Stop me if you've heard this one. After all the clack-clack-clacking of drafting, and the excruciating bleeding of editing, you have written a book. It's done*. Your work isn't just a pdf file floating out in the information superhighway**, but an actual, physical copy of a book. It smells of glue, and paper, and one day it may smell like the shelf it sat upon for years on end. You can touch it; it has mass. It is a thing that, were it not for you, would not exist in this world. You are filled with a quiet gladness that you had more resolve than you might have previously thought. I can't imagine the experience is anything like having a child. If the child smells like wood pulp and Elmer's, something else is likely wrong. But another key difference lies beyond the elation of the creation:
You have to sell the damned thing.
Online engagement and posts -- like this one -- have their place in the process, but something else will elevate those sales. Face-to-face contact is key. Have you ever tried to sit at a table on your own, peddling your wares to an indifferent public? The first book even I went to after I finished Right - A Novel of Politics went about as well as you'd expect. I sold one book in four hours, to a very nice lady who was far too polite to admit that she thought I was someone else. She may have taken pity. Either way, I hope she enjoyed the book.
The Murder folks faced similar disappointment when they previously went to the Underground Monster Carnival they collectively only sold one copy from their catalog during the entire event.
Writing is lonely work. It's part of the reason I live for it. The quiet battle with the blank page is as close to a meditative trance as I'm likely to achieve. I believed for so long that making the case for your book should be a similarly long and lonely road. I was certain that going it alone was the only path to success.
I was wrong. There's so much out there to consume. Individually, our work is only a small drop in a churning, ever-expanding ocean of content.
Last weekend, the Nevermore Edits group*** had a huge weekend in sales. I sold plenty of books. Others sold plenty of books. The important thing is that we sold a lot of books. A rising tide lifted all boats, and we all quenched a little bit of our thirst for success in a field that is content to knock us down at every turn. I admire the hell out of these people, and while publishing success may prove tricky for anyone, I would much rather fail with the gang I belong to now, than fail on my own.
*Yes, I know "done" is a relative term. I've only abandoned books when I've published them.
**Apparently, I'm writing this blog entry in 1997. Time travel is hard, folks.
***Made up of myself, the aforementioned Murder folks, and more than a few other brilliant writers working in common purpose.