes out sounding like Fuck Off. It’s like there’s a talking bear inside of me that’s hungry and angry all the time.
They love asking questions. What would make you happy? Or what do you want to do with your life? These questions could drive a cheerleader to suicide. I don’t even think they’re trying (which is what they say about me all the time). Ms. Powell has like 30 other kids that actually care about school and shit, and Mr. Hernandez wouldn’t even know my name if I hadn’t been called to his office so many times. His office – with his pictures of his perfect wife and his perfect kids.
And my Mom – she cares way more about the little brats in her pre-school class than me. I remember she once told me that babies learn to smile just when you’re fed up with them. It’s like nature. So you don’t throw them out the window. Well, Mom, what do I do now? I’ve got nothing – no tricks.
Yesterday, I “found” a coin thingy at school. I know it’s Shauna’s. I heard her telling Ella that it was her mother’s and it was like special and all. She said it was from Mardi Gras a long time ago, before Katrina. It has a picture of Marilyn Monroe on it but it doesn’t really look like her.
Now she was a hurricane. I saw a film of her on YouTube singing Happy Birthday to the President. She seemed all druggy and sexy. Like she didn’t care. I want to be like that but I can’t tell them that. I can just hear it now. Ms. Powell asks me (for the millionth time) what I want to do with my life. And I say, I want to be like Marilyn Monroe. And she says, You want to be an actress? And I say, No I want to be rich and famous and have everyone love me. And I want to be totally stoned, too, so I don’t have to give a shit about anything.
That will just get me another trip to Mr. H’s office so I can stare at his perfect fucking family.
You know what else I want? I want this coin to be a sign. I want it to be a sign for me to take off and go to New Orleans. I think New Orleans feels like me. Like after the hurricane – all beat up and broken. My Mom says I am a hurricane. Hurricane Delilah. But I don’t feel like that.
But it’s not a sign. I couldn’t leave my mom all alone. I have to stay here and make her miserable, and I don’t even know why. I do know I’m not giving the coin back. It’s mine now.
This kid's no dope : )