Somewhere, right now, in New York City, people are clothing the naked copy of SEDUCED BY SHADOWS. I wrote it — I gave it a heart — but now other people are giving it a face, wrapping a cover around its exposed skin.
It’s kind of creepy. And scary. It’s kind of like this:
I mean, who ARE these cover artists and copy writers and manuscript illuminators? (Wait — what do you mean my story won’t be illuminated? Ah well, for the sequel…) Do they love my story as much as I do? Do they GET it? Because they are the ones who will come between my words and you, the reader. They are a bridge — will they create a shining span to tempt you across or will it be a rotten plank from which you recoil in fear of your very life? (Well, presumably no cover is THAT bad. Except from the author’s warped perspective.)
As my editor, my agent and I revised the back cover copy, I am reminded again how our dreams are so often out of our control. In sleep, we slide through shifting imagery and emotional vagaries of alarm and giddiness — just like this dream of becoming an author. Only now I’ve shanghaied a bunch of other people, some of them utter strangers, into my dream. How odd.
I can’t wait to bring you all into my dream.