I’m not quite moving on, but I’m heading in that direction.
I’ve asked the experts (my friends) about the lifespan of a
book, how long one has to capture the public imagination, become a trend, or to
get mentioned by The Millions or
Liberty or even the local paper. When is it hopeless? Do I have six months, a
year? Should I still be looking into getting reviews? This is what I’ve
learned: You Do Not Have Long.
In lieu of the Q & A blog post I was planning on doing,
I thought I’d address the hot topics that keep coming up surrounding my plight,
my move from traditional publishing to a less-orthodox dip into
self-publishing. I offer minimal “answers.”
I might immediately offer up a caveat, and some starting
points. I think that it’s likely that I’ll return to the Old School Ways. The
self-publishing gig requires a business acumen that I simultaneously do not
possess, nor like all that much. This feels like I’m hustling or something. I
mean, I’m not pushing drugs—but I’m “working the crowd.” Poorly, I might add.
Can’t I just write?
So my caveat is that I hope this was a short-term project. I
learned a ton—and I know now that there are gifted artists out there who have
had to be Renaissance Men and Women, learning the ropes which are more like
obstacle courses, and finding out in weird ways who will help them and who
really won’t. I still keep saying the same thing, though: I believe in filters,
in editors, in artistry. This—not the money—is the value of the “industry.” The
filters, the editors, the artistry.
But a caveat on top of my caveat: I’ll do what it takes to
get my work out there. I will. I do not regret this experience. I started
Bosco’s Going Down Press LLC. I published my own book. It’s very good. I’ve
solicited one other writer in an effort to pursue the artistry bit. I’ll
identify her: Natasha Anderson. A former student of mine. I’d publish a
collection of her stories. She thinks she’s not ready. I’ll tag her on this.
Yes, I’ll be a real small press. I will turn BoGoDo Press into a real thing.
And now info for those interested in this odd endeavor. Here’s
some reading to get you going!
Laraine Herring and I had a conversation on self-publishing
for The Heavy Feather Review: go here. I
appreciate that they published the whole thing, despite its length, because
it’s pretty honest!
I also wrote this about my book tour: Cra-cra.
One extraordinary part of this endeavor (maybe the best
part) was that I was made very much aware of the support of friends and family.
Like my old college friends, childhood friends, mom-friends, friends from all
parts of my life . . . they were there for me! I absolutely cannot complain. I
was and continue to be supremely touched by this. I have heard TALL TALES (maybe?)
about a secret Amazon algorithm that potentially kicks in if one gets fifty or
more reviews—and I got the reviews (nothing happened). I do strongly believe that
there is inherent value and artistic satisfaction in creating literature, even
if it only touches a few. I am forever thankful for the Kates and Scotts and
Jills who were genuinely moved by my work.
It actually is enough
for me.
Is it enough to “legitimate” my vocation? Is it enough to
keep me writing? Is it enough to continue my philosophizing on Art and
Literature?
Yes and yes and yes.
The challenge I’ve felt, then, really hasn’t been to muster
up the support of my own community. One of my hardest challenges has been the
question of how to move beyond my
faithful friends. What do you do when you’ve exhausted your own group of people
who read? How do you branch out to people YOU DON’T KNOW? That has been my
biggest challenge.
I’m still clueless about that.
From the onset, I would insist on a few things that are
absolutely necessary: PAY MONEY FOR GOOD EDITORS AND LOVE YOUR COVER. I have no
regrets about editorial work or cover choices. I would stress to all interested
writers that one must seek outside editorial help. I’m a freakin’ Grammar
Nazi—and editors are still the best. If you’re going to do this right, get an
editor and choose a cover that speaks to you and resonates with the content of
your book.
Here are some things I’ve done to make this thing work. It’s
been this DIY Extravaganza.
I spent the spring semester doing all these book-things I
think I was supposed to do. ON CREDIT CARDS. (I reached financial ruin promptly
in the middle of June.) The local indie bookstore was supportive (I gotta admit
that my small measure of “street cred” from previous “real” books gave me a
foot-in-the-door, so to speak, in a number of “desirable” arenas). I bought
postcards to hand out. They’re pretty. I bought a poster that I schlepped
around. It, too, is pretty. I made an audiobook in a very professional way.
(This was pricy and I doubt I’ll ever see that monetary investment again—but I
learned a ton from this process and I’m a fan of audiobooks.) I attended the
Tucson Festival of Books, the Associated Writing Programs conference in
Portland, and the Desert Nights, Rising Stars conference in Tempe. Sometimes, I
felt like I was sitting at the kids’ table at Thanksgiving Dinner – like I was
on the outskirts of the real stuff. I crashed poetry readings hosted by
friends, faculty readings like a publicity whore, and book groups whenever
possible. I started using Instagram, hashtagging indiscriminatingly (my kids
tell me I do it wrong). I bought a Book Riot ad (they’re nice, but I’m not sure
it helped). I bought Facebook Ads (nada?). I begged book-bloggers for reviews. I
got great ones. Other people probably tacitly “blocked” me. Some famous people
ignored me.
I devoted all of June, and most of July to a special kind of
book-promo. A book-tour (which we made into a family vacation so it was a
raging success). A Visiting
Author gig at EKU’s Bluegrass Writers Studio. As a writer, this was
valuable for several particular reasons: there was a community of writers and
that community is really a necessary feature of the “writing life,” I spent
time with old friends I personally love, and I think travel is good for
writers!
A lot of this required money that I didn’t have. Self-publishing
requires money. Much of the time since publication seemed like it detracted
from what I actually do best, which is write. A lot of these activities brought
out the worst in me. A lot of it brought out the best in me.
If you have questions for that unwritten Q & A post, let
me know. I’ll try to answer them.
I’ll leave you with the story about MY VERY WORST READING ON
MY BOOK TOUR. It was in Seattle. Seattle! Which was supposed to be my best
reading! I have friends there! People drink coffee there! Grunge is from there!
Kurt! Eddie!
I booked this cute café because the real bookstores in town wouldn’t
have me (SELF-PUB ALERT!). I received gung-ho confirmation from café staff. I
showed up on time WITH MY FRIENDS.
A table was reserved for me. There was a sign with my name
on it.
And that was it. This was a cool café with people at tables,
working on their laptops, chatting, drinking Americanos and mochas.
There was absolutely NO INDICATION that a reading by a
writer was about to happen. Actually, the person who “booked” me was off that
day, and those making the espresso behind the counter only knew about that
table in the back. Were they expecting me? Did they know this was a reading?
Was anyone warned?
I had to figure out what to do.
Was this my “book tour” or what?
Was I a quitter?
Should I succumb, be subject to public humiliation, just
order a cup of coffee? Leave?
And so I told my husband and my friends to take a seat. I
set up my books on the table with my name on it. I walked around to the café
patrons, handed them a postcard, and told them that I was about to read. My
friend asked the barista to turn off the music. The barista said, “In a
minute.”
I stood up and announced to everyone present that, unbeknownst
to them, they were inadvertently attending a fiction-reading.
And then I read from And So We Die, Having First Slept for fifteen minutes.
Everyone kept working on their laptops.
Actually, that’s not true. Two people looked up.
EVERYONE ELSE continued working.
I took questions from the audience. That lasted for about a
second. I stopped and packed up my books. The barista turned Hootie and the
Blowfish back on.
End of story.
What I am telling you is this: I still know very little
about the Life of a Book. This experience was revelatory in many ways. I feel,
now, ready for the next project. I do! I am not riddled with self-doubt about
my writing abilities—though I feel a measure of grief over my business skills.
I was confronted over and over again with the value of my friends and the value
of making Art for the few. And that is enough. It truly is.
