And now for something less bitchy

I complain about a lot of stuff. Part of that has to do with how and where I grew up, and part of it has to do with my inability to shut up during mood swings. And sometimes I complain because I care, and I don’t feel like others care enough to make a difference.

The thing is, last night, after staying up a bit too late and being stupid sleepy, I got an invoice from Amazon for $47. This is in addition to the $35 I just got from Gumroad, and after doing some math, I realized, I’ve made over $200 in the first few months of this year. That’s all sales. It doesn’t include the two people who went, “Hey, Zoe, here’s $100 just because.” Yes! Seriously, people now just send me money. I don’t even have to sell them books, they’re just that generous. I honestly wouldn’t think I’d see that kind of generosity without growing some boobs and taking up a job in a strip club.

The other day, that dude who wrote The Piano was talking on Salon about how the cease and desist letter from Jack Daniels had raised his sales numbers and he was right up there with the big boys for a little while because he’d caught a lucky break. Then, get this; he says, “but after royalties and taxes and other expenses, I only made $12,000.” Oh, only $12,000. Okay. But no, he goes on to say that his previous self-published books only made $123.

Now I’m looking over my math and stuff, and I’m seeing that I made over $200 this year (after taxes, even!) The year’s barely started, y’all. I got new books in the pipeline, ready to launch, and my new book Sandy Morrison and the Pixie Prohibition, is starting to pick up new sales too. I’ve got 15 sales this month already. Yeah, it’s not nearly as high as the previous two months, but hell, that’s not a bad number at all. It’s even more amazing when you consider I went on vacation and stopped promoting my stuff. Didn’t matter, y’all still went out and bought my books anyway.

But this is still only half the story. Last week, my editor Tara tells me about her friend’s project to make survival kits for the homeless, and I’ve been homeless, and it sucked. I could have died of hypothermia if not for other people having good hearts and taking care of me, so now that I’m in a better place, I want to help people still stuck down there in the dark. I go to my followers on Twitter, and I’m like, “Hey y’all, I think this is a good cause.” Other writers picked it up, and they said this too, and now, the campaign has met its goal. I don’t get bubkes out of this deal except a nice happy tingling feeling because people DO care. But that’s good enough. And that tingly happy feeling? It’s better than the best weed I smoked in Amsterdam. It even feels better than sex.

But that’s not all! My editor’s campaign for her work on Thicker Than Blood hit $500. Yeah, I mentioned it before, but it needs to be repeated and given proper attention. We’ve still got lots of time left over to casually ask for more contributions towards stretch goals, but even if we don’t make anything else, my editor got paid for her work. Now when I hand her the agreed upon 10% from sales, I won’t feel so guilty handing her pocket change, because I know she got her cut in advance.

NONE OF THIS would be possible without you. Nothing. I’m enjoying greater levels of success in the indie market, and I have trouble seeing it for my mood swings and my little single-digit numbers on each title. To my mind, success is triple-digit sales on one title, but that’s why I’m not able to appreciate what I have. I really need to look at dudes like the writer of The Piano and say “I make more than he did before publishers picked him up.” I need to say to myself, “Most indies don’t make more than $65 on their self-published books.” Because if I can do that and remember how I’m way over those numbers, maybe I can be happy with my level of success. And maybe I can remember to say thank you more often and show some gratitude for the people who make that success possible.

I complain a lot about how I’m not a good fit for the mainstream, and how hard it is to market for a niche when I’m never quite clear on what niche it is I’m trying to fit myself into. I complain about the publishers, who I never have a hope in hell of reaching because they’d take one look at my blog and decide my big fat mouth would be too much of a liability. I complain about those publishers only wanting to take safe bets instead of helping to present real art to the public. I complain about writers playing it safe and not being real with people, and yes, I complain about readers who demand professionalism from artists like we’re more related to bankers and middle managers than to punk rockers who trash their hotel and pee on the service desk on their way out.

But that’s not you, is it? You people, you fine, good people who come to my blog and follow my twitter, you take all my craziest rants and you say, “I like you Zoe, because you’re real and vulnerable.” That’s not a voice in my head. It’s a real person on Twitter who says that. I can scroll back through mentions and keep seeing that message to confirm, yes, it really happened, and I didn’t just imagine it.

I’ve got writers telling me, “Keep going. You’re right on the cusp of success, and you’re out there doing and saying stuff that most people wish they had the guts to say.” I get emails from readers saying how they enjoyed my books, and the way they talk about the characters makes me so happy because they really do get what I’m trying to say.

I don’t feel alone in this struggle anymore. I’m not always an enemy of the world, and I am making a few connections at a time. It’s not just a matter of making sales, even though that is fantastic. I really get to talk to some of you, and when I need your help with some social problem or a random charity, you get up and move. You DO care. Isn’t that what I was hoping for? Wasn’t my goal to get you talking about important issues and want to do something more than talk?

And you do. You’re good, wonderful people, and I don’t pause between rants nearly often enough to acknowledge you and say, “But none of those last ten rants applies to you folks.” Because they really don’t. That blog post I just wrote about readers demanding a flawed reality in writing? Doesn’t apply to you. Obviously not, because you guys buy my books, and then you tell me, “hey, these don’t suck!” So when I rant about snooty readers, I’m talking about people who wouldn’t buy my books on principle alone, just cause I’m queer or trans, or because they think they know what to expect from my fiction. I’m not ranting about you, because you aren’t like that. You gave me a chance, and you keep giving me more chances. I can’t ask for anything more, and yet you give so much more than that. Y’all are great fans. You’re the cream of the crop as far as I’m concerned.

I need to do this more often. I need to show you my deepest gratitude and let you know that even if I am a grouchy crazy bitch, I can recognize that what I have is not something I’ve scraped from the ground by myself. What I have was given to me, and it’s your continued generosity that keeps me in this gig day in and day out. It’s because of you that right after I finish one book, I have the motivation to start another. It’s because of you that I have the money to pay my web-host, and if I don’t like their attitude, I got money in the bank to go look up another host without asking for my deposit back. (I do not trash my account on the way out, and I have not, as of this writing, attempted to pee on any service desks, but I digress.)

The thing is, I’m not a banker or a middle manager. When I see other writers talk about “professional behavior,” I just laugh and think how their heroes talked and acted. Their heroes would shake their heads at all of this self-censorship in the name of likability. I think some writers are so out of touch with their roots, and they’re so afraid of losing even one sale that they couldn’t say shit with a mouthful. They won’t talk politics or religion, lest they lose sales. They won’t talk up the environment, or human rights, or queer rights, women’s right, or civil rights, because every topic is too risky for their precious sales numbers. If that’s what professional is, I don’t want to be a pro. I want to be the punk with both middle fingers waving in the air, and I want to be the rebel artist screaming, “Fuck alla y’all if you can’t feel what I’m saying!”

But some of you do feel me, and you say so. Some of you tell me, “Right on, you crazy bitch! Keep up the good work!” And you know what? I DON’T KNOW HOW TO HANDLE THAT. I spent so many years being ignored and shunned, I don’t know how to act when people acknowledge me with praise. But a little voice inside me says, “Well, gratitude might be a good start.” That little voice is my conscience, and even if it is the littlest, quietest voice in my head, it is the one voice I always have to listen to. Because it never steers me wrong.

I owe everything I have to you. I didn’t get where I am now alone, and every step of the way, you were there, aiding me and giving me encouragement. I really can’t stop my bitching rants, cause that’s actually part of why you’re here in the first place. But I can stop and take time out to mention you, and everything you do that’s so very fucking awesome.

From the bottom of my heart, and with the truest emotions I can offer, thank you all for being there. You make this indie writing gig worth getting up in the morning.

And now if you’ll excuse me, I have to get back to my next book project, already in progress, Alice Doesn’t Live Here Anymore.