The Juggling Act

I reach for my coffee and cling to a delicious little fantasy: one quiet morning, one unfolding chapter, nobody needing anything from me. My phone pings before the first sip. A marketing deadline waves from my calendar. Somewhere beneath my desk, a cat attacks a paper clip with the single-minded devotion I crave. I envy the cat. Also the paper clip. Nobody expects it to prepare a presentation.

Apparently, writing books involves a small traveling circus. I handle the tickets, train the elephants, sweep the tent, and occasionally attempt a sentence. Nobody mentioned the elephants when I chose writing.

The book is still undergoing construction...

Long before release day, marketing trots into my office and starts unpacking. Cover reveals. Newsletter plans. Advance-reader invitations. Interview pitches. Social posts. More social posts. A cheerful reminder about the previous social posts. I promote a book readers can't yet hold while another book nudges my elbow and requests a plot.

I understand the purpose. Readers need help finding books, and books need introductions. I enjoy connecting a story with someone who might love it. But the introduction occasionally requires forty different graphics, sixty captions, and repeated expeditions through my photo library. Meanwhile, my fictional murderer or twisty, crazy bad guy taps a foot. Even he has scheduling concerns.

I toss marketing into the air beside writing and editing. Three balls. Manageable. Then technology arrives. OMG. How do I keep up with technology? Even WORD won't behave with all their freaking updates.

Please update everything...

Every platform wants something. A new password. A different image size. A verification code sent to a device I currently can't locate. I learn one dashboard, congratulate myself, and watch an update rearrange the furniture overnight. The familiar button disappears. A tiny icon replaces it. Naturally, the icon resembles neither a button nor its intended function. Then AI gallops through the tent with promises of efficiency. I investigate tools, compare features, ponder privacy, and try to distinguish useful assistance from another subscription with excellent manners, but no substitute for in-person, human creativity. I test a shortcut. The shortcut requires a tutorial. The tutorial demands a webinar. So much for saving time. I like a helpful tool. I just prefer tools without homework. My pen offers an admirable business model. Click. Proceed.

Now, actual humans...

Presentations and book signings bring another armful of responsibilities. I coordinate dates, exchange emails, prepare slides, pack books, gather supplies, and practice speaking trying to keep my eyes on the room, not my feet. I hunt down a charging cord. It doesn't work. I pack a backup, because suspense belongs in my novels, not between my laptop and a projector. This takes me half a day. By the time I arrive at my event, I have all the enthusiasm of a wet mop.

At heart, I prefer quiet rooms and conversations I can manipulate on the page. Yet out I go into the uncertain, hand-wringing world of peopling. I smile, introduce myself, answer questions, and remember how much I genuinely enjoy readers. They bring curiosity, enthusiasm, and lovely stories of their own. I bring books and a social willingness roughly the size of a raisin.

Peopling. Such a demanding verb. Afterward, it takes me a while to recover.

I return to my desk cataclysmically empty of creativity. Not a gentle little shortage. A crater. My characters gather around the rim and peer down. I open the manuscript, read half a sentence, and contemplate punctuation with the concentration of someone selecting emergency supplies, instead. Until the juices get flowing.

My cats have the right approach to author management.

A cat climbs into my lap. I take it as a sign. For now, no writing. Tomorrow, I try again. Coffee, complete a chapter, look through the emails, embrace the circus. Juggle, drop, retrieve, repeat. Occasionally, a good sentence sneaks through the commotion. I dream of a long solitude with no appointments. No cheerful little reminders pinging from my phone. Nothing on the calendar but my keyboard, two willing hands, and a mind stuffed with possibilities. And cats spread around my office, napping.