Miles Watson's Blog: ANTAGONY: BECAUSE EVERYONE IS ENTITLED TO MY OPINION - Posts Tagged "writing-life-writers"

Since Goodreads is a site devoted entirely to books, it's reasonable to assume that there is some level of curiosity among readers as to the life an author leads. Perhaps this is mere egotism on my part, but I myself have always been curious about the processes behind, for example, singing, songwriting, musicianship, comedy routines, art, dance, and so forth; the mechanical processes involved in the manufacture of art.

In the past I have described more or less jokingly the struggles writers endure, which include all manner of rejection, indifference, humiliation, and disappointment, to say nothing of the economic struggles and the emotional drama. The trope of the broken-down, alcoholic writer with his half-empty whiskey bottle, his overflowing ashtray, his stack of unpaid bills and voice mailbox full of editorial demands and messages from debt collectors and ex-wives, is really not very far from the truth. Even writers far more successful than myself endure these struggles, for the simple reason that writing awards mean nothing to the general public, and royalties often constitute nothing more than a glorified side-hustle. Nevertheless, the life of an author is not all rejection slips and visits to the pawn shop. It includes a fair share of triumph, though by necessity these triumphs are often more emotional than tangible.

Yesterday I was invited to discuss my WW2 novel SINNER'S CROSS with a local book discussion group, and afterwards I spent two hours at a table in a local coffeehouse/restaurant selling and signing copies of my various works. It's worth recording the entire experience here as an example of what a writer goes through during the act of self-promotion.

Writers are by often nature, and even more often by necessity, introverts. I myself am what is known as an "extroverted introvert" in that I require regular social interaction, but then need quantities of solitude to recharge my batteries afterward. Self-promotion is thus a little less odious to me than it is for many of my more closeted bretheren. Notice I say "a little less" because while I frankly enjoy attention and praise, I feel like a fool and a jackass when I pander for it. And self-promotion is literally pandering. It is not a passive wait for acclaim, it is the active hunt for it. And this is anethema for me. Anyone who actually knows me knows that self-depreciation is at the core of my sense of humor. In this I am more like the character of Xander Harris on BUFFY than any other character I've ever seen on television or in the movies. Indeed, I went to great lengths to make Nicholas Brendan's acquaintance when I was living in L.A. because it was important for me to tell him to his face how much it meant to me to witness his performance in that role. But irreverence and self-depreciation are not great sales techniques. Salesmen ultimately sell themselves and not whatever product they are hawking, and to do that, they must present themselves as something highly valuable and desirable and not undercut their image with shyness or jokes at their own expense. To assume such a shape is difficult for me, at least for extended periods: it simply runs contrary to my nature, which is easygoing until it's not.

In any event, the morning of the event, which had the advantage of taking place about four city blocks from my apartment, I drove two boxes of books, a banner, stands, and such-like over to the venue, parked in front of their door, bought a coffee and then walked back home. When I returned a few hours later, I set up at a trestle table on the second floor which had been reserved for the discussion group, only just avoiding the downpour which began as I was lugging the last of the books inside. The second floor of this establishment has huge picture windows overlooking the street and the buildings opposite, and also provides a grand view of a pounding rainstorm, which under the circumstances boded unwell for attendance at this little shindig. And indeed, after the head of the discussion group made her appearance, for an uncomfortably long time it was just the two of us, making chitchat over coffee. And if there is one thing a writer hates more than self-promotion, it is self-promotion which fails so miserably it leaves flop sweat glistening on their forehead and upper lip. My very first book signing was such a disaster, and while the subsequent one was a triumph in comparison, it left a bad taste in my mouth which was slowly starting to reassert itself upon my unwilling taste buds.

The situation quickly changed, however. One by one the discussion group members appeared until the chairs surrounding the trestle table were fully occupied; then another wave of people, partially composed of friends of mine who'd I'd invited to make an appearance, did just that, so that a double ring of faces half-filled the second floor. For the next hour, I answered questions about SINNER'S CROSS -- how it had come to be, the difficulties I'd encountered writing it, the research I'd performed, my own interpretations of the characters and themes versus those of the readers around me, and so forth. I was pleased by the praise but even moreso by the occasional criticism. I have never been one to take intelligent, non-malicious criticism personally: quite the contrary, I actually enjoy the thought people put in to making such criticisms, because if nothing else it shows they were paying attention and cared enough about what I'd produced to give it a critique. The discussion was supposed to last an hour but actually went about 90 minutes. This left less time for the book sale & signing, but as many participants of the group bought additional books besides the copies of SINNER'S CROSS they'd purchased from the restaurant or my online store, it didn't cost me any potential sales and quite frankly, after listening to me talk for an hour and a half, it was the least I could do for them.

We then set up downstairs, by the front counter, so that patrons could not escape seeing my wares displayed on stands above a white banner emblazoned with my name and images of the various awards I've won over the last eight years. Mercifully, enough people lingered to keep me company, and enough foot traffic shuffled to the cash register to lure a few of them over to make purchases. I sold out of two books -- THE VERY DEAD OF WINTER and WOLF WEATHER -- and came one copy short of selling out my stocks of SINNER'S CROSS. Several people bought bundles: three, four, even six books. By the end of the session, I realized I'd had my most profitable personal appearance to date, which I grant you is not saying all that much since I've only done three of them, but we all start something somewhere, nicht wahr?

It is true that awkwardness is a baked-in component of such appearances. One man, a weathered meth addict in recovery with his sobriety chips swinging from his belt, came in and spent about a half an hour talking to me and my friend Jeremy, who had come a very long way while rehabbing a knee wrecked in a jiu-jitsu tournament. He had so soft a voice, and the coffeehouse was noisy enough, that I couldn't understand a word he said, so I finally gave him two free books, went outside to shake hands with two of his friends from the recovery house down the way, and resumed my vigil by the cash register.

Just when I was about to pack up my things, a the bell over the door jangled once more and I was stunned to see my old, old friend Andrew walk in with his wife. I had not clapped eyes on Andrew in decades, probably not since I was still in college. We had grown up in the same neighborhood in Maryland, gone to the same high school, and our families were very close and remain in touch from a distance. He had driven two hours down the turnpike for 20 minutes of face time. I was very deeply moved by this. Indeed, the support I was shown, including a bombardment of texts and so forth from people who couldn't appear, was heartening. Writing, as I said before, is a solitary occupation and can make the writer feel isolated from human contact beyond even what an introvert would wish; but there is a difference between isolation and solitude and any blow struck against isolation is a victory for a writer's mental health.

When I came home, I confess I was a little high on endorphins. I'd sold a lot of books, made a respectable haul of cash, seen faces I hadn't seen in a long time and met a whole slew of new people. I'd had the opportunity to meet people who'd read my books and to discuss my fiction with them, which is not a common experience for authors. I graciously even allowed myself to be taken out for dinner and drinks by another old pal, Nate, who told me he was building a bookshelf in his rural cabin solely devoted to my works. "This is an investment," he said, patting a stack of my novels.

Of course, moments like this, valuable and memorable as they are, do not change anything materially for an author. They are not decisive and generally lack any resonance whatsoever, and its important to remember that the carriage returns to a pumpkin state come the midnight hour. I once walked the red carpet in Hollywood with a beautiful actress; the next morning I had to return the tuxedo, which seemed to symbolize that I was returning to poverty, obscurity and struggle as well. Book signings and interviews (just like awards ceremonies), can delude an author about their importance or the general trajectory of their career. So its important to savor the moment for what it is and not expect anything more. I prefer a carriage to a pumpkin, but I'm rather fond of pumpkins, too.

Today I am posting pictures of the event on social media, and after my ritual hike, will spend some time doing writerly things of a more prosaic nature. These are the mechanics I referred to above: the dull, complicated stuff writers have to do to achieve anything at all: editing manuscripts, compling e-mail lists, conducting website maintenance, making phone calls to discuss potential projects with other authors. Nobody sees how this sausage is made and I can't see any reason why they should want to, but authors periodically like to remind readers that the process takes place, because as J.K. Rowling once ascerbically noted, books do not simply write themselves no matter how badly studio executives wish they would. It's not sympathy we seek: its recognition that there are reasons you're gonna have to wait to, say, 2025 to read the third CAGE LIFE novel even though I finished the first draft months ago in this year of our lord 2024; and a lot of these reasons have nothing to do with the act of physically putting words on pages.

This at any rate is how this particular writer spent much of his weekend. It was a little stressful and very rewarding, and helped restore my morale, which after a week like the last one needed all the shoring-up it could possibly get. We independent and small-press authors often exist on mere crumbs, and sometimes even they are in short supply, so the occasional meal, however modest, does wonders to keep us going.