Don’t Mess With Bill

My dad’s name is Bill. My brother’s name is Bill. My cousin’s name is Will. All derivatives of William, and all beloved by me. Then there’s the other William. My historical crush. William Shakespeare. In my dining room, in a place of honor, I have a shrine with a portrait of a young & sweet looking Shakespeare discovered and authenticated only a decade or so ago in a Canadian attic owned by a guy named Saunders, who, much to his delight, turned out to be a distant relative of the portrait painter.

Then there’s the custom-made bookshelf right under my handsomely framed print, devoted to William’s own works and works about him. Also, sometimes I teach Shakespeare  to college students. Mostly Hamlet, and the sonnets, but also things like Twelfth Night. My friends and I are frequent visitors to the Shakespeare festival in Stratford (Ontario, since we live in Detroit and it’s a couple hours’ drive compared to an ocean voyage for the real thing). Simply put, I’m a fan.

Because I love Bill, I dislike the anti-Stratfordians, those crazy people who think, because he didn’t go to college, Shakespeare could not possibly have written his plays. I dislike that theory more than almost more than any other, even the one about only Catholics going to heaven. I do relish lecturing about why. But this is not a lecture.

It’s a ramble about marketing, in which I seek to talk about what I really love instead of hammering out a press release type marketing blog. I ramble with a purpose. Looks like I’m going to have another book accepted by The Wild Rose Press. And it’s the first in a series. I’ve got a few other half-books going. Tonight I started thinking about how I could cobble pieces of them together for my series. And if my publisher will allow the series to transform from romance to women’s fiction. Lots on my mind. Happy thoughts. Thoughts of Bill, who loved words and ideas and stories.

And thoughts of Rosalind, my favorite Shakespeare character, from As You Like It, my favorite Shakespeare play. Rosalind and her words so wise as she cautions an infatuated suitor: “I’m not for all markets.” Ha! That means something different in the play than it does for my own marketing, or lack thereof. But when I find a connection to my special William, I take it, however tenuous.

So there it is. Like Rosalind, I’m a writer who is not for all markets. And you know what? That’s okay. She lived happily ever after, and I intend to, too. Despite the fact that there are no pictures in my blog and the title of this entry is not intended to bring in searchers, which I hear are both absolutely necessary for a good post.  I assert again, like Rosalind, I am not for all markets.