This of course leads me back to Hemingway's, and my own, expanding ass.
I too can't stress enough the importance of exercise when writing. My second wife Laura would sometimes get upset that after having to be alone to write fiction all morning I would then insist on carving out a couple of hours to run a few miles and hit the gym for some weight training, or even boxing. Things would only get worse when, at the end of a writing day, I would want to head out to the corner joint for a couple of beers so that after a day of solitude, I might socialize a little and re-enter society.
No wonder writers make lousy husbands.
Today I'm writing sitting down. In a few minutes I'll go for a run, and then hit the gym. But I won't write this afternoon since I'm leaving for Europe tomorrow, and have some domestic chores to tend to. Like laundry for instance. But tomorrow morning, while I'm waiting for the first fight to board, I'll pull out the laptop, and write a story or maybe a new blog. I'm also bringing my new manuscript along, Moonlight Rises, so that I can keep on plowing through the latest draft. My publisher is expecting it very soon. In the next ten days I will write in Munich, Innsbruck, Venice, Florence, and Rome. I'll write in hotel rooms, bars, cafes, airports, train stations, trattorias. I'll write standing up and sitting down. I'll sometimes listen to music, and I'll drink espresso. Lots of espresso. Jet lag can be a real bitch especially when you're not fully recovered from the last bout of jet lag.
But I guess it really doesn't matter how or where I write, so long as I'm writing. Because in the words of author Jim Harrison, another writer who sometimes likes to write standing up, "your death, in those spooky terms, is stalking you every day."
Jim Harrison is five feet, nine inches.
—2011
Venice "Carnival"
I haven't been to Venice in 23 years.
The first time I was there, I was 23. That means I haven't been to Europe's most famous, most romantic, most sinking, most decaying, most don't-pinch-me-or-I'll-wake-up paradise in a life time.
I wrote one of my most anthologized and translated short stories not long after my first visit to Venice. It was called, Portrait. It was about getting lost but finding love within the canals. Now, all these years later, with 5 novels behind me including The Remains and Godchild, I'm finding that Venice, although a maze, isn't nearly as confusing or intimidating as it was all those years ago. I guess maturity has its advantages. So does grace under pressure.
This is the time of Carnival and it seems as though the entirety of Italy has descended upon the ancient city. People of all ages, wearing costumes and gowns and masks make for a mysterious if not dangerous experience. Even if it is all in good fun.
Tossed into the sea of people are women in ball gowns topped with white wigs, faces painted with white powder. Men wear black, shin-length, capes, and those triangular caps that the great lover Casanova wore. Some wear evil masks of grossly long noses, while other people . . . young, college age, silly people . . . dress up in bunny costumes.
The point, as I understand it, is first, to be photographed by the hordes of journalists and photographers who've come to record the event for their various publications. But also the point is to celebrate the dead and the coming Lenten season, which I assume is why the final day of Carnival takes place at precisely the same time Fat Tuesday happens in New Orleans.
Or I could be of course wrong about all this.
But I do know this, the masks and costumes were originally meant to disguise one's self from one's class, which means, even back in the olden days, Venetians of all shapes, sizes and bank accounts were looking to get it on with one another.
Why do I say that?
Because like all good festivals, Carnival ain't just about the funny costumes. It's a lot about the booze and what happens after the booze.
Case and point?
The groans and moans of ecstasy coming from the young Japanese couple in the room directly beside my own. Makes me feel kind of left out.
Back to all those people . . .
It's hard during this festival to find alone time.
There are so many people on this fish shaped island (30,000 pour in per day!), it's not hard to imagine it sinking once and for all. But you can still find some peace and quiet away from the tourist areas like San Marco. So much peace and quiet and business as usual exists in the "ghetto," or what was once the Jewish District, that this morning, I was able to jog up and down a cobblestone jetty without once running into a single soul.
Man or woman.
Being thrust into a pool of masked humanity has its frustrations if not downright scary moments, such as patting your back pocket for your wallet and not feeling the usual hard bulge, but only then, forgetting you slipped it into the interior pocket of your leather jacket. For safe keeping.
. . . Wipes sweat from his brow with the back of his hand . . .
But there are gifts here that are uniquely Venice.
There's the gondola ride on the Grand Canal and over the feeder canals, the gondolier singing softly while pushing the sleek black boat over narrow canals made of decaying brick, filled up with green, thick looking water. There's the pastry shops that smell of fresh baked cakes and sweets and bread, and how good the cafe tastes with a raspberry filled croissant still warm from the oven. There's the antique shops, and jewelry shops, and wine shops that sell bottles for only 5 Euros. And of course, there's exhausted waiters who give you a grumpy look and even grumpier service when serving a masterpiece of shrimps cooked in hot spices over a bed of fresh polenta.
Venice has been sinking for years, or so they say. But my gut tells me that I will be sunk far earlier than this ancient city on the sea. If I keep coming here every 23 years, I will be 69 during my next visit. Assuming I live one more block of 23 years beyond that, I will be 92, that is I'm doing my math right.
I'm imagining myself at 92.
Old, crooked, slow, and maybe sad. But Venice will be the same. And even though I will be passing on, I will walk the same cobbles I once walked as a young man, as many young men did before me. And it will be like living a memory.
Past, present and future.
—2011
Why I Still Publish Traditionally
No I don't live under a rock.
I'm well aware that the "in thing" these days is to self-publish. Jeeze, remember the golden olden days (like 6 months ago . . .), when an author who even muttered the words "self-published" was considered the worst kind of vain vermin, especially to MFA in Writing School types and college poetry professors?
Well, the world has changed and more than one self-published author, Amanda Hocking among them, have gone from absolute nobodies to multi-millionaires within a period of about a year. Having sold more than a million of her paranormal thrillers on Kindle and E-Book, Amanda just signed a deal worth two mill at St. Martin's Press. Big news in New York City, not to mention a watershed event of Tsunami proportions.
But wait a minute . . . hold the phone. Didn't I just point out that the cool thing to do these days is to self-publish? And why would a writer who is already making a million bucks decide to upset the "program" if you will, and make the switch to a traditional major publisher?
In a word: TIME.
Upon accepting her new deal, Ms. Hocking expressed a desire to spend her day "writing" and not formatting HTML and designing covers. Self-publishing might place all the control and money into the author's pocket, but it's a mammoth time sucker.
Which brings me to my original point. Why do I still publish traditionally when I could double my royalties by going DIY?
TIME.
I'm both a journalist and a fiction writer. I write and edit more than 36 small pieces per month, plus write three "professional" blogs (these blogs are more like full-length articles), and in addition, maintain my own growing blog. And, at present, I have three books going plus I'm expecting a galley proof for my forthcoming new novel The Concrete Pearl. On top of this, I have to begin roughing out wha
t will be the sequel to "Pearl." Plus I have kids, I travel a lot, and I like to work out, eat, and drink . . . In other words, I want to have a life, not a live-in-significant-other relationship with my freakin' computer.
Therefore I have an agent (or in my case agents . . .), and I have a publisher (or three) who edit, publish, and distribute my books for me, and in exchange they take percentage of each sale, because they deserve it.
Like I already said, I ain't living under a rock these days, and any publisher, from small indie to the biggest major, which is faring well in the marketplace knows that the book producing paradigm has changed significantly. Publishers are no longer Gods living high up on "You can't get there from here mountain!" They've become humbled as of late, and therefore, their attitudes on the working relationship with the author has shifted from Land Owner/Indentured Servant to Partner/Partner.
Nowadays an author provides the publisher with great work, and the publisher provides the author with great and necessary services. Traditional publishers will:
Take your book on only if it's an exceptional read (Yes, this is a service believe it or not. Self-pub'd authors run the risk of unleashing absolute crap on the reading public!)
They edit and proof your work.
They take the time to provide your opus with the best, most eye catching cover possible (remember, in these the days of E-Books you can judge a book by its cover)
They package, distribute, and market your book.
They do your accounting, collect your money, and send you a check.
If your book isn't selling well, they will assist you in improving those sales.
Of course, publishers do more than this, but even those few services mentioned above are enough to keep me publishing traditionally.
I remember taking flying lessons right when I got out of college. After about my fifth or sixth lesson, the flight instructor pulled me aside and suggested that I remain a passenger rather than become a pilot. In his opinion, I just didn't quite have the organizational skills it takes to become a pilot who maintains a life rather than crashing and burning. Somehow I get the feeling that if I were to attempt self-publishing, I'd forget a few of the necessary steps and, well, crash and burn.
I don't regret my decision.
With the assistance of my publishers, I am currently selling 1,000 copies of The Innocent per day, and if it keeps moving the way it has been, it will become the Number 1 bestselling Amazon Kindle Book in the world (it's No. 29 as of this writing; No. 2 in Hard-Boiled Mysteries). The sequel, Godchild, is close on its tail, and The Remains is close on its tail . . .
So one more time . . . Why do I still publish traditionally?
TIME!
And For bestselling Kindle author Vincent Zandri, there is simply no other way.
—2011
Responsible Publishing, Big Breakout Success!
A lot of my peeps have been chiming in asking me what it feels like to be selling a whole bunch of Kindle E-Books these days on Amazon. Like thousands, per day. No kidding. That ain't no typo. Not bad numbers for a former construction worker. Go figure! (Me, shaking my head in disbelief, but also looking up to the heavens with gratitude!)
But the truth is, I'm not entirely sure how to feel about it. Currently I'm the number 4 overall bestselling Kindle and have been as high as number 3. Two of the three authors above me are propped up by major motion pictures (Hope I get a move produced one day!). Since the middle of March I have moved around 31,000 units of The Innocent, and Godchild it's sequel, is about to enter into the Top 100 books also.
But back to how I feel about it.
I feel great, naturally. Who wouldn't feel great? It's cool to be popular. I thought there might be some talk about the pricing, but the sale price of a buck is only temporary and my other books, like The Remains, that are priced at the normal $2.99 are selling in the low hundreds. Even the $9.00 Moonlight Falls has gained something like 200% in the rankings and is holding steady, if not slowly gaining more ground, which tells me a lot of my fans are willing to pay an extra few dollars for my brand of "quality" thriller and mystery (Thank you!!!).
So, the question still persists: How do I feel?
First of all, I am honored that I am earning ("earning" being the keyword here) a fan base that is willing to support my work, and enjoy it. I owe you not only a lot, but I owe you everything. And in return I will keep putting out very good books. I will write to the best of my ability every day. But second of all, I am being cautious. Cautious because I've been to the show once before with the majors and realized that success in this business can be volatile to say the least.
However, my success now is notably different than before.
My association and "success" with the big guys in New York was initially measured by one thing and one thing only: The size of the advance. Back in '99 I received a quarter of a million dollar advance for two books. And after the pub experienced an internal shakeup, my books along with a whole bunch of others, were simply tossed to the side. The end result was that I couldn't even begin to earn back my advance. Add to that, the big chain bookstores pulling the paper off the shelves after six weeks, and you smell a recipe for disaster.
Success this very minute is far different.
By that, I mean I am now being published responsibly.
What does responsible publishing entail?
The author earns what he or she sells. It's as simple as that, and it is not a new idea by any stretch of the imagination. Back when Hemingway started, authors might receive a very tiny advance, but they were paid by how many books they sold. Book runs were small, and essentially POD. The evil system of returns had not yet been conceived of by the booksellers association. Authors didn't have agents, and they weren't issued a pile of money they couldn't begin to pay back. Not without their book becoming a No. 1 bestseller and staying there for ten weeks. In a word, the system worked.
Responsible publishing not only means earning what you sell, but it means building an audience and pleasing that audience as best you can. Which means offering them sales like books for a buck, or doubles for five bucks, and making sure you earn every penny of that currency with great writing and a cool cover. Every penny that's earned is yours and your publisher's to keep. If you self-publish, you get the whole pot after you pay off your subcontracted editors, artists, etc.
I feel that my numbers will probably level off at some point, but will stay in low hundreds territory for a long, long time. Other indie authors are proving that the new responsible publishing model tends to work this way. Authors like Joe Konrath, LJ Sellers, Debbie Mack and so many others are doing what a whole lot of big advance authors working out of New York are not doing: They are selling in droves. And what's more, we're talking E-Books here. These books are not coming off the cyber shelves anytime soon or at all for that matter. Maybe The Innocent is No. 3 or 4 overall today, and given time and price changes, may slide down to 50 or even 200. But with some revised package enhancement and new pricing, that same book could be the no. 1 overall bestseller two years from now when my audience might be four or five times as large. The book will once again be re-introduced to a whole new group of readers from around the globe.
So again, how do I feel about having a breakout bestseller or two?
Like the old Beatles song goes, I feel fine.
But I'm also guarded and I'm not about to quit my journalism entirely. I'm not about to diminish my marketing efforts. I will however be cutting back on certain trade journalism projects in order to write more fiction. Because like newbie indie and bestselling author Barry Eisler recently pointed out, the best way for an author to maximize his or her sales earning potential is by writing more books.
Which is why I'm going to end this blog and get back to the fiction.
—2011
Back to the Old School
I was the guest speaker at my old high school yesterday afternoon as a part of their quote, "Distinguished Alumni," unquote program. It's a
little hard to swallow being referred to as a distinguished anything in Vin World, considering I put my socks on one at a time just like everyone else, the only difference being my socks probably have holes in them and maybe I've been wearing them for a couple of days now. I'm a bachelor. You gotta let me slide on certain things, like clean clothes for instance.
Ok, back to school.
A little background. My old school, The Albany Academy, was once a private, all boys, military academy. It's also old. Really old, having been established in 1813. When I attended the place from 1978-1982, the military component was still in full swing. We wore uniforms that matched West Point's, and drilled on a daily basis. The halls of our bottom floor were lined not with posters of peace, love, and understanding, but Springfield 03-A3 rifles. We had a shooting range upstairs, a Major, a Colonel, and strict haircut regulations. Anyone who received a certain amount of demerits at inspection was expected to march around the front "flag-pole" circle, even if it was raining.
It was all good fun . . . Wink.
Some pretty big notables, literary and otherwise, have passed through the Academy's corridors through the years including, Herman Melville, the Roosevelt kids, and even Andy Rooney.
The school has changed radically since my time. It has now merged with the girl's school located across the street. Participation in the military is no longer required, but instead a "volunteer" extracurricular activity. The West Point uniforms are gone, giving over to preppy blue blazers, rep-ties, and khakis. Gone are the guns, the Colonel's, the inspections, and, in a word, the junk that used to keep me up at night.
Pieces of Mind Page 7
