June 2, 2005
Last night I took part in a local authors promotional event at the Rochester Hills Public Library in Michigan. It was typical, which is to say, on the surface it was a total disaster. On the surface because in theory these types of things are for authors to sell books, but I sold one. 7 authors, about 20 people in attendance. You do the math. Even if everybody came to buy--which they didn't--you'd only on average be likely to sell 3 copies if everything went great. [If you have one foot in a bucket of freezing water and one in a bucket of boiling water, on average you're quite comfortable.] Averages suck, and Mark Twain is the guy who said there are "lies, damned lies, and statistics."

We were introduced, then we each had 10 minutes to expound on ... well, something. The mix was all over the board. One woman collected ghost stories for the Michigan Historical Society. One woman, who recently won a PEN Recognition Award of some sort read from her collection of stories about the Cadillac plant, and it was pretty amazing poetry. Another woman--who was gorgeous, I might add--read from an espionage novel she self-published that was essentially an expansion of her master's dissertation in history. It went in alphabetical order, so I was the 7th person. I talked briefly about myself, read a bit from Dirty Deeds, said thanks and come talk to us at our lonely little tables.

Yes, like most book events, people come talk to you. One guy was interested in talking to me about my nonfiction writing and wondering--since he was breaking into writing for trade journals--how long it took to get paid. (The answer is: the rest of your life). Another woman who was an ex-cop wanted to talk about the reasons why she didn't think she'd ever get around to writing her own novel. (With that attitude, I'm sure they were all valid). At the next table, a woman who wrote several romances and mysteries and had them published via iUniverse, was being accosted by a woman who wanted to talk about the movie Titanic, and commented to the author's sister that it was nice that her mother came along. The sister was clearly having a bad night.

One guy wrote a memoir about all the famous people he had met during his TV career, and his talk was this really strange overly rehearsed bit of name-dropping that didn't seem to entertain. I may be acting a bit hard on him, since afterwards he managed to keep spinning off these double-edged slams against me that the other authors were gasping over. I have no idea what his beef was, but I sort of wanted to smack him, but smiled and ignored him, which works better and has fewer repercussions. His book was "But, I Never Met Sinatra." I was tempted, in retrospect, to say to him, "Your next memoir can be: 'But I Did Meet Mark Terry.'" Probably just as well I didn't.

Several people did pick up postcards, so it's possible they'll order a book. This is sort of novel promotion el classico. John D. MacDonald referred to writing as being like throwing a feather down a well. Mark Terry can be quoted as saying, "Promoting your writing is like throwing yourself into a well." To whit: you hope the water is deep and you make a big splash.

I've got a signing on Saturday at a Borders Express in Roseville, MI from 1-3, and I can only hope I sell a few more books. It's hard to say if these sorts of promotional things actually are about selling books. We as authors want them to be, but I'm not convinced they really are. Publicists insist (say that 3 times fast) that the point is creating relationships with booksellers and getting your name out there, but at times that feels like a way for them to justify their commissions. A sort of: "Don't worry that you're spending four times the amount of money on promotion than you're making on the books you sold at each event; in the long run it'll work out for the best." Yeah, the best for somebody else.

So, overall, I had a pretty decent time. Of course, I spend most of my day in a basement alone staring at a computer screen. The chance to get out and mingle with human beings can be a treat. They do let us writers out of our cages from time to time--it's called promotion.

Ah, the writing life. Glamorous, isn't it?

Best,
Mark Terry