Free Hugs : A Personal Story

I’m a published author! Sounds grand, eh?

Oh, okay… I’m a self-published author. Suddenly, the grandness of the opening sentence falls like scales from a lover’s eyes when they return home unexpectedly early from work to find you wearing their underwear and masturbating over a photograph of her mother.

Look. It only happened the once. Let it go! Ahem.

Where was I? Oh, yeah… my first book. And it flopped onto my doormat yesterday morning: Free Hugs : A Personal Story chronicles my alter ego, Hugh Mann’s, experiences with a Free Hugs sign over two and a half extraordinary years in the magnificent city of Bath, England. I cobbled it together using the rather excellent Blurb software, and I’m very impressed by the quality and feel of the book, too [softcover]. And it will certainly prove to be a wonderful lifetime/experience keepsake, as was always its main intention.

But… It’s not exactly the cheapest way to produce a book, and I can’t help but think it’s a frightening amount for others to potentially buy into. It certainly doesn’t feel like a 30UKP book in the hands! So, as pleased as I am with the result, there’s a part of me that almost feels obliged to warn potential buyers to lower their expectation due to the price alone.

I wonder if anyone on Blurb has had any experience of buyers actually throwing a book back at them when they eventually get hold of it? Perhaps I should disable the hardcover option, just in case?! Or simply buy a book crash helmet?!

I’m already regretting not fully investigating its pop-up Free Hug potential; the book could’ve then immediately consoled the buyer. As it is, I’ve decided to go with offering a FREE pack of crayons to eat for all purchasers.

However, I have uploaded the entire book as a PREVIEW which can be seen if you click on the image below:

 

 

 

 

 

No. 73

Image

He walked a thousand miles. And when he got there she had gone. Nearly 20 years earlier. A terrible, creeping, insidious cancer. And in those final days, although he would never know, she had said his name. Softly. Quietly. Until her last breath. As the door closed in front of him, all he could do was stare. Empty. Hollow. He’d wasted a lifetime to reach this conclusion. And now, her door, once as bright and welcoming as her smile, was cracked and weathered; etched with the memory of her passing and a naked reflection of his own aged and time weathered face and hands. In the cherry tree above his head a blackbird sang its plaintive tune. An echo of her memory.