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But, then comes marketing. Biggest pain in the... Well, let's just say it makes me want to not publish sometimes. So, why publish?

I've entered EPPIES three times, and been a finalist three times. The second time one of my books was an EPPIE finalist, I made some wisecrack in an author's egroup about how "finalist" is a synonym for "loser" and was raked over coals.

Oops!

(Maybe I annoyed entrants who weren't finalists. I'd always wondered if they existed...)

So, let's say I'm not publishing for money or awards. They sing a siren song to new authors which this jaded old bastard quit hearing long ago. I got all that out of my system in previous millenium. So, why do I still publish? What are my rewards? Let me mention a few.

A psychologist turned English teacher formed a women's reading group at university where we once worked together in China. Her concept was women readers, women writers. But first book group ever discussed was my very own RISING FROM THE ASHES, which is about Mom. My only foray into "women's literature." I couldn't attend reading group, since I'm a guy, but my wife was there. What I learned about my book is priceless, as is knowing what those young students discussed because of my writing. Issues of such depth that I'd be proud to inspire any student, in any country, in any language, to tackle them.

I used to work on North Carolina hog farms. I enjoyed company of some damn fine people at every one of them. Hog farming is hard work. This isn't backyard family farm, folks, this is 13 people with 98 boars, 3500 sows, and all babies they can make. One of my toughest coworkers was a lesbian who could break Xena in half, and my one foray into writing horror gave her nightmares.

I don't consider myself a poet, and I believe most of reading world agrees with me. But, I have published 6 poems. There is one that a hog farm coworker insists will be read at his funeral. Don't ask me why he was planning his funeral during our lunch break because I have no idea. But, well, I guess I'm invited, in a manner of speaking.

Master Pizza, 30th Street, Tampa, Florida. A bunch of drunken Italian relatives reading one of my less-than-serious poems ALOUD between pitchers of beer. It was like a Joe Dolce moment.

I was working as a security guard in a particularly unpleasant place. This was 20 years ago, I think. A fellow guard read one of my short stories. It is, by far, most allegorical thing I've ever written. I can't tell you how many times I've thought about throwing it out. But then, I remember Bob's words. "This is me. This is my life." Me too, old pal, and I don't care if you and I are only two readers to have any idea what I'm talking about. {Scapegoat Bob!}

I've written some pretty heady volumes, but I've also written quite a few short works. I've heard from numerous students here in China that, "This is first book in English I've ever finished reading." When I write, I certainly never set out to help anyone learn English. (Some of my editors may claim I never learned language.) And, students will LIE to teachers. But I've decided that at least one was telling truth.

When I left US, I embarked on several journeys. Learning to live in China. Learning to love again. Taking another shot at writer dream. And, eventually, teaching. After all that, I tried my hand at writing humor for first time. Every time I hear my wife laugh at something I've written, I file it away as a reason to keep writing.

I've written one play in my life. I was young, and quite hooked on album (pre-CD days) JESUS CHRIST SUPERSTAR. So, you guessed it, I tackled JC. I wrote something that nobody can read without having a powerful reaction. Readers love it or they hate it. I'm proud of that. And hey, it's only one act long. I have a short attention span.

I loaned Clint "Two Dawgs" Hill my very first book. My cousin. He took it to Durham (North Carolina) and loaned it to a bunch of hippie buddies. He asked for another, because first one fell apart from overuse. That's why we publish. People all but fighting for chance to read my words. And heck, book wasn't even good yet. It's 20 years older now.

I mention all this for jaded old bastards who have a few novels and bit of minor success under their belts. Nobody else is reading this anymore, are they?

So, maybe this is why we don't just stop when book is written, stick it in a drawer, and uncork champagne. Although I do hope you uncorked champagne. This planet contains far too many people who "want to be authors" but who haven't written a book. Never have, never will. Meanwhile, you and I are sitting here knowing we had no choice. We had to write.

Why publish? Heck, why not?