If you are interested enough in this fledgling writer to read my blog posts, you are to be rewarded with my candid-yet-taboo disclosure of my pitiful-but-promising sales numbers to date. After a bit of arm-twisting (ahem, encouragement), my initial readers have posted their glowing reviews on amazon.com. Despite the fact that I solicited these reviews, I nonetheless believe them to be heartfelt and honest. After all, I might be able to coax a few reviews from friends (and even a client!) with the strategic application of guilt, but I cannot put such laudatory words into other people's mouths.

Getting people to buy a self-published book is like pulling teeth. And hawking my work has been a humbling experience. But I get it: I am asking a lot. Most people simply aren't that interested. Even if they are a little curious about the story I have written, they have to plunk down $20 (plus shipping) to take a 50-50 chance on either enjoying my work, or having wasted money only to be put in the awkward position of not liking it. To add insult to injury, I am asking for a few hours of your precious time to actually read 406 printed pages to find out! 

So I cannot sufficiently commend (or thank) those 40 people who have actually done all of the above to support me. Each sale, every single review and encouraging email, has made this journey worthwhile. If everyone could experience the high a writer feels when her work has moved someone, or simply made them laugh, the drug dealers would all go out of business. They haven't discovered a substance as heady and addictive as that.

I will continue hoping that Later With Myself sells 500 copies (or even 5,000. Heck, if I'm going to delude myself--ahem, dream, why not do it in a big way?). And in the meantime, my profuse and deepest thanks go to those who have actually bought my book and read it. And to those of you who have given me positive feedback, you have my undying gratitude.