http://booksquare.com/on-better-ways-to-get-groupies/ Dissecting the publishing industry with love and skepticism Mon, 21 May 2012 06:15:54 +0000 hourly 1 http://wordpress.org/?v=3.3.2 http://booksquare.com/on-better-ways-to-get-groupies/comment-page-1/#comment-166469 Christine Wed, 29 Aug 2007 16:23:27 +0000 http://www.booksquare.com/on-better-ways-to-get-groupies/#comment-166469 Ouch, ouch. Too true, painfully true. Except it sounds like your loved ones actually READ your book (then dread giving constructive feedback), whereas mine pretend, at best. Add to that, you hear literary agents say that if you don't sell 5,000 books out of the gate, you can forget about selling your next book. You call your publisher's book distributor for an update, and...well, now that the libraries have all ordered, the number is scarcely rising. And say you won a $5K publication prize intended to promote the book...and still the book waits. For what, it has no idea. Say you have decent reviews--author reviews, anyway--and still it doesn't make a difference. I thought I tricked life all along--if a date came late, I left. If a mate asked for space, I gave him/her more than he/she wanted. If I faced sexism at work, I'd be sure I worked four times harder so they'd have to respect me. And now I've published a novel. Hoorah! Someone wants me to read at a venue where a student audience won't buy books? I'll be there! Publisher can't afford to put me in a contest? I'll pay the entry fee! A friend tries to tell me she's read my book? (Remind me how it ends?) I'll nod and smile, letting the lie lie easy. No escaping whorishness in this gig. Then, say, your neighbors somehow get hold of a copy. You live in a near-theocracy, of which you're not a member. Suddenly your daughters aren't asked to play with other neighborhood children anymore. The content--well, it's whorish too. Smoking! Drinking! Drugs! Sex! Feminism! You wonder what the hell you were thinking in the first place. You realize you weren't thinking...you were somehow on autopilot, you couldn't stop. You were chasing some scrawny dog that had more life in it than you'd imagined. You look at your other manuscripts, stacked in a corner somewhere, or maybe just on a hard drive. You can't conceive of a cover letter that would hold its hand, much less haul yourself to the post office again. So what to do, what to do? I think read. Go back to why you wanted to write in the first place and read something good. Let it suffice if you can, and if you can't? Keep beating yourself up with your books. Ouch, ouch. Too true, painfully true. Except it sounds like your loved ones actually READ your book (then dread giving constructive feedback), whereas mine pretend, at best. Add to that, you hear literary agents say that if you don’t sell 5,000 books out of the gate, you can forget about selling your next book. You call your publisher’s book distributor for an update, and…well, now that the libraries have all ordered, the number is scarcely rising. And say you won a $5K publication prize intended to promote the book…and still the book waits. For what, it has no idea. Say you have decent reviews–author reviews, anyway–and still it doesn’t make a difference. I thought I tricked life all along–if a date came late, I left. If a mate asked for space, I gave him/her more than he/she wanted. If I faced sexism at work, I’d be sure I worked four times harder so they’d have to respect me. And now I’ve published a novel. Hoorah! Someone wants me to read at a venue where a student audience won’t buy books? I’ll be there! Publisher can’t afford to put me in a contest? I’ll pay the entry fee! A friend tries to tell me she’s read my book? (Remind me how it ends?) I’ll nod and smile, letting the lie lie easy. No escaping whorishness in this gig. Then, say, your neighbors somehow get hold of a copy. You live in a near-theocracy, of which you’re not a member. Suddenly your daughters aren’t asked to play with other neighborhood children anymore. The content–well, it’s whorish too. Smoking! Drinking! Drugs! Sex! Feminism! You wonder what the hell you were thinking in the first place. You realize you weren’t thinking…you were somehow on autopilot, you couldn’t stop. You were chasing some scrawny dog that had more life in it than you’d imagined. You look at your other manuscripts, stacked in a corner somewhere, or maybe just on a hard drive. You can’t conceive of a cover letter that would hold its hand, much less haul yourself to the post office again. So what to do, what to do? I think read. Go back to why you wanted to write in the first place and read something good. Let it suffice if you can, and if you can’t? Keep beating yourself up with your books.

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