Got It Covered

One of the more common words of wisdom imparted to up-and-coming authors is to never, ever try to do your own cover art. Always give it to a professional.

By professional, we’re not talking a well-meaning friend or relative, either.

Amazon is replete with ghastly attempts by some people to skip paying a professional, and really, their notoriety ends up not being about how wonderful their story is, rather how fitting it is their cover art ends up on lousybookcovers.com

It’s hard being an up-and-coming author. The all-pervading idea of self-publishing can happen for free is just plain wrong. There are expenses. You have to pay a professional editor to comb through your manuscript and fix anything that needs fixing. You have to pay a cover artist, even if your work is only an ebook. You have to pay for this and that and the other, and even then after you’ve doled out for paid promotions and goodness knows what marketing swag, you’re not guaranteed you’ll see any of that back in sales.

Getting published by a publishing house these days is no easier. Indeed, the general wisdom is any money you might receive as an advance is best invested in the same promotions you would have done as a self-publishing indie. Don’t go spending it on extra coffee or plans to go from one meal a day to two. Spend the lot (after careful research, of course) on anything that will help sales instead. On the plus side, you won’t have to spend any of it on cover art, interior layout, ARC or promotional copies or any of the other things a publishing house will cover for you (kind of—they simply take all those expenses out of any earnings), but at least you have a promotion budget! Yay!

Above all, do your level best to avoid anything you create going anywhere near lousybookcovers.com. While a one-star review on Amazon might be easily brushed off as the ravings of a lunatic, it’s hard to argue with lousybookcover’s reckoning.

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It’s that Time of Year Again

Easter is just like any other time for me. Good Friday, Easter Sunday, just days.

Living in the southern hemisphere, it’s autumn now. Sydney has lovely autumns. The weather turns milder after the roaring heat-rage of summer, with its sweat-soaked humid nights and scorching days. None of the deciduous trees have turned any colour yet. Everything is green and vibrant, blooms bob in the gentle breeze and there is a complete absence of the relief felt in the wake of a biting winter, giving way to the season for renewal and rebirth.

That’s what Easter is all about, really.

Rebirth after winter.

The egg. The hare (not rabbit), the symbol of Eostre, the heathen goddess of spring whose lunar-oriented festival became appropriated by the Christian church in the kind of corporate takeover to make modern tycoons gasp and sigh with dewy-eyed reverence and envy. In Sydney though, nothing’s being reborn. We’re not entering spring, and it’s not as if winter is ever that devastating anyway. Winter might see deciduous trees denuded of leaves, but it doesn’t snow here. Furry animals don’t hibernate as such. Birds hang around, usually demanding tasty morsels at the back door. Since Australia remains a vestige of British culture subject to religious dominance, at the early stages of autumn we celebrate a spring festival rife with heathen symbolism, overlain with Judaeo-Christian propaganda like the best of them. A salient reminder of our cultural overlords thousand of kilometres away who barely even remember us on our birthday.

My mother—being Scottish—resolutely retains all the traditions of Easter. The cards. Eggs. Various decorations. Hot cross buns. It might be autumn, but the house gets cleaned to put every spring clean to shame. Bedding gets completely changed. Floors are vacuumed with extra vigour, tiles polished to a gleaming shine. It’s Friday, and she prepares a midday meal of fish and bread, a smile on her face, humming all the while. It’s all rather sweet, and what makes her happy makes me happy. I don’t eat chocolate eggs or bunnies or hot cross buns or any of that (partly because of my diabetes but mostly because I personally feel no need to celebrate any rite of spring when it’s autumn), but I won’t begrudge her traditions. I don’t begrudge anyone their traditions, so if you get a kick out of Easter or Passover or whatever and what you find it stands for, then Happy Easter, Chag Sameach, whatever seasonal greeting you feel applies.

Me? It’s another day.

Hey, what’s that delicious smell?

Ooh yum. Fish!

Well now, there’s a thing…

So … an anthology I contributed to a little while ago called “Flashpoint: The Inner Circle Writers’ Group Flash Fiction Anthology 2018” has been released, and it has instantly rocketed to the bestseller list in France and Canada.

Incredible.

So naturally, the contributing authors are now technically bestselling authors.

Including me!

Staggering.

Me? Little-ol’-me? A bestselling author?

Inconceivable!

And yet … there it is.

*pinches self

Still feels the same.

But … best-selling.

I’m not sure it has fully sunk in yet…

Oh, if you’re interested in having a look at it, follow the link.

To Market, To Market

Did I say “Happy New Year”?

No?

Oh.

Happy New Year.

There. I’ve said it now.

Satisfied?

Good.

In the week-and-a-bit since all the excesses of ringing in the new year, I’ve been head-down. I promised myself (not a new year’s resolution, I swear!) I’d make more art this year. The trouble with that is it means less writing. I’m awake for only so many hours in the day, after all.

Sydney’s way too hot to be sculpting wax or firing up the foundry just yet. I’ll wait until the weather cools a bit before I get into bronzes this year. I have plans for some calligraphy, some oil painting, some pen-and-ink drawing, some pencil drawing and maybe a piece of jewellery or two, but the biggie is a set of bronzes.

When I’m not writing.

Writing has dominated my time, and continues to do so.

The anniversary of Terror in the Ranks came and went, but still with no interest. That’s the price I pay for not having a marketing budget. If anyone tells you self-publishing can be done for free, they’re technically correct, but incorrect if the idea had been to earn anything from the writing. To make a self-published novel work at making money for its author, said author needs anywhere between $800 and $2000 to pay an editor; and a further $1000 for paid promotions across social media. Add another few hundred bucks for hard copies mailed out to advance readers who can provide legitimate reviews, a few hundred more for promotions in traditional media, such as the local newspaper, printing bookmarks, flyers, posters and all the sundry collateral, and you’re talking a few grand all up. Costs usually covered by a publishing house if you go the trad-publishing route.

I don’t have a few grand.

I don’t even have a few hundred, so marketing and me are not a happening thing.

Spamming my contacts and friends on social media isn’t really helpful, and paid promotions on Facebook require cash and cleverness I can’t focus on in my current state. So … my book languishes at the bottom of Amazon rankings. What do I do? I simply ignore it and move on. I have other books to write, other stories to tell. I’m a writer, not a promoter, goddammit. Hell—I even have a sequel in the works for Terror in the Ranks. It’s unlikely anyone will read that either, but that won’t stop me cranking it out. One person who did read Terror in the Ranks reckoned it would make a great movie. My eyebrows shot up at that one, and I’ve been left bemused at the idea. Bemused, and indolent, unconvinced any studio would back a story based on a book that went nowhere.

If I make artwork and sell it, maybe then I’d have a budget to promote the book. If I could find an expert in book marketing, someone who can do all the necessary things for me, it would be even better. Not just someone who spruiks on Twitter. Not just somone who books ads on Facebook. It would need someone who does the lot—social media promos, keyword optimisation, SEO, brick-and-mortar placement, the whole shebang.

I wonder if anyone like that exists?

It Happened at Midnight, One Christmas Eve

Aaaaah fuck it.

Here I was being as quiet as possible, avoiding all the damn booby traps and there he is at the foot of the stairs, pointing a goddamn smartphone at me. He’s not taking photographs either, he’s actually shooting video.

Hope that’s something you were planning to upload later and not live-streaming to a mate somewhere else, little buddy.

“Gotcha,” he says with a smarmy, gap-toothed grin.

Fair cop, kid. You got me. Here I am in the jolly red suit, long white beard and lugging a sack full of loot, and you’ve sprung me. I’m even lit up by Christmas tree lights to make the video clearer. What did you reckon, you too-clever little shit? This time of year is easy pickings for all sorts who want access to people’s houses. Despite all the fear being peddled by politicians and the media, people just get too fucking trusting around the holiday season.

Doesn’t mean I should be less cautious, though.

I hate when this happens.

Does he genuinely believe I’m Santa? He’s young, like eight or nine, and the superhero graphics on his pyjamas suggest he reckons he’s older than he really is, but he’s not too old to not believe in Santa any more. Is he the one who insisted on the home-baked biscuit and glass of milk on the coffee table? There are even carrots there for the reindeer. It’s a nice enough house. Both parents work by the look of things, and the home-made decorations on parts of the tree show the little sister is a big believer with a heart of gold and the artistic talent of a deranged meerkat.

He’s still grinning, but even from here I can see he’s trembling too.

“So what’re you gonna do now?” I ask. He shrugs. Springing me had been the priority. What came next was something he was probably going to try and work out later. He hasn’t yelled for anybody yet. Maybe I can sweet-talk the phone off him. “Did you get my best side?” He nods. “Can I see?” He shakes his head and holds the phone behind his back.

Devious little bastard.

“What did you bring me?” he gushes with a little hop. Like I haven’t heard that one before. This whole area has always had some snot-nosed junior piss-artist ready to challenge the rumours Santa’s not real and wait in the shadows on Christmas Eve. Makes getting around a bit harder than usual, but the pickings are just too easy to resist.

“You’ve been naughty this year, so no bike for you,” I tell him flatly. He’s genuinely upset. There are the beginnings of tears, but even from here I’ve got doubts they’re real. If he wails, the rest of the family will be awake and down in a shot. “I did get you a mini drone,” I quickly assure him, gesturing to the pile of presents under the tree. The tears evaporate and his appreciative eyes widen.

“What did you get for your sister?” I ask, trying to distract him. Maybe I can make my way over and snatch the phone away. He points. There’s a wooden doll house. It’s not big by any stretch, and looks like the carpenter had hiccups when he put it together, but the thick coat of paint and big red ribbon are guaranteed to win over his sister’s heart.

“I made that for Maddie,” he says.

Did you now? Clever and talented. Hmmm. At least he’s been a bit good. His sister’ll be thrilled.

“I’m gonna show my dad the video of you coming in through the door. He said you came down the chimney but we don’t have one and he didn’t believe me when I told him you’d have to come through the door,” he declares and turns to head back up the stairs. “It’s why I left it unlocked.”

“Jasper,” I call. He looks back, shocked. Of course I know your name. It’s all over every second tag under the tree. “Don’t. You can’t let your parents know I’m here.”

“Screw that,” he says with a laugh and takes the first step.

You made me do it, you stupid little shit. At the end of the day, you’ve only got yourself to blame.

“Now, Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer and Vixen! On, Comet! On, Cupid! on, Donner and Blitzen! Hang on tight Jasper, this is going to be a bumpy ride!” I yell with a crack of my whip as the sleigh rises from the roof into the crisp night air.

Mother Christmas is going to have to set an extra place this year, but we’ve always managed every time it’s happened. Besides, there’s always room for another pair of hands in the factory.

Just have to remember to magic him up some pointy ears.

Child labour’s a no-no these days, but nobody bats an eye at elves slaving away in Santa’s workshop.

’Tis the Season

Now the crass commerce of American Thanksgiving and its shadowy cousin “Black Friday” have permeated every corner of the globe thanks to the internet, the stage is set for the crass commerce of the “holiday season”, which seems to span the month of December. Merchants and retailers the world over sweat bullets in anticipation of the biggest consumer spend of the year. Giddily, they line up yet more junk nobody needs but so many want because it will make them look better, nicer, and—most important—richer to their friends and colleagues.

Here in Australia, hot on the heels of adopting Halloween as a worthwhile event, some retailers thought they should cash in on the American “Black Friday” phenomenon, completely ignoring Australian custom of naming any day of bushfire tragedy as a ‘black’ day. Oops. They also conveniently ignored Australian custom of heavily discounted sale day being Boxing Day (i.e. 26th of December), but that probably won’t stop them providing sale opportunities at that time as well. Two for the price of one, so to speak. As long as the money flows. Looks good for the economy, and augments the myth the 99.9% are well off enough to permit tax cuts for the 0.1% and all that. The politicians and their owners must be in serious danger of breaking something from laughing so hard, but since folks are sheep-brained enough to vote for them, they thoroughly deserved to be fleeced.

In these difficult times of predatory online discount sellers like Alibaba and Amazon, many brick-and-mortar retailers have every right to be nervous about the changing landscape of consumerism. Booksellers have been a miner’s canary for retail, demonstrating just how much of an impact a well-positioned mouse click can have on the real world. Of course, the demise of so many, wreaking havoc on real estate, experienced staff, logistics specialists and sundry others who made their living from the sale of books in the pre-internet days, in favour of a few, seems to be the way of things now. Why worry about a thousand people losing their jobs across one nation when a handful in a single city in a completely different nation can add a few extra million to their bank accounts every few days instead? Living the capitalist dream, after all. Yet in all this, the underlying constant is the actual books themselves. The books remain, whether they’re sold online or in a brick-and-mortar shop. Printers might be missing out as more people opt for ebooks, while requests for hard copies are fulfilled by print-on-demand (“POD”), which can now crank out a paperback, but it’s about adapt-or-die. Why pay talented specialists to run printing presses when an underpaid spotty 19 year old can press a button on a machine instead? Think of the savings!

What comes out at the end of the POD process tends to be comparable to the cheapest of pulp paperback of the 1960s, whose pages half a century later, brown and brittle, are easily forgotten and crumble to dust if they’re not binned first. It’s anyone’s guess where an ebook might end up half a century from now. Gone are the days of widespread quality book production. Quality books are still produced—the bookshop in my favourite art gallery stocks luscious titles in scintillating binding, with paper so tactile the pages make love to both your eyes and fingers as you fondle each word—but the cost of doing so tends to be so prohibitive, only the most exclusive titles celebrate such treatment. Thus exclusivity becomes the norm. Books become a luxury, and reading survives chiefly via self-published ebooks. The problem is those very same self-published books struggle to gain eyeballs as authors are left to promote their own work in a sea of voices clamouring to be heard. As a result, the next Shakespeare, the next JK Rowling, the next Edgar Allen Poe, the next new voice capable of shaping and challenging and improving the world gets lost in a morass where commerce is king and content is commodity first, concept last.

Do the world a favour. If you feel compelled to give something to someone this holiday season, make it an original work of art or a book. The world doesn’t need another piece of moulded plastic. What it needs are ideas. Thoughts. Emotions. Humanity. Fewer beneficiaries might be in the chain leading from author to reader these days, but the reality is perhaps someone who has suffered a job redundancy might read new words which provide an idea or inspiration to set them on a new path in life. Books can give hope, just as they can share wisdom. In a world now seemingly led by crass, self-centred and stupid people, now more than ever the world needs intelligence. Don’t be part of the problem, be part of the solution. Give a book, and may a wonderful, life-improving, inspirational book come your way too.