August 1 2006 was D Day: the day of publication, and the commencement of my new, glorified existence as a legitimate, published author. My novels are no longer stagnating in the closet. They are finally out in the public domain, to be devoured and criticised by dispassionate strangers. I'm so relieved that my babies are no longer doomed to rot in my chest of draws for the rest of eternity, I want to celebrate by starting afresh. A new literary cycle beckons, I think optimistically.

As my old 'masterpieces' are now published in hardcover, paperback and e-book form, I wonder if I should spring-clean and eradicate the original documents from my computer? After all, I now have a complimentary copy of each book safely stacked on my shelves, but caution warns me. What if a fire destroyed my office? Or, how would I be able to cope if a burglar unchained my computer from the radiator, and stole my life? If I was more of a neurotic perfectionist, and wanted to tweak the books for their second edition, Id definitely need the original documents to revise for that repetitive task.

After sensibly deciding not to delete my ancient literature from my machine, I celebrate with a lobster dinner and a bottle of stale champagne, which I have been hoarding for this momentous occasion. Then, reality sets in. The easy part is over. The grind is just beginning.

Admittedly, it took me over three decades to finish my first novel, Frantic, and I was gutted when the top literary agent, who represented me on Crushed, my second novel was forced to retire before he could sell my teen fiction 'opus'. But, from now on, as my publisher reminds me, the hard work is only just beginning. I must now launch and market my newly published books, and in order to do so must shamelessly promote myself on the world wide web.

I presumed that after publication date, I would be able to effortlessly progress onto my next novel with a clear head. No such luck. I now need to publicise, promote and cajole, which means I shall be never be able to shake free of my old books. I must try to sell them to potential readers outside my coterie of supportive friends.

To date, one West End bookstore has agreed to stock my books on the strength of their content, proclaiming them to be exciting and quirky. Theres only one drawback. If I want my books sold in their illustrious store, I must be prepared to change the books' current covers. My next step in the promotion game, is to negotiate with all the other book stores, and also pester my rusty journalistic contacts, begging them to review my books. I shall leave no old contact unturned, I think determinedly.

Yes, the easy part is over. Now, the unrelentless, hard slog of marketing has only just began. I must first write some enticing press releases, making my books sound even more interesting and irresistible than they purport to be, and ambitiously churn out dynamic newsletters for the web and for print. When will the combined process of writing and promotion ever end, I wail?

I console myself that the next imperative step is to make audio books out of my novels, but remind myself, as long as I am able to write, I shall have to resign myself, to consistently dream up ingenious, promotional schemes. Unlike children, my books will never leave my nest.

Frances Lynn: copyright 2006