Into the abyss of Amazon ebooks

My first novel is now available on Amazon and I’m (I want to say crapping myself, but because this is a public blog, I’ll say…) terrified. Up until now it has just been something that is going to happen in the future, at some point, when I feel it’s ready, but now it’s been plucked, preened and polished to within an inch of its life there are no more excuses. But my fear (and I feel I can be frank) is that it will be swallowed up and forgotten in Amazon’s ebook abyss.

I’m sure there’ll be a flutter of excitement to start with from friends who had no idea I’d even written a book, and a few will be downloaded just so they can see whether or not it’s actually worthy of a pat on the back and “I know her”, or whether it’s going to be playground gossip fodder that’ll keep them going until Christmas. But what comes after that? I’m not sure I’m ready to be known as someone who published an ebook once (but don’t talk about it in front of her).

So how do I prepare for this? I don’t suppose there’s a manual outlining the dos and don’ts, with an epilogue at the back listing the seven stages of grief if it doesn’t work out. So once I’ve exhausted the friends and relatives pity pool, and tweeted my handful of long suffering followers, where else can I find a sympathetic audience?

I know I’m not alone in this, there seem to be literally thousands of authors out there desperately plugging their book, boasting five-star ratings that they blatantly borrowed from the pity pool I spoke of earlier, and using every devious and desperate measure they can think of to get attention. The trouble is, I write because I can’t act, or sing (actually, I can, but not in public), or dance, or anything else that calls for public displays of confidence. I write from the safety of my dingy office, from behind my well-worn computer, about other people, with elements of myself buried deep in the pages, never out in the open.

So for me, releasing my book out into the world is like when your child has a tantrum in public and you walk away tutting and shaking your head as if it’s someone else’s child; suddenly a part of me has wriggled free and is making a spectacle of itself on Amazon, and in order to get it back where it belongs, I have to admit to it being mine. 

The 140 characters that dictate my life

I recently joined Twitter – admittedly with some apprehension – as a necessity towards getting my book and myself ‘out and about’. (There was a time when getting yourself out and about was a physical undertaking, but now you can get there from the comfort of your own home, whilst sitting or even lying down!) But it takes courage because it’s an intimidating world. It’s like gate-crashing a party that only the cool people have been invited to. And although it’s easy to get through the door, you’re left crawling around in a sea of legs like a small child, pulling on the skirts and trousers of strangers, trying to find your mum.

So I began to tentatively navigate my way through this mysterious world, first by suggesting, politely, that people might like to follow me so they could hear about my new book… silence. I then posted a couple of links to my site and blog… nothing. Then I plugged a few other bloggers (re-tweeted is the term)… nada. By this point I was beginning to feel like a pig at a bar mitzvah. So I reached for the final weapon in my arsenal and resorted to begging. Apparently that’s not the done thing. After a couple of spams offering to sell me followers, I received a firm but gentle message from some kind person saying ‘You gain more followers by participating in Twitter, by interacting constructively, by networking, and building friendships’. In other words, impudent newbie, you’ve got to put the time and effort in!

Shortly after what I can only imagine is Twitter’s initiation period, Brit Writers took pity on me and began following me, as did a few others, and suddenly I wasn’t alone anymore. I had become one of them: a Twit, if that’s an accepted term. I don’t suppose it is, but I’ve joined a club that allows you to say exactly what you feel at any given moment. And it’s surprisingly addictive. It’s a release for all those pent-up opinions, and the great thing is, because you are only allowed 140 characters there’s no endless ranting. You must get straight to the point in just a few words. Admittedly there are times when I have nothing to say, but I feel like I should say something just to make my presence known, so that’s when I whack in a line from my novel, and hey presto, I’m back in the game!

And it is a game; aside from wanting to be the one to utilise the 140 characters in the most profound and influential way, it’s actually all about how many followers you have. That is your badge of honour, proof that you weren’t picked last for the team, respect at last for who you are and what you are trying to do. That number, heckling you from the screen, is your nemesis, and the only way to beat it is to tweet as if your life depended on it.

I’ve never been one for blowing my own trumpet, but I’m having to learn how, and tweeting seems to be an acceptable way of doing it. And presumably the more followers you have the more people there are to listen to you play. So as I pucker up and head back onto the stage I have only one hope; that everyone will enjoy the show.

@EmilyPattullo

The Zzzed Fest

For an impatient person (like me), the process of establishing yourself as an author is an agonisingly slow and torturous one. Ironically, it’s often the writing of a book that’s the quick and easy part, not to mention the most enjoyable; it’s what comes after that drags like an old smoker.

The other ‘arts’ have it so easy. It takes mere moments to pass judgement on a piece of music, a photograph, or a painting. So, provided the artist/e can get their work in front of the right person, they should get a yea or nay in a matter of hours. Us writers, on the other hand, get to twiddle our writing implements for what can sometimes amount to years (yes, really!) – a few months ago I received an email from an agent saying: “I’m sorry it’s taken me a few weeks to get to your book, things do get rather stacked up...” I couldn’t remember sending that particular agent anything recently, and when I looked back through my emails I discovered I had sent her my submission back in May 2011! I dutifully ignored her tardiness and winged over the requested manuscript and, four months on, I have heard nothing.

In an ideal world, the fortunate recipient of your masterpiece would snuggle down in a quiet room and devote several uninterrupted hours to devouring it in all its splendour, before delivering a fair and hopefully favourable verdict. In reality, it can be weeks before it’s read, and then it’s likely to be whilst the reader juggles a million other commitments. Meanwhile, you’re at home, or work, or play, trying not to think about how long it’s been since they would have received your manuscript, and how much you’d like to garrotte an effigy of them just so they might have some idea of the torture you’re going through.

I was always baffled when reading articles about authors and their road to success; how so many of them said it took years to get their book/s published. I used to think, blimey, what the hell have you been doing with your time? Clearly you’re not as dedicated and determined as me! Now I realise it was because of their determination and dedication that they were able to say, publically, it took a long time but I finally did it, as opposed to it took too long so I gave up.