Poof! As of today, my romance novel goes live on Amazon. The debut.

I’ve been up since three in the morning, a little bleary-eyed. I wonder whether this “word of mouth” thing works. Outside my window, our lawn’s snow-coated, and crunchy fall leaves linger on branches. Yesterday was one of those rare Halloween snows.

Even rarer is the bestseller.

“You can’t go looking for your readers,” a mentor of mine advises. “They must find you.”

Right. But how do they find me? Do I Tweet? Leave bread crumbs? Warble a NASA signal into space? Offer to bake cookies? Most everyone likes cookies. I’m pretty good at gingerbread. 

For too long, there’s been this goofy misconception about authors, this weird 1960’s Jacqueline Susann myth, that a debut novel sells a million copies in the first month. That we writers sashay around in long ball gowns and wave around cigarette holders. We’ve got Reese Witherspoon on speed dial, or we’re hobnobbing with Oprah in her green room, laughing about our next yacht outing.

Maybe “Sex & The City” furthered the illusion. Carrie Bradshaw had a chic wardrobe and taxied around Manhattan. She dashed off airy, witty columns and dated the irresistible Big.

The real truth? I would’ve tripped in those Jimmy Choos. Many of we female writers snuggle next to Non-Bigs and buy from the clearance rack. Our gowns are cotton, not sequins, and we launder them with the rest of our family’s. We are specks in the universe.

Yet I still hope you are out there, future readers, beloved audience.