Mr. Foot? Hey, meet Mister Mouth…
As I tread water here in the Great Lake of Doubt and Despair, the decision to email my editor and ask his advice bubbles to the surface. I’ve been feeling a little blue because “Fan” email coming into my website had been silent for a couple of straight weeks, and I feared the captain of the S.S. Fries had wired in, “We got water comin’ in,” and the good ship and crew are in peril.
“You’re doing great,” my editor wrote back, and it occurred to me that those are the exact words to encourage Special Olympians, too. “Maybe you could do some research on blogs, and see if you can drum up some interest from them.”
“I’m on it… to the tilt!” I thought. “Maybe I can find a humor blog resplendent with the latest fart jokes, or the blog of some dude trying to get his friends and family to use his site as a portal for buying books at Amazon."
It sounded like a nice way to try and stay warm while the wife and I (and my book) moved into our ice water mansion.
Hmmm…
The first thing I discovered while researching “most read blogs” was that huge sites like Drudge Report, Huffington Post, Fark, and Boing Boing are considered blogs. IMHO, they aren’t… they are portals, and great ones at that: Portals to a vast array of content, which they then distribute it in one easy-to-use place. Humor portals, Stupid News Portals, or Political Portals, but portals nonetheless. I suppose it’s possible-- just maybe a teeny, tiny, smidgen-bit possible-- that your host here isn’t up on the bleeding-edge web lingo, but I don’t think so.
Portals aren’t blogs-- blogs are where some frustrated writer without a publishing contract serial-types their stream-of-consciousness rants , and does so without so much as a second thought of what they are typing. Nobody reads blogs, right?
Not. So. Much.
Among my “discoveries” were blogs like Dooce, Gaping Void, and Waiter Rant. And—Tada!—I now understand what the hell people are talking about.
These are excellent writers writing about whatever comes to mind, and tens of thousands of people every day tune in. Hell, tens of thousands of people haven’t walked past my book, much less read the dustcover.
These big name bloggers are making a hell of a lot more money as writers than I ever will, and they are talking directly and daily to their exact target audience.
Writer Hugh MacLeod has a section on his site entitled “How To Be Creative,” which, quite frankly, is about the only thing I’ve ever read that about being creative that was actually creative.
One of his trademark cartoons in the section is captioned, “The price of being a sheep is boredom. The price of being a wolf is loneliness. Choose one or the other with great care.”
Brilliant. Even more brilliant is the way he expands on the statement, because he doesn’t.
And that, against all odds, is true creativity.
Could my techno-buddy I mentioned earlier be correct? Could bloggers one day take up all the available mind-share of readers craving the sort of writing I do? Could on-line novelists one day replace published novelists? Confession time: This train of thought has me feeling blue… to the tilt!
Oh, always happy to hear from you!
The Voice: How things going?
Me: Not so good. I’m doing lots of second guessing about this dream of being a successful writer.
The Voice: Well, hell—I’ve been trying to get you to dump that stupid idea for twenty years. You remember? You were a Lieutenant on Okinawa, sitting in your BOQ room, writing your manuscript about the trials and tribulations of turning thirty. I told you right then and there you were wasting your time.
Me: Well, I made it, didn’t I? I got published.
The Voice: Yup. Reached your dream. How’s that workin’ out for you?
Me: It’s a little different than I expected.
The Voice: Huh—you mean it didn’t somehow fulfill your every need? Gee, what a shocker. What’s your beef now?
Me: Sometimes I just feel despair… I mean, will my next book get published? Will getting a second book published feel more fulfilling?
The Voice: Let’s talk expectations. What is that you want out of life?
Me: As a Christian?
The Voice: Let’s leave your religion out of this—as a regular schmoe, what is it you want your writing to achieve?
Me: First, financial security.
The Voice: Okay, forget that. If you need that, you better get a job with the government.
Me: Then I guess hoping for financial luxuries wouldn’t be a good second choice.
The Voice: We’re talking about what you need, not what you want.
Me: I guess validation—for people to read my books, and learn something, or reflect on something, or at least have a short mental vacation from the worries of the world.
The Voice: Did you achieve that with the first book?
Me: Among the people who read it, I think so … I just don’t know how many people read it. Not that many, I think.
The Voice: So that’s the problem, right? That’s what has you feeling despair?
Me: I guess.
The Voice: What did Rocky Balboa tell his son in that last Rocky movie?
Me: We’re going into Rocky philosophy?
The Voice: Just tell me.
Me: He said, “Life isn’t about how hard you can hit. It’s about how hard you can get hit, and still keep moving forward.”
The Voice: Do you believe that?
Me: I do now that I’m 45, but I don’t want to—life isn’t supposed to be about getting frickin’ hit. It’s supposed to be about good stuff-- achieving worthwhile goals. Making a difference. Unicorns and free beer.
The Voice: Didn’t you do that?
Me: Yeah, but the result of achieving a dream is supposed bigger, isn’t it? Shouldn’t it be like the feeling of reaching the summit of Everest? Standing atop the mountain—so high up you need oxygen—and reveling in the accomplishment.
The Voice: So you think most mountain climbers who summit Everest retire? They climbed the big one, so now it’s off to the rocking chair? Their call of the wild gets left up there with their footprints and sweat?
Me: I’d think they-- you know, at least revel a bit--
The Voice: So how long should they stand there and revel?
Me: I don’t know. No one ever explains that part of the dream.
The Voice: Well, aren’t there other people climbing that very same mountain? Don’t you have to make room for them, too? Before long, don’t you have to get out of the way, so the follow-on climbers can stand on the summit?
Me: You could fight to keep your spot there.
The Voice: Oh, that sounds pleasant… you mean like an aging Hollywood starlet spending six months every year getting plastic surgery? Or a television has-been agreeing to be on a reality television show? Or movie stars making 40 million dollars a year working themselves into rehab? That kind of fighting?
Me: So what’s the answer?
The Voice: Answer is a pretty big word, but one thing’s for sure— nobody ever told a mountain climber who announced plans to climb Everest, “Hey, that’s a great idea! Spend a ton of money and risk your life so you can get an “I Climbed Everest” t-shirt.”
Me: So, no answer? I was really hoping just this once that—
The Voice: Some people climb Everest because they want to. Some because they have to. But they all do it because they love it. If you don’t love writing for the sake of writing alone, then you have chosen the wrong hobby.
Me: Damn, Dude—hobby?
The Voice: Hey, you’re the one who latched onto the weird, subjective, never-quite-there dream. How many people would announce plans to climb Everest if there were no summit? When your dream is to climb a mountain, you strive to reach the summit. When your dream is to graduate college, you strive to get your diploma. When your dream is to make a pile of dough, you strive to achieve a tax return that requires extra postage. But you-- you and all the other crazy writers out there-- ya’ll ain’t right. Ya’ll are climbing a mountain without a top. My advice is for you to dream of finishing your current manuscript, and re-working it, and pushing yourself until you say, “I did it. That’s my summit. If the rest of the world never sees it, that’s their loss. At least the world will be a better place for the rare individuals who do actually see my work.”
Me: That’s... that’s actually good advice. You never give good advice. You just nag me. I’m really appreciative.
The Voice: Go get some sun, Man. You look unhealthy.
The Full-time Writing Gig
I am currently able to write full-time for one reason, and one reason only: My wife.
We don’t have kids, and she believes I have “the stuff” to one day be discovered in a financially viable way, so together we live a pretty simple life, supported by her work at our church, and my sporadic consulting jobs.
This is a new thing for me—remember, I wrote my first three manuscripts, one of which died just before crossing the finish line, when I was working fifty or sixty hours a week. Given this gift of time and space, I think about all the incredible, history-making writers who’ve taken the full-time dare, and I am awed to find myself even attempting to walk their trail.
The experience is exciting, frightening, thrilling-- I ponder and write and search for clues that I’m on the right path. How can one know?
The most romantic of all full-time writing groups, of course, is the Lost Generation of the 1920’s—a group of ex-pat writers, artists, and poets in post-war Paris. Disillusioned by the war and having watched their very moral code destroyed by cannon fire and the horror of trench warfare, this group of famed artisans spent much of the decade drinking, conversing, and challenging the norms of world as they knew it.
The shirt-sleeves “get back to work” ethic of post-war America seemed hollow and pointless, and together they re-wrote the rules of literature, poetry, and acceptable blood-alcohol content. The names of the writer’s associated with The Lost Generation read like a classics section of American literature: T.S. Eliot, Ezra Pound, Gertrude Stein, Ernest Hemingway, F. Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald, Sherwood Anderson, Ford Maddox Ford… one can only imagine the fascinating discussions that transpired in the home of Ms. Stein and Alice B. Toklas, and in the cafes on the Left Bank, and in the Dingo Bar.
Imagine the mental acuity needed to interact with such a group—espresso with Eliot, lunch with Hemingway, drinks with Scott and Zelda, and a dinner party until 2am with the whole gang over at rue de Fleurus.
Even contemplating the scene is dazzling—the haze of French cigarettes, the stain of red wine on linen, the roar of laughter, and the mania of shared genius. As a writer, I cannot help but wonder if I am experiencing the same level of social intercourse-- forced to defend my beliefs and opinions against minds honed by the whetting stone of disillusionment.
As an exercise, one day I monitored every word I said aloud from the time my wife left for work to the time she returned. Here’s a look:
Who wants some breakfast? Who wants some breakfast? Are we hungry? Is it time? Is it time already? So soon? That’s my good girls.
Good girls! I see you! I see You! I see those tails wagging!
Twenty minutes later.
Who needs to go out? Who needs to go out? Who needs to go out?
Three hours later.
Who wants to go for a walk? Yes? Yes? That’s my good girls!
Maddie—get your ball. Where’s your ball? Where is it? Where is it? Get it!
Come on, Boogie—get up. Get up. Good girl! Let’s go for a walk!
Two hours later.
Oh, I see you. I see you. Who’s a good girl? I see you.
An hour later.
Who wants a cookie? Who wants a cookie? That’s my good girls. Yes, such good girls. Oww—damn Maddie, eat the cookie, not my hand.
And finally, Happy Hour…
You are the hollow dogs
You are the happy dogs
Asleep on the chair
Scratch and chew and lick. Alas!
Your dry woofs, when
First you growl then bark
Warning off the UPS Man
Hey-- move your doggie feet to the cooler
Get me a beer
Okay. I think I need to get back to the coffee shop.
So out I go.
Today I will lunch with my closest friend, John.
A renaissance man in every sense of the word (as it applies to locations south of DC, north of Jacksonville, and east of New Orleans), John played a fairly significant-yet-anonymous role in my previous book, and he can be counted on to challenge my current beliefs on just about any topic, save religion.
He is a medical doctor able to fix your sputtering diesel engine; he is a loving father able to build your next home; he is a generous friend who can, with no formal training, also fly your airplane safely from Point A to Point B.
And to top it off, he is one of only two people I know who has performed in an internationally acclaimed opera.
He seemed like just the guy for me to engage in some thought provoking banter, and reconnect with the challenges of introspection.
We chose as our luncheon spot a Greek restaurant, and placed our order for gyros, cucumber salads, and iced tea. It was cool for a July afternoon in Charleston, and we sat outside and watched as the pelicans made their way inland from a morning on the creek. The spot was a bit more strip-mallish than Left-Bankish, but c’est la vie.
Me: You know, I’ve been thinking-- I need to find something to do professionally-- in addition to writing. Something intellectually challenging. Something to re-spark some passion, fire in the gut.
John: Be an activist.
Me: How do you become an activist?
John: It’s easy. You just form a non-profit, and make yourself the CEO. Non-profit CEO’s are making a hundred-fifty these days.
Me: What’s the cause?
John: The cause?
Me: Yeah—what’s the cause I’m being an activist about?
John: Who gives a shit? Cats. How about homeless cats?
Me: Cats?
John: Yeah-- and those horses that pull the tour carriages downtown. People are always up in arms about those horses.
Me: Cats and horses?
John: Forget the horses. Cats. You get yourself a big-ass pickup truck, cover it in all sorts of Save the Homeless Cats stickers, and drive around. Every old lady who’s buried a cat in the last five years will mail in twenty bucks. See, that’s the key—you gotta stay low overhead, but pick something that people can get hysterical about.
Me: Yeah, but then I’ve got a bunch of wild cats.
John: Right. You stuff ‘em in the garage, and go protest the carriage horses.
Me: I thought we’d moved on from the horses.
John: You can if you want, but they’re high profile. People love those horses.
Me: So, horses and cats.
John: You get a smokin’ hot College of Charleston chick to hold a bucket that says “Horses feel the heat, too!” As soon as the tourists get off the carriage, she moves in and explains the cause-- and while the husband gets an eyeful, the wife gets guilt-mailed into donating. Good high-profile stuff. When tourist season is over, you start going ballistic about feral cats. You stay visible, and the checks roll in.
Me: Homeless cats, or feral cats?
John: Dude, the freakin’ cause doesn’t matter—you’re missing the point. Look, you know the Center for Birds of Prey?
Me: Yeah.
John: They’re brilliant. They somehow got the champagne crowd to think birds of prey are a high-class issue. Oow, oow, Lovie… there are sick owls out there somewhere. You think any of those rich yo-yos have any idea what an Osprey looks like? Hell, no. But every time they see a buzzard they feel good, and donate more.
Me: Seems like animals are pretty well covered.
John: Gut Fish, Not Houses.
Me: What?
John: Have you seen those bumper stickers that say Got Fish, Not Houses?
Me: Yeah?
John: You know what that shit is?
Me: Not really.
John: It’s a bunch of morons concerning themselves about the renovations rich people are doing to the inside of historic homes. Renovations they will never know about, much less see.
Me: You are so making that up.
John: It’s true! That’s how desperate people are for something to focus their whining on. World hunger? Too big. Cancer? Too old. Clean water? Too basic. People want to look creative and focused, so it’s Tibet, and home renovations, and eagles, and manatees, and crap that makes for cool t-shirts.
Me: Yes… I see. The underdogs. The underappreciated.
John: Here’s an idea-- target billionaires.
Me: Billionaires are underdogs?
John: No, but they’re stinkin’ rich. Start a website called billionaires-making-a-difference.com. Write up a bunch of obsequious crap about how great Bill Gates and Warren Buffett and Steve Forbes are for giving away money. Make up stories about Bill flying commercial because he loaned his jet to fly a manatee to a Jimmy Buffett concert— you kidding me? Someone saying nice stuff about them? Those fat cats will be sponsoring your website so fast you’ll need a cash-counting machine.
Me: Sell my talents out to “The Man”?
John: You peel back the onion a little, and you’ll realize you sold out the first time you took a writing assignment at the ad agency. You want out from the sellout system? I hear the Amish are accepting converts.
And thus, with my wits re-honed to a razor’s edge, I returned home. To greet me at the door were two good girls, good girls, goooood girls.
Let the sun shine.
Okay, if I’m going to take the advice of The Voice and get some sun, I need to find my way out of the shade of ignorance where I currently live: There are still some questions I need answered, despite the fact I am now almost a year from being told my book would be published, and four months from the initial day it shipped. My agent was never one for answering these kinds of sensitive questions, probably because he knew I wouldn’t really want to know the answers.
But, in the words of that prone street punk in the film Dirty Harry… I gots to know!
1) How is my book selling, all things considered? (My rookie status… the septic tank economy… distribution and publicity.)
2) Is there anything I can do to coddle, tempt, or beg book reviewers for big newspapers, or is my four-month old book now ancient history?
3) Does it look like I will make more money than my advance, or is the advance pretty much the sum total of my income?
4) Did I commit career suicide by releasing my agent? Is there some sort of secret publishing industry blacklist I’m now on, and categorized as “doesn’t play well with others?”
5) Conspiracy theories aside, who should I approach about being my agent now?
6) What should I be aware of prior to making my next submission? For example: Is this concept I’m typing now-- aimed primarily at struggling authors-- a good choice? (There are several million manuscripts rejected every year, and it stands to reason these writers would like to have at least a clue as to what happens behind the curtain) Is my writing thus far any good, or have I totally lost it? Will it be insulting to the good folks who believed in me and took a chance by publishing my first work?
7) Is there anything I can do to woo the big box booksellers?
8) Which parts of this manuscript will drive the haters into a tizzy, where they proclaim their desire to murder me in the face?
Stones left unturned
It occurs to me that there’s a stone yet unturned in my quest for answers.
Actually, there are two: First, there’s my contact at my publisher-- He’s a hell of a nice guy… but I still don’t understand the relationship between the author and the publisher. My agent handled all that communication, and besides—my guy is probably busy as hell.
But, but, but-- there’s the guy known as the “sales rep,” Michael. I’ve been cc’ed in on a couple of emails to him, and he’s the guy out there on the road that’s been championing my book to the actual bookstores. I recall clearly the first time I heard about the “sales rep” from my agent:
Agent: The publisher tells me the sales rep really likes your book.
Me: That’s good?
Agent: It’s huge. It’s like having the ultimate book review.
Me: How so? I don’t even know what a sales rep does.
Agent: He’s the guy who calls on stores and tells them what books are coming on the market. He’s got a huge binder with page after page of books, and each book cover is about the size of a postage stamp. For him to point at your postage stamp and say, “This one is good” is about as big a break as a rookie could hope for.
I was thrilled… and (as usual) depressed.
My sweet, innocent, lovely little baby book arrived into the world as but a mere postage stamp among hundreds.
How could this be?
I had something a little more in-depth in mind—you know, a group of bookstore owners dining around a vast round table at Elaine’s, each having been flown in by the publisher. After a sumptuous meal and many, many bottles of very fine wine, the Sales Rep would announce, “Well, Ladies and Gentlemen… the moment we’ve all been waiting for. It won’t be easy, and I’m sure it will summon forth some zesty debate, but now’s the time to state your piece. We’ll start on my left, and go around the table, and each of you will announce your favorite part of Prioleau Alexander’s break-through work of non-fiction.”
And so on.
I decided to email the Sales Rep, and ask him if he would be willing to answer some of my questions. Bless him, he said yes—and we set up a time to talk on the phone.
Here’s what I learned:
1) How is my book selling? Classified information-- it involves the issue of royalty payments, so it can only be discussed by the publisher.
2) Is there anything I can do to coddle, tempt, or beg book reviewers for big newspapers? That would be nice but, oops-- most newspapers have fired their book reviewers. The ones that do review books review the titles by the monstrous-sized publishers.
3) Does it look like I will make more money than my advance? See #1.
4) Did I commit career suicide by releasing my agent? No. You’re in the club now. In addition, you’ve been on BookTV, made the Southern Independent Bookseller Association Best-Sellers List, and you have a blurb from Pat Conroy, which is a huge deal. You are way ahead of the game for a first-time author.
5) Conspiracy theories aside, who should I approach about being my agent now? Reps don’t deal much with agents.
6) What should I be aware of prior to making my next submission? For example: Is this concept I’m typing now-- aimed primarily at struggling authors-- a good choice? It could be… but you won’t know until it’s done.
7) Is there anything I can do to woo the big box booksellers? Yes—just as soon as you have people waiting in line at midnight to buy your new release.
The most valuable information centered on Michael’s years-on-the-road advice. It all made sense to me, and if you’re an aspiring author, it might be useful to you, too.
a) Publishing is a business. A business exists to earn profits. The publisher takes a financial gamble with every new author they take in just by printing the books. It’s the author’s job to help sell books, so the publisher can make back their gambled money. The business is about profits, not discovering new talent.
b) Just as their loyalty must be to their business, your loyalty must be to your book. They will promote it in every cost-efficient way they can, but it won’t be as much as you (or any writer) wants. If you want your book to go on to higher places, you’ve got to take it to higher places. One in one million writers gets to become an author. One in one million authors reaches the point of commercial success without personally busting their ass in the areas of promotion, marketing, and sales.
c) Employees in bookstores sell books. If you take the time to drive to their store and meet them, and shake their hand, and tell them about yourself, they will be interested in you. If your book is good, they will recommend it to buyers. It’s human nature —people care more about people who care about them. This is why publishers spend the money to send authors on book tour.
d) If the publisher’s investment in promoting your book is enough for you, great. If you dream of your book break out and achieving great things, get to work.
Why do they keep sending me these bills? I’m a writer!
As mentioned earlier, one of my trickling sources of income is Little Fish Consulting, a marketing firm that consists of me, and my fifteen years of fighting the marketing battle—a battle where, to use the words of Hunter S. Thompson, whores and thieves run free, and good men die like dogs.
Things had been a little slow of late, so I wrote a press release and mailed it to all my contacts in the business, hoping it would flush out a couple of lunkers loitering under a submerged log. I’m pretty sure it will make sense to you, and give you a little insight into the biz:
Area Consultant Works Half Day, Says Only “That’s Great.”
Charleston, SC- Area consultant Prioleau Alexander announced today that his company, Little Fish Consulting, recently wrapped up a five hour job that required only the words “that’s great,” and variations thereof. The achievement topped what Alexander has long considered to be his personal best, when in 2001 he worked with a client to place over $150,000 of media using only the words, “Well, if you’re sure that’s what you want to do.”
The three individual’s representing the client in the half-day session formed what many marketing experts consider to be a perfect storm. The group reportedly called themselves the store’s “advertising team,” and included the new receptionist, the owner’s daughter, and one of the store’s recently retired salesman, who joined the team at the owner’s request.
“I got there at 9am,” says Alexander, “and the first thing they told me was that they’d been brainstorming since 8:15. I saw the table was about to break under the weight of the empty Starbucks cups, and out of sheer survival instinct said, ‘That’s great.’”
During the next five hours, Alexander took notes and tried to look creative. Among the comments that inspired Alexander to comment “that’s great” more than 40 times were:
• The receptionist’s explanation that she’d taken creative writing in high school.
• The owner’s daughter’s discussion about the fact that all her friends called her for birthday party ideas, because she is “so creative.”
• The retired salesman’s statement that he knew which talk radio programs people listened to.
• The receptionist’s comment that professional models are a “rip off,” and that she would model for free.
• The receptionist’s statement that she had “a friend who had a really good camera, who would take the pictures for free.”
• The retired salesman’s statement that he “knew a few people in this town,” and could get “really good” rates on talk radio shows.
• The owner’s daughter’s announcement about an upcoming breast enhancement.
Alexander left the meeting at 1pm, never having been asked for advice by any member of the team. The departure was reportedly a bit awkward, as Alexander had to ask which person should receive his invoice. The receptionist offered that she would handle the payment process.
“That’s great,” Alexander stated before leaving.
A Walk of Reflection
Having taken that exhaustive step of generating actual business, I thought it would be the perfect time to re-focus on this manuscript.
I read somewhere that author Charles Frazier used to go for long walks in the mountains while writing his epic Cold Mountain, in order to reflect and actually see the things his protagonist would see while walking home from the war. Seeing how Charles Frazier sold a gazillion copies of Cold Mountain, I decided this might be a good exercise for me to do. My wife and I live out in boonies, so surely the countryside would offer to me the same creative muse that it provided Mr. Frazier.
I left the driveway and began my wanderings along the dirt road that leads to our home. I had just begun to marvel at all the wonders of the natural world, when a fairly sizable rock worked its way between my heel and my left Teva.
My back was bothering me a bit, and sitting down to dislodge the interloper would no doubt prove painful. Then, it hit me: I could use my right foot to bend back the rubber heel of the left sandal, then let it go. The flicking action would shoot the rock out, and allow me to continue my quest for enlightenment without so much as a brief stutter step.
What happened next defied all laws of probability, and proved beyond a shadow of a doubt that chaos theory is more law than theory.
When I flicked the rock, it proceeded directly up at a near-warp speed, managed to thread its way between the gap in boxers and my leg, and impacted my family stones with laser-guided precision. The pain literally dropped me to my knees, bad back and everything.
Stunned and gasping, all thoughts of enlightenment and nature and beauty and inspiration vaporized, and all I could think was, “I’ve kicked myself in the nuts. How can anyone kick themselves in the nuts?”
It occurred to me as I wobbled back up my driveway that perhaps, just perhaps, I had discovered something new under the sun. And I removed walks in the woods as a potential form of inspiration.
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