by susan | Apr 18, 2013 | Uncategorized
some people can sell anything.
some people can sell anything they believe in.
and then there are those who can sell anything they believe in, unless they were the one who created it. I, unfortunately, belong in this latter category.
my undergrad is in marketing. and although our world has changed dramatically since I earned that degree, many of the principles remain intact. research, target markets, distribution, advertising…regardless of the product, success occurs when all of these pieces come together effectively. to sell something–anything–one must have a marketing plan and be (or hire) a salesman.
all I want to do is be a writer. I don’t want to be a salesman. I want to create written works; I don’t want to create marketing plans. but alas, I live in these interesting times, and I am still an “unknown” in the world of published books. thus, if I want to get anywhere, I have to become a salesman.
at this point I have one co-authored self-published book out there, faith greater than pain. it’s available on amazon. we’ve sold a few hundred copies, which surpasses by far the typical sales number for a self-published book, which is somewhere around 50. we’re kicking butt. but we’d like to sell a few hundred more, then another thousand or so. and then more. according to the Deseret News, it’s a phenomenal read, and it deserves a wide audience. but I still can’t figure out how to effectively market it.
and then my latest dilemma: the next book, the constant possibility of grace. this is a beautiful book, written to bring greater awareness to an amazing humanitarian organization that is working to increase social parity throughout our world. I wrote this book to let others know about CHOICE Humanitarian, and at this point, with the manuscript sitting in the proverbial drawer, I’m not fulfilling my mission. so . . . it’s time to dig out the marketing hat. at least that’s what I’m trying to convince myself to do. and I find it terribly difficult.
a good friend of mine, years ago, when a place was swarming with people would say, everyone and their pet alligator were trying to find space, get in, make a purchase, whatever the situation might be. and that’s how I feel about the writing world: everyone and their pet alligator wants to write a book. everyone and their pet alligator wants to publish a book, capture an agent’s attention, find a publisher. I am just one more.
one more human trying to create a web presence, garner some attention, make a name for myself, drum up interest, build a platform, find someone–somewhere–with a nationally heard voice to support what I do. one more human trying to navigate the world of social media and networking.
so, right now I’m trying to put my creative energies into formulating a marketing plan for my grace book. it’s not enough to simply publish it myself; without a plan to support its introduction to the world I’ll be lucky to sell 50 copies. I’m networking, reaching out to everyone I know who has any kind of a connection, working on tight cover copy and blurbs, designing schemes and promotions. when I’d rather be–my soul cries out for me to be–simply writing.
but I and my pet alligator are joining the fray. we’re here for the long haul, and we’re not giving up. I’m remembering my purpose in creating this book and making that the focus so I don’t have to make it about me. this way I can brag about the subject, not the incredible writing (smile).
pet alligator and I are going back to school, marketing 101. keep an eye out for us, because we’re tenacious. there will come a day when you’ll be hearing about this book from someone other than the two of us.
by susan | Apr 10, 2013 | what I'm reading
a while back I was browsing the new york times book review when my eyes landed on an advertisement for a non-fiction book that I’d recently read. the book had been given to me by a friend–who had read it and loved it–and was about people living in a country half a world away, most of them in abject poverty. (let me be clear: the following comments have little to do with the book or its author, as the book is well-written and engaging and the author is evidently talented and committed to her work.)
splashed across the advertisement were blurbs recommending the book, everything from “must read,” “as vivid as fiction,” “exquisite in every detail,” “an astonishing book,” to “comparison to Dickens is not unwarranted,” “a jaw-dropping achievement, an instant classic of narrative nonfiction,” “riveting,” and “a mind-blowing read.”
I repeat: this is a good book. however, my jaw did not drop while reading it, nor was my mind blown. and not once did I think (nor do I still) about comparing her writing to that of Charles Dickens. I wasn’t even riveted.
blurbs have become the thing to do. the publishing world has decided that these one- to fifty-word statements from reviewers, celebrities, people-in-the-know, and other authors are the way to sell a book. some books’ front pages are filled with them, and most back covers are adorned with them. it seems you can’t buy a book that hasn’t been read, loved, and blurbed about by somebody who’s somebody.
I find it tiresome. I find it doesn’t matter if a book receives a good review (and even in an overall negative review there are often a few good words that can be culled into a positive blurb), or is on the bestseller list, or is praised by another author. I may or may not like it, and it may or may not be well-written, have a compelling story line, or be witty and informative. it doesn’t matter to me at all what those blurbs say, because I know it’s all a game. and it seems to be the predominant game in today’s publishing world. I feel patronized: do publishers really think we can’t see through their ploy? don’t they understand that the blurb business has become bloated to the point where we readers can no longer trust a word of it? every book I pick up has been blurbed and praised, and much of what gets passed along is meaningless. “stellar,” “exquisite, clever, and tenderly recounted,” “extraordinary.” let me read the first chapter and then I’ll decide. for myself.
the book review is still a beautiful (though a subjective and highly personal) thing, especially when the reviewer is more interested in conveying his or her thoughts and reactions than impressing anyone with his or her use of language. what I find fault with is the current system of dissecting legitimate reviews and soliciting celebrities’ comments simply to plant meaningless “blurbs” on and inside published books. I am openly stating to the publishing world that the almighty blurb has lost its punch. the blurb has burgeoned into worthlessness.
last week’s new york times book review closed with an essay on literary prizes, written by amanda foreman. in it she states that goodreads.com lists over 6,000 prizes on its web site. nobels and pulitzers are still undeniably king, but what about those other 5998+? most of us like to win prizes, to have our work awarded an honor. recognition is a vital part of creation, as much as we often wish it weren’t. but like the blurb, the literary prize is slowly losing its meaning as the number given proliferates. I am not impressed to read that a book received a prize I’ve never heard of, given by an association I’m unfamiliar with; I’m simply aware that someone (likely an agent or publisher) submitted a manuscript to a committee in hopes of adding credentials to the book’s name. (I think it quite likely that most prize-winning books have numerous blurbs.)
I like to assess books by what I read between the first word of the prologue and the last of the epilogue, between the first word of chapter one and the final word before the end. I don’t care too much what anyone else has said about it, or if it has been on the bestseller list, or if it’s won a prize. the best books can stand in their own, old clothes, all by themselves. those of us who truly love books and truly love to read can see right through every single blurb and prize to the truth of a manuscript, and like the child in hans christian andersen’s tale, can tell when the “new clothes” are nothing but air.
by susan | Mar 19, 2013 | Uncategorized
it seems obvious that one should write what one knows. a gardener will write a better gardening book than I; a fly fisherman is going to write a better book about flies and ties and rivers than one who doesn’t fish. not only will a writer spend less time researching a subject they’re familiar with, they will also write with an insider’s perspective and hopefully an insider’s passion; they will write with more intimacy and thus create a better book.
this is not to say one cannot write about what one doesn’t know: research combined with imagination and inspiration opens worlds of wonder for a writer caught in their spell. I find myself lost in magical realms when given a little knowledge and a creative whirl. as intensely direct and fulfilling as it is to write about your areas of expertise, to wander into new experiences offers gifts you can neither anticipate nor predict.
but there is a different way of writing about what you don’t know, one in which I’m currently snarled, one which I find extremely challenging if I let myself think about it. it’s the task a writer faces when writing fiction; the task of letting the story evolve on its own. of knowing that you don’t yet know the outcome, but must write anyway.
perhaps there are authors who design a storyline before they write a word, who know what each character will face and say and when. who know the movement and resolution, and only need to fill in with words and minor details. I am not that author. I begin wherever I’m inspired to begin, and let everything evolve from there. I may have a general message or theme, or not. I may have a few characters in mind, or only one. I often visualize a setting, but it may become just one of many. I cannot always know where my book is headed.
and thus I end up writing what I don’t know.
I would rather be able to outline the entire project and to know exactly where I’m headed . . . but apparently I don’t work that way. what I’ve found is that I need to firmly grip a huge hunk of faith and to trust that it will come to me. time and again I begin writing about one thing, say, a character sitting on a rock beside a river, and end up somewhere completely unexpected, say, at his parent’s home in grinnell, iowa, writing about his father’s search for a journal at the town stationery shop. I can’t always know where my mind, heart, and pen are going to go.
I want to. if I’m not going to write about what I know well—my passions—then I want to do oodles of research and outlines and predictions and planning. I want to know where I’m going. I fight this desire every time I put pen to paper, and force myself to sink deeper into that subconscious level that knows everything about every story I’ll ever write. that–as julia cameron describes it–river of creativity that lies deep within us, that place which knows better than we do exactly what we desire to create.
once again it comes down to faith. trust. letting go and letting God, or letting go and letting your true, inner self take over. which is the right thing to do whether you’re writing about what you know, what you’re not certain you know, and what you’re certain you don’t really know.
by susan | Mar 12, 2013 | what I'm reading
most books I read never make it to my bookshelf.
only books I love make it to my bookshelf.
it’s partially a financial decision (I read so many books a month I’d have to sacrifice eating or something equally painful to pay for them all), partially a space decision (I’d have to begin building furniture out of books), and most importantly, a decision made because I wish to be surrounded only by things I love. I mostly buy books only after I’ve read them (borrowing from the library or from friends), making the decision to purchase because I want to treasure them, own them, have them around me, let them speak to me from the shelves, remind me of them as I pass by and glance at the bookcase.
not many of the books I read fall into this category. many I appreciate, many I learn from. many I find interesting or gripping, but the ones that capture my heart and soul are few and far between. which is not a terrible thing. I don’t need to fall in love with every book I read: some I need for pure escapism; some I need for advice, validation, education. the most glorious of all are those from which I expect little, that grow wings and blossom with each turn of a page, and become more than I dared hope for. surprises. gifts. unexpected pleasures found.
a while back I was trying to find books on my shelf that might interest my 15-year-old stepson who has not yet learned to love books. (I fear I gave him nothing at all that piqued his interest, but I tried.) what I loved, though, during this process, was to run my eyes along the titles, letting images and memories, scenes, stories, characters flit through my mind, oh yes, I loved christopher, oh, and that time he told the story of the bears, and oh, the congo, how terrifying the fighting was . . . tales and pieces and names came flowing in and out as I moved from shelf to shelf.
woe is he who doesn’t read. whose imagination and memories aren’t filled with richly remembered stories and moments. television and movies can’t give the same gift as words on pages to which we must add our own imaginative wanderings.
I love my books on my bookshelves. they tell the story of me, from years of education and introspection and growth to those of joy, escapism, curiosity. I am my bookshelf, wide and varied and deep and filled with a thousand stories and dreams and realities.
in stating all of this, I do not mean to slight the rest of the books I read and return, for they, too, have had a hand in my becoming who I am. but unless a book–or a beloved author’s book–resonates deeply with some part of me, it’s unlikely that I will bring it home to rest with all the others who have slowly and certainly become a part of who I am.
by susan | Mar 5, 2013 | Uncategorized
I’ve done a lot of waiting in my life. in fact, I’ve become good at it. I am patient. I can out-wait a rainstorm, a winter storm, a teenager’s tantrum, my children’s father’s poorly-compensated job. an infected cut that resists healing, a lacrosse game played in a snowstorm, a home-remodeling crew whose priorities are radically different than mine.
I can wait. I am patient. but this doesn’t mean I like it.
when it comes to my writing life, patience seems to be its very foundation. and its walls are built of tenacity. I don’t believe there’s a ceiling, and the roof–which plays with the sky above and only provides a protective function when necessary–is made of joy, exaltation and delight loosely woven with thousands of whee‘s and woo-hoo‘s.
I have waited more than eleven years for a yes from an agent or publisher. and that’s counting backwards to the “completion” date of my first book-length manuscript, a memoir, which still resides in the proverbial drawer. (and on a cd: always back up your work.) and here’s the thing: I am not giving up. this is where patience and tenacity sit quietly together, doing their little subconscious work, changing atoms and cells from eager, impatient things to calm, faith-filled, dogged centers of groundedness.
I envision the day–hour–moment when I receive that first real yes. I’ve won a writing award; I’ve received oodles of positive feedback; I’ve heard yes-but not for us. the genuine yes is coming, I know this . . . but I’d sure like to know from what direction it’s coming so I could meet it halfway.
until then, I just keep working. I write, I edit, I write some more. I help friends with their projects, I jot down ideas when they flow and step away from my notebooks when my creative river dwindles. most days I carry my notebook around with me just in case. I begin drafts, I let them rest until they either find their way to germination or sink back down into fallowness. I am nothing but tenacious.
some mornings I wake up thinking today is the day; most mornings I don’t. most mornings I wake up thinking today is another step in the process. because even after that incredible yes will come days–weeks–months of continued patience. revision. adjustment. editing. more tenacity.
I didn’t choose an easy life. or rather, an easy life did not choose me . . . I’m quite certain my heart and soul have given me little choice in the matter. in being true to myself, there’s nothing else to do but continue being patient. out-waiting bad weather, out-waiting a fear-filled marketplace, out-waiting indecision. continuing to have belief in my path, remaining tenacious. tenacity, from the latin tenere, to hold. that’s me. patient, holding.
patient, holding, never giving up the dream. just watch me.
RSS - Posts
Recent Comments