The Second Word in Best-selling is Selling: Tips on how to market your book

Patty here…

That was the title of the workshop I presented at the Sisters in Crime/LA “No Crime Unpublished” writers’ conference on Sunday with my friend, Rochelle Krich.



Rochelle is a multiple award-winning, best-selling author of fourteen novels and numerous short stories and I’m…well, you know who I am. I have a master’s degree in business with an emphasis in strategic planning. I also had a marketing plan for my writing career before I had an agent. The two of us have stories to tell and only some of them can be repeated here.

These events are a great opportunity to meet budding writers and reconnect with friends and fellow presenters like Naomi Hirahara, Gary Phillips, Sueann Jaffarian, Denise Hamilton and the irrepressible Harley Jane Kozak, D.P. Lyle, and Jan Burke pictured below.


Before my first book was sold I knew four things: (1) That it would be published; (2) My publisher would, in all likelihood, do little or nothing to promote it; (3) Promoting the book was just as hard as writing it; and (4) Ultimately, I was responsible for my writing career.

As it turned out, my publisher did more than I expected, for which I was grateful. However, publishers can do only so much to get your novel noticed among the 199,999 other books released that year.

The big New York houses all have publicists that may arrange book signings and some media coverage, but they don’t continue working on your campaign beyond the month or two surrounding the book’s release. They have other writers to promote. Susan Page has written an insightful book about publishing called The Shortest Distance Between You and A Published Book. She says:

“So it is true that you have to put out a major effort in the first three months. But it is a terrible mistake to stop after that. The best promotion a book can possibly receive is word of mouth. Word of mouth takes time to build, and you have to keep nurturing it.”

Page suggests that for a year and a half following the release of a book, a writer should continue to promote the book and spread the word. Sometimes the task is daunting. All writers have a story to tell of driving fifty or a hundred miles to give a presentation. Two people show up. One of them is only there to get in out of the rain. No books are sold. It's disheartening not to mention costly.

At some point we all stop to ponder whether any of this raises our profiles. Yet, most of us continue to pack our books into those briefcases and hit the road, because we all dream the same dream—to achieve a level of success that allows us to continue writing. In order to do that we not only have to be William Faulkners we also have to be Willy Lomans, because if there is one thing we all know in today's publishing climate it's that attention must be paid.

"You don't understand: Willy was a salesman. And for a salesman, there is no rock bottom to the life. He don't put a bolt to a nut, he don't tell you the law or give you medicine. He's a man way out there in the blue, riding on a smile and a shoeshine. And when they start not smiling back—that's an earthquake. And then you get yourself a couple of spots on your hat, and you're finished. Nobody dast blame this man. A salesman is got to dream, boy. It comes with the territory."

—Death of a Salesman by Arthur Miller

What about you. Are you more inclined to buy the book of an author you meet face to face?

Hope to see you at my next whistle stop. Until then, Happy Monday.

Posting on Perkoset

from Jacqueline

I know, I should have called James G. again this week to sub for me, because the business of wrangling the keyboard is not a pleasant one at the moment. Oh, don’t those best laid plans gang aft awry? A couple of weeks ago I managed to pull my right arm, or overuse it, or do something that resulted in a series of severe muscle spasms. Who would have thought muscle spasms could be so painful, as in cry yourself to sleep painful. I finally went along to the emergency room – and don’t you see it all in an emergency room? They gave me painkillers and told me to see my orthopedic surgeon, as the arm in question was the one broken several years ago in a riding accident. Had a great recovery after that accident, managed to get 100% of my range of motion back and wrote my first novel while recovering – but in all that time I never had pain like this.

So now I’m having physical therapy and typing with one hand again, and actually taking the painkillers. I come from a family where it’s considered poor form to take meds, to even need to take meds, which is why we are having so much trouble with my mother, who’s saying she can do without the cocktail of statins, blood-thinners and anti-cholesterol drugs she’s been prescribed since she suffered a mild stroke eighteen months ago. Mum, just take the [blank] meds, would you, so we can all sleep at night?

The physical therapist says that the good news is that the really bad muscle spasms like mine (“Haven’t seen one this bad for a long time.”) tend to improve faster. Oh deep joy. But in all of this, I remember that it will go, that it is small in the grand scheme of things, and as I clutch my arm in agony, which I have to do every now and again, I can hear my mother saying, “Think of the people far worse off than you!” I am sure she even said that to my brother when he had a really bad stomach ache that turned out to be peritonitis!

So, I’ve been thinking of all the people I know who are struggling with pain, and many of those I don’t know, but whom I think about nevertheless. And I don’t want this to be the doom and gloom blog, but there are many, many truly courageous people out there, ordinary folk beset with pain, discomfort and ill health. And having just a slice of that experience for a few weeks brings it home even more.

I remember when I broke my arm in 2001, I had this sort of large, bulky padded sling thing I had to wear (I called it “the structure”). It was interesting to me that, when we were out, people – in stores, restaurants and the like – would sometimes refer questions to my husband rather than me, as in, “What would she like to drink.” To which, by that stage, I would chime in with: “She didn’t break her voice or her mind, and she’d like a gin and tonic, please!” I’d heard of people in wheelchairs having to deal with such behavior, but not people like me, with a broken arm.

In the midst of my recent malaise, Newsweek carried a cover feature on pain, how much pain there is out there, and what is being done about it. I have been thinking about the wounded coming back from Iraq, or Afghanistan – remember Afghanistan, it’s where we were successfully chasing down the terrorists before resources were diverted to a war in Iraq, the one that makes no sense whatsoever. There are thousands of young men and women coming back from war with injuries from the minor to the profound, and all of them with even deeper wounds to the soul. Experts on PTSD believe this phenomenon is a disaster waiting to happen, that we have no idea how the numbers of wounded might affect society in years to come. Remember the time when it seemed that not a week went by without a Vietnam vet going mad with a gun in a MacDonald’s? Pain – in the body and mind – is at the root of such violence.

Being in pain made me think of my behavior. I became less than patient, snapping at those closest to me. I put the ‘phone down on an unhelpful appointment clerk, whereas normally, I would have stuck to my “wear them down with kindness” motto. There have been times when I just had to shut myself away or I would snap. And this is a little old muscle spasm – how do we comfort people who are coming back from war?

History informs us that, post-war, we like our heroes in one piece, not missing bits of body. When I first came here to live in the U.S., I wondered why there were so many men just a bit older than me, amputees begging on the streets, with signs saying, “Starving Vet.” Of course, veterans of the Vietnam war had a different cross to bear, but what will happen to the veterans of our current wars, in time, when they are not fresh-faced and young, but older, stooped, with their experiences writ large on their faces? How will their pain be eased, even if they are up to their eyes in Vicodin?

Right now, I’m feeling fortunate that, even if it takes a month or two or three, this pain will be gone. I will be back to my usual active, happy self. I’m something of a fatalist, and believe that nothing happens without good reason. One of my friends asked if I’d had any great ideas for new novels, knowing that my accident six years ago effectively changed my life. Trust me, on Perkoset, you are having good ideas all the time! But the fact is, that this current experience has done something for me. It’s reminded me again, how fortunate I am to have so much in life, and most important - my health.

Sorry, no pics this week – that left hand can’t run to cut, paste, and the fingerobatics required for such special effects.

PS: And I should add that I am my mother's daughter - being on painkillers scares the heck out of me, so I am only taking about a quarter of the dose I should be taking, cutting up the pills in case I get addicted!

Have a lovely weekend, and if you want to pass on this post, there's the envelope icon below.

It's time to get tough and take a stand.

A couple of Fridays ago the lovely Jackie Winspear pointed out that the President of Iraq, Jalal Talabani, was battling obesity and leaving the country for a three week stint at a fat farm. I felt for the man. I mean, there is a lot of food in the world. There are some great restaurants and don’t get me started on chocolate. But the svelte Ms. Winspear had a point. This little tub of lard should not have abandoned his country at such a critical time to look better for the ladies. So I had an epiphany (yes, I had to look up the spelling). I saw the light and decided I’d make a statement. I’d take a stand. I want to show the world that I do not support Mr. Talabani’s timing in his effort to look more like a Kurd.

While visiting Tallahassee recently I indulged in my favorite traveling activity. No not that and not drinking either. Those were favorites fifteen years ago. Now my favorite activity is eating breakfast at The Waffle House. Any restaurant that can include eggs, ham, waffles AND chili in one sitting is some kind of special place. I love the Waffle House. There are very few convenient ones in South Florida so I savor the treat when I’m somewhere else.

As I sat in the crowded Waffle House a few weeks ago, the day after Jackie’s post, I looked up from my hash browns with ham, onion, pepper, tomatoes, cheese and chili, to realize that at two hundred and five pounds, I was the smallest person in the entire building. There were people in there that carried their own cushioned chairs inside their expandable, polyester slacks. I started to think there might be a link between where I was eating and how people looked.

Then it came to me. The perfect cross of action and principal. Sort of a Lent and anti-Talabani protest wrapped into one; A boycott.

I will not eat at another Waffle House until one of three things happens. I weight 195 pounds. Mr. Talabani weighs 195 pounds or Mr. Talabani is killed. I feel confident that in the next year one of those events will occur and until it does please don’t invite me to have breakfast at a Waffle House with you.

I know this is a tough stance but I will not relent.

Even if I’m hungry.

Follow-up from last week

I told you I'd miss people who were helpful and not one way streets. One came to mind after he insinuated that it was a personal slight against him. It was not and to prove it I give you these two photos of a fine person, fine writer, fine American, fine redneck and two way street.

For identification keep reading but see if you can guess who this is.



He served in the U.S. army.

He has a well-read blog.

He may be crazy.

His book featured a piano playing hero.

He lives in North Carolina.

His last name is not Rhodes.

You don't want to see him mad.

Give up?

It is none other than David Terrenoire

How's that for a big photo!

He's the man. Master of A Dark Planet, author of Beneath a Panamanian Moon .

Father, husband, legend.

My apologies to all others I forgot to mention. David really is a generous, supportive writer who uses his blog for good rather than evil.

Until next Thursday,

Jim

Amazing Grace

By Cornelia

Please excuse a very proud mom's ramblings this morning:


Tomorrow morning, the young lady above will be graduating from the eighth grade. This was taken about thirteen years ago on her grandmother's porch in Portland, Maine.


She's worked very hard at school, but she started her own education at home in Manhattan, with a pronounced fondness for great literature, such as Pat the Bunny.



I think it was around the age below that she uttered her first sentence, in Boulder, Colorado:


Sadly for her mother, the sentence was "Mummie farted." Given the gales of laughter that followed her initial utterance of those two words, she repeated them a rather large number of times over the next several days.


It was around the age above that she began to sing the Alphabet Song. For a while, the lyrics were "A B C D E E E, E-E E-E E-E EEEEEEEE." Her record time without pause was an hour and a half in the back of the car, on the way to pick up her dad at the Denver airport during a snowstorm.


It was in Cambridge, Massachusetts, that she formally began school. This was after she'd taught herself to read at age four, halfway through Treasure Island with her dad.


The first book she read alone was this one, about a week later:



After that, she learned a bit of attitude:


And discovered fashion, especially gold lame and pearls:


We then moved to California, where she went to a very small school for the first three years:


There she discovered her love of math and science. I am including the picture of her dissecting a pumpkin, because the one of her dissecting a cow's eyeball is too gross for me:


For the last three years, she's gone to a small middle school and worked very, very hard at all kinds of academic things.


And all kinds of extra-curricular things (such as a visit to Ben & Jerry's in Vermont):


Last summer in the Adirondacks, she caught her first trout:

And learned to disguise herself as a deer:


Somehow, she's grown up a great deal in the last year:


Next year she will be going to school in New Hampshire:

I wish for her that it will be a gateway to a wonderful life, because she's truly a wonderful kid:


When it gets cold back east, I hope she will listen to this, to remember home:

We are so proud of you, dear Grace!

In other news: Robert Gregory Browne and Brett Battles are venturing into the podcast world. They've started a series of talks about writing, which, in the near future, will also include interviews with other authors and publishing industry professionals. Their first podcast on writing characters is now up. You can find it here: http://www.battlesandbrowne.com

A Tale of Two Titles

By Paul

"Trial & Error," the fourth of the Solomon & Lord books, is just out, but I'm having trouble getting used to the title.

It wasn't my first choice.

Let me explain.

I've never before struggled with a title. Nearly 20 years ago, I was researching the work of medical examiners when I stumbled across the credo: "To protect the living, to speak for the dead." The second half of that phrase became the title of my first novel. More recently, "The Deep Blue Alibi" served a dual purpose. A key plot point involved an underwater murder. The title was also my way of paying tribute to John D. MacDonald's "The Deep Blue Good-Bye," the first of the Travis McGee novels. "Kill All the Lawyers" is a portion of the often misused quotation from Shakespeare's "Henry VI." It seemed right for a book about a villainous client's attempt to kill his lawyer.

Which brings us to "Trial & Error."

The book opens with the kidnapping of two highly trained and talkative dolphins at Miami's Cetacean Park. Are animal rights activists behind the heist or is something more sinister going on? The dolphins are at the heart of the mystery and a murder trial.

So I wanted to title the book -- get ready for this -- "Habeas Porpoise."

The powers-that-be determined that the title sounded frivolous. Well, I wasn't exactly hatching "War and Peace." I write dramedies about a lawyer who makes up his own laws and the woman he loves but drives crazy with his courtroom antics.

Example. In the first book of the series, Steve Solomon called a toucan to testify. Victoria Lord objected, and the bird crapped on the sleeve of her Armani suit. So, let me repeat, there are no Bezukhovs or Bolkonskys in my books. Tolstoy, I ain't. Nor would I want to be, if only because he's been dead for nearly 100 years.

The only other thing I'll say about "Trial & Error" is that Victoria ends up prosecuting a murder trial that Steve defends. Hijinks ensue.


IN MEMORIAM

"Trial & Error" is written in tribute to a woman with a piercing wit and sharp sense of humor. My friend, Margo Flanigan, of Fort Lauderdale, fought a brave battle against breast cancer, and died far too young. She leaves behind a terrific husband and father, Paul Flanigan, and three wonderful children, James, Paul B., and Madden. She also leaves a long trail of joyful memories and spirited laughter.

Paul and his family are supporters of the Children's Art Project of the University of Texas MD Anderson Cancer Center...and I am, too.

GUEST BLOGGER, MY PAL JOEY

I'm turning the rest of today's blog over to a first grader. (No, not Jim Born). I'm talking about my pal Joey Paterno. Here he is with his favorite football player, former Penn State quarterback Michael Robinson, now with the San Francisco 49'ers.

I recently helped Joey with a class project, and in return, he sent me some photos with captions.


"Here are some pictures from where I live. This is Beaver Stadium. It is very loud. The players who play here actually go to school and graduate."



"This is Old Main. My Mom used to work here."


"Here is downtown State College. I eat there and go to the Arts Festival."


Thanks, Joey. I'll take over from here. Football fans probably picked up on the last name. Joey's grandfather is legendary Penn State coach Joe Paterno, seen here emerging from a heavenly cloud.

And Joey's father is Penn State quarterback coach Jay Paterno.


In my book, however, it's Kelley Paterno, Joey's mother, who gets credit for the lad's precociousness.

As long as we're talking college football, I note that it's only 95 days until Penn State plays Notre Dame. Yes, of course I'll be there.

Paul

Letting go

Patty here…

This morning I sent the manuscript of my fourth book to my editor, the fabulous Kristen Weber of NAL/Penguin. It was hard to let go of it because I’m still thinking of ways to tweak scenes or replace a word or phrase with something more profound. The book will come back to me for edits, of course. My manuscripts are seldom as perfect as I think they are or as horrible.

I let go of my 3rd manuscript ten months ago and have barely had time to think about it because my focus was on finishing my fourth. When you’re on deadline, the pressure feels overwhelming sometimes. For the past few weeks, I’ve stopped answering nonessential emails. Some of them I haven’t even read. My desk is piled high with unopened snail mail. There are dust bunnies under the bed and dried up geranium leaves that should be pinched from the plants in my window boxes. Everything has been on hold.

That all changed last week when I received a copy of SHORT CHANGE hot off the press. I also got my first review from Publishers Weekly. It was a good one and I was glad. Here’s the cover but you have to see it and feel it to appreciate how much fun it is.

SHORT CHANGE PUB DATE—JULY 3

The background red is a satin finish. The letters of my name are pillowy crimson foil. Tucker's Boxster is highlighted in foil, too. On the back flap of the jacket under the author information is this: “She is a regular contributor to the crime fiction blog www.nakedauthors.com with fellow mystery authors James Grippando, Paul Levine, Cornelia Read, James O. Born, and Jacqueline Winspear.” Yeow! I hope that doesn’t ruin anybody’s career.

The audio version of SHORT CHANGE has been recorded by Books on Tape and will be out on July 10 or so. I was curious about the voice “talent” who was speaking for Tucker, so I went to the BOT Web site a few days ago to investigate. She’s New Yorker Allyson Ryan.



This is what she says:

People love my voice because it is sexy, deep, and has a sensual rasp. I have the ability to sound authoritative and professional, but warm and fuzzy at the same time. For more light commercial type copy, I can sound bouncy, fun, and energetic. I can do character voices for cartoons and can sing for jingles. I also do a flawless standard British and Cockney accent.

It’s a strange sensation giving up control of Tucker’s voice to a stranger but it’s also intriguing to think that somebody may soon be stuck in traffic on the Santa Monica Freeway listening to Allyson Ryan as Tucker Sinclair, growling her way to the exciting conclusion of SHORT CHANGE.

This isn’t the first time my books have been recorded. In fact, did I ever tell you that FALSE PROFITS was the number one most talked about mystery in the dining room of my mother’s assisted living facility? I know, it’s hard to believe, but it’s true. Mostly it’s because the Braille Institute recorded my first two books for Talking Books, a free service offered to the blind or the visually impaired. My mother is a subscriber because she has macular degeneration and can't read anymore. When she was finished listening to FALSE PROFITS I asked what she thought of it. She said, “You sure know a lot of words." She raised one eyebrow in a gesture of disapproval. "And some of them you didn’t learn from me.” Oops.

Ceding our character’s identity is a tricky business. When I go out into the world and speak to various groups, people sometimes ask me who would play Tucker in the film. I never know how to answer that question. In my mind’s eye I have always thought of her as Juliette Binoche in “Chocolat.” My friend Mims thinks Tucker is Hilary Swank.



I wouldn’t have thought of Hiliary in a million years, but Mims has a brilliant mind and after giving it some consideration, I realized she was spot on. Tucker is tall and skinny with brown hair and eyes the color of Old Grand-Dad Kentucky bourbon. She has an insatiable curiosity. She is vulnerable but plucky. Tucker is Hilary Swank.



Now that book four is finished, I'll have a lot more time to ponder these issues. You may even get an email from me asking what you've been doing for the past year. For now if you'll excuse me, I think I'll take a nap...

The Time of My Life

From James Grippando

Jackie’s on the injured reserve list this week (shoulder), so here I am--the roving naked author--pinch hitting again. Here’s wishing you a speedy recovery, Jackie!

I was hoping for a phone call Thursday night. PMA, the Independent Book Publishers Association, held its annual awards banquet in New York. Each year the Benjamin Franklin Award is given to the outstanding book in various categories, and Leapholes (my first young adult novel) was one of three finalists in juvenile fiction. The call never came, so I’m guessing I didn’t win. But that’s not what this post is about.

Thursday night made me realize what I really love about being a writer—and it has nothing to do with awards. My daughter graduated from the fifth grade. In Florida, middle school starts in sixth grade, so she will be moving on to another school next fall. Kaylee spent 8 years at her elementary school. She started in junior pre-school, when she was just three years old. She literally grew up there.

Thursday night’s graduation ceremony was one of those magical evenings. As each child walked across the stage, he or she would stop for a minute or two, and one of the fifth grade teachers would read a short tribute that summed up each child. It was sweet, and of course there were tears in the audience. But as I sat there listening, the thing that really hit me was that I probably could have written a tribute of my own to every single kid in that grade—all 51 of them. And I could have written those tributes by following one of the basic rules of writing: “Write what you know.”

As long as Kaylee has been in school, I’ve been a writer, and I've lived the writer's life. I started each day by bringing her to school. I’d walk her to class. I stood at her side to pledge allegiance to the flag. I coached her soccer team. When she dumped soccer and tried basketball, I coached that team. When dance became her passion . . . well, I can't tell you how many rehearsals and recitals I've been to. I've done campouts with a dozen girls in the mosquito-infested Everglades. I've stood in the school parking lot before dawn to watch a motor coach take Kaylee and her classmates off to St. Augustine--her first trip without mom and dad. I was on the “Great Art” committee, which means that I got to go into the classroom and teach kids about art by dressing up and pretending to be artists like Dali, Rembrandt, Van Gogh and Jackson Pollock. I taught first graders about fairy tales, the second graders about folk tales, third graders about mysteries, fourth graders about historical fiction, and fifth graders about fantasy. I even had the privilege of serving on the board of trustees, where we got to make decisions that will shape Kaylee's school long after the class of 2007 is gone. I spent so much time on the school campus that people started calling me Mr. Mom. I nixed that pretty quickly, but if you think abuot it, that was really a compliment.

It’s hard to believe that eight years passed that quickly. But thankfully, I don’t ever have to say it went by and I missed it. I was there every step (and stumble) of the way. It wasn’t just quality time. It was time. Lot’s of time. For a former lawyer who spent 12 years of his life worrying mostly about billable time, these last eight years have been priceless. So here's to the graduates. Thanks for the smiles.

Jackie will be next back next week.