There’s something profoundly surreal about the stage I’m in with Ephemeris.
It’s not done…not really. Every day, new beta reader comments roll in, each one a gift wrapped in constructive criticism. My characters are still evolving. Dialogue is being sharpened. Scenes are getting gutted or expanded. Entire chapters are packing their bags and moving. And yet, somehow, I’m already promoting it.
I’ve made marketing materials. I’ve drafted blurbs. I’m designing teaser ads and planting seeds online: little pulses of intrigue intended to spark interest, to whisper that something is coming. And it is. But also…it isn’t. Not yet.
It’s like living in two timelines at once. One where the book exists in its full, published glory – a sleek artifact ready for the world. And another where it’s still raw clay, fingerprints all over it, uncertain of its final shape. It’s a strange duality, and I suspect I’m not alone in this liminal creative space.
Between the Draft and the Dream
There’s this idea among non-writers (and if we’re honest, even among some writers when we’re still idealistic and pre-published) that once you finish a draft, you’re “done.” But anyone who’s ever shepherded a novel into the world knows the truth: finishing a draft is just step one of several dozen.
Last night my wife congratulated me on finishing my book. I smiled, kissed her, and reminded her that I’d finished a manuscript. Right now, I’m elbow-deep in rewrites. Not the tidy kind where you fix a few typos and call it good, but the gut-check kind where you realize a chapter’s entire vibe doesn’t track emotionally and needs to be rebuilt to, as my wife put it, match the color palette of the rest of the Ephemeris home.
I’m writing physical descriptions for just about every character in the book (see last week’s post). I’m deciding whether the major storytelling arc works the way I have it or whether I need to shift it several chapters earlier to make it easier for readers to follow along. It’s the sort of work that’s both exhilarating and exhausting, like tearing down a wall in your house only to discover you really liked how it looked before.
And yet, even in this mess, I find myself making bold public proclamations: Ephemeris is coming. It’s real. Here’s a logo. Here’s a tagline. Here’s a teaser image with a burning city and a satellite drifting overhead.
There’s a part of me that feels like an imposter when I hit “share” on something like that. Like I’m showing off a finished cake when the batter’s still in the bowl. But the truth is, the marketing process and the creative process often overlap in messy, meaningful ways.
Marketing the Unfinished
I’m starting to understand that marketing a book isn’t about announcing its completion. It’s about inviting others into its becoming.
Every promotional image I post, every mysterious sentence I share, is less of a sales pitch and more of a breadcrumb. It’s a clue for the curious. A signal to the right kind of reader that something they might love is forming. And isn’t that what we’re all really doing as artists? Whispering across the void, hoping someone hears us and says, “I’m listening. Tell me more.”
But even as I send out these breadcrumbs, I’m keenly aware that I’m not showing the whole loaf. My characters are still shifting. My themes are still crystallizing. There are threads I’m only now learning to tug: threads that, once pulled, unravel entire chapters and force me to weave something stronger in their place.
And that’s the paradox: to market something you’re still rewriting is to live in a kind of creative Schrödinger’s box. The story is both alive and in flux. It’s finished and unfinished. It’s public and private. Known and unknown.
Schrödinger’s Cat Has a Book Deal
This whole experience reminds me of Schrödinger’s Cat – the famous quantum thought experiment where a cat in a sealed box is simultaneously alive and dead until someone opens the lid to check.
Ephemeris is my cat.
To some, it’s already a tangible thing. They’ve seen the title. They’ve read versions of a tagline: “Time stopped. Cities burned. Truth endured.” They’ve visited the website, maybe even signed up for updates. In that version of the box, Ephemeris exists. It’s real. It’s coming soon(ish).
But to me? To me, the box is still sealed tight with duct tape and doubt. Inside, I’m still rewriting motivations. Still carving physical descriptions into places that once only held emotion. Still second-guessing word choices and watching scenes morph from exposition into revelation.
It’s weird to promote something that still has placeholder paragraphs. But here’s the kicker: it’s also kind of thrilling. Like I’m carrying this big, magnificent secret and I’ve finally started leaking it, just a little, because it’s too big to keep inside anymore.
The Bookmark as a Beacon
Take this bookmark, for example. It’s not just a marketing tool: it’s a milestone. It’s proof that Ephemeris is moving from idea to artifact. Even as I revise the manuscript, this sliver of cardstock says, “Yes, this is happening. Yes, this is real.”
Designing that bookmark forced me to distill everything I’ve been trying to say in 500+ pages into a few spare lines. It’s a compression chamber for the book’s soul. And somehow, it works. When I hold it in my hand, I don’t just feel proud…I feel accountable. That’s a strange gift. A humbling one, too.
Because now there’s no going back. I’ve lifted the corner of the lid. I’ve shown people the cat. I’ve declared that this story matters. Which means I have to make sure it lives up to the promise.
Writing in Public, Rewriting in Private
So here I am, split between two roles. I’m the builder and the barker. The one shaping the story and the one selling it. And while that might sound chaotic, I think it’s actually kind of beautiful. Because it reminds me that storytelling isn’t just about the end product. It’s about the becoming.
If you’re a writer in this same space…still revising, still tinkering, but already sharing glimpses of what’s to come, know this: it’s okay to live in both worlds. It’s okay to rewrite and reveal at the same time. It doesn’t make you a fraud. It makes you a storyteller.
We don’t just write books. We build anticipation. We start conversations. We light sparks.
And sometimes, we make bookmarks before the ink is even dry.
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