On this dreary day, I did not want to leave my house and the comfort it provided. Rain drizzled to the earth, creating a thin veil over my perspective as I looked out the window. Behind me a small fire danced in the hearth, flickering warmth.
The flowers in my garden swayed back and forth, caressed by the wind. Raindrops fell from their bright petals, dripping in chaotic fashion to the ground below. My rose bush glistened with water, the centerpiece of my wet garden.
My neighbor’s vehicle sat unused in the driveway. The blue suburban looked as if it enjoyed the rain. A dog’s tail could be seen sticking out from the underbelly of the car.
Rain fell faster, harder.
On this dreary day, the window began to rattle from the force of the wind, making me shudder. The fire behind me continued to crackle, assuring me all was still well.
The rain began to pummel my flowers, bending their bright petals downward if they wouldn’t tear. My rosebush hid behind a curtain of water flowing from each branch, each thistle.
The dog curled up tighter under the car as the vehicle rocked every now and then. I could almost hear the animal whining, wishing its master would let him inside.
Rain fell faster, harder.
On this dreary day, the window began to crack. I took a few steps back just before the window shattered and hail streaked across the room, snuffing out the fire. My feet carried me to a safer room, one with a smaller, still intact window.
My flowers struggled for life under the assault of ice. They tried to stay upright, their bright petals now shredded. The rose bush seemed to hold its own with only a few of its branches cracking.
The neighbor’s car windows were shattered, the dog running out in alarm only to retreat quickly back underneath. The animal’s cries were swallowed by the downpour. The car continued to rock back and forth, insides ruined and wet.
I looked away from the window for the rest of the storm until it subsided, and everything grew still while the rain slowed to a drizzle on this dreary day.
Bringing back the oldies.
I published my first book in 2006. I went out and bought the Writer’s Market edition for that year, and ended up with an indie publisher, what appeared to be a more prominent one circulating around at that time.
Family and friends were generous enough to throw me a book launch party, but after that, my book didn’t sell much. I would get small royalty checks for the first two or three years after, and then nothing else came.
I figured my book had bombed—no one wanted to read it, so I continued writing but didn’t publish anything else for many years.
Fast forward to last year, I came across an article saying my publishing company was getting sued.
What for, you may ask? For scamming authors by telling them their books weren’t selling and keeping the royalties. Someone got mad enough, went after the publishing company, and last I heard, they are no longer in business.
So I don’t know if my original short story collection sold well or not, but the only way it is currently available is through paperback by third-party sellers—people who got their hands on a copy before the publishing company stopped producing it. There was no ebook available—until now.