Paper is for goons

"Larry, why don't you actually PRINT your book so that I (Luddite friend) can read it."

From Hugh Howey: It is often said that e-readers can’t replace physical books, because books have a certain heft and tactile feel and even a smell to them. Well what if those people are eventually wrong? We will one day build an e-reader that’s indistinguishable from a physical book, and I believe people alive today will live to see such a device.

That's why.

I've read a ton of blog posts (4) from writers who talk about how exciting it was to hold a book they authored in their hands. To see their name in print. To actually place it in the magazine holder next to the toilet along with the old issues of The New Yorker and Vanity Fair and in my case, medical journals that have subject matter such as, "Romosozumab in Postmenopausal Women with Osteopenia." They usually have an accompanying illustration which depicts medical peril (anal warts, fatty heart valve, etc...). I have a few framed.

Print. When I was an art director, I used to get a kick out of seeing my ads in print and later on T.V. and eventually on the web where it didn't count as print, but you could read the fucker so what does that mean? "Mostly print?" That's where I'm at with "Paradise Rot." I've had a few people ask for the "paper version" which I tell them doesn't exist because I love Mother Earth. But seriously,  I do ask if they have an e-reader of sorts or an ipad or anything electronic that displays words on it, because if they do, then they can read my book.They can also join in with other modern day technology like zippers and food in powdered form (Medifast).

I've never been big on delivery systems. I went from vinyl to 8-track to cassette to CD back to vinyl to MP3 and now Bluetooth streaming. However I can get the content quickly and easily is how I'll take the content. You can substitute "content" for "meth" in that last sentence, because really, that's what content has become. And I, like Walt Whitman said, "contribute a verse."

I am going to print about 30 copies on demand for a book reading in July at the local indy shop. I'm sure it'll be fun to hold a copy of the book in my hands. I designed the cover, so that should be pretty neat. I'm thinking I'll put an image of a kindle e-reader on the back cover with the blurb on it. How's that for harmonic convergence?

So no more, "I really want to read it, but it's not in print," bullshit. Instead say, "I have seen the future and it's digitized." Eh? C'mon, forfeit your flat earth society membership and climb aboard. I've got some great reading material for you.

Bon Scott or Brian Johnson?

David Lee Roth or Sammy Hagar?

Carl Hiaasen or Kurt Vonnegut?

Satire or Humor?

I dunno? They both have their pros and cons. Right now my novel is listed under satire. I didn't pick the category, Amazon did (at least, I think that's how it happened. If not then ignore this post. Get on with the rest of your life). I considered it humorous fiction. You'd find it right next to Jennifer Weiner's (no relation) stuff.

Christopher Moore or Chuck Palahniuk?

They're both in the general fiction section, though I'd label them satire, but then there is no satire section in my local bookstore. So I guess they're general fiction?

Go ahead, pretend you're a novel. Where would you land on the bookshelf?

Ozzy or Dio?

A writer has a chance to list dozens of tag words to associate with their novel. For instance I have "satire" listed as well as "paralyzed" and "Chihuahua." So much for tag words. If someone were searching for information on caring for a paraplegic, my novel might pop up. That sucks. I'd be annoyed. Might even write the author a letter letting them know they're a tag whore. That's where we're at with selling a book these days. Not very targeted. Possibly offensive.

Did you think of what section you'd be on a shelf - or in the Amazon ebook section?

John Wayne Gacy or Ted Bundy?

Pimpin' ain't easy.

"I have not failed, I have just found 10,000 ways that won’t work."

That's Thomas fucking Edison.

WARNING! Pity party!

Okay, okay, let's get this out of the way. Book sales for the month of December are a grand total of 8. Where are all my brethren (Jews) when you need them? We're out 8 days here and you couldn't find it in your dark little hearts to spring for a book this Hanukkah? A little something something for your good behavior? And what about you, Goyim? Hmm? I know a shit ton of you. Put me on your lists. Santa, like the honey badger, don't care.

Never give up. Have you ever? Or have you said, "What is this fuckery?" and simply stuck with it? I know people dealing with their demons, whether it be health, money, blood flow to certain organs (not even) - we all have the struggles. 

I can honestly say the only thing in my life I have had to constantly struggle against is mental health. I'm bipolar (the mild kind, bitches. Full blown bipolars call their wives the next day from Peru, standing on the yak farm they just purchased) and I have had my bouts with it that plunged me into some serious darkness. But I had choices. Stay down there and bathe in the depression and anxiety or seek help - live a regimented life that includes exercise (Me? Believe that shit?), proper diet (Again, me?) and positive thinking (shut up). Also, drugs.

I never gave up on the life I knew I could have and those I could share it with.

But seriously, 8 fucking books?

I guess I should take the attitude that 8 complete strangers plucked down a buck to read a story I wrote that might enhance their life in a positive, entertaining way. But sometimes, it feels futile. Who am I among the millions writing novels that I should break out, make a name for myself - obtain a level of success worth boasting about at dinner parties for your wife's co-workers? Not that they're bad parties it's just that they're doctors and basically talk about colonoscopy technique. They don't, but it would be awesome if they did.

What did I expect? Rapid success (yes)? What qualifies as success? I've sold about 1,500 books to date. Chump change, but then I can't think of anything I've done that reached that many people - except all the years of bad advertising I did that were thrust upon the masses. No thrusting in novel writing. They gotta want it.

So? What do I gain by giving up? You know the answer to that as did Thomas Edison did - who by the way, in his later years consumed only a pint of milk every three hours. So y'know, batshit and success go hand in hand.

I stopped blogging because my ego was too huge.

As an author (it could happen), one strives to build a mailing list so that when the next masterpiece is released, you can notify people on your mailing list, then go Porsche shopping. Well I've been ignoring this blog because I didn't think it was being read because I wasn't getting any email sign ups. Right? What. An ego.

So fuck that. I'm gonna blog at least twice once a week every four days. It's good writing practice. And I'm a little sketchy about this whole mailing - whoops, I lost you didn't I? Enough of this.

Let's get the business out of the way: I'm selling enough books to keep me on the Amazon Top 100 list in three categories. Of course, the book sells for $0.99 so really, how many need to be sold to remain on that list?

I'm about 45,000 words into the second novel. Paradise Rot ran to 70k - that sounds like a goodly amount of words. Info about the new book: It's called, "Once Again, With Blood," and all I'll tell you is that our hero, Kyle Brightman, is back and this time it's vampires and blood banks. That's all you're getting.

Thanksgiving is almost here (how many people in the universe have written those exact words?) and that's all I got to say about that.

Okay - that's it for now - today's lesson: don't be a dickhead with spotty blog writing.

Don't hate the player, hate the game, unless you love the game, then nevermind

Ask me, "Larry, how much are you learning about the world of indie/self publishing?"Say it out loud, now. (Pause) "Good question," (vomits on your shoes).

You hear that phrase "Learning Curve" and think, "Sure, a learning curve. Everything has one," as if it's no big deal. It's a big deal. I knew getting into this writing/publishing game that my learning curve would be huge - I still can't spell rythmn and I'm learning about "black out freebie days," - however, feeling like a chimp was not something I imagined for myself.

Learning how to do things hurts. Knowingly running towards the thing you know is going to hurt you is lunacy but it still beats submitting to Chad, the young, hipster project manager who has an action item list for you. Chad, with the argyle cardy and horn rims.

While I feel as if I've launched myself into a spectacular Acapulco cliff dive, I can't help but feel elated at being a small business owner. I'm making all kinds of mistakes, costing me money and time. I'm second guessing myself. I ate one too many Medi-Fast snacks today (you're allowed 5 - but this shit works). I'm blundering towards success, but more importantly, I'm blundering towards something of my own creation.

And I'm loving this game.

I used to love - make that like - the advertising game right up until I hated it. That might happen here as well because I'm a fickle bastard. But this time around I'm nailing two birds: being creative and controlling my success. I'm finding that as each day passes, I'm writing more and I'm searching out new ways to publicize my book. I'm not working 8 hour days. I'm working 3 hours here, 2 there, another 2 over there. In other words, I'm working according to the rythmn (shit!) of my creative and marketing output.

I love the game and love the player (that's what 15 years of therapy does to you).

Now go buy the book. Then write the review. Go on, git.

Don't punk out.

So I'm what? 30 days into the book being released - but never mind that PR - I'm talking about Monday mornings, when you wake up and try to think of every conceivable way to get some more sleep. Awe my god, just 45 minutes - hell, half an hour would do it. But no, you've gotta get up and begin the process of getting your hump out of bed and starting the day. But the desire to cave is so huge, this must be what it feels like to have a meth addiction. Sometimes I wonder if it'd be better to open a meth clinic that kept you constantly high until you wasted away - certainly there must be some organs worth harvesting? I dunno - meth heads want to be in that state of bliss forever - me? I just want an extra hour in the morning. We all do.

Or at least to wake up when the sun actually comes out.

I've been thinking about the concept of punking out (which may be a west coast surfer/skater colloquialism - maybe not) and how it's a daily churn to try and keep a book out there, hopefully getting at least one more reader a day (which is kinda of where I'm at - maybe 2.5 readers). Are you sick of hearing about "Paradise Rot?" Nah, I'm the one sick of hearing about it. But still, I wrote it, I'm stuck with it. And I'm proud of it, like a story about you being drunk enough to get saran wrapped around a concrete pillar in a parking garage, naked. That shit happens. 

So I don't punk out. I treat every day of PR on the book like a Monday morning, minus the five minutes of staring directly at the kitchen wall while your kid wants breakfast.

That's my fuckin' spot, man.

Brevity is the word for the day because I've got 2,000 words to bang out and not enough time to do it. That's the benchmark I set for myself. Sometimes I hit it. Sometimes not. It's more around 1,200 words. After that I start ripping off other writers directly by cutting and pasting passages.

As you know, I never work at home. I hate the idea of being in the house all day and night. Too secluded. I need people milling about. I need background noise - though I cut that to a minimum because I take off my hearing aids (that's right, bitch, I'm deaf) and put on my most excellent BOSE noise cancelling headphones which are worth every penny. I do all of this at Roosters cafe. I know the owner Thiu Nyugen. Actually it's like Cheers when I walk in as I know the whole staff. They even get my drink order, a triple Americano, going. It's a good vibe. I wrote the entirety of "Paradise Rot" sitting in that coffee shop.

My only problem is when someone sits in my fucking spot, man.

It's not a particular table, but rather a row of tables along the wall that have access to the ac that I need to keep my laptop charged while I bang out 2,000 (1,200) words.

Ranked in order of who should move out of my fucking spot, from idiot to elderly:

1. The guy in bike gear sipping an espresso.
2. Two or more people having some sort of committee meeting
3. Any couple
4. Someone with children (as if having the kid wasn't bad enough)
5. Retirees

So what I do is get my drink and then I sit and stare. I stare hard. The thousand yard stare you obtain from being in the shit during wartime. I send the harsh waves. Guess what? That shit works. I've never waited more than five minutes for a table. "It's a numbers game, Lar." Bullshit. I put the vibe out and it is received five by five (I have an admiration for military lingo).

More later. I just nailed a table.

Also, buy the book.