I’ve been promising that the cover art for my second novel, For Myself Alone, was coming. So now here it is!
I’m pleased with the way it turned out, but the early returns weren’t promising. When the painting was underway, my darling husband came into my studio – normally my exclusive, sacrosanct domain – and braved a comment. “You already painted that!” he said, referring to the general similarity to the artwork I did for The Darcys of Pemberley. I decided to forgive him, primarily because the resemblance was intentional.
This is “Fairfield.” It’s not as grand as Pemberley, but it is another manor house set in the English countryside, with lots of green and blue (my favorite colors) and a sky big enough to write the title of a book across.
Now I will turn the picture over to my graphic designer and let him work his magic – filtering, cropping to the right proportions, and placing all the text items in just the right places so that it will wrap around and form the front and back cover. When he’s done, and my story is tucked inside, book #2 should look like it belongs on your bookshelf right next to book #1 – a semi-matched set. Or perhaps, noticing that the book (which is, of course, prominently displayed on your coffee table) has caught the eye of a visiting friend or relative, you will say to her…
“I think you must like For Myself Alone, if you were to read it; it is so very interesting.”
“Not I, faith! No if I read any, it shall be Ms. Winslow’s; her novels are amusing enough; they are worth reading; some fun and nature in them.”
“For Myself Alone was written by Ms. Winslow!”
Then you will both laugh, and you will no doubt continue by telling your friend where she can buy a copy for her very own.
Oops! There I go, fantasizing again. Occupational hazard of a fiction writer.
(JA quote taken from Northanger Abbey, chapter 7, with minor modifications, my apologies to Udolpho and Mrs. Radcliffe)