So here I am at Jenny Crusie’s enchanted castle by the Ohio River. I’ve had a lovely time, running away from my son’s breakup with a woman I love and an honorary grandson I adore.
And if that’s not bad enough, I now have one of those very rare, highly toxic fits of “I’m a failure nobody reads me my career

is over what have I spent my life doing why doesn’t anyone care I’m a loser so why don’t you kill me.”
They don’t come very often. If anything I’m a little too blessed with a sense of my own brilliance. I’m my own greatest fan, but that only makes sense. I write the books I want to read, about characters I adore, in places I want to be, with character arcs I respond to emotionally, or else I wouldn’t be writing them. So of course I love them. And I go my way blithely assuming other people love them too. Oh, not all other people. But a good solid core of them, a core of them that would be much larger if someone would only figure out how to publish me properly.
But every now and then, very rarely, an evil worm invades my heart and says “you don’t matter.” In the last couple of years I’ve gone to a number of conferences where no one has read my books. I’m better known for my RWA antics than what I write. The crowning glory was Saturday, when I went to a book signing and sat while dozens of people picked up the two lousy books I had there (we hadn’t given B&N any warning so we just picked the two Kristina Douglas’s off the shelf. No new one in the store. No Anne Stuart backlist). And I sat there as people picked them up and set them down again.
Now mind you, they were fans of romantic comedy. If I’d been signing with paranormal writers it might have been different. But I suddenly felt so fucking superfluous. Like my time had passed. Like no one cared any more.
Which would be okay, I guess, if I weren’t writing the best books of my career. If I weren’t so caught up in the stories I want to write that I can’t stomp away from the whole thing in a huff, much as I want to. I was born to write, to tell stories, I’m hard-wired to do it, and as Barbara Keiler has said, it’s like being trapped in an abusive marriage. You keep hoping things will get better and you love it so much that there’s nothing you can do.
She was talking about publishers. I’m talking about the whole business. The readers I think would love my books who really don’t care. The fact that my almost forty-year career can be happily ignored by voracious romance readers.
I left the autographing table cheerfully, went into a corner, took a tranquilizer and read books on quilting. It helped. And eventually someone tracked me down with the two books and had me sign them, apologizing profusely for bothering me.
So, I forage ahead. I will never, NEVER do another autographing. Fuck ‘em. I don’t think I’m going to go to another conference where people don’t even know what I write. It’s a drag, because I have so much to give, having been in the business for so long. I’ll probably change my mind about that.
And the fact that the economic disaster that’s hit all writers has hit me. I know it’s nothing personal — we’re all going through it. But …
Ah, enough complaining. It’s a blip on the radar. Next week I will be Madame Trash Heap Explains it All, I will be Sister Krissie the Goddess, I will be Writer, hear me roar.
But for a very short while I’m going to sit here, all alone on the deck by the Ohio River, listening to the birds, and cry.
I’ve been told not to write posts like this one. Not to let them see you sweat. Act like a star and people will perceive you as such. Well, that’s not who I am. I can’t see how this will damage my career. If my books aren’t good enough to withstand a semi-public fit of depression then they’re not very good and I’ve spent my life deluded.
Which I haven’t. They’re glorious, and so am I. It’s just gonna take me a day or two to remember.
Izzy have to get old enough — they’re still in their teens. And Brandon’s in Scotland in self-directed physical rehab while Emma is becoming a surgeon. So they’re all doing what they need to do before they meet and fall in love while I write other books.




