Notes from the Bookfair

  

Mixing overtones of swap meet and art fest, the L.A. TimesFestival of Books presents an enigmatic facade. Where the cynic sees a marketing circus, the optimist finds acelebration of literary inspiration. People capable of a more subtle perspective may perceive the bookfair asa gathering of dualities:  the soulful andthe corporate, the silly and the serious, the creative and the commercial.

 

Held in late April on the stately grounds of USC, thebookfair draws roughly 150,000 attendees, who circulate among the canopies of severalhundred vendors.  (Anyone unfortunateenough to drive near USC during this time will likely add bookfair traffic tothe long list of complaints about living in L.A.)  For the vendor, the crowd represents anopportunity to get a product before more eyeballs in less time than mostpublishing schemes.  The vending booth functions like a highway billboard, enticing the impulse buyer to make apurchase and instilling in others a subliminal imprint for futuresales.  However, in the manner ofdualities, the very size of the bookfair creates its chief flaw.  Lost in a maze of vending booths, the dazedattendees walk like zombies, their brains overwhelmed by the barrage ofposters, flyers, and other promotional ammunition assaulting them from everydirection.  Amid such chaos, people trulydo judge a book by its cover--if they manage to see it at all.

 

As an obscure author working with a niche publisher, I oftenwonder where to draw the line between sensible marketing and vanityextravagance.  Deciphering the murky correlationbetween promotion and sales requires a business acumen beyond my artisticsensibilities.  Fortunately, I write forfun--in other words, to indulge my vagabond mental digressions--and know enoughabout America’s reading preferences to realize the surf travel memoir, the“genre” in which I specialize, won’t resonate with a mainstream audience eagerfor romance or mystery novels.   Whateconomists call the Law of Diminishing Returns applies with callous efficiencyin niche markets.  Additionally,statistics show that most book sales take place via Amazon.  Despite trade organization reports showingthat print books dominate total sales revenue, I suspect digital format sales(e-book and subscription KENP) outnumber print in terms of unit volume.  For my travel memoir, print copies accountfor only 30% of units sold, a statistic easily explained by price differentials: the e-book costs roughly one-tenth theprice of the paperback, while the KENP offers the convenient perks ofkindle.  In light of this trend, bookfairs seem like anachronistic and possibly counter-productive forms ofmarketing.  A Google search aboutauthors’ bookfair experiences yields many curmudgeons who contend the eventsexist primarily to enrich the organizers.

 

 But I regard the writer’s journey as a marathon, not asprint, and sometimes that means viewing opportunities in terms of passionrather than finance.  One never knows whatsynergies might result from placing a product of creative energy before thepublic eye.  Like a splash in a cosmicpond, the melding of book and reader might create ripples that transcendbalance sheet metrics.

  

Emboldened by such idealism--what experienced booksellers mightcall wishful thinking--I followed my entrepreneurial muse to USC, undeterred bya late season rainstorm that brought echoes of winter to normally sunny L.A.,taco trucks that ransomed nachos for twenty dollars a plate, and embarrassingdisplays of shameless self-promotion (“buy my book! You’ll love my book!” holleredone exuberant vendor).  Promoting mywares, I rediscovered customer service skills dormant since college, pondereddeep questions about the aesthetics of display, and joined my fellow vendors ina rite of passage:  lugging boxes ofunsold inventory back to the parking garage.  As a stepping-stone on mywriter’s journey, the experience provided some important tidbits ofwisdom: 

 

--have fun!

Often, the world will express indifference to the artisticcreation for which you’ve staked so much time and effort.  Watching the portion of humanity whosupposedly loves reading (a not unreasonable supposition about bookfairattendees) give you the cold shoulder emphasizes this indifference in a uniquelycallous way.  For the aspiring author,humor lessens the tendency to interpret public apathy as a personal indictmentand grants a more playful perspective. As if to emphasize this point, USC kicksoff the bookfair by trotting out several dozen of their finest cheerleaders toget everyone properly excited.  Scantilyclad, swinging their legs like aspiring Rockettes, these nymphs provide a spicyreminder of how attitude influences experience. If you doubt the value of this promotional stunt, consider that in L.A.,a city devoted to botox beauty and credit card lifestyles, artifice oftenspeaks louder than art.  To generalizefrom a Cheryl Crow song, all the people want to do is have some fun, and whenthe sun comes up over Exposition Park, they remember those who put the “fest”in festival.  For authors, this mightmean including some carnival games with books as prizes, or wearing edgyclothing, such as a shirt that says “writers do it with imagination” (you’d besurprised at the sort of people intrigued by this slogan).    

 

-- Cultivate authentic connections. . .

Today’s screen-mediated culture makes human connectionsincreasingly elusive.  Yet we remainsocial creatures who crave conversation and proof that we know how to functionwithout the internet.  As a catalyst forcuriosity, a book can attract people who might otherwise remain aloof.  I’ll long remember the conversation I hadwith Alexx, a college student drawn to the cover design of my travel memoir.  Questions about the book led to talk of surftravel, and I soon discovered that this girl half my age boasted a travelresume that put me to shame.  We had somuch fun discussing bucket list destinations that we ignored the unpleasantryof a passing rainsquall.  Similarlymemorable was my conversation with Paul, a true So Cal waterman whose photos ofmarine life encountered during his open ocean swims merited a coffee tableedition.  These and other encounters occurredbecause my travel memoir provided a bridge to moments of shared experience.

Of course, some who browse your wares care little aboutconnection.   The bookfair abounds with folks who come notfor the books but for the giveaways: pens, notepads, coasters, and assorted useless-but-free baubles which makepetty materialists salivate.  Include theinsistent trickle of interlopers looking to pitch their gimmicks--bookmarketing schemes, audiobook narrations, etc.--and you soon suspect evengenuine customers of ulterior motives. My advice?  Borrow a page from theinterloper’s playbook and consider how you might implement your own proactive schmoozingagenda.  Walk among the booths, expressinterest in some books that intrigue you, and offer the author a copy of yourbook in exchange.  (This works best forbooks in similar genres.)  Not only willyou lighten your inventory, but you’ll likely enjoy some worthwhileconversation and possibly connect on LinkedIn.

 

--Keep things in perspective. . .     

It’s tempting to think that inclusion in one of the world’slargest bookfair events will garner your title a commensurate promotionalbuzz.  Lest delusions of grandeur pavethe way for disappointment, do some sober research on the sales metrics typicalof swap-meet retailing.  To start,consider the cold-caller’s “one percent rule:” for every hundred peoplesolicited, ten might express interest, and of those, one might make apurchase.  Then, reduce this further toaccount for the fact that 1) only a small portion of bookfair attendees willactually approach your booth, 2) only a fraction of these “prospects” willappreciate your genre specialty, and 3) only a fraction of those will give yourbook open-minded consideration rather than cynical prejudice.  In other words, for obscure authors, thedistribution of probable outcomes skews toward a low-sales number.  But a silver lining shimmers for thosewilling to perceive it.  First, a lowsales volume says more about the whimsical nature of shoppers than the literaryquality of a book.  Second, the disappointment of selling ten copies where you hoped tosell fifty subsides when you realize that on Amazon, selling ten copies in oneday would likely propel that title temporarily into the top ranks of thegenre.  Finally, if you perceive thebookfair not as a showcase for books but rather an educational experience forauthors, you might find you learned valuable lessons.  

  

 

 Is the bookfair worthit?  Such a question invokes the wrongassessment criteria, reducing the event to mere balance sheet metrics.  I sold fewer books than hoped, but enough toaffirm my efforts.  Accordingly, I mightpose a different question:  does thebookfair take you further along the author’s journey?  Literary circles give the “authorprocess” relatively little fanfare, disdaining humdrum topics like marketingand brand development, but it actually has much in common with the writing process.  Building a readership requires dedication,sacrifice, and doubt-inducing setbacks.  Likethe writing process, it’s a marathon, not a sprint.  You make progress in increments ofperseverance.  Then, riding your secondwind, you find beautiful moments otherwise unperceived.

Speaking of beautiful moments, did I mention those USCcheerleaders?

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