Roland Yeomans's Blog, page 90

How to SELL MORE BOOKS During the HOLIDAYS_IWSG post

It's the HOLIDAY SEASON already!

 Book Promotion during the Holidays is 
a Marathon Not a Sprint

Everyone is in a buying mood, 
so this is the perfect time
 to sell more books.

According to Google Trends, 

search terms related to “gifts” in the United States trend upward 

starting in early-mid November through Christmas Day.

Readers usually number other readersamong their friends.
So how to reach them?
1.) LAUNCH A HOLIDAY-THEMED BOOK
Put the Holiday in the title of your book and make it stand out from the crowd by opposing the genre with the season.



It's just before Christmas, and we share the regrets, hopes and best intentionsof a beleaguered manager after corporate tells him to shut his restaurant down.
2.) DESIGN AN EYE-CATCHING COVER FOR YOUR HOLIDAY NOVEL



It's New Year's Eve in New York City. Your best friend died in September, you've been robbed twice,
 your girlfriend is leaving you,  you've lost your job...and the only one left to talk to
is the gay burglar you'vegot tied up in the kitchen... 
oh, and  P.S. your cat is dead.

3.) SPREAD THE CHEER
Sites like VISTAPRINT can make your Christmas Cards for just 31 cents each.

4.) Send emails reminding readers that ebooks are the perfect gift that requires no shipping.
5.) Offer your print book at a price that keeps your book under $10 even with shipping.
    {You want to tempt gift givers to choose your books to widen the pool of readers receiving your novels.}

6.) AMAZON DOMINATES HOLIDAY SALES
  Focus on Amazon. 
Emphasize links to your books on Amazon. 
Your prospective customers will already be shopping on Amazon, 
so make it easy for them to purchase your books by being where they are (on Amazon!)

7.) EVERYBODY is advertising on FACEBOOK
The fishing hole that everyone uses produces few big fish.  Think outside of the box.  Use Pinterest or Instagram.

8.) DO YOUR OWN 12 DAYS OF CHRISTMAS related to your book
Whether it is a themed giveaway, 12 questions whose answers win a prize, or just 12 jokes ...
It will generate interest in your book and your prose.
The possibilities are limited only by your imagination

BRIGHT MIRAGE_WEP post

http://writeeditpublishnow.blogspot.com/
BRIGHT MIRAGE {A Beware the Jade Christmas Interlude}1000 words

 “To live in hearts we leave behind  is not to die.” – Ingrid Durtz


Lucas often told me behind enemy lines that I was like Anna Karenina,  
the kind of woman that if you want to kill, you have to hit with a train.
I wondered if those words haunted him when I died in his arms.   
Since possessing this young policewoman’s body three months ago here in New Orleans, I have never asked.
We have talked about that which really matters.
That first night after the Le Prete murders when I awakened in this body in that horrid mansion, 
we had a wide-ranging conversation:
We talked about love, fate, and everybody’s inability to truly leave the past behind. 
It was all said in a simple kiss that had my lungs feeling as if they were going to burst through my chest.
I put the last candle on the Yule tree in my modest room in the Ponchartrain Hotel, 
courtesy of Lucas who needlessly refused to tarnish my reputation with my sharing his own suite.  When you have died and reawakened in another’s body, a tarnished reputation was the least of your worries.   
Being alone with the dread that I would return to the Darkness was the chief.
Perhaps that was why I was celebrating Saint Lucia’s Feast this thirteenth of December as I had as a little girl in Sweden.
I softly sang:
Natten går tunga fjät  (The Night steps heavily) Sankta Lucia, ljusklara hägring (Saint Lucia, bright mirage) Ute är mörkt och kallt (Outside, it's dark and cold). 
There was a knock on the door.  I sighed.   
My table was not yet set.   
The lussekatt, the traditional holiday rich, spiced sweet bun flavoured with cinnamon and nutmeg, still hadn’t arrived from the bakery.
I opened the door to a startled Harry Stills.
“What the blazes?” 
Harry was the hotel detective. 
He was a wiry man whose seamed face said he’d seen more than he wanted, had cared more than was wise.  
 Harry wisely trusted Irene Dupré, the actress, not at all 
and looked upon me as the daughter he’d lost in 1920 to the Spanish Flu which killed anywhere from 3 to 6% of the world’s population.
“Your hair’s on fire!”

I shook my head with its candled-adorned halo.  
 “No, Harry.  Tonight is the Feast of St. Lucia. I am dressed like her, and this Christmas Tree is ablaze with her candles.”
He darted in my room, shutting the door behind him.   
“Honey, you’re lucky you got me riding shotgun for you. The management catches you lighting fires in your room, and it won’t be your room!”
I patted his face.  
 “I was an O.S.S. agent, Harry.  I burn down a building only when I mean to.”
I walked to the table, picked up a goblet, and handed it to him. 

 “Here, have some spiced Glögg.  
 Its name means ‘glow,’ and being served warm and made up of red wine, port, and brandy, it will certainly add a glow to your chest.”
Harry eyed my tree, counting the candles silently. “There’s an empty spot in the center.”
“That is its heart where a very special item is placed.”


He hesitantly withdrew a faded scarlet ribbon whose gilt edges were nearly invisible.  
 “This was Ruthie’s favorite Christmas ribbon.  I’ve nearly worn it away, thinking of her over the years.”
His wet eyes blinked,
“I've just about worn it out, but it was worn out with love, and that's the best kind of worn-out. Maybe we're all like this ribbon. 
Maybe there really isn't any such thing as mortality.  Life simply wears us out with love.”
Nazi bullets had ended me, but this was Christmas, and my gift to Harry was to allow him to warm himself in this bright mirage.
I kissed his cheek. 
 I forgot how spiritual Harry was despite his police past.   
I’d been raised a Methodist where the highest sacrament was the bake sale.
The door opened without any knocking.  
 Irene Dupré
 She was as unbalanced and deadly as the Cheshire Cat, but Marta always fell for the dangerous ones.
Irene elegantly walked towards us in a gossamer gown, speaking in a voice like the Taj Mahal by moonlight.

 “You came back from the grave while my Marta is denied me.  You look so much like her.   
The sight of you quickens my heart yet wounds it in the self-same moment. I hate you.”
Only then did I notice the Luger in her hand.
Harry reached into the pocket where he kept his gun.  I shook my head.  He would not reach it in time.
Irene’s insane eyes met mine.
The synchronic circles of our pasts triggered a lethal domino-fall, 
and the steady clinking grew until it drowned any possible words I could say with the silent thunder of consequence.  
 Still, I spoke, for Lucas could not survive me dying again without him.
“You can let grief can destroy you.  Or you can realize that every moment of the love you shared 
possessed more meaning than you realized. The laughter of each day you took for granted was priceless.”
The Luger trembled.
 I continued.
“One day you will be driven to your knees.  Not by grief, but by gratitude for what preceded this loss. 
The ache will always be there, but one day not the emptiness, because to nurture the emptiness, to take solace in it, would be to disrespect the gift of the love you shared with Marta.”
Irene husked, “It is like listening to Marta.  For that ….”
She pocketed the Luger.  
 “I will let you live if for nothing else than to hear the echoes of her voice.”
She turned, walking out of my room into the night.
Harry rasped, “You know the difference between an asshole and an anus?”
I shook my head.
“An anus can’t point a Luger at you."
The laughter that followed was Harry’s Christmas gift to me.

Not EVERYTHING stays DEAD in New Orleans

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07KQ8XMJR/
There is a darkness to New Orleans 
that is as carefully hidden as the gates to the small gardens which lurk between buildings in the Quarter. 
This dark side is there, 
just like the spectacular gardens and courtyards, but you have to know where to look for it.
 Even if you don’t see it though, 
it’s liable to creep behind you and claim you when you least expect it.



A  PRISON FOR SPIRITS
Ghosts cannot cross water. 
What is New Orleans surrounded by?
WATER!
New Orleans has Lake Pontchartrain on one side, the winding Mississippi River on the other. 
Even within the city, Bayou St John snakes its way through the soggy land.
  TRAPPED LIKE FLIES CAUGHT  BETWEEN PANES OF GLASS 
The ghost of a little boy is known to haunt the Hotel Monteleone, the Andrew Jackson Hotel and about ten other places. 
How many lost, lonely children died in those hotels over the centuries?
The lady in white has been seen at the Bourbon Orleans Hotel, the Maison de Ville and, you guessed it, about ten other places.
 As for ghostly Confederate soldiers? 
We’ve got the 
Andrew Jackson Hotel, the Beauregard-Keyes House, the Sultan’s Palace, the Bourbon Orleans Hotel, May Bailey’s Place and on and on.

  Ponchartrain Hotel (circa 1940)
THE PONCHARTRAIN HOTEL
Established in 1927, this hotel is famous for its ghosts.  
With its illustrious history, it is no surprise that the Pontchartrain Hotel has its fair share of ghosts. 
Some claim that there are as many as twenty different spirits that live here but those are just speculations. 
In 1929, during the hotel’s infancy, 
a fire broke out on the ninth floor and killed a husband and wife. 
They are said to still roam this floor, often interacting with guests by turning the lights on and off, 
activating the ice machine, and operating the elevator.
 Locals say that former famed local pianist, Tuts Washington continues to play ghostly tunes downstairs, 
while the residual energies of an elderly man and two women have been seen wandering through the hallways of the upper floors.

Rumor in the city is 
that a real-life vampire also haunts the hotel, hiding during the day-light hours and coming out once the sun goes down. 
PICK UP A COPY OF  BEWARE THE JADE CHRISTMAS
https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07KQ8XMJR/
And spend Christmas Eve Nightin the Ponchartrain Hotel

It will be a stay to die for.

WRITING TIPS and the PSYCHOLOGY behind them

THERE IS ALWAYS REASON BEHIND MADNESS ... AND TRUTH, TOO

Something to remember in these political debates ... and in the wisdom given to us on how to write well.

WRITE SHORTER

Every extra word makes readers impatient in these short-attention span days. 
Got to keep checking on those FB posts, you know.
Write as if each word cost you 50 cents.  Shorter prose is more powerful.


SHRINK THOSE SENTENCES!


Tiny draws attention in this big world.
Long sentences make readers work too hard to get to your main point.  
Break sentences into bite-size ideas.  Be Hemingway not Longfellow.

PASSIVE IS THE NEW POISON 



Passive voice sentences hide who is acting, creating uneasiness unconsciously in your reader.  Not good!
Be the detective of your own sentences -- find out who is the actor in each sentence and link him to the verb.


ERASE JARGON. FOCUS ON CLARITY

Jargon and Tech words just make your readers feel stupid. Way bad.
It doesn't make you sound smart.  It makes you look as if you are talking down to your reader.
Tell your story as if you were relaying it to your mother or next door neighbor.  Tell the tale to make the most impact to the most people.

PUSH TO THE HEAD OF THE LINE




Move key scenes and insights up as close to the front of your novel, chapter, sentence as you can.
You are not making a case in a court of law where you have to lay a foundation fact by fact.
You have only a few sentences to get the readers' attention.  

Don't waste those few precious moments.  

Grab your audience right out of the gate -- at the first sentence if possible. CLUES 

Authors use foreshadowing to hint at future important events. 
Whether consciously or unconsciously,

readers pick up on these clues if they read and use them to make predictions about what will happen later in the story.

It creates tension and suspense, keeping the reader turning the pages. 

AND DON'T FORGET MY CHRISTMAS GHOST STORY 
 https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07KQ8XMJR/

Please Buy Food Guy's New Book

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07KQ8XMJR/

BLACK Friday_JADE Christmas

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07KQ8XMJR/
Only $1.99 for the Kindle and $5.99 for the paperback!
Why do we tell Christmas 
Ghost Stories?

Halloween has just passed.  
Autumn, with its chill winds promising snowy shrouds upon the land, looms ahead.

That sets the mood and liberates the spirits which accompany us through the following months 

as the days get colder, and Winter stretches her grasping fingers across the window pane. 
Winter nights can be terrifying when walking home alone.
 
Long before Santa, 
winter whispered that good deeds and sins' bills came due this season.

This was especially true in New Orleans 
where sins festered, 
memories steeped in hate, 
and restless spirits seemed to follow in the fog.

Make Midnight happy:
gamble less than two dollars on a shivering Christmas Ghost story. 

 Happy Black Friday!

WHY SO PISSY?

Switch the news channel and chances are you will see folks protesting something.
Switch it again, and odds are you will see a new protest.
 They obviously have more FREE TIME and fewer BILLS than I have!

The chronic complainer  falls into a perpetual cycle  of finding fault, feeling negative, unable to face the next situation with an open mind. 
Eventually, the capacity for feeling joy is compromised. 
  Which brings me to Thanksgiving here in America.

For one day out of the year, we live with gratitude. 
 We live with a sense of appreciation for the people who have supported us.
 We live with a deep appreciation for what health we have.
We live with appreciation  for everything that we have,
and maybe even for the hardships  that have strengthened us   mentally, emotionally and physically.

Then the very next day,  life takes over  and we no longer  feel the same way. 
Our problems no longer seem like blessings but rather burdens;
those who have hurt us are no longer forgiven; 
The things that we lack  significantly overshadow the things that we were grateful for just one single day ago. 
  OR
  We can realize every moment of life  had more meaning  than we recognized at the time.
 When we're alone, we begin to see that it wasn't just watching sunsets together, or just worrying over bills.
 It was everything, it was the why of life, every event and precious moment of it. 
The answer to the mystery of existence  is the love we shared sometimes imperfectly.

When we're driven to our kneesnot by the weight of the loss  but by the gratitude  for what preceded the loss. 
The ache is always there, but one day not the emptiness, because to nurture the emptiness, to take solace in it, is to disrespect the gift of life.
HAPPIEST OF THANKSGIVINGS!

THANKS-TAKING

A Tale of the Last Lakota Shaman, Wolf Howl
I studied Dyami ...  the Whites here in New Orleans called him Captain McCord ... among less cordial names.  I flicked my eyes to Mesmer, the fabled cat who owned this French Quarter restaurant.  

I wondered what Dyami saw when he looked at her.  Being the last Lakota shaman, I saw something ... someonequite different.

Dyami cleared his throat, "Wolf Howl, I know you don't celebrate Thanksgiving ...."
"Thanks-Taking," I corrected.  "The Indians gave those Pilgrims food to keep from starving, and afterwards, the Whites thanked every tribe they met by takingeverything from them they wanted: land, children, a future."


Dyami sighed, "Long before the White Man arrived, the Delaware warred with the Iriquois; the Crow with the Cree, the Navajo with the Hopi ...." 

"Oh, yes," I said, "let us talk of the Hopi, who graciously welcomed the Spanish explorer, Garcia Lopez de Cardenas, and aided him on his way.”  
 Mesmer growled low in her throat, matching my mood, 
"And in gratitude, the Spanish occupiers enslaved the Hopi populace, compelling them to endure forced labor and hand over goods and crops."
Dyami shook his head.  "I wanted to bring you here to thank you for all you did for me and New Orleans, not ...."
I shook my own head.  "I did not do it for the Great White Father, but for those young girls you placed under my protection."

{Check out END OF DAYS: Buy the Kindle for $2 and get the audio for just $2! http://www.amazon.com/END-OF-DAYS-ROLAND-YEOMANS-ebook/dp/B0082ZJD08 }
Dyami said, "I will get Bush to call off his dogs for all you did."
I laughed without humor.  "He hunts you now."
"I'll think of a way."
I nodded, "I know you will try, but ...."

A hollow-eyed white man burst into the restaurant, waving a poorly maintained automatic.  "I want all your money!"
It hit him then that despite the smell of food from the kitchen, there was only me, Dyami, and a cat to rob.
"Well, shit!" he eloquently said.
I looked to Dyami, "Like all white men, he thinks a gun in the hand means the world by the tail."
"That gun's pointed right at you, Injun!"

I studied this white man, trying to decide just how painful to make his dying.
Dyami was looking out the swinging door and sighed, "Wolf Howl, he has a frightened wife and hungry children out there."


I sighed, "Life conspires to take away all my joy."
I met the man's uncertain eyes.  "I tell you what: I will buy that poorly kept gun of yours for a thousand dollars."
"W-What?"
I gestured with my fingers, turning the silverware in front of me to gold-ware.  "It is yours ... on one condition."
"Wh-What condition?"
"That you bring your family in here to share our food."
My words seemed to hit him like a fist, and his face fell in on itself like the crust of a badly baked pie. 
"I ain't never done anything like this before but Katrina's put us out on the streets. I was at my wit's end."
I thought that had not been a long trail but kept that to myself.
He softly, hesitantly placed the gun on the table, and I slid the gold utensils to him.
The White Man tucked them quickly into his pockets.  "W-Why are you feeding my family after what I tried to do?"
I flicked my eyes to Dyami.  "Tradition."
As the man rushed out to gather his wife and children, Dyami smiled sadly at me and said what I could not bring myself to, "Happy Thanksgiving."

AMAZON hates me

Amazon is much like a tiger in the wild: 
Unrestrained, savage,  and  does what it will to hapless humans  who are in its territory.
Did you know? 
I tried to give a Kindle version of my book to a Canadian friend and got this email:

"Amazon won’t let people from ‘my country’ redeem any ebooks either. I just tried. Wow.

 Did Trump make a deal with them? 

He’s been disrespecting Canadians and our Prime Minister a lot lately.
**************************** Here’s the message I received from Amazon:
This eBook cannot be redeemed by customers in your country. Note: 

 If you do not live in the same country as the person who gave you the Kindle book gift, 

the book may not be available to you due to copyright restrictions.

 How does copyright affect it going to another country? 

Sheesh. I guess you will have to send it only to the USA citizens.  

They are throwing up a lot of roadblocks - for what reason I wonder."


Earlier my Canadian friend tried to give a review for my audio book which she BOUGHT HERSELF.

I got this email: 
"I tried to review this on Amazon but it won’t let me 
as it says I have to spend at least 50 dollars in the last 12 months to be able to review a book I’ve bought on Amazon.  
That stinks."
Sigh. 

Due to medical bills, buying that audio book was difficult, 

nor has my friend been able to spend $50 dollars on Amazon.


HAS THIS OR  SOMETHING LIKE IT HAPPENED TO YOU  ON AMAZON?
WHAT DO YOU THINK OF THIS?

IN THE GRAVE, DARK SECRETS DID I HEAR

"The cruelest thing about Hell is that it lasts forever."