It's not like going to Suwannee or Coachella, but there is a definite sense of "morning after" with a book festival. Bookish festivals are less Bacchanalia, more tea-party, in my experience. Rarely do we experiment with questionable dance moves or off-script substances. Communal toilets, however, are common to both. Oh, did I guzzle a big honking glass of wine at the end of the day? Yes, but I wasn't hung over that way. Did I get dehydrated in the interest of reducing trips to the ladies'? I did. It was a choice. Was it either freezing cold or slightly sweaty at all times? Indeed it was, and I should have worn my wool skirt with the deep pockets and the flannel petticoat, because I—a volcano under most circumstances—was on the edge of shivering all day. None of this physical fiddle-faddle plays into it. What gives me the morning-after feels is the overload of stories. So. Many. Stories. Get us together and writers know how writers are; we're all playing with paper dolls in our rooms. So even the shy ones are willing to talk about why they write what they write, confident that ain't nobody gonna cast stones in this big glass house. At the mixer before the event, I consider the crowd and think: it's almost as if the authors themselves fall into genres: The ones who do it for the children in their circle, the ones who want to share their history, the ones who want to shoehorn their lifetime's expertise into the setting of a cozy mystery. Putting aside for a moment what drives them, I should be ashamed to admit how the optics play out for me: the man straight out of The Rime of the Ancient Mariner, a rheumy eye affixed upon the hapless wedding guest. I couldn't keep looking away from that tiny masked lady who wore enough purple marabou to render her into a child-sized, dyed Easter chick. Truly, it's my failure getting stuck on appearances. I might have learned their stories rather than allowing them to write themselves in my imagination. That's on me. But the stories I did not (could not?) make up: The generous sci-fi author who asked gently if I wanted feedback on my website. Bless him for actually looking at it! And he was right: it needed a stronger focus on the book itself rather than on chatty old me. Alert readers will spot the new section "Reviews and Awards" on the landing page. The children snubbed up like a boat under tow to a parental flank, being hustled past my spot, their gazes pulled like magnets to the bowl of Smarties next to my Venmo sign. The surprising number of people determined NOT to look at anything as they attempted to move along the center of the narrow aisles. Nope, not even their screens. Just eyes forward and feet moving, as if they were in a bad neighborhood at night. The weekend's highlight? Well, after seeing the sweet faces of some Tampa friends, it would be... That reader with the expensive hair and a fluffy dog under her arm who spoke with the dizzying frankness of someone who has been drunk for a very long time: "Where are the vampire books? Seriously! Where?" They weren't, she assured me, in Sci-Fi or Fantasy. "Did you check the romance area?" I offered. She hooted in derision. I kid you not even a little bit. The fluffy dog did not react to the hooting. It might have been stuffed. There ensued a longish, loopy discussion of Dracula, Renfield, and something about Stoker being her celebrity crush. As she meandered off, she said, "Can you tell I was an English teacher?" I actually love stuff like that: I mean not much weirder, but that weird was perfect. Especially since I was sitting under a cloud this year. My near neighbors each had a beef about something. One griped about the day, the table, the event, the lack of customers. And so forth. Another muttered darkly about which passers-by needed to get on Ozempic. Et cetera. Et cetera. A Pollyanna, golden-retriever-at-heart, glass-half-full person had her work cut out keeping upbeat. As a pre-tween, I was pressed into use as a tiny servitor at my grandparents' cocktail parties. I think most of the cousins were. I'm grateful, decade after decade, to have had this early job. It was useful not only in teaching me that gimlets* aren't the same as martinis, but also at fostering a layer of social callus. *Ask me how long it took for me to differentiate between "gimlets" and "giblets." Stir "gauntlet" and "gibbet" into that confusing mix as well. To earn Mimi and Bompa's approval as a waist-high moppet, one had to go ahead and give up the idea of being timid. It meant asking random adults the obvious question about what they wanted to drink, and then listening to what else they say. If they said something incomprehensible or uncomfortable, deflect and move along. Or in the case of this book festival weekend—being tethered to the table under a cirrus-puff of grievances—deflect and attempt to chat up any readers within reach. It made for a loooong day.
On the plus side, I got to ramble in Payne's Prairie a bit on the way up, share meals with a couple of button-bright youngsters of my acquaintance, and visit two very nice bookstores in Gainesville. Aw, that glass is lovely! And it's nearly half full!
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As with birdwatching, so it is with authors. Oh, I've seen Stephen King stepping into his big black SUV at the Publix, but most writers are drab birds, well camouflaged and not terribly showy in the wild. Until they gather in flocks. When USF used to host the Suncoast Writers Conference, it was a bit of amusement for my sister and me to play "Spot the Oddity." For instance, the guy in the brown wool cloak and Gandalf staff? On a hot Florida afternoon, btw. Def a fantasy novelist. 10 points to Gryffindor! Oh, and that lady with the Crocodile Dundee hat who thrust a photo at Connie May Fowler in the signing line. Connie May, a charming and delicate woman, looking up at the Dundeehatter with a look of horror. "It's the trailer park where you grew up!" the woman said. Then she added, in case we had doubts, "I'm a writer too!" I went to a reading in maybe 2013 where the poet—lovely writing, by the way—was sporting a leather jacket and lace spats (like Madonna circa "Lucky Star"), but NOT ironically... We listen, and we DON——oh, I do so judge. Mostly, even as I judge, I'm curious about why. Perhaps the choice is driven by the panicked thought of so many watching eyes, when many writers spend their days deep, deep within the safe snail-shell of their skulls. To be fair, I'm also living pretty deep in my own brain. Maybe the eccentricities of dress that strike me as an audience member are not as uncommon as I imagine. Perhaps these sartorial options are simply outside of my own area of observation. (Parallel to my favorite rock radio tagline, "WROK, If we're TOO loud, you're TOO OLD!") I mean, I built several circa 1910 walking skirts, which I wear, so who am I to judge? And as I prepare to venture to the annual bird feeder, I mean book festival, I'm giving my closet the side-eye. What to wear, what to wear... PS: If you're in Gainesville, swing by the Sunshine State Book Festival. It's excellent people-watching. I'll be there, trying to sell some books and meet up with my flock.
https://guides.fscj.edu/writers/ConnieMayFowler https://writersalliance.org/event/2025-sunshine-state-book-festival/ It's been quite a year: humbling to start in the position of hoping that somebody–anyone? Beuller? Beuller?—would read my book. And then the intense gratification as people (strangers!) have read it, reacted to it, talked about it, and asked me exactly the kinds of questions I love love LOVE to answer. And to top it off, surprise presents, wrapped up in a bow: the book won a thing! Two things! Contests! Oooh la la! Wheeeee! Awards! Prizes! Not that contests are all that...(she said with a weary sigh) One sad truth about publishing: EVERYBODY puts a hand out. Some of those outstretched hands are dipping boldly into pockets, like raccoons in quest of graham crackers. Publishing's an industry built on dreams–naturally, opportunities abound for exploitation. And there are contests and contests: some are designed to highlight excellence and broadcast the news, others are designed to extract fees and stroke egos. I can't claim to be immune; my pockets are overspilling with graham crackers. Sometimes one learns best from uncomfortable mistakes, right? To determine whether a contest is legit. It's not rocket magic. It's the same process with which we should approach any transactional relationship: due diligence and dial the BS detector to "zero tolerance." Each writing contest and award offers a value proposition: at the heart, the contest gives writers the opportunity to be read by a judge (ooh! one reader at a time!), the chance at wider readership (appealing beyond words), and possible bragging rights (world-famous even if a tiny world!), often in the form of a sticker to slap on the cover of the book. An award has some value to me as creature made of vanity, but does it have value to my customers? Maybe. I read a whole slew of Newbery Award winners one summer. I know book clubs that selected only Nebula Award winners or Booker Prize books, so that's something. On the other hand, I bought a "Reader's Independent Something or Another Award" book recently because of the shiny sticker, and tbh, it was pretty awful. But THESE prizes, the ones my book brought home? THEY are not that. Both contests rate well among watchdog groups, and one is cutting me a check for $1000. Big time, baby! I won the quarterfinal round of the annual Booklife Prize. Booklife is the self-publishing arm of Publishers Weekly magazine. They give you a nifty little electronic image for promotional purposes. I think a quarter-win is still a win. Plus I'll be quoting their critic's report on my various retail product pages. And—drumroll please—I earned a nice fat check for $1000 and the top spot in the Writer's Digest Annual 32nd Annual Self-Published Book Award in the Literary/Mainstream Fiction division. This contest has been around for 30+ years, and is generally known for providing a chunk of useful feedback to entrants. She Taught Me Everything is still in competition for the grand prize from Writer's Digest, which earns another nice purse and the cover of the magazine (with 40K paid subscriptions). We'll cross fingers for that one. Meanwhile, $1000 will purchase a lovely cover for novel #2. References One list of contests from Reedsy: https://blog.reedsy.com/writing-contests/ This list of contests from Poet's Weekly: https://www.pw.org/grants A blog about fake contests https://writerbeware.blog/2019/04/26/awards-profiteers-how-writers-can-recognize-them-and-why-they-should-avoid-them/ A watchdog list of contests: https://selfpublishingadvice.org/author-awards-contests-rated-reviewed/ The website for Writer's Digest's contest https://www.writersdigest.com/writers-digest-competitions/self-published-book-awards My BookLife Contest Critic's Report around here https://booklife.com/prize/9/category/11/1 I swear I was not lurking at the Barnes & Noble. I was there to take a photo of my novel in the wild. It's perhaps endlessly thrilling to see the thing you've worked on out there sitting on a library shelf, a bookshelf, someone's hands... But truly, I was NOT lurking. A pair of young women drifted past the table of stacked books, and one, Rachel, picked up my book. "Squeee! You just picked up my book!" I said. "Wha?" she said, not yet fully alarmed by my obvious excitement. "Look on the back!" She flipped the book over and compared the author photo with my face. "It's you," she said. "I know!" I said, then, because emotions: "I've got goosebumps!" "I picked it up because of the cover." "It's beautiful," I agreed, without the slightest self-consciousness. "And it's about sisters!" Were they sisters, I asked, indicating Rachel and her book-browsing friend. "No. But we both have sisters." Rachel gave me a shrewd look and added, "Is this inspired by a real sister?" "Yes," I said, truthfully. "But my charismatic older sister is much nicer than that one." "Oooh," Rachel said. "I'm a charismatic older sister." And that, gentle reader, is how I accidentally strong-armed an unsuspecting passer-by into purchasing a copy, as well as how I ended up signing a short stack of books at the Barnes & Noble bookstore this afternoon. Thank you https://www.facebook.com/bntampafl Barnes & Noble South Tampa. And thank you, Rachel! In other authorial news, I was invited to map the settings for She Taught Me Everything into a nifty little app called Squirl. Squirl is designed to help users, as its tagline announces "Discover the places described in books." You can visualize where a book is set. So, is Brooklyn Heights your hometown? What snippet from the book did this author choose to go with the pin on the map for Brooklyn Heights?
You can check the map for books set in any given place—a special treat for bookish folk: to see the locations we've read about. Or, if you're built this way, it's a way to pre-view spots before visiting by finding books to read that are set in a specific spot. I love this idea, and hope other authors and their publicity departments will pile on! Thanks https://squirl.co/ Modern book clubs are a wonderful worldwide phenomenon: a social occasion to maybe enjoy a bit of food and beverage for the purpose —ostensibly—of discussing a book. Clubs vary widely: some are focused on the wine and the company. Others look into the origin of the book or what affect the book has had on our world. Still others are all about the feels. So when I was invited to attend my first book club as an author, I wasn't sure how it would be: would I get a grilling for my choices of plot or writing style? What if they hated it? What would readers want to know? And what did I want to tell them? As it turns out, so far, I am most moved to say "Thank you!" It continues to surprise me how wonderful it feels to have someone else read the words I typed out. To have people commit to the time (let alone money) is an honor. Here's my giddy reaction video after the first club meeting, which I did via phone: I've got another four club appearances lined up (half in person, half by phone), in the next couple of weeks and I can't express how lucky I feel.
Got a book club? If She Taught Me Everything might be a good fit for your group, I'll come by and chat! I've even got discussion questions... To celebrate the first month of publication of She Taught Me Everything, I made up a "Face in the Place Photo Contest." My dear readers sent in photos of themselves reading the book. There were a gratifying lot of photos -- some people included pets, others snapped the picture unlikely settings, many included libations and snacks. It was heartwarming. I put those images into a montage -- with music! oooh! It was so much fun I did it twice. Truth be told, I'd like to have done the one and be done, but the cool music track didn't track across social media gaps, so we have us a TikTok edition and an Instagram one too. My favorite skipper picked a name from a hat (my actual hat) to chose the lucky random winner of the Face in the Place contest. And the lucky winner was...Kathy Lacey. We did a handoff of the loot (a gas card) in a grocery store parking lot. Not sketchy at all! And because of his bold choice of photo shoot, Mr. Mark Taylor earned himself a viewer's choice award. A gas card! It was great fun for me, and I hope my shutterbug readers enjoyed it as well.
I'd like to do another contest. I'm a fan of fabulous prizes from way back –– any suggestions for ways to award such things? According to the inter webs, one predictor of a book's success is the NUMBER of reviews it gets. High ratings are great, of course, but the odd 1- or 2-star review can actually be helpful in showing potential readers whether the book will be a good fit. My readers have been remarkably generous, awarding stars and giving thumbs up (it's a whole other blog post on how a single "This was helpful" click works. Whoa!), and jotting down kind things about the book. I am psyched to see reviews coming in, but honestly, I almost don't look at them myself. First, I have a generous dollop of self-confidence already––without any real external encouragement. (And I'm reluctant to burst that bubble on purpose.) Second, as I was reminded recently, reviews are for READERS.
So let me toss it out there: You don't need to write a review for me, but DO, please, jot a note on Goodreads, or Amazon, B&N, iTunes, Nook, or the bathroom wall. Say what you liked or didn't, say whether it's your usual cup of tea, but say. Your reaction and your opinion are in truth that rare gift that keeps on giving... I wasn't a theater kid. I DID play the vamp in my high school play –– let's go ahead and blame the hair for that one –– but I'm not usually one to muscle my way to center stage. As for my novel, it would be pretty to think a book will simply find its readers by the quality of existing –– like the movie starlet perched on a stool at a soda fountain. ...But the trick is that she must be SEEN perching. The Hollywood fantasy persists in our screen-heavy world long after soda fountains have faded into history. Hence my flurry of Instagram and TikTok activity. Since I don't have the budget of a big publishing firm, here I am, adding my voice to the democratic chorus of social media. One excellent piece of advice I heard was "don't be spammy." So instead of incessantly jabbering on about me-me-my-my book, I'm on one of those other topics I can piffle cheerfully: other books I think people will love. Shocking as it is to hear my own voice and get the visual (again, blame the hair), I'm embracing the experience. And from time to time channeling my inner Sophia Coppola... It's all an experiment, really.
My brains are not quite oozing out of my ears, but it could happen. At any moment.
Did you know that when you search for something online, those descriptive words (fast-acting, best, organic) have a price tag?
It should not come as a surprise. Ours is a world of fully-fledged capitalism. Naturally the very words we use are monetized. It might look like a library, but it's not. Marketing on Amazon, the world's largest bookseller, goes a bit like this: say I've written a romantic romp involving a pair of collegiate hockey players. I've done my homework and am a canny marketeer. I know there are readers for my book and I am pretty sure Amazon can locate them. Ads on Amazon are not like the "Plop-Plop, Fizz-Fizz" 30-second video clip we know from broadcast television, it's actually a quite brilliant and fully automated system. As a canny publisher, I've invested in Publisher Rocket, a software that helps me figure out what categories and keywords are likely to lead buyers to my product. I mean book. For this hockey romance, we're going to skip right to the part where we start an advertising campaign around keywords. One starts, naturally, with the phrase "hockey romance." Amazon might suggest that "hockey romance" is worth $1.87 per click. Which means that IF someone types in "hockey romance" AND clicks through to the longer description of the book, I'm out $1.87 WHETHER OR NOT they put the book into their cart.
Given that I stand to clear $3.45 per copy of the book, I might want to lower that amount, say, $.87 per click for "hockey romance." Of course, a lower bid means I might be outbid by other books with the same keyword, and my hockey romance book will slide lower on the page.
You places yer bets, you hedges yer bets, and then you waits to see what Fate (or the Almighty Algorithm) will reveal.
Carefully selecting 40 or 50 keywords for the campaign, go ahead and set a price on each word (in broad, close, and exact match categories. This is not a quick process for the faint of heart.).
Ideally, you pick a price that will outbid other vendors by a penny or two, to keep you near the top of the page without breaking the bank. You set a daily budget ($10/day is the recommended starting point), so after the clicks add up to $10, you're done. Sort of. Until the next day.
So much of the process is shrouded in secrecy, but it's freakin' brilliant: Amazon is a store where not only can you get everything, it's a store that charges for browsing. It doesn't charge the buyer, true, but someone has to pay. It's also a bit like a modern-day coal-mining company store: Who is tracking clicks? Who's writing paychecks? Who is setting the prices? Who is doing the accounting? All points awarded to the man in the brilliantly shrouded secrecy.
But convenient. And someone in France bought a copy of my book last month. How cool!
I got chatting with a lady in line at the grocery store (yes, that's me, randomly striking up a convo), and I whipped out a postcard of She Taught Me Everything (again, me with the marketing material to hand). She swished her phone and Poof! my novel downloaded to her Kindle.
What a world.
Nowadays, when looking for books online, I tend to mooch around in the stacks of Goodreads (owned by Amazon but not as monetized yet) or Libby/Overdrive. And now, if you'll excuse me, I'm about to dip a toe into the marketty world of TikTok... At the end of the first month of publication (a Onemonthuary!), in celebration of mah sweet, generous readers...we have a contest. Face in the Place Photo Contest, to be exact. Pretty simple: snap a photo of yourself (or an innocent bystander) book in hand, and send it my way. I'll randomly select at least one of the entrants for a gift card prize, and the photos will go into a video montage.
So you get world fame (smallish world, but still), a possible prize (it's worthwhile), and it gives the book a boost. Winning all around. Send the photo to me directly or upload it into this public Facebook photo album, https://www.facebook.com/media/set/?vanity=amysmithlinton&set=a.10232263802757822 Or, you know, drop me a line, and we'll figure out a way to include you. |
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