Last night I began perusing the internet for some out-of-print books written by favorite authors. But what I didn't expect to find were more of my books relegated to the out-of-print category, many of which could be had for the low price of $1.00 or less.
Being relegated to "out-of-print" status also means that any royalties that I would have earned from these books are now impossible. Out-of-print for the author means "out of work", "out of time", and "not even a snowball's chance of earning that whopping palm-full of pocket change the publisher calls 'payment.'"
An author experiences grief whenever a book (bearing the author's name) goes out-of-print. It is a form of loss, and this loss can also be accompanied by depression, a period of restlessness, or "the munchies." In my case, I've eaten four two-pound bags of potato chips in the past twenty-four hours . . . and most of these were at breakfast. I have subsequently spent eight hours working outside: cutting wood, mowing grass, and cursing at mulberry trees. And my work in the gym has been downcast, but inspired: I even screamed before I completed a two hundred and seventy pound bench press this morning--my best effort in months.
And today . . . well, I've finally shaken myself out of the writing doldrums and I have made a new commitment to getting some manuscripts back into circulation and writing a couple of new essays before I leave for Muncie in a week. (What's in Muncie, you ask? Answer: Other than Ball State, all of my money, and two thousand United Methodists . . . Nothing!)
Now that most of my books are out of print, I guess I can concentrate on writing haikus again . . . or perhaps some comedy sketches. I hear there are people in Mudville who are yearning for a laugh.
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