I’d say I hate selling things, but then my six-year-old would inform me that “hate” is an inappropriate word (I teach him well), so let’s say I despise selling things. The time, the effort, the stress. And attempting to sell several things at once? Oy. Makes me want to take the royalties I’ve been lucky enough to make and run to the nearest Caribbean beach.

Observe, for example, the eerie similarities of selling a house and a manuscript:

1. You spend exorbitant amounts of time perfecting every nook and cranny on the off chance that someone will ask to see it.

2.  Despite hours/weeks/years of careful preparation, the person on the other end spends about three seconds making the decision not to buy.

3. Each time someone does want to see it, you experience the high of your life…until the “thanks but no thanks” arrives and sends your spirit plummeting.

4. Sometimes you get no response at all, or get a “no” for reasons that make absolutely no sense. (Like the buyers who insisted they smelled a farm behind my house, shortly after I’d spent an hour sitting in the backyard because of the gorgeous day and clean, crisp air. What. Ever.)

5. The buyers like to tease you with glowing compliments and second looks…but no contract.

6. You have strange dreams about selling, only to wake up and find yourself still in limbo.

7. Every night, you ask yourself if this is worth the trouble or if you should take your junk off the market and get your sanity back…

8. …but you can’t stop. You must be addicted to pain!

P.S. I’m keeping my next house until I’m 95.

This entry was posted on Monday, March 1st, 2010 at 8:54 am and is filed under Avery's Posts. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.