I’ve discovered 2 things in the last week:
1) If you’re going to be effective as a writer in the new world of publishing, you’ve got to spend an amazing amount of time in self-publicity.
2) I hate spending time in self-publicity.
My innocent view of life after retirement was to spend 2-3 hours a day writing (including editing), and 30-45 minutes on publicity, establishing a web presence, and finding a publisher. And amazingly, I managed to pretty much do that. At least for a while. Of course, it helped that somebody else (not naming any names, because she’s shy about recognition) found a publisher who liked what I write and was willing to take a chance on me. So fat, dumb, and happy, I trundled on.
In the last week, I’ve averaged 3-4 hours a day on publicity and 1 hour writing.
OK, it’s not quite that bad. I made the argument worse by cheating on the accounting. In the first case I counted writing for my blog in the 2-3 hours a day writing, and in the last case in the 3-4 hours a day on publicity. But I’ll never consider writing to/for you as “publicity.” You’re my community, my greater family!
But . . . seems like there’s always something. My to do list started at about 12 things; I’ve knocked off 6 — sent out press releases (look! a couple of on-line newspapers picked it up), joined Goodreads, composed an author page, joined some discussion groups, ordered new business cards and bookmarks so I’ll have something to sign when you buy an e-book, joined yahoo loops, wrote a guest blog, is that 6 yet? — and now there’s still 12 things to do. Oh, wait. Forgot about updating my email signature to include a link to the book. Make that 13.
What I need is a publicist to handle this crap so I can go back to being a fat, dumb, and happy writer again. But I’ll have to become rich and famous before I can afford a publicist, unless one of you out there is willing to do it for free.
Hey! If I had a publicist, we could be on Twitter. By myself, I absolutely refuse to go there. So until we get to that point, we will not be tweeting. You can’t follow me, and you can’t retweet my sterling wit. Live with it.
I’d like to rant more, but I have to go write an author’s review for my Amazon page.