So, I took my sister’s advice and I sent out an email to all my friends announcing that I had published a book. Well, that’s not exactly how it happened. As soon as Trafford.com (the self-publisher I worked with) told me that it was available for sale, I emailed my friends, family and others to let them know it was available. I hadn’t yet received my own copy. Then, my sister keeps going on and on about marketing the thing and that I need to do something.
Then, I got the book. It came in the mail with some additional copies, and I was so excited to break the spine on “The Call for Something” all bound and crisp. But I don’t know what happened. It just felt so weird. I started perusing the pages, and I felt so… exposed, or something. And it just felt like crap. Like the whole book was like a party turned sour after a night of beer pong and car bombs.
I couldn’t stop myself. I headed straight for my laptop and banged out a letter apologizing to my friends and family for announcing the birth of the novel. I told them, among many other things of course,
“I take my leave in thanks and in apology to those who have purchased my recorded ruminations so thoroughly digested and passed, it seems, more through my bowels than my brain.”
Not surprisingly, the letter resulted in a phone call from my sister, who immediately took to admonishing me for my letter of apology and regret. That led to more admonitions from my mom who echoes just about everything my sister says when it comes to marketing.
More strangely, it would seem, my sister who dragged her feet to order the book after my first email (the one where I was so excited about having a book published) ended up turning around and ordering (not one, mind you, but) five paperback novels, telling the pathetic tale of 22-year-old Del Booker.