Ode to a Writer
I bet you thought being a writer was a revered and honourable profession. People would flock to bookstores to scoop up your work and praise you for contributing to humanity. That when you walked into a restaurant, you would be immediately recognized and feted like royalty. Your book releases would be treated on par with the King’s coronation.
Like me tell you what it’s really like. The process chips away at your self-esteem and confidence. You spend countless hours sending out letters to agents and publishers begging them to consider representing you only to be largely ignored. You become a huckster, trying to charm people into shelling out money for a book that probably costs less than that fancy coffee they’re holding. At the end of the month, you’ve done well if your royalty payment will buy one of those fancy coffees.
I’ve tried it all folks. I’ve hired a publicist. Bought Facebook, Amazon, and Bookbub ads. I’ve made myself available to book clubs. I’ve used book funnels to build up my mailing list. I spend each morning posting jokes on social media hoping one or two followers might indulge in a book. I’ve rented tables at bookfairs and watch the hordes walk around me to avoid having to make eye contact with me.
Too much of my book sales are to family and friends. Well, at least those family and friends who don’t expect a free copy. And by no means do I believe that any of those people would purchase one of my books if they didn’t know me.
How did we get to this point? The literary world is a mess. Independent bookstores are as rare as the Sumatran Rhinoceros. Authors aren’t competing against each other. In this digitized world, we competing against streaming services, video games, and social media. What’s left of the mainstream media has abandoned the authors too. They no longer have staff who write literary reviews and interview authors. You want to make the news? Try walking down Main Street naked with only your book covers over your private parts.
So, why do I and my fellow authors put ourselves through this self-flagellation? Because we love what we do. We dream wonderful stories and want to share them with this reluctant world. In the end, whether our books are read by thousands or dozens doesn’t really matter too much. We’ll just hang onto our day jobs and dreams, and keep writing.
