Thoughts on…selling my first one hundred copies.
This post is a little belated. I sold my first 100 books a couple of weeks ago and have been far further behind on blog posts than my New Year’s resolution suggested I’d be. Three times a week plus an interview series is what I promised the New Year pixies and, although the interviews are coming in, the frequency of the post has languished somewhat. Like the habitual boozer waking on a Sunday morning promising to change with all the strength his sore head will allow, I once again solemnly swear never to drink again. I mean, I promise to write more blog posts.
Selling my first 100 books was a nice landmark. The first sale was nice and the first ten were pleasant. There’s just something nice about 100. I imagine they’ll be something nice about 1,000 and beyond too, but 100 still seems so intimate. There’s a hundred people somewhere with my book on their kindles. Some have read it already and have said some nice things. Others have yet to read it and some may never read it all, but they all have it. Maybe it’s sat between big bestsellers on an ever extending to-be-read list, or maybe they read exclusively indies. Some may have taken a gamble on a new author. A few may have been wowed into an impulse purchase based on something that connected deep within them and others, others may routinely by anything at 99p. I’m sure at least one sheepish soul would raise their hand to say their wayward child tapped randomly on the family tablet, and bought it by mistake.
I want to gather them all in a hall, serve them mini quiche and wine on arrival, and ask them why they clicked, hear their thoughts and ideas how to how they found it, find out the things they liked and the parts where it was all too easy to put down.
I couldn’t do that with 1,000. Hiring a larger venue would eat into the appetiser budget and I’d worry about running around being a perfect host for all the readers who took the time to come. It’s difficult to imagine a meaningful conversation with a thousand people, so for convenience I’d probably end up giving a speech, defeating the whole point. They’d heard enough from me in my book; the plan was for me to hear from them.
A hundred though. A hundred I could do.
Selling my first 100 books was a nice landmark. The first sale was nice and the first ten were pleasant. There’s just something nice about 100. I imagine they’ll be something nice about 1,000 and beyond too, but 100 still seems so intimate. There’s a hundred people somewhere with my book on their kindles. Some have read it already and have said some nice things. Others have yet to read it and some may never read it all, but they all have it. Maybe it’s sat between big bestsellers on an ever extending to-be-read list, or maybe they read exclusively indies. Some may have taken a gamble on a new author. A few may have been wowed into an impulse purchase based on something that connected deep within them and others, others may routinely by anything at 99p. I’m sure at least one sheepish soul would raise their hand to say their wayward child tapped randomly on the family tablet, and bought it by mistake.
I want to gather them all in a hall, serve them mini quiche and wine on arrival, and ask them why they clicked, hear their thoughts and ideas how to how they found it, find out the things they liked and the parts where it was all too easy to put down.
I couldn’t do that with 1,000. Hiring a larger venue would eat into the appetiser budget and I’d worry about running around being a perfect host for all the readers who took the time to come. It’s difficult to imagine a meaningful conversation with a thousand people, so for convenience I’d probably end up giving a speech, defeating the whole point. They’d heard enough from me in my book; the plan was for me to hear from them.
A hundred though. A hundred I could do.
No comments have been added yet.
