Many writers would be just as happy to remain in their own little rooms, happily typing away on their stories. Once upon a time, it was much easier to let the publisher handle the publicity. Books would stay in print and in bookstores long enough for (print) reviews and word of mouth to drive sales.
The shift from that model to faster turnover (books may stay on the shelves only weeks or days or–shudder—hours), print runs determined by pre-orders, and the buying practices of chain bookstores (where one buyer might make the selection for many stores) have all contributed to pressure the author to take a more active or pre-emptive role in book promotion. I can’t decide if the Internet, with its potential for very fast communication, makes the situation better or worse. “Generating a buzz” or “going viral” seem to have taken the place of slower, more thoughtful and personal recommendations.
I’m going to set aside the question that building up an Internet readership (as in the more popular blogs) and connections (“Mirror, mirror, on the wall, who’s got the most retweets of all?”) takes time and a certain knack. Instead, I’ll ask, what is being promoted? A specific book? A body of work? The writer himself?
If it’s a specific book, I submit it’s far more effective to communicate what’s cool and nifty and heartbreaking about the story itself, rather than the greatness of the book. (“Orphan goes to wizard school, where he and his friends battle trolls in bathrooms, outwit three-headed dogs, and play magical chess with life-sized pieces” is much more likely to elicit my interest than, “Harry Potter is the greatest book of all time.”) This is harder when describing a body of work, but the same principle applies: specific details. (“A crusader-turned-monk uses keen observation and insight into human nature to solve murders, while wrestling with internal politics at his monastery, the shifting sides of England’s civil war, etc.” works better than “The Brother Cadfael books are historical mysteries.”)
As for the author herself, I come back to Smith’s comment about looking outward and talking about things of interest. We don’t write books in order to be loved; at least, I hope we don’t. That’s not what either writing or relationships are about. So if we set out to promote our work, it should be our work and not ourselves we are offering to the world. (The corollary here is that when a story is rejected, it’s the words on the page that are being refused, not ourselves as writers or as human beings.) One of my pet peeves is authors who refer only to their own (all too often, unpublished) stories when discussing larger topics. There is a place for “stories about stories,” as long as the content itself—the ideas, the adventures-in-writing—remain the focus point.
Here’s Deborah’s Theory of Promotion. I’m appreciative of the honor of someone reading my blog or coming to hear me on a panel or writing me an email. There’s no price for admission. Instead, I try to offer something of value, whether it’s my considered opinion (or my insane off-the-cuff commentary), or adventures that have meaning for me, or a free story. It’s how I hold up my part of this far-flung conversational community. I believe that if you like what I have to say, you’ll be more inclined to pick up one of my books. I try to make it a friendly and easy process to check out what they’re about.
One of the best things about the ebook revolution is that the success of any given book, or my work in general, does not depend on what happens in the few weeks pre- and post-release. With an ebook, a readership can develop gradually and organically. I have a sense of spaciousness of time. Time in which to write my best. Time in which to develop connections with people who want to read what I love to write (and vice versa, to discover wonderful authors).
Pull up a chair. Have a cup of tea. Let’s talk about books and ideas and life. And may we each come away enriched and inspired by one another.
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Non-Obnoxious Book Promotion, Part 2
To be honest, I don’t have the answer as to what works and what doesn’t. (I don’t think anyone does, beyond pointing out things that are incredibly annoying, or things that have succeeded spectacularly for other people under special circumstances.) One of the worst aspects of relentless self-promotion is the gnawing insecurity it generates in others, as if failure to be spectacularly successful is your own fault. That sense of desperation is not only toxic, it’s contagious. For me, a playful and cooperative approach helps defuse the pressure to follow someone else’s strategy. One size does not fit all, especially at the cost of precious creative energy.
(I know what I feel comfortable with and what drives me nuts. I also am not big on rules, especially rules handed down by someone else. Whenever I read Authoritative Advice, I want to prove it wrong.) Here are a few ideas, as they pop into my brain.
If you’re on a panel:
Avoid the “Wall o’ Books,” a solid mass of every publication you have, often spilling over into the space of the panelists to either side. If you’re next to a better-known author who merely mentions her latest release during the introductions, you’ll look like an amateur and a braggart. Speaking of introductions, I heard Madeleine L’Engle say of herself on a panel: “I write books.” That was it. Period. I thought, How incredibly classy. But then, you say, she’s Madeleine L’Engle, who needs no introduction. I suspect that in many cases, the stature of the writer is in inverse relation to the number of books displayed. Most of us do well to give the audience something to go on, so wave that gorgeous cover flat and then put it down. Let the audience see your face, not a blur of covers.
Please, please don’t refer to your unpublished work as if the audience already knows it. In fact, it’s better not to refer to it at all, unless in the service of a greater point. (For example, research methods.) Or if someone asks you specifically what you’re working on, and then do be brief.
Remember that the panel is a conversation, not a series of monologs. Listening and asking follow-up questions creates an even better impression than steamrollering right over the other panelists. It’s useful to assume the audience has not come to hear you, they’ve come to hear everyone else, so the more content you can add to the discussion, the better you establish yourself as a Person With Interesting Ideas.
When encountering fans:
Perhaps the most helpful piece of advice is to give them an opening to gracefully disengage. Exert no coercion. Start by having your pitch ready and polished, acknowledge the fan’s interest, and give her a way to leave if she’s not interested.
“Yes, I’m a writer. My latest book is Twitch, a coming-of-age story in a world where the government has outlawed heterosexuality and roller skating. Are you on your way to a panel, or do you have a moment to hear more?”
“Thanks for chatting with me. Would you like a bookmark to take away?”
“I appreciate your taking the time to listen. If you’re interested, Borderlands in the dealer’s room has signed copies and I’d be happy to personalize one for you.”
On the Internet:
Here’s where I experience the greatest degree of “nobody knows what works” and “your tolerance may vary.” There’s so much you can do to create and develop “an Internet presence.” For myself, I need to be vigilant about time and energy boundaries, or all my writing time can go into noodling around the blogosphere.
I think it’s a good idea to compartmentalize: this is talking about my stories; that is talking about writing in general or politics or anything else besides my specific works. I get irate when I begin to read a post that promises to be an interesting discussion and ends up being a sales pitch. Don’t bait and switch.
I like the idea of exchanging reviews, as long as they’re honest opinions. Some people think it’s Internet favoritism, so don’t do it if you’re not comfortable. If a book isn’t my cup of tea, I’m likely to politely decline to comment on it, although sometimes looking at what I don’t care for leads to interesting stuff, better framed in a discussion of its own. I think it’s fine to approach blog reviewers and offer them review copies. (Again, having a succ
inct pitch is a good idea.)
A variation of the “Wall o’ Books” is the sidebar or separate page on a website or blog with publications and purchasing links. I don’t find this objectionable (in fact, it’s often useful), but don’t put one up if you cringe when you see it.
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Gatekeeping in the World of Ebooks
In this day, when social media are saturated with writers touting their self-published novels, it seems that anyone can write a book. Anyone with any talent or ambition, that is. Certainly, anyone willing to plug along and generate 80K or 100K words can do so.
On the other hand, so many of those who want to write never follow through, and of those, many never complete their project. To have finished a novel is an achievement, regardless of its quality or marketability. I think that’s worth taking a moment to appreciate. We lose sight of how extraordinary this is, and we then miss out on the benefit of taking a moment to savor this accomplishment as a cause for celebration and pride in itself. Instead, we turn to publication as a source of validation. Sometimes there are intermediate steps, such as feedback from a workshop or critique group, or the search for an agent. But all too often, the next step is to format the book, slap it up on the Internet, and voilà, one instantly becomes a “published author.”
The ease of self-publication removes the gatekeeper function formerly performed by editors and agents. This is not entirely a bad thing. Both have been wrong in the past, and marvelous works—particularly those that are “too difficult” or “too controversial” or simply do not fit into current marketing niches have had a difficult time finding a publishing home. (Case in point: A Wrinkle in Time by Madeleine L’Engle, which received over twenty rejections.)
However, the literary gatekeeper is not necessarily the slayer of good books. None of us has an accurate perspective on the quality and value of our work. This is true regardless of where we are in our writing careers, although it poses a stronger problem for beginning writers. After we’ve been at this for a while, we have a cadre of insightful, trusted beta readers and we’ve worked with professional editors enough to have a sense of where our own weaknesses lie. We’ve acquired some degree of critical skill, even though we acknowledge this may not be reliable when applied to our current darlings. We know we have blind spots, but we also have the experience to judge when a work is ready for a round of pre-submission critiques, how to listen to that feedback, the willingness to rip things apart until they work properly, and when it’s time to send the thing off to an agent or editor. In other words, we ourselves set up a series of hoops to jump through, each of which is designed to help us determine, Is this book ready for the next step? By the time the manuscript arrives on the desk of the acquiring editor, it’s likely been vetted by “a new pair of eyes” a number of times.
(There are, of course, variations to this process. If a project is sold on proposal, it’s been through a differently-rigorous process at an earlier creative stage.)
Nowadays, many authors who still work with traditional print publishers also self-publish. The easy releases are the reprints of out-of-print novels that have already been through the editorial process. (And hopefully, decent copy-editing and proofreading, but that’s another topic.) What about stories that got “We love it, but we can’t market it” rejections? What about books yet unscrutinized by editorial eyes?
Beginning writers often lack a cohort of peers. If they are fortunate enough to be in a critique group with more experienced writers or they have established a mentorship relationship with a professional writer or editor, or if they have networked in some other way with those with more developed critical skills, then they are already well ahead of the game. They’re more likely to understand where their stories are on the journey to publishable quality and what they need to do in order to improve it.
The operant phrase here is publishable quality. When there are no gatekeepers (aka editors), does this phrase even have meaning? Isn’t it a matter of opinion, that one reader’s publishable quality is another’s drek (and vice versa!)? And does it matter, so long as an ebook sells? What’s wrong with a situation in which anyone who’s thrown together 80K or even 50K or 150K words, formats it, puts it up as a Kindle or Nook edition, promotes it all over the social media sites, and sells a bunch of copies (or a whole big bunch of copies)? Isn’t that how the market works, by giving readers what they’re looking for?
The problem I have with this scenario, being enacted thousands of times over the various epublishing venues, is not so much the flood of unreadable or barely-readable books making it increasingly difficult to find the ones I want. It’s the disservice it does to the newer writer.
Each one of us has a unique perspective, a precious voice that is ours alone. As Edith Layton said, “No one else in the wide world, since the dawn of time, has ever seen the world as you do, or can explain it as you can. This is what you have to offer that no one else can.” But we have to learn how to tell those stories in a way that fully realizes (makes real) them. To make them the best we can. We aren’t born knowing how to do this. At least, I wasn’t. We need practice and critical evaluation and explanation of the techniques and principles of good fiction.
Rejection of early, poorly-conceived or even more poorly-executed novels, as disheartening and aggravating as it is, teaches us patience and keeps our standards high and our egos in check. I’m not advancing the argument that because I and writers of my generation “had to suffer” through one round of obtuse rejection slips after another, that every new writer must therefore do so. I’m questioning whether eliminating the “apprenticeship/journeyman” stage of writing mastery is a good thing. And if it isn’t, what is a beginning writer to do?
If all you want to do is have a virtual shelf of books to brag about, that’s one thing. But if your goal is a lifelong writing career, with growth and development toward your full potential as a writer and with the creation of works of enduring value, then you would do well to replicate the educational process in your own work. This might be through peer-run writers groups, workshops at conventions in which you receive critiques from established writers, formal courses such as Clarion/Clarion West, Viable Paradise, or similar workshops, or one-on-one mentorship with a writer or freelance editor (I think this latter is one of the most exciting developments in learning-to-write, with the opportunity to work closely with a seasoned professional).
One of the hardest things for a newer writer to accept is that not every early attempt at a novel is successful. Furthermore, heavily promoting an unsuccessful novel is one of the surest ways of sabotaging a career before it gets off the ground. We really, really don’t want to concede that the darling we have labored so hard over is, not to put too fine a point on it, utterly dreadful. The way through that agonizing stage is to keep working at your craft, write another book with a completely new concept and characters, keep pushing yourself, get the best critical feedback you can, write another book and another. At some point, you will be able to look back and see for yourself why that first attempt didn’t work. If you keep at it, you’ll also notice when your stories started to soar. That’s the threshold! That’s when it’s time to send the book out to agent or editor, or to consider the self-publication route. How you decide on one or the other is complex and rife with highly opinionated arguments one way or the other. The important thing is to become your own gatekeeper . . . with a lot of help from your friends.
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Story and Self
Juliette Wade presents some interesting thoughts on self and story in the context of the revision process. She makes the point that your story isn’t you. Here’s what I think about different ways of looking at the relationship:
1. Your Story Is You.
Many of us have had the experience of being so enmeshed in a story (or characters) that we just can’t hear criticism of the words on the page as distinct from a personal attack. Sometimes it’s because we see so much
of ourselves in the characters. They are, after all, having the adventures we wish we could have, or they are the people we wish we were. So we develop a selective blindness about them as characters, often in terms of inconsistent motivation, lack of significant shortcomings, or perhaps even the reverse, mistakes that don’t make sense (a la Italian opera plots).
There’s a corollary for plot and story, in which our original idea is so precious to us that we twist and turn and distort and jam illogical things together to make everything come together “the way it has to happen.” Sometimes that story we’re reaching for really is the right one; more often, however, we start with a flawed or superficial conception and develop it into something solid in the process of getting rid of whatever doesn’t work. I’m talking about the sense of inviolability, of plot being “darling” in the sense of non-negotiable as an extension of ego/self.
2. Your Story Is Words on the Page.
This is the conventional view advanced in writing workshops, critique groups, and panels on writing. It’s immensely helpful in establishing distance between you—a person, a writer of many stories—and this specific piece of work. That makes it easier to hear feedback about what you actually wrote, not what you envisioned or thought you wrote. (As a side note, one of the reasons it’s hard to copy-edit your own work is that we see what we intended, not necessarily what’s on the page.) Sometimes, getting from story-as-self to story-as-words-on-page feels like a divorce, a death, a beloved child leaving home. Other times, it’s a relief. Oh, I did a horrible job with the story I meant to tell, but there’s an even better story buried under the drek. Which, I admit, is how almost all of my early stories worked.
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