#struggling

I’m probably writing this now because it’s something I know how to do: write. Versus, say, pushing text and hyperlink pebbles around on Twitter. Or cold calling media figures with the hail mary request that they become instantly interested in my book and go out of their way to interview me. Or trying really, really hard for a really, really long time to figure out how to integrate my personal FB page with my “author” FB page in a way that make sense. I don’t know how to do these things with any dexterity and grace. I don’t know how to do these things without self-doubt and wincing. But I know how to write. I know how to write about pain, frustration, humor, love, dogs, toddlers, loss, grief, healing, masculinity and a lot of other things. I just need someone to put the fucking hashtags on right.

 

There is so much to say about the process of independently marketing a book. I dare to hope that someday I will be able to share what I’ve learned effectively, but for the moment I’m just praying—and scouring the web—for more resources that can guide me. Mike Philips and Alexis Dane @ the Neocom Group have been godsends, but they have day jobs, of course. I’m sure Guy Kawasaki would rock my world—but his webinars are always scheduled when I’m working. Bleary-eyed, I’ve perused the bookshelves for guerrilla marketing titles after long days of counseling young people about problems far graver than selling books, but none of them has felt accessible somehow.

 

This new era is a bitch. It demands equal parts social media/guerrilla marketing prowess and artistry. Since when do we find those two attributes firmly rooted together in a person? Very rarely. They literally require different parts of the brain. When I wax all wishful about a mainstream publisher that would just handle my shit for me in fine form, my friends chuckle at me—I’m too young to be nostalgic for that era. I never knew it. I just fantasized about it. Anymore, it doesn’t exist. And I’m sharp enough (at least after coffee and conversation) to know that those authors who are up and coming and somehow do get some sort of quasi silver platter treatment by big presses are actually being done a disservice in the long run, unless they can stick the dismount perfectly and transform themselves into the next John Irving or whatever. I say John Irving as if he doesn’t tweet. He probably does. Those of us that are being forged by this new era of self-promotion via social media will one day be grateful for it, I’m sure. When we read the epitaph on Random House our hearts won’t be as troubled. When publishers themselves have become irrelevant, the new humble rulers of the literary space will be people who know how—because they learned by necessity—to do it without big corporate hands.

 

I know this, even feel it in my bones sometimes—yet when I find two hours a day to drag my tired mind through Twitter feeds and message boards and Goodreads member logs instead of writing one of the twenty-six essays or stories that are thumping in the attic of my life, I sometimes wonder if I’m on the right track.

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