John Fram abandoned his “very gay, very avant-garde debut novel” to write a werewolf romance thriller:
I have learned the meaning of self-loathing and it is writing a sentence that you know is sloppy and starting another sentence. I feel like I am harming not just my (future) reputation but also harming the English language as a whole. I am contributing to the white noise of publishing. I am pouring out more words to distract readers from the things that are actually worth reading. What am I doing? Some day I will die. Some day every day reader will die and I will have on my last conscience the fact that there are readers out there who wasted what little time they had on this awful book.
And the fruits of that soul-sucking labor?
The Last of His Kind made me $42.49 in the U.S. (and India) and $20.80 in Europe. After the $19.99 for my virtual book tour (which led to no noticeable increase in sales), the book made me a total of $43.40. If we are to estimate that I worked on LoHK for at least 10 hours a week—and doesn’t that seem low? Don’t you remember, John, those mornings when you would wake up at 5:00 a.m. and work until you had to go to your day job at one in the afternoon?—that means I invested about 240 hours into the book. According to the free market, I am worth $0.18 an hour as a writer.