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.

How I handle fame, Part 1.

Jesus did I get pumped when Ereadernewstoday.com ran a blurb about my book, which created a lotta traffic. We're talking about 280 books sold in one day. It put me on the SAME FREAKING PAGE for the Amazon's top 100 list as CARL HIAASEN and JANET EVANOVITCH - at #6!

Believe that shit?

So of course, it went straight to my head. Here's an example:

Supermarket checkout lady: Did you bring your own paper bag?
Me: I did. Do you like to read, because I wrote a book that's gonna be a best seller.

And it was like that all day. I stood up during the showing of "Blackfish," which is a seriously depressing documentary, anyway - I stood up and simply shouted, "Number six, bitches. Number six."

I told my wife to refer to me as, "The Author, Larry Weiner" as in "Would the author, Larry Weiner, like green beans in his salad (no).

It's intoxicating. But that was yesterday.

Today, sales are tribbling (word?) in, I still need a shit ton of reviews and I find myself emailing a bunch of bloggers to review my book. And that's when Nucky Thompson from Boardwalk Empire pulled me aside and reminded me, "It's the long con we're going for, see? Don't be a chump."

Fuckin' A, Nucky. Fuckin' A. 

What the hell are you doing?

Well? Tell us. What the fuck (for emphasis) are you doing? For some reason, I ask that question a lot. I get asked it a lot too, but it's usually in regards to something I'm doing with food or dress. Lately I've been asking it a lot concerning my career, part two. I find this humorous for a number of reasons, among them the notion that the word "career" would ever appear in a sentence regarding me.

I worked in advertising and design as an art director and designer for 17 years. During that time, if someone asked me what the hell/fuck I was doing, I usually replied, "I dunno?" And it was true. I fell into that line of work and stuck around because it was mildly entertaining and you really don't have to work that hard. "Entertaining" and "you don't really have to work that hard" would make a great college course, along with, "Fuck it, I'll teach" and "Bong design - a survey."

The entire time I worked in advertising and design I felt mostly like an imposter. I didn't have the drive to want the awards (possible that I didn't have the talent either) or to try and maneuver my way through the various ad shops until I landed at one of the big names. I rarely took the work seriously though I fought an awful lot with account people, creative directors, etc.. I look back now and think it was the bipolar talking, but I knew it was something else - I didn't want to be there, but I didn't know where I wanted to be and there was an enormous amount of frustration resulting from those feelings.

I started writing in high school. Short stories, song lyrics, poetry - all of it horrendous  - and what I wouldn't give to have them in my possession now. College came around and I found myself gravitating towards screenplays and t.v. pilots. And then I got married and moved away and fell into advertising and that was that.

But the writing was always in the background, wondering when I was gonna get back to it. Writing taunted me, called me names, added fuel to the "imposter" fire. And then one night I had an idea and I started to write it. And then I'd stop. Then start again. Then I fell into a deep depression. Many things brought me out of the cold, dark hole, chief among them - writing. It quickly became ritualized which in turn made the work flow. I stuck with it through all the rewrites and plot revisions. Most of all, I felt that I belonged in that world. Writing kept me one step ahead of the depression. And it provided an answer to that fucking question: "What the hell are you doing?"

"Writing a book," I answered.
"Good. Carry on," the question said.
"No shit, I'll carry on and who asked for your permission anyway?" I said.
"Chill. I'm just glad you're back in the game," the question said.
"Thanks. Sorry if I got a little defensive - "
"Forget about it. But enough of this blog shit. That second book ain't gonna write itself."
 "Right. Thanks. I'm on it."

Stay Golden, Pony Boy

Hola Fans!

That's right, I have fans now. I have over thirty (31) fans who bought my book. And! I have three solid reviews on Amazon. Sure, you might be thinking, "Really, Larry? That's what you're excited about?" I am, friend. I am. As I've mentioned previously, it's the long view that counts in the publishing game (no matter what I'm involved in - it's "The Game"- thus, "Soccer Dad Game" and "The Gin & Tonic game"). How many stories have you ingested in which someone or something started small and slowly built an empire? A shit ton. It takes years to get a college degree - I've sold 30ish books in 8 days. I like my odds.

But enough about the rise of Larry.

I'm reading a great book right now that I thought I'd hate. The book is "Sacre Bleu" by Christopher Moore. Check out Kirkus' take: An aspiring painter and unabashed romantic joins the greatest artists of the age in chasing his muse across fin de siècle–era France.

 Nice, eh? I love Christopher Moore and am heavily influenced by him - though I thought "Fool" flat out sucked. But this? This book reads like a lilting comedy told next to a gentle fire with some bourbon and a nice crocheted blanket across your lap. It has the trademark goofiness you come to expect from Moore, but there's also a historical bent to the Paris of the late 1800's and the artists of that time. The man makes Renoir funny.

Just reading it inspires me. I'm staying golden, bitches.

 

Impatient little fat man

This is me:

1. I go to the gym, therefore I should look like Mark Wahlberg.

2. I release a book and should have Stephen King numbers.

3. I eat the Paleo diet so where is my six pack?

4. I'm nice to my kids so they should obey my every command.

Right? Cause and effect, where art though, you bitch? This book thing has given me a moment or two to reflect on my insolence and impatience. I'd go on but i don't have time to explain it. Just know that trying to accumulate readers on a daily basis is much like the crap that won't come out. You can feel it, but damn it all - it's not budging. Why? Not enough "Colon Blow" cereal? Too much roughage? Letting word of mouth sink in (we're talking about the book now - not shit - though the case could be made either way - nah, fuck that - this book kicks as - none of this "woe is me" bullshit) it's a waiting game and like waiting for Eli to put his goddamned shoes on in the morning, it is at this point that patience must persevere. Right?

I'm feeling kinda anxious and for some reason am fixated on feces - which could be a great title for a colonoscopy educational film.

Bah!