Sticking it to the (Publishing) Man

Publishers used to be the last word in getting your book into print. Once you were rejected by one and all, you pretty much had to shelve your book and give up on it, or start over with a new book or a rewrite. People actually lived entire lives trying to get published and died trying. Now when publishers say, “No!” you can say “Oh, yeah?”

Your book’s future is in your hands now. Self-publishing your book may not have the cachet that a big (or small) publishing house’s backing does, but it does guarantee a reward for all of your hard work and dedication. After you sweat blood (or vodka) over the writing, rewriting and editing of your book, you know that you will eventually hold a completed, bound copy of your book in your hands–unlike the legions of authors who up until recently poured their hearts and souls into manuscripts only to have them, and their dreams, end up moldering in desk drawers. One guy I know said that when he received copies of his self-published book, he was so elated he could’ve cried. Before the advent of self-publishing, there was a lot of crying, but the tears didn’t stem from joy.

Once the elation of being a published author subsides, however, you are left with the monumental task of marketing your book. This is where having an established publisher comes in handy. Big publishers have departments that schedule author tours and advertise their authors’ books. You have none of that. But, if you think about it, even if your book were represented by a large publishing house, there’s no guarantee you’d get a lot of attention. Most of their money is spent on publicizing their best-selling authors. The rank-and-file authors don’t get much notice from their marketing departments. And if you were picked up by a smaller, more obscure publisher, they wouldn’t have the resources to promote your book in a big way, so, you’d probably be in the same boat you’re in now. So, forget about the big publishers’ big money and focus on your next step: marketing and selling your book.

By now, you’ve probably hit up all of your friends, relatives, coworkers and acquaintances to buy a copy of your book. You might even have blogged or tweeted about it or started a Facebook page for it. These are all drops in a bucket, but without drops, how do you expect to fill that bucket? Drops are essential. So here’s another one: List your self-published book on my new website, www.spbroundup.com. It stands for Self-Published Book Roundup, or maybe Self-Published Books Roundup. I’m not really sure; that’s why I used the abbreviation SPB. Anyway, email me the title of the book, your name or whatever name you used on the book, and a brief summary of the book, including the category or genre of the book. Also include contact information and a link, if any, to a site where the book can be purchased. Then tell people about the site. Blog about it, hang signs about it, tattoo the URL on your forearm, whatever it takes to get the site noticed. Of course your efforts will help my site and why should you do that? Because your book will be on it. And every time someone goes to the site, there is the potential for a sale for you. So we help each other. There’s no financial cost to you at all to have your book listed, so what are you waiting for?

Oh, you’re waiting to hear why I’m doing this? That’s simple. I want to stop commuting two hours each way to work. If the site becomes successful and attracts an advertiser or two, then I can stay home and maintain the site full time. I love to read, so helping you sell your books to other readers while I make a little money seems like a win-win proposition to me.

Okay, my cards are on the table. Now please put your cards–i.e., book–on my list. Send your entry to patsy@spbroundup.com. And if you like my site, please add a link to it on your site. And good luck to us all.

 

Check out what indie authors have to offer at www.spbroundup.com.

Saints and Sandals

As with most problems, this one started with shoes. In this case, it was the most wonderful pair of sandals I’ve ever seen. And they were on the clearance rack for $20. And they were in my size. Being a mostly religious person, I pretty much suspect that there are people up there who are looking out for me in general. But I know in my Pilates-free core that a woman is looking after me when it comes to foot apparel. She never fails me. If I had been asked to imagine the most wonderful flat summer sandals in the world, I would have conjured up the very ones that were on the sale rack. The guy up there in charge of my lottery tickets needs to take lessons from my shoe muse.  Anyway, without hesitation, I scooped them up and experienced a rush of victory felt only by Olympic gold-medal winners and the Coney Island hot-dog-eating champion.

I placed my treasure into the seat of my shopping cart and parked it three feet away so that  I could check to see if my muse had any more surprises for me in the shoe department. She didn’t, but that was fine since she had far surpassed my expectations. Now, at this point, you all know what happened. I turned to my cart and the sandals were gone.

Because I am nothing if not hasty, I immediately started in on the first of the five stages of grief. (Just so we’re all on the same page, the stages are denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance: http://grief.com/the-five-stages-of-grief/.) I actually progressed through the first two stages simultaneously. “My sandals are NOT missing!” I screamed internally, following up with, “Somebody stole them and I am going to kill her.” Sexistly, I assumed that a woman was the culprit, but anyone of any gender could well have been overcome by desire for them.

Bargaining is the third phase and I am pleased to report that I did not make any promises to God that I had no intention of keeping. I did, however, call on St. Anthony to find my lost shoes, even though I was certain that they weren’t so much lost as they were to be found in someone else’s cart. I double-checked the rack to make sure my shoes weren’t put back and then–I’m not proud of this–I decided it was the perfect time for some vigilante justice.

Up and down every aisle I went, peering into carts and even going so far as to lift some items in one woman’s basket in order to see what was underneath. Let’s just say that that didn’t go well. You generally don’t hear a lot of screaming and cursing in Marshalls. I backed away and continued on my mission. Once I reached the other side of the store, I started my search over, just in case the sandal snatcher had eluded me the first time. I had no luck, so I went to the register and asked the women behind it to keep a lookout for a pair of flat, bejeweled sandals that were in my cart and had disappeared. I magnanimously suggested that perhaps someone had  taken my cart by accident and that she would discover unwanted sandals in her cart when she checked out. I asked the saleswomen to hold them for me if this were the case.  Due, no doubt, to a language barrier, they just stared at me.

I then moved quickly through the fourth phase, depression, because I’m medicated for that. The last phase is acceptance and I zoomed right through that, too. I knew if those sandals were still in the store, St. Anthony would uncover them. If they weren’t, I’d have to revisit the last stage. In the meantime I concentrated on following people around and shopping out of their baskets when they were distracted. No, I didn’t really, but I was tempted. And, if former President Jimmy Carter is right and lusting in your heart is the same as committing adultery, then maybe I did steal things, but nobody noticed.

Once I had given up the hunt, I  decided that I needed therapy. Since I was already in the store, I opted for retail therapy. This time, I vowed to never let go of my cart. During the course of my treatment, I once again passed the clearance shoe rack. I was totally unsurprised to see my sandals innocently sitting there. Non-Catholics are really missing out when it comes to St. Anthony. If anything is there to be found, he will find it if you ask nicely and always remember to say thank you. This time, he played with me a little before offering up my holy grail. I saw the sandals with the size 9 sticker on them. I tried them on and they didn’t fit. I then realized that they weren’t a size 9 but a size 6. Disappointed, I put them down and re-scanned the rack. One other identical pair sat there. The sticker said size 9 and this time they really were a size 9. You have to love a saint with a sense of humor.

 

Check out what indie authors have to offer at www.spbroundup.com.