In spring of this year, I reached out to Schuler Books, a local book chain in Michigan, to sell my book, Clean Freak, by consignment. They accepted, so I signed a contract, paid a stocking fee, and turned over three of my books to be placed on their shelves (and on their website too, which I didn’t expect).
A couple weeks ago, with no fanfare whatsoever, I got an email that I had money from my consignment waiting for me. In fact, the email actually got bounced to my Junk Folder.
This is very big deal for me, but probably not for the reason you think.
After the first run from Black Bed Sheet Books, I ordered (I think) 50 copies to have on hand to personally sell. I hosted a book release party at my house and sold between a third and half of them to friends and family. A better writer would probably know the exact number, having written it down. Then, I struck out into the world to try to sell the copies to strangers.
My first try, I sold at an event in downtown Detroit called Dally in the Alley and sold the 13 books I brought with me, a feat that left me gobsmacked and elated. I started appearing at other vending events and local cons, which led me to being invited to present at other cons and other events. I always had a couple copies with me and sold them, one or two at a time.
Because even before I had a book to sell, I had to sell the idea to a publisher. I remember sitting down to my first pitch meeting at World Horror Con in Austin, TX in 2011, when my carefully crafted script for pitching my book absolutely flew out of my mind and shut the door after it. Before I started drooling in dumbfounded panic, I blurted, “The story is about a man with extreme obsessive compulsive disorder and the ghost of a little girl who lives in his shower drain.”
The moment of shock that followed stretched until the editor’s face widened in a grin and he said, “Tell me more.”
I’ve used that simple pitch ever since. People usually want me to tell them more, so I do. I even have a favorite paragraph in the first chapter that I’d have bookmarked (with a promotional bookmark of course) that I’d have them read. Usually, at that point, people would give me money instead of returning the book.
Given the chance to “sell” the book, I could sell books pretty regularly.
Then, in January of 2014, I attended the Borderlands Writers Bootcamp. Despite my feelings about Tom M’s expressed views, which I strongly disagree with, the Bootcamp remains a transformative experience for me. Unfortunately, it’s not for the best reasons.
Prior to the camp, we were asked to submit two pieces of our work: one that we would be workshopping that weekend; the other, a story or chapter of a novel that was already published. I sent the first chapter of a poorly thought out and now defunct novel for the former and the first chapter of Clean Freak for the latter. Little did I know what I was subjecting my ego to.
As it turned out, the first evening we were there, we participated in an exercise called “Bookstore Browser.” The facilitators of the Bootcamp would read the second pieces we sent, interspersed with well-known and bestselling stories, as if we were reading the story while browsing the bookshelves at a bookstore. We, the students, were to raise our hands when we would put the book back on the shelf.
To my horror, I recognized the words of the first piece they read.
“Clarence tried to focus on moving the Dyson vacuum cleaner in short, even strokes.”
Everybody’s hand was up by the end of the sentence. The first sentence!
Now, with the benefit of space and time, I can say that the way the instructors set up the exercise (raise your hand when you would stop reading) primed us to be far more critical we naturally would have been, exacerbated by the fact that mine was the first to be read. That may be me still trying to protect my ego, but I believe there’s at least a grain of truth to that.
At the time, I took it very, very hard.
I continued to sell my book, by pitching it to people and “selling” it. But the pain of seeing all those hands raised stayed with me. Eventually, I sold out of that first run and was at a low enough point that I thought that that was the end of my writing career.
But I didn’t want that to be the end. I kept trying different stuff, but couldn’t maintain momentum on anything. I’m realigning my intentions and what I want out of a writing career, so I’m picking up momentum on some stuff again.
Which brings me back around to getting that email from Schuler Books. I suppose I honestly didn’t expect to sell any of my books. Of course, I hoped. But as the 6 month time period of the consignment came and went, I kept expecting to get the email that told me to come get my unsold and un-sellable book.
But that’s not what happened. And what makes it more significant is to imagine that person doing what I do in bookstores.
I browse the shelves, looking for titles that speak to me. I usually start with writers I know, out of habit, but soon move on to the unread or unheard of writers. When I find an evocative title, I pull the book out to take in the cover. I flip it over to read the back cover. I riffle the pages to a random one toward the beginning of the book and read it. If I’ve made it that far and I like what I’ve read on that one page, I tuck it under my arm to buy.
Picturing someone doing that with my book fills me with so much joy.
The Chimerical Dark 