Labour Day weekend has been an annual turning point all my life. First as a child, when I had to give up carefree summer play, either on the city streets or at the cottage we rented. The rigours (and boredom) of school beckoned. Then later as a university student. It seems I spent endless years at university at both the undergraduate and graduate levels. Ten years, to be exact. After I finally entered gainful employment, it was as a consulting psychologist to a school board. Although we worked part of the summer, without the demands of schools, parents, students, and staff, the pace was relaxed. On the Tuesday morning after Labour Day, however, we hit the ground running, and ran non-stop until the end of June.
I've been retired from "gainful employment" for some time now, so the months of the year, and indeed the days of the week, don't matter much, but I still find myself gearing up to start anew in early September. Mentally brushing off the pleasant languor that settles in the summer as I spend most of it at my lakeside cottage. I read, I kayak, swim, and paddleboard; I enjoy friends and family; I sit on the dock to watch the sunset and listen to the loons; and I soak up the sun (although to call this summer's weather unpredictable is charitable). But once the calendar flips to September, I find myself mentally squaring my shoulders and saying "Right. Now what's next?"
I can't spend the autumn in idle self-indulgence. My next book isn't due out until January 2025, and there's almost nothing for me to do about it for several months. I can slowly start thinking about book launches, signings and readings, and wondering what conferences, if any, I should register for. But nothing is urgent yet and I feel a need to do something new. January 2025 will mark twenty-five years since I published my first Inspector Green novel. In that time, I've published twenty-two books. For twenty-five years I've been talking to book clubs, sitting in mall bookstores, and networking with librarians and booksellers. Beloved bookstores have closed, librarians have retired or changed jobs, reviewers have been axed, and many of my contacts have changed so many times I can't keep track. Sometimes it feels futile. Gone is that feeling of being thrilled to sell fifteen books at a store signing, that feeling that I'm on my way to fame and fortune.
If I sound cynical, I'm not. Just wiser. I do love meeting readers and fellow book lovers. I love book clubs. I have an enthusiastic readership and I get respectable reviews. I've won awards and been nominated for even more. My publisher has been supportive since the beginning. But I am a mid-list author. I'm always happy when a new reader finds me, but I'm realistic that I have a comfortable place, not on the front table of the bookstore, but in the mystery shelves at the back. In respectable numbers, but not screaming for attention. I will do the launches and signings and social media blitzes when the time comes, but right now, with the arrival of September, I am saying "Now what?"
I have an idea, but won't mention it until I've started to explore it a bit more. Meanwhile, within the next month or so, the review galleys for Shipwrecked Souls will be available for those interested, and probably pre-orders as well. So stay tuned.
