Roswell, GA. 3:00 am eastern time, January 30, 2007, “Mystical.”

It was the first word of my first novel. Completed five months later, and after 300 queries, it was picked up by an agent in 2008, and sold to a publisher in the U.K., finally hitting the bookshelves in December 2009.

Then my agent informed me that I was responsible for marketing the book… How?

She stewarded me through creating a Facebook account, and gave me a list of people to friend. They were all authors. They wanted to sell books, not buy them. Here I confess that I am the most un-networked person on the planet. I’m eight or nine degrees from Kevin Bacon. Dead end.

As a new release, the book sold a few copies; my only royalty check was $92. Curiously, a Bulgarian publisher picked it up at the London Book Festival and purchased the rights. I received another $300. I received a copy of the book in Bulgarian—Cyrillic alphabet—so I know it was published. I could be a best-selling author in Bulgaria, but I never heard another word… in any language.

Having heard how publishers change the title of novels to the dismay of authors, my publisher did not, but the Bulgarian publisher did… and their title was much better.

A year later I discovered that quoting movies and song lyrics—which I did extensively—was a big no-no, though neither my agent nor the publisher’s editor noticed. I explained the legal liability to the publisher in an email and the tome was pulled from circulation, my rights for the manuscript returned to me.

Having recently looked at it, the writing was unsophisticated, and I’m surprised the agent considered it. But then, for the services she provided, I’m not surprised. Not that I’m bitter or anything.

However, I must be grateful as she did provide me with a credential. I’m a traditionally published author, even though I never mention the title of the book.

Don’t moan. I still like the story and may rewrite it benefiting from the practice and study of the intervening seventeen years. And with a new title.