I’ve not been doing much writing. Instead, I’ve been doing a heap of reading, quite a few tasks around the place, a modicum of socialising, and thinking. Mountains of thinking.

The thinking is partly about plot and character. Unkept Promises needs more work before it is ready for someone else to edit and proofread. I’m rewriting large chunks of To Wed a Proper Lady to tighten the story and introduce plot elements that will work themselves out over the series (the Duke of Haverford and his slow demise, for one). I keep seeing scenes from the next two books in the Mountain King series. I’ve worked out plot motivations for the next Redepenning book. And I’m about to set down and do a Hero’s Journey for Maximum Force, the contract killer, and his heroine, Serenity Christian.

It’s also partly about my own motivations. Somewhere in all the discussion about how hard it is to be seen in the bazillion book marketplace, with its pirates and its scammers and all the barriers put up by the retailers and social-media companies in their bid for world-domination, I’d lost track of the fact I don’t care.

It isn’t that I don’t want my books to be read. I do. I really, really do, and I humbly thank all of you who have followed me and supported me. But that isn’t why I write.

I write, and I publish what I write, because telling stories is a huge part of what I am, and a story isn’t real until a reader or listener recreates it in their own imagination. To put it in religious terms, this is my vocation. I need to tell the stories that are in my head to tell, and to do so with all the skill and imagination at my command. I need to slave and fret over them till they’re the best they can be. That’s my calling. That needs to be my focus.

I’m not going to ignore marketing, because to do so would be stupid. I’m not going to worry about it, either. My job is to write.