Showing posts with label publishing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label publishing. Show all posts

Monday, August 14, 2017

Wait a minute. Am I being hoaxed?
























I feel very uncomfortable doing this but a number of factors compel me to get on with it, so here goes. Without going into this too personally, due to events beyond my control, there are a fair number of threats, most indirect, but some quite direct, and many very specific (what exact kind of gun should be put to what exact part of my body) made against my life. Mostly just suggestions that I be killed, etc, (quite graphic etc, often) with motivation, sometimes a cost estimate.

While I try not to let this affect how I do things too much and I know that the internet (which I love and is mostly a net gain, in part because it is through the internet that I came to know many of you good people and how i have managed to do much of my work) I have for a few years now declined all invitations to do public events. Several people who have looked at these things have been advised me against doing all anyone-attends-posted-online affairs and if you see me say I am in a place, I am not there anymore.






It’s not a huge thing and I know most threats are empty but I believe the advice is correct, given the number and nature of these posts and messages.
Anyway, now I have this book coming out and a number of literary festivals have kindly invited me to attend and I can’t. This is a disappointment to my fine publisher and of course and I really enjoy meeting readers.


I will have an invitation-only book launch here in Toronto, late September, when the book comes out, and I very much hope many of you will come.
The point to this post is this, I did promise, contactually and otherwise, to promote my book, and attend a number of public events. I can’t, and a fair number of you are in media one way another, and so here’s my pitch, I will happily answer questions about my book, and work, write you a few lines about life in general, donate a recipe for your publication, pop in to your podcast, wander in to whatever it is you got going. You name it, I will do it.
So, please keep me in mind if you have a space of slot I might be able to fill and thanks very much for your time and interest if you read to the end of this.





  


This VERY strange statement appeared today, posted on a Facebook friend's page, so it got into my feed. A very big question mark immediately formed over my head. I didn't know much about this writer, whose name I will mask for now, and when I looked up her publisher, this is the description I saw about her (which, as an author myself, I know is traditionally written by the subject):

(Writer Under Threat)
is smart, funny and very beautiful. She has the prettiest eyes. She describes her hair as iconic. That's how men think of her breasts. She is also a gifted writer. Elle Canada, The Globe and Mail, The Walrus and Explore Magazine are four of the publications lucky enough to have her in their pages. She has a lovely laugh and has been nominated for ten National Magazine Awards. She is also an excellent cook, terrific in bed and weary of self-deprecating chick writers.

So I sort of got the fact that this was a humourist of sorts, but what about that statement about her life being in danger? And therein lies the dilemma of social media.





As a humorist, a satirist I assume, irony and exaggeration are her stock in trade. Fair enough; I expect that. But what do I make of this rather long and elaborate statement? Is there any truth in it at all, or is it just an irony-tinged way of saying, "Hey, guys, I don't feel like doing any book promotion this year"? If so, those who are in on the joke, her loyal readers/fans/"in-crowd", will probably immediately know what she is talking about, and perhaps are chuckling away to themselves right now - threats on her life! Right! That's a million laughs.

Certainly the way she expresses the threat ("what exact kind of gun should be put to what exact part of my body. . sometimes a cost estimate. . .") borders on the flip. Her statement a little later on that it's "not a huge thing" seems equally puzzling. Threats on her life are not a huge thing?






So I was left in a state of confusion that made me unaccountably angry. It's happening again, I thought. Happens every time I turn around. We don't know what to take seriously, and what to - not. The whole thing was confusing in the way only social media can be confusing, triggering a weird, irrational shame. It's because you don't know whether or not you're being hoodwinked, and you feel you should know. You should know what's going on, but everyone seems to be speaking in some sort of mysterious code.

My first reaction when I saw this was, good grief, why is my Facebook friend in so much trouble? Then I realized it wasn't my Facebook friend at all, but this author (unknown to me - I don't live in Toronto) whom my friend was quoting. So, who was she, and why (actually, really, I mean) was she not going to promote her book?

People just don't go around randomly shooting authors, or making threats against someone who is no threat to them. Not in Canada, anyway. But if it IS true, what the hell is going on? She is a lovely, laughing, iconic-breasted humour writer, is she not? I just can't see who'd want to gun her down in cold blood. It makes no sense.

The truth is, I have absolutely NO fucking clue what to make of this, and it makes me very very uneasy. Just doubting it is giving me doubts, although I find I'm doubting half of what I read these days.






What do we take seriously in this era of fake news? What/whom do we (mis)trust? I was all ready to accept this at face value, until that little voice (the one I generally trust) said, "Wait a minute."

Wait a minute
. We have no proof at all that any of this is real. If it isn't, it's a great way to play on the paranoia that runs rampant these days, a way to tweak everyone's vulnerability and then suddenly say, "Hah! Had you going there, didn't I?"

HAS she got me going? For no reason, I mean? How big a fool am I, anyway? IS there anything to this? Yes, no, I don't know. I feel ridiculous for not knowing. If it's satire, after all (the way she makes her living), if she's not really going to be murdered in cold blood at a book signing, then perhaps the intended reaction really is a mixture of exasperation, bewilderment and baffling shame.



Thursday, May 11, 2017

Should I post this? Maybe not





I have my reasons for thinking these things, but in saying them, I break many taboos. That's why I need to say them. I came to the conclusion that there is no one on earth I can share this with, and that appalls me and doesn't surprise me.



Wednesday, February 1, 2017

Girls just wanna . . .





A partial list of recent books with "girl" in the title

The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo by Stieg Larsson
Gone Girl by Gillian Flynn
Girl with a Pearl Earring by Tracy Chevalier
The Other Boleyn Girl by Philippa Gregory
The Girl on the Train by Paula Hawkins
Twenties Girl by Sophie Kinsella
The Girl of Fire and Thorns by Rae Carson
The Goose Girl by Shannon Hale






The Girl You Left Behind by Jojo Moyes
Don’t Judge A Girl by Her Cover by Ally Carter
The House Girl by Tara Conklin
The Girl with All the Gifts by M.R. Carey
This Girl by Colleen Hoover
The Windup Girl by Paulo Bacigalupi
The Girl Who Chased the Moon by Sarah Addison Allen
The Girls by Emma Cline 

Vinegar Girl by Anne Tyler 
Local Girls by Caroline Zancan 
The Second Girl by David Swinson 





All the Missing Girls by Megan Miranda
The Girl In the Ice by Robert Bryndza 
Girl In the Afternoon by Serena Burdick 
The Girls In the Garden by Lisa Jewell 
The Girl Before by Rena Olsen 
Little Girl Gone by Gerry Schmitt 
Sarong Party Girls by Cheryl Lu-Lien Tan 
Radio Girls by Sarah-Jane Stratford 
The Lost Girls by Heather Young 
Girl In the Blue Coat by Monica Hesse 
The Girl In the Red Coat by Kate Hamer 
If I Was Your Girl by Meredith Russo 
Nowhere Girl by Susan Strecke 
The Girl From the Savoy by Hazel Gaynor 





Beware That Girl by Teresa Toten 
The Crow Girl by Erik Axl Sund 
Girl In the Shadows by Gwenda Bond 
Girl Against the Universe by Paula Stokes
Girl About Town by Adam Shankman and Laura L. Sullivan
Girl In Pieces by Kathleen Glasgow 
Girl on a Plane by Miriam Moss 
The German Girl by Armando Lucas Correa 
Girls on Fire by Robin Wasserman
Girl in the Dark by Marian Pauw







MY list of books with "girl" in the title"


Girl on a Spit
Girl on a Stick
Girls! Girls! Girls!
Girls Galore
Girls in Titles
More Girls in Titles
MORE Girls in Titles
Girls in Titles Trilogy: Part Six
Title Girls
Cash-Grab Girls
Movie Adaptation Girls
Film Option Girls





Girl in the Purple Coat
Girl in the Pink Coat
Girl in the Maroon Coat
Girl in the Tartan Mackintosh
Girl in the Black Rubber Wellies
The Goose Girl
The Cow Girl
The Gorilla Girl
The Various-Species-Because-It's-So-Popular Girl





Concubine Girl
Kinkubine Girl
Slutty but Somehow Still Classy Girl
Sexual-Favors-Performing But Only To Save Her Life Girl
Girl Whose Sexual Escapades All Work Out In The End Because She Gets Married And Rich
Bondage Girl
Bandage Girl
Nurse Girl
Cursed Girl




Literary Girl
Library Girl
Galloway Girl
Ghomeshi Girl
Tie-Me-Up-And-Hit-Me-Because-I-Like-It Girl 
What's The Name of That Teddy Bear? Girl
Road Kill Girl





Never Mind Why We Need It In The Title, It Sells Books So Just Shut Up And Buy It Girl
Call Girl (Anything You Want)
The Fortune Cookie Girl
The Fortunate Cookie Girl
The Unfortunate Cookie Girl
The Girl Guide Cookie Girl
The Vaguely Asian Girl
The Blatant Exploitation Girl






The Strangely Enigmatic European Girl With Rosy Cheeks And A Weird Accent Who Turns Out To Be A Man (Not A Boy)
The Anything But WASP Because It's Boring Girl

(and oh, I'm so tired now and must lie down).

POST-POST. I must stop researching this subject, because I just keep finding dozens and dozens more. The following list may or may not be satiric. Some of them sound just plain DUMB. The Girl With the Caterpillar Eyebrows? The Girl with the Funny Buttons? Jesus. Why didn't MY books get anywhere? I guess I'm just too old to be a whore. And too honest. 

This is, by the way, only a tiny fragment of the full list. Do ALL of these sell, I wonder? They must sell a hell of a lot better than my stuff. 




The Girl Who Lived on the Moon, by Frank Delaney The Girl Who Couldn’t Smile, by Shane Dunphy The Girl Who Could Silence the Wind, by Meg Medina The Girl Who Dreamed of Ships, by Beverly Scofield The Girl Who Wears Gumamela Flower, by Heidy Ramos The Girl Who Loves Horses, by Diana Vincent The Girl Who Fished With a Worm, by Harry Groome The Girl Who Fell From the Sky, by Simon Mawer The Girl With the Dove Tattoo, by Brian D. McLaren The Girl With Hair Like the Sun, by Claire Mix and Aaron Miller The Girl With the Killer Heels, by Freddy Hansen The Girl With Borrowed Wings, by Rinsai Rossetti The Girl Who Would Be King, by Kelly Thompson The Girl Who Fell Beneath Fairyland and Led the Revels There, by Catherynne M. Valente The Girl Who Swam to Atlantis, by Elle Thornton The Girl Who Fell to Earth, by Sophia Al-Maria The Girl Who Gave Her Wish Away, by Sharon Babineau The Girl With the Golden Hair, by Greg Scarlett The Girl Who Was Blue, by Sally O. Lee The Girl With Chipmunk Hands, by Binks and Ruby Begonia The Girl Who Cried Wolf, by Robert Ferrigno The Girl With the Yellow Dress, by Giancarlo Gabbrielli The Girl With a Brave Heart, by Rita Jahanforuz and Vali Mintzi The Girl With No Name: The Incredible Story of a Child Raised by Monkeys, by Marina Chapman with Vanessa James and Lynne Barrett-Lee The Girl Who Blamed the World, by Cindy Mackey and Shirley Chiang The Girl Who Married an Eagle, by Tamar Myers The Girl With the Iron Touch, by Kady Cross The Girl With the Golden Parasol, by Uday Prakash and Jason Grunebaum The Girl Who Cried “Wolf!,” by Nancy Jensen with Nathan Swink The Girl Who Can’t Say No: Bound to the Billionaire, by Ashley Spector The Girl Who Was Supposed to Die, by April Henry The Girl Who Stole My Holocaust: A Memoir, by Noam Chayut The Girl Who Loved Camellias: The Life and Legend of Marie Duplessis, by Julie Kavanagh The Girl Who Got Out of Bed, by Betsy Childs The Girl Who Wrote Erotica, by Angela Jordan The Girl With the Funny Buttons, by Roberto Di Falco and Silvia Hoefnagels The Girl With the Caterpillar Eyebrows, by Lisa Ditchkoff The Girl Who Bit Back, by E. Earle The Girl With the Sandwich Tattoo, by Dragon Stiegsson The Girl Who Wouldn’t Brush Her Hair, by Kate Bernheimer and Jake Parker The Girl Who Heard Colors, by Marie Harris and Vanessa Brantley Newton The Girl With the Cinnamon Twist, by Stephen Dennis The Girl Who Grew a Galaxy, by Cherie Dimaline  The Girl Who Sang to the Buffalo: A Child, an Elder, and the Light From an Ancient Sky, by Kent Nerburn The Girl Who Soared Over Fairyland and Cut the Moon in Two, by Catherynne M. Valente The Girl With the Werewolf Tattoo, by Alexia Wells The Girl With the Electric Sunglasses, by G. Dawe The Girl Who Danced in a Blood Soaked Dress, by Craig Campbell The Girl With Nine Lives, by E. Earle The Girl Who Was Loved, by Annabelle Peep The Girl With the Thistle Tattoo, by Patricia Green The Girl Who Thought Too Much, by Rosa Edwards The Girl With the Pink Bandanna, by Roberto Di Falco and Silvia Hoefnagels The Girl Who Never Came Back, by Amy Cross The Girl With the Curves, by Iris Deorre



Friday, August 26, 2016

The path falls away behind you




This is the Gospel according to Popeye: an image I've been almost obsessed with lately. And it took some work to find it. It wasn't apparent which of the several hundred Popeye cartoons it was in, so I started googling things like "Popeye on rope bridge" and "Popeye on rope bridge falling down". 

So what is it about this teensy little cartoonlet that won't leave my head?

It always comes back to my work. I'm not saying my personal life is perfect. It never has been, and I am here to tell you, right here, right now, that my mental health hasn't always been great either. It has been variable. But that's not what gives me the existential blues over, and over, and over again.




For years I had this yearning - it was insanely intense, and it went on for years and years - to write and publish a novel. I kind of felt like that would solve everything that was wrong in my life.

I even remember sitting in a doctor's office while I was being treated for depression. I told her that if I ever published a novel, I knew would never be depressed again.

"What? . . . Why?"

"I'm depressed because I'm a loser, and if I publish a novel I won't be a loser any more."




Well, all that didn't work out so well! I DID finally get a novel in print, after one whole abortive attempt. I got better reviews for that one than I could have hoped for, and for the second one too. But I wasn't selling any copies. My sales records were worse than abysmal.

Convinced I could beat the odds, I flung myself at the barriers once again and wrote/sent out/published a third novel. Last year, I sold exactly three copies of my dream novel, The Glass Character. What is all this leading to?

I don't think I was cut out for success.

I was cut out for the work, I know it, or I wouldn't still be doing it. In fact, I still want my work out there so badly that I decided to dredge up a novel that REALLY never went anywhere, that stayed in a Word file for twelve years, and try to serialize it here, run it in chunks. 




I guess you'd have to be half out of your mind to keep going back to a poisoned well like this. But I have this novel, untouched. It's called Bus People, and it started off simply as a novel about people who ride the bus (which I took every day of my life) and evolved into a sort of fable of life on the notorious Downtown Eastside of Vancouver.  I wrote it in 2004, in a wild upgust of creativity that could have killed me. When I showed it to my then-agent and asked for her feedback, this was the sum total of it:

"I don't know if it's publishable or not." Full stop. 

I needed to get out of "the business" probably right after my first novel tanked, but I didn't. I remember the call from my first publisher after Better Than Life came out, which went something like this:

"Margaret! It's a miracle! We have never had reviews like this, not in the whole history of our press."

"Oh! That's great! I guess I - "

"Now the bad news. You had the worst sales of any author we've ever published."

Badda-boom.




Probably what bothers me more than anything is the fact that my outstanding reviews were seen as a "miracle", a supernatural act, not the result of an insane number of years of hard work and effort.

All this is a long explanation for the strange posts I'm going to be running for the next couple of weeks. Or at least, I hope only a couple of weeks. The posts will be chunks of Bus People in chronological order, so that, unless I get no readers and decide to can the whole thing, by the end of it the whole novel will be up here.




I know you're not supposed to do it this way, but since when did I know the "proper" way to do anything? If it's not going to succeed in worldly terms anyway, which with my track record I know it won't, I might as well go ahead and do it any way I want. Setting up something separate for it is like opening the trap door before I even start.

Which is why I'm making Popeye gifs tonight. They're all from the same cartoon, called Popeye the Sailor. It's a Betty Boop cartoon, actually, in which BB "introduces" Popeye. The cartoon then becomes incredibly violent. What I notice most especially is the continual bobbing up and down of the characters, as if things had to be in motion at all times.

And when you reflect on it, which is not always the best idea, the path DOES fall away behind you, because with each day you live, another day is crossed off the total days allotted to you, whatever that might be. 


Monday, March 9, 2015

Embrace failure? Go ahead and try





Every once in a while, somebody asks me something about my most recent novel, The Glass Character. In its most blatant and perhaps rudest form, it goes something like this. "So. Just how many dollars do you make per copy sold, and how much does that add up to over, say, a year? How much do you earn per annum?"

Maybe the person is thinking about writing a book. Perhaps they will sell millions of copies and become immensely rich. In every case, I have "earned" in the minuses, so I am not sure what to say to these people to avoid utterly humiliating myself.

How can you possibly earn in the minuses? I'm still trying to figure that out. It must be a whole new definition of failure, which is something that we are (of course!) supposed to wholeheartedly embrace. 


And if I share this lovely fact with some other writer, what I generally get is some version of, "Oh. That's never happened to me."
As  I write this, I can feel an avalanche of advice coming on from writers who, unlike me, know how to do this.  I once asked one simple question,I think about how you get your books into Chapters/Indigo stores, and got THOUSANDS of words of "advice" on every conceivable aspect of writing and publishing. 






I thought - and in this situation, anything I think is apparently wrong - isn't this just a little bit of overkill? Why is this person treating a third-time novelist like a complete novice, and expecting nothing but gratitude?  Here's what you "should" be doing, and here's what you "should" be doing, etc. etc. etc. (because you're obviously doing it wrong). I realize now that this was an extreme example of gratuitous advice, but what irks me about this kind of situation is the utter lack of understanding that this could be anything but a great and even selfless generosity.

When am I going to smarten up, and either "win" at this godawful game or go home? Right now I would rather have my fingernails pulled out than try to publish again. It's the godawful isolation, the loneliness and the sense of being ineffectual, while everyone else skips around with royalty cheques in hand. By the way, what does a "minus" cheque look like anyway? Is it sort of like a black hole in space? 






I am sick of being chipper about the book. It has now been out for a year (and this is kind of like unwrapping the bandages from my wrists, if you know what I mean) and have had no reviews, NONE, except for one sort-of review in a online magazine from Winnipeg that doesn't strike me as very literary. It was written by a 30-year-old standup comedian who, by his own admission (in a published article in the Globe and Mail, no less) admits he's unambitious, unemployed, a general layabout, and feels the world owes him a living. He also said he was only writing the piece for the cheque.

But what's even more interesting is the fact that he made exactly the same amount as me - only my total is in the minuses! As with my other two novels, I bombed so badly, sold so few copies that I ended up in the hole. Am I okay with this? You tell me.




I don't  know what happened, because my first two novels got nearly universally glowing reviews, even in publications in the U. S. which had never been sent a copy. The Calgary and Edmonton papers interviewed me, I got a full-page spread in the Montreal Gazette (complete with full-color author photo!), and the Vancouver Sun said I should be a contender for the Leacock Award. Both my hometown papers interviewed me at length and put out big spreads. The second book was favorably compared in the Globe and Mail to the work of Nobel-winner Alice Munro and Oprah pick Anne-Marie MacDonald.

My first publisher, whom I very much enjoyed working with, phoned me breathlessly to say, "Margaret, it's a miracle. We've never had so many reviews for a novel, even in places we didn't send copies to, and they're all positive. We can't believe it!" A miracle being a supernatural event not caused by human beings. Then she went on to say that my sales were worse than any book they had ever published before.




What happened? You tell me. Maybe I'm just too old and don't know what I am  doing. An act of love has become an act of poorly-executed, even disastrous commerce. 

I don't know how to invite myself to writers' events and seem to be getting no help from anyone. It seems as if you have to know some sort of bizarre secret handshake, like a Freemason. This did not happen before. They asked me. But because it got no reviews, my book does not seem to exist. It does not exist because it got no reviews. And so on. Begging is undignified and destroys my morale. Not having my emails answered is worse, giving me the impression that I don't exist, or, at least, I don't exist in their minds (or they would rather I didn't exist). 




I've sent out multiple copies of the novel to people whom I thought might be interested. I might as well have dropped them into the fucking Grand Canyon. The waste of money, the hundreds of wasted dollars isn't the half of it: it's the waste of hope, the wasted years of creative effort, out the window. If a story doesn't get told, it ain't a story. Isn't that true?

But it's your fault, Margaret. Don't you ever forget that you bungled it in some mysterious way that everyone else is able to avoid. And you're not supposed to "learn" this, but just know.

I no longer care about what will happen because no one will see this anyway. They never do. I am tired of the whole goddamn Facebook popularity contest and how many "likes" I get, all the simpering profile pictures with hair gently streaming in the artificial wind, and the phony modesty, feeling so "humbled" by winning a major award, followed by the usual "oohs" and "ahhhs" of the sycophantic Greek chorus who secretly want to kill them with envy. Fuck it. 




One day well over a year ago I got a phone call from Rich Correll in L. A. saying he was very interested in the book. This was more than a year after I sent some excerpts to an address I wasn't sure was valid. Rich Correll was like a second son to Harold Lloyd, almost one of the family, and was his filmographer and is in every documentary about him.

When we talked, he told me he thought a feature film about Harold's life was long overdue. My God, this was what I had been thinking about from the start, and now a major Hollywood director agreed with me! Could it be he was seeing potential in my work? An adaptation? A SOMETHING?




I wasn't just excited, I was walking on the ceiling! How could this BE? How could Rich Correll be interested in my work? It was like getting a phone call from Jesus. Well, it can't be, folks, because he stopped answering my emails some time ago, and like an idiot I don't know why. In fact, to this day I don't even know if he got his complimentary copy because I haven't heard from him. Like an even worse idiot, I phoned him and left a message last week. He didn't call me back. It was last-ditch and I feel vaguely ashamed that I did it, but Jesus, Rich Correll! I wrote a whole post on him and about how I felt he might be the key to blowing this novel out of the backwater it's stuck in. I just never get the message, do I? Do I? My stubbornness, my refusal to give up is pathological, even poisonous. Certainly it is not a sign of health, as it nets me exactly nothing.

Losing interest is just fine. I am not referring to losing interest. I am referring to having a blank intractible silence open up where the interest used to be, so that I automatically fill it in with what might be the truth, in a hundred different poisonous ways.




I need information to get me out of this. "Your book sucks, it's offensive, it's inaccurate, I hate how you portrayed Harold, (or, worst of all) it bored the piss out of me and I hate you for writing it" would be better than this. One three-word email: "I've lost interest." ANYTHING would be better than this. For, like my book, now I don't exist either, or I am not deemed worthy of a reply. 

I can't deal with it. Help me here. But no. I know it already, I know what no answer means.

Now I will tell you something really stupid, or at least now I know it's stupid. I used to worry this book might bother someone in the Lloyd family, who were badly burned by an insensitive and poorly-written thing Richard Schickel wrote to fulfill a contractual obligation. So I let them know I was writing a novel about him (though I never quite got past the front desk). I didn't do it to avoid a lawsuit, which wouldn't happen anyway. I didn't do it to avoid "stepping on anyone's toes". I didn't do it so I "wouldn't get in trouble". I did it because I love Harold Lloyd and I care what his family thinks about any book written about him. 




But as with everything else, I'm not on the radar. Oh. Did somebody say something? Sorry, no, I must be mistaken.

Why is it I am ALWAYS dumped on my head? What is it I'm doing so wrong? Is the book really weak, or even a piece of shit? Once in a while I think, well, what else could it be? But I surely didn't think that at the time. God, at the time it was nothing short of a rebirth. I didn't think I'd ever write again, and I was so disabled it was unlikely I'd even want to try.

But that is a whole 'nother story, and if you think THIS one is hard to tell, that one is plain impossible.




Oh, I realize I shouldn't even be writing this, as it's taboo to say what you really think, but I am at the point that the loneliness and isolation are killing me and I wonder if I care any more who (if anyone) sees this. I wanted this so badly for so long. I am being punished by the gods, it seems. And if you think this is bad, you should see the paragraphs I just deleted. 

I read a piece in the Globe and Mail by Russell Smith who said writers should not blame themselves for a huge shift in the global economy. Maybe. But some authors, as others point out ceaselessly, are doing just fine, which is I guess supposed to make me feel better.

I just get tired, is all, of being entertaining, which nets me exactly twelve readers anyway, sometimes. Or not. What a futile enterprise this all is! And it has gone on for seven years, from the first moment the idea hit me like a brick on the head. Harold Lloyd - I would write about Harold Lloyd!




I will not do this to myself ever again, no matter how badly I want to, as it's obviously too late for Harold after less than a year. My tiny window of opportunity has already slammed shut, and guess who is responsible. 

I loved him, I did this for love, I still love him, and the silence (no doubt mysteriously caused by me) is bloody deafening. And by the way, I am NOT saying, "Oh, I wrote such a crappy book that everyone is ignoring it". I still think it's the best thing I have written or am likely to write, and it far surpasses the first two in complexity of story line and characters. Though I also realize that there may be no one else on earth who thinks so.




We're supposed to embrace failure. Right. I have embraced it three times, and all it has done is publicly humiliate me and kick me in the head. What is worse, I don't dare speak of it to anyone, when all I really need is a human being who will listen to me. No advice, no corrections, no "gee, that never happened to me".  All I know how to do is be a writer, but no one told me there was an imperative to be a "successful" writer (i. e. move copies). Publishing is a business, it's there to produce and sell books, and not only is there nothing wrong with that, I think it's absolutely great. Authors couldn't exist without it. But it is becoming increasingly obvious that for me, it was not meant to be. About all I can do to deal with this feeling is try to walk away from it and do something else. Sometimes, it almost works.



Visit Margaret's Amazon Author Page!


Sunday, October 5, 2014

Should my books be free? Sure, Bub!




I decided to run a comment (below) which was posted in reply to Russell Smith's Globe and Mail column about the ascendency of blockbuster books (i.e. Fifty Shades of Grey), which have rendered the moderately-selling "midlist" novel practically obsolete. I found Russell Smith's piece oddly comforting because it made me realize (unlike all the other forces around me, which seem to be telling me it's all my fault) that all this is driven by global economic conditions and not the personal failure that has sometimes rendered me suicidal. In fact I  have re-run it a couple of times, as a reality check and to keep me from jumping off the bridge.

But this is the first time I have read the comments. I took the name off this - something I would normally never do - because it's a comment, not an article, and because I'm not maligning this writer so much as demonstrating just how desperate we have become just to get our work out there.




It seems it's now necessary to give our work away in mass quantities, powered by something called (astonishingly) BookBub, in order to eventually take in "hundreds of dollars" by selling our books at the astonishing price of  $2.99! But how to sustain yourself on a few hundred dollars? Is that a living wage? Where has our dignity gone?

What bothers me most of all however is the eagerness, the excitement, the sense of promise, even gratitude for this opportunity, the "next big thing" for writers. No one seems to see the sweating desperation behind it, but maybe that's because nobody feels it any more.  Give it away? Are our stories worth literally nothing, after so many years of hard work, reams of time, careful crafting and praying for opportunity? Must we grovel and scrape and learn to love Big Brother to get anywhere at all, to keep from dropping into the pit of oblivion that swallowed me a long time ago?




I can't keep up with things like this, or with ugly, even grotesque names like BookBub. At first I thought this was satire. It had to be. Then I PRAYED it was satire: Jesus, look at the lengths we have to go to, just to get our work into people's hands and people's skulls! Then, with a sickening feeling of the floor dropping out from under me, I realized it was true. Not only that - you have to PAY them to give your work away, in full knowledge of the fact that in our money-driven culture, free things are generally perceived as worthless, of interest only to garbage-pickers and other scavenger types.

This is what we must do and even what we must feel good about in these shark-infested waters. We must keep up with all the new warts popping up, infestations that ask YOU to pay THEM so that you can get your books out there for free.  I am constantly told, "well, Margaret, that's just what you have to do these days, you don't have any choice, just hold your nose and do it." Open your legs, and close your mind.

No thanks. I'd rather be a no-list writer, keep my dignity, and make my few hundred dollars from actual sales of actual books, bought by actual people. And that's the way it's going to stay - Bub.





Mr. Smith offers us a snapshot of a continuously evolving process. No one knows what publishing will be like a year from now, or two, or ten. We are making it up as we go along.

I'm what the industry calls a midlist author, neither a bestselling star nor a miserable failure. I'm paid (though not very much) for the sf and crime novels and short stories I write, and my readership occupies a definable niche well away from the middle of the bell curve.

To see what the long tail might mean to me, nine months ago I began self-publishing my backlist -- books that had been trade-published but whose rights had reverted back to me -- as well as collections of short stories that had appeared in mass-market magazines. I found I could sell ten ebooks a day, which didn't make me rich but it did give me an income stream from past work that otherwise had no commercial value. 






But then the sales began to trail off, despite all the Facebooking, blogging, and tweeting to which we midlisters are encouraged to devote daily time. So I cast around for another strategy and came across BookBub. It's a service that advertises ebook bargains (free or 99 cents) to more than a million subscribers.

I reduced the price of one of my sf titles to zero, and for $80 BookBub sent an email to 240,000 sf ebook readers. In 24 hours, some 15,000 people downloaded the free text off Amazon, Kobo, and Smashwords. Now I wait and see how many of those freebie-takers will come back and buy one of my $2.99 titles. 






Even if only one or two per cent do so, I will earn hundreds of dollars from that $80 investment. If ten per cent come back for more, I'll take in thousands.

The thing is, I couldn't have done any of this two years ago, because BookBub didn't exist before January 2012. Now it's a serious player for self-publishers needing marketing support. And next year, or the year after, some bright spark will come up with yet another profitable way to help us authors make money off the long tail.

Because this revolution is just getting started.







 

Dear Sir or Madam, will you read my book
    It took me years to write, will you take a look



(WARNING: this is a real book, sold for real money. But not too much. I promise you!)



Visit Margaret's Amazon Author Page!