What do you do when you get dumped, fired, and turn thirty in a single unfortunate week? You book the last available ticket on the next plane to Greece. Or at least that’s what the normally unadventurous Anna Cox does in a moment of uncharacteristic spontaneity. When she panics as she belatedly realizes that not booking a hotel room in a country she knows nothing about might not have been the best or smartest idea, the charming and easy on the eyes Englishman in the seat next to her comes to her rescue – he takes her to the rural island village in Crete that he calls home.
Hoping to improve my writing and maybe pick up some ideas on how to spread the word about my book, I joined several online author associations.
Has my writing improved? If it has, it has nothing to do with the online associations I joined.
Did I pick up any useful ideas on how to promote my book? Nope.
All I’ve learned for sure is that I quite dislike authors, or at least the majority of the ones who join online author associations.
These authors come across as pompous, pedantic and patronizing. Their egos seem so inflated I have to wonder if they must attach lead weights around their ankles to keep from lifting off the ground and floating off into the stratosphere. They talk about their “art” like they’ve created a viable alternative to crude oil or a panacea for every disease known to man. And the way they boast about their talent as though it’s a gift from some higher power, which makes them better than the rest of us mere mortals, is so preposterous it’s almost amusing.
I love books. The great ones transport you from your own life and into the lives of its characters. But the truth is novels are simply entertainment, and occasionally educational or enlightening. Authors are simply entertainers who occasionally manage to educate and enlighten.