So What Happens After You Can’t Sell a Book? Part 1

I published my first book in 1999 and my second book in 2005. I have written four books since then—not a bad track record when you’re working full time. I self published two because I couldn’t find an agent to represent me, and am now shopping two more in the hopes of finding an agent. All these books are decent reads and the book on Pauline Pfeiffer is, IMO, excellent. So this will be a series on what I have learned over the twenty years about writing and what you do when you can’t sell a book to save your life.

First we will start with the negatives because this is just the reality out there, and I believe in facing issues head on. The marketplace has changed and whittled itself down to nothing. When Borders was in full swing and Barnes and Noble wasn't hanging on by its financial nails, you’d have a big marketplace to sell your idea. Sure, publishers were looking for blockbusters, but they could also carry a number of books that had decent sales but weren’t going to be the next Harry Potter. More marketplace, physical marketplace, meant, in simple terms, shelf space for one’s book. Then Borders went under and Barnes and Noble continues to struggle (at least in my local Barnes and Noble they seemed to have returned books to the floor as opposed to stocking lots of toys and stuff with higher mark-ups), and the marketplace became Amazon and airports. Amazon treats books as widgets (literally like books are akin to hair brushes), and airports only stock blockbusters and the Oprah sanctioned “thoughtful” books that were supposed to speak to your soul. Your book has no place here.

But, but, you say, Amazon. Well, this is where it gets tricksy, because if publishers want to capitalize on whatever sales they can glean from Amazon (remember their physical--not cyber--marketplace has shrunk to the size of a pea), then it behooves them to take advantage of Amazon’s algorithm. If you buy this book, you will like THIS book. All of this is math, and let’s add another reason why I hate math. It tends to aggregate types of books together, which is fine and dandy to a point, but it also does nothing for that book that isn’t easily categorized. These are the sort of books I tend to like because, hello, this means said book isn’t formulaic crap. And sadly, in the latest push to get books out there, many of the authors I used to love are writing formulaic crap. More on formulaic crap in another post.

Basically if you have two feet of space to sell books, what are you going to sell. The latest J. K. Rowling book or the latest book by an author who has only had minimal success in the marketplace but who is a good writer and could build a following? Or not. There's a bit of the roll of the dice there. Guess who gets the spot on the shelf? This is just common sense. But THIS is the reason why publishers aren't selling books outside of their top twenty sellers because the shelf space has become minimal.

But. But. Amazon has zillions of terrabytes worth of books to sell. How do you find those books? I assure you, I have never turned up in an Amazon algorithm in my life. The books with more sales always rise to the top. It's self-defeating. Your book doesn't sell because it doesn't sell. But if it were in a bookstore and you browsing around the shelves and you happened to be a foodie and, look, there's a mystery about a chef. Hmmm. Of course, you can't do that now because my books don't have space on any shelf at the moment, but certainly there was a time when that was possible.

What the publishers now want is a book by a tried and true author who will have sales out the gate, like Michael Connelly in the crime fiction world. A Harry Bosch novel will sell. It just will. A book by a no-name author with a character whose name is Larry Mosch? Not so much.

What about the independent book stores? They are coming back interestingly enough (and, yes, Amazon is now toying with brick and mortar stores but IMO is only a bigger and better airport bookstore without the planes). And again, limited shelf space.

Where do we go from here?

The Deck Is Stacked Against Us

Even though last year was very productive writing wise (I finished the two books I've been writing and why-oh-why did I think writing two distinct types of books a good idea?), it was also a lesson in the house of cards we all inhabit. Come to think of it, perhaps I was so productive writing wise is because my real life was a kaleidoscope of cards hitting me in the forehead, the back of my neck, my nose, and me scrambling to grab as many of these metaphorical cards as I could so that I'd have some shelter from the emotional cold. Escaping to imaginary worlds where I was master and commandeer probably made a whole lot of sense.

So, my husband wakes me up (a year ago pretty much to the day) in the middle of the night and says he's having trouble breathing. We are both the offspring of doctors. Anyone whose parents are in the medical field know that short of cutting open an artery, you do NOT go to the doctor. I knew this was bad. Normally I have to browbeat him to go for even mundane things like check-ups. In fact, at one point he had something wrong that demanded medical attention, and in the period between the last time he saw his doctor and the next, his doctor had gone bald. That will tell you how much he hates doctors.

The long and the short of it is that his mitral heart valve failed and a week later he's having open heart surgery. He sailed through the procedure and the aftermath, and for that we are all grateful. Then three months later my mother dies.

My mother lived on a cul-de-sac and every time I'd turn the corner, I'd say to myself, I hope the newspaper is not in the driveway and the curtains to the living room have been pulled open. And one day the newspaper was in the driveway and the curtains to the living room still tightly closed. She was elderly and died in her sleep in the house that she'd lived in for fifty years. I'm positive she didn't suffer. Her hands were tucked under her ear and she looked like she was asleep. Initially, I thought she was asleep and that maybe she was sick. I touched her shoulder to gently wake her, and she was icy. Dead people are cold. It's a cold so fierce that it travels up your arm and chills your heart.

I was a good daughter, and I can I say that my relationship with my mother is the only relationship in my life where I feel no guilt about what I should have done or could have done. I wanted to be a good daughter. My mother was a delightful person, the most generous person I've ever known. Funny, sweet, the sort of person who was an animal whisperer. Both domesticated and wild animals flocked to her, sensing her gentle spirit. The dogs in heaven are barking in ecstasy. There wasn't a coat pocket of hers that wasn't filled with dog treats. She was honest and didn't believe in keeping secrets. She wasn't a saint. She could form instant dislikes that were immovable (and irrational), which made traveling with her a little dicey at times. Somehow, she had a "thing" for desk clerks. She believed that human connections were the most important thing in this world, and she expected you and others to honor invitations and obligations. Family was everything to her. She was, at heart, a rather timid and shy person, but with a feisty personality, which I know makes no sense but there you are. A woman with simple tastes, every meal was the "best I've ever had in my life." She loved her daughters, her grandchildren, her various mutts, her garden, and her Waterford glass. There was nothing more satisfying to her than to have her entire family sit at her table and eat her food. I will miss her every day of my life.

What I've taken away from these twin events is that the anchors that moor our emotional ships are being tugged at by the tides, so be kinder, more mindful, and determine what matters to you most. It's easy to get surrounded by stuff that doesn't truly matter (which is only hammered home when you have to clear out a home that isn't yours and you discover that your mother had a passion for polyester pants and enough Christmas wrapping to last several lifetimes). You can't catch those cards from falling down on you or stop the anchors from slipping away from their moorings, but you can learn to truly appreciate what you had and have.

I haven't gone all zen. I still loathe Trump with an unholy passion.

Dusting Off (SNEEZE!)

This blog has been moribund for a while because life has been awful. I’ve always had to shoe horn in the writing around the rest of my life. I can’t imagine having the luxury of being able to write full-time. The books that I would write! And the peripheral necessities of being an author these days always get left until last, i.e. blogs, etc. There aren’t enough hours in the day and any promotional stuff always gets punted because I must write another 500 words. And if I have to chose between the 500 words of the current book I’m writing and this blog, then the book always wins out. And then life happened in a big way and everything sort of went to shit. Although the emotional fallout from the last two years continues, life is slowly lurching back to normal, and it’s time to start thinking about rebooting this writing career in a serious way.

I’m going to revisit these two years here and there, sprinkled with tidbits of writing/authoring stuff,  and to try to keep to a schedule whereby I write every Sunday morning before my yoga class. I’ve got several projects in the works, and woke up yesterday with the most KILLER idea for a book.

So, recap, over the last two years:

I have written two books that I’m shopping around.

• Book No. 1 is another Jane Austen pastiche of Persuasion. I have found to my enormous disappointment that Austen pastiches are not marketable. I suspect it’s because they are deemed too close to fanfiction, but I’ve never received a reason WHY no one wants to buy it (or the previous book). If it doesn’t sell, I will self-publish. Janites are legion. I don’t write these books to make tons of money. I write them because they are fun.
• Book No 2 is historical fiction, a first-person narrative from the point-of-view of Pauline Pfeiffer. This is the best writing I have ever done. I will move heaven and earth to get this book published.

My husband had to have emergency open heart surgery.

And my beloved mother died.

Ban on Girls

My latest pet peeve is this persistent insulting trend of books that are about women that have "girls" or "girl" in the title. I am now boycotting all such books. I don't care HOW good they are. This stealth sexist bullshit by reducing adult women into the role of a powerless "girl" has to stop somewhere, and it's going to stop at my pocketbook. I walked through one of the last remaining Barnes and Nobles in my area and I counted--I AM NOT JOKING--eight books with the word "girl" in the title, And I wasn't even looking. I was just strolling along trying to find a Father's Day present for my husband. Did I see ONE book with the word "boy" in the title. I did not.

What Have I Been Doing?

First of all, I have been writing, yes I have. I stretched myself and wrote a short story. I know that sounds backwards, but while I admire like whoa those people who can write short stories, I'm like, nope. Not my word salad. But a friend approached me about contributing to this anthology and although I said no, somehow I said yes, and I pushed myself. It was an interesting exercise in stepping out of my comfort zone. It's not a mystery anthology, but something entirely different--when I go outside my wheelhouse, I don't fool around. The basic premise was, hey, you have two Greek gods, Debris and Detritus, go write. Anyway, I did it! The cover is amazing.

What else have I been doing? Knitting pussy hats. Because, I cannot state this more clearly, I am appalled, disgusted, and horrified at the threats being made on a daily basis to our democracy, and I am knitting my little fingers to the goddamn bone and passing these hats around to anyone who wants one. Because we are persisting. Even my 86-year-old mother is knitting pussy hats because she is so appalled. We won't be shouted down, and we won't be silenced. If you want a pussy hat, email me. Also, I've been playing around with the standard pattern that floated around the internets because it seems like this should be knitted in the round, and, indeed, it should. Below is my version.

Pussy Hat in the Round

1 skein of cheap pink yarn. I bought a gigantic skein of the cheapest yarn I could find at Michael's. Works great.

1 #8 16-inch circular needle

Cast on 81 stitches. To join, cast-off one stitch so that you now have 80 stitches. Place a stitch marker of some sort so you know where the beginning is. Work in a 2 knit, 2 purl rib for 4 inches. Switch to a knit stitch for 4 inches for a total of 8 inches. Cast off. Sew the top seam and you're done.

What in the Hell Is Going On?

I try to keep this blog relatively free of politics even though I'm an extremely political person. The number of times a day I click to get the latest stats from Nate Silver's forecast models is nothing short of insanity; to me that is a sane response to what has become an insane situation.

The less said on Trump supporters the better. Let's accept that there are a number of Americans who are racist, sexist, jingoist trolls with a third-grade reading level. Sadly, this is the American way. That is what the voting booth is for. To deny these trolls their racist agenda. I wish I could be fair about this, but I can't. I understand their fears and frustrations. Manufacturing jobs are basically done in the U.S. It is Clinton's job to bring back some facsimile of production if she wants a second term. Indeed, if someone doesn't pour money into the rust belt and bring back well-paid union-wage manufacturing jobs, then the political spectrum will polarize even further. What is inexcusable is the racism. The sexism. The jingoism. THAT is not acceptable. Nope. And think about how you want people to buy American and your racist, sexist, jingoist ass shops in WalMart, where probably 80% of the merchandise was made abroad. But I digress.

So, that brings us to the Republicans. I have no respect for the Republican Party, and, amazingly, even less than I did during the Nixon and Reagan years, AND THAT'S SAYING SOMETHING. But they aren't or haven't been stupid. They have a different world view. They believe that if you are poor, you deserve your fate. You should wallow in your poverty, you lazy SOBs because you were too dumb and lazy (there's that word again) to pull yourself up by your bootstraps like I did. Uh, yeah, my father gave me $14 million to start a real estate company (hi, Donald) and my father's construction company benefitted massively from government contracts (hi, Paul). So? End of discussion. Oops, digressing again.

And aside from the Freedom Caucus and the occasional loony tune, the core of the old Republican Party is now largely silent. With the exception of Mitch O'Connell (dear god, what rock did that man crawl out from under?), most mainstream Repubs will be voting for Hillary. I bet Lindsey Graham is voting for her, and I want to go out for a drink with that man. He's hilarious and the first Republican I've ever wanted to out for a drink with. And, yes, I know he's a war hawk, but he's not INSANE, which I have my doubts about many of them. Ugh. Digressing. Sigh.

Why, you ask. Because I honestly believe that this has become the only way for the sane wing of the GOP to take down the Tea Party once and for all. To neuter it. This is amazingly Machiavellian and there is a part of me that thinks, nah, they can't be that smart, but it's the only avenue that makes sense. The Tea Party has actively worked to stymie their agenda for eight years. It's why John Boehner is teeing off every day on the links and why Paul Ryan takes tequila shots every morning before going to work. They are willing to hold their noses and deal with Hillary because she is, at least, sane. She will compromise. She will reach across the aisle. You know, like, govern.

At this point they need to completely undercut the Freedom Caucus so that the GOP can return the party to what is has stood for decades. The party of moneyed wealth (not impoverished former cotton mill workers) and dog whistle politics (not this in-your-face endorsement of white supremacist lingo). They are sitting back and crossing their fingers that she wins. Because it will be the ONLY way to retrieve their party from the angry white mob. And it will be the ONLY way to survive as a party. Right now it's not a party. It's a collection of angry people who by and large are uneducated and who don't see a way out of their relative poverty (because, hello, you're uneducated), and who are seriously thinking about joining their local chapter of the KKK if they haven't already. Their representative of this rage is a liar and a cheat running for president under the Republican mantle. They can't even deny it anymore. He denies saying something that he said on national television not one hour earlier--ONE HOUR--and brags about not paying any taxes. On national television. And in his world that's a measure of how great he is. For those of us who pay our taxes? This doesn't go over very well. Because we can't have our foundations pay our debts. Because we can't use a political campaign to pay our children inflated salaries. Because we pay our taxes to fund America. Yes, Donald, that's what taxes does. They fund America. Crap. Digressing again.

So, yes, the sane Republicans are voting for Clinton and when she wins, they will begin to rebuild their party. Sadly.

Book Review: The Girls by Emma Cline

SPOILERS

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In my opinion, this is the most overhyped book of the summer. Basically, Ms. Cline uses the backdrop of the Manson murders to frame a coming-of-age story. This is an interesting premise if not potentially fascinating, except you can't have a coming-of-age novel if your character never comes of age. That is only one of the problems with this book.

First of all, the character doesn't move emotionally. She starts out as a confused, clueless teenager who obsesses about the mosquito bites on her legs and ends with her being a forty-something confused, clueless middle-age woman obsessing on her varicose veins. On her legs. Horrible things happen and yet she doesn't move one emotional inch. This seems to be a theme these days in literary fiction. Nothing much happens, but a lot of flowery prose makes you think something has happened. I have read several books like this in the last year, where I feel like Dorothy petitioning the Great Oz, only to find him unmasked by a curious little terrier and then being told to ignore that man behind the curtain pulling the levers. It's a lot of smoke and no fire.

Anyway, I know I will get heat for this, but this book could only have been written by a millennial, and I'll tell you why. There is an obsessive sense of self. This is the generation that defines itself by the selfie, after all. I was thirteen or fourteen years old when the Manson killings occurred, so you'd think I should be able to relate to the protagonist of this book, and yet I'm stymied by her. The book doesn't read like a fourteen year old. It reads like a twenty-seven year old trying to write like a fourteen year old, but with a much older viewpoint that made me question, is this a fourteen-year-old girl? At several point the narrative slips and it begins to sound like as it were told by the older self in flashbacks, which actually works, but then we are yanked back into her "present" again.

There is an appalling lack of fact checking that several commenters have noted. Oi, the credit cards are just one example. If you're going to set a novel in an era that is acknowledged as a monumental cultural shifting of values, then at least get the details right. It's not like there aren't hundreds of thousands of people--like me--who were the age of this protagonist and can spot the errors without even trying. This is just pure sloppiness and takes us out of the story.

Okay, let's get on to the writing. Wow, this is difficult to parse, because there are brilliant sentences that are followed by sentences with descriptors that literally make no sense whatsoever. There are least three of these on every page, and the editor in me was dying to take out a red pen and slash through these modifiers. I opened a page at random, and there is an embarrassment of riches. "The copse of trees that had always vaguely attended by evil." What does this mean? Evil isn't vague. And evil doesn't attend anything. Another page: "Come here," she said, and I sat down on the itchy pile." What does this mean, itchy pile? Is the carpet itchy against her legs? These sentences sound pretty, but ultimately they are hollow because none of these descriptors make sense. Also there is a tick through out that should have been weeded out, and that is the sentence fragment. I use this every now and then, and I appreciate it as a device. But it can be overused and it IS overused in this novel. I'd say at least 20% of the narrative are sentence fragments. And in many cases for no reason (hee!). It's like she'd used up her subject/verb allotment for the day.

Essentially, I felt that the written language in this book needed a firm hand to cultivate this author's truly wonderful facility with language. But pages of lush language do not make a book. I would have liked to see a LOT less manipulation of adjectives and adverbs that are merely window dressing and a lot more attention paid to character development. No one took her by the hand and said, "But what does this mean and why is she doing this?"

And then there is the ending. Why does this ending remind me of Gone Girl, which is another book that lacks a moral center. I suppose had Evie spoken up and exposed these murderous cretins for the evil bastards they were, then this would have actually had her grow up; however, belonging or being "seen" was more important than having a moral core. The fact that Evie did not speak of these atrocities at the hands of her "friends" might be more "literary," but as a reader we are left with a sour taste in our mouths. I didn't understand this stunted allegiance to Suzanne post-murder, or even less so the bizarre envy expressed by the protagonist as Suzanne enjoys her fame as one of the "girls," and a sense that Suzanne robbed Evie of being one of the "girls."

If this girl/woman can't speak for a murdered child, then why should we care about her? I don't feel sorry for her. I hated her by the end of the book. Her silence was beyond odious. It was craven, and no amount of fancy writing can absolve the book of this fact. If you don't care for the protagonist, then I think the writer has lost the reader. You don't have to like a protagonist, but you have to relate to their moral dilemma, and there is NO moral dilemma in this book. There is nothing learned. If the murder of four people doesn't move a protagonist in some direction to jolt her out of herself, then what would? This book reads like an emotional selfie. All image, no heart.