Consider this premise: a novel’s presence expires within six months of its publication, only to be replaced – you guessed it – by a fresh batch of compelling new releases. If you consider this theory a universal fact, it’s disheartening. What is the point of writing and publishing if a novel’s sustainability is limited? Hmmm. . . hold that thought.
In the years I spent preparing A Southern Enchantress for publication, it stands to reason that I’d grabbled with this lifecycle notion at some point. But I didn’t. Why? Because I’m a card-carrying member of a book-loving generation. It has never occurred to me that a book may become inconsequential, possibly ending up on a resale table at a local thrift store mere months after its release. If that happens to my Enchantress, I hope she earns the shop owner a pretty penny.
Raised in a cultural city that supported education agendas and encouraged independent learning, I fell in love with the Louisville Free Public Library system in Louisville, Kentucky, at a young age. I found a mesmerizing haven within the library’s stacks, which opened the doors to discovering the world. My first job as a teen was shelving books at the Crescent Hill branch near St. Matthews. Since I’ve been immersed in a world of words forever, the urge to restrict a book’s lifespan seems absurd. And the idea that my novel could become obsolete never crossed my mind.
Introducing my novel to new readers takes time—I’m smack in the middle of doing that right now! If a book’s recognition consumes half its lifespan, how is there time for a full embrace? Books are supposed to be gathered, stacked, and lined up to read, right? On shelves, bedside tables, and windowsills. Even tucked within recyclable bags for safekeeping. Despite the immediacy of delivering a book to one’s reading device in a single click, readers still need time to discover a new author’s novel.
What’s a writer to do? Accept the publishing industry’s roadmap: post-pandemic. Then, welcome any organic process of connecting readers with books. Next, write another novel! Though indie authors must market their books on social media, add blog posts, and attend book fests and library events (thank you, kind folks, for my invitations) there comes a time when the story gods demand a new WIP.
No problem! The only question is which story to begin with. How about creative nonfiction designed to inspire? Or another genre-blended novel with dual timelines? I’m fascinated with early 20th-century New Orleans, when madams were political puppeteers, orchestrating city council decisions from their Storyville parlor rooms. Prostitution was legal, jazz was thriving, and cash flowed like drain water. Mixing in a murder mystery offers an optional appeal.
Now, circle back to hold that thought. Writing is a personal rite of passage; it always serves a purpose. And its sustainability over time has little to do with the choice or desire to write.
What’s next, 2024? Now that I’ve established a lane to work within, I’m excited about the motifs, symbols, and tropes that New Orleans offers as a setting. Placing the City That Care Forgot in a rearview mirror is an impossible task when the forward view is so enticing.
