Showing posts with label Indie publishing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Indie publishing. Show all posts

Friday, September 28, 2012

Don't buy my book tomorrow!

If trying to introduce people to my books has taught me anything (it has), it's that you have to be willing to try new things, because you never know what's going to work.

When Amazon introduced the Kindle Select Program last fall, with the ability for authors to give their books away, I was skeptical. How would offering a book for free help me make money?

Well, after the program had gotten up and running, I saw it working out for the brave authors who tried it, so in February StoneHouse Ink and I gave it a whirl, making THE LONELY MILE free for three days, giving away 42,000 copies and launching a bestseller in the aftermath of the explosion. We sold eight thousand books in the three days following the promotion, and 12,000 total for the month of February, sending the book rocketing as high as #21 in Amazon's Paid store among all books, #2 in all Suspense Thrillers.

It was a ride I'll never forget, and one which I've yet to come close to duplicating, despite going back to the well and trying the free thing a few times in the months since.

The fact is, things are constantly changing in the wonderful world of publishing (as if you haven't heard that one before) - and especially selling - books.

All of which leads back to my initial point. Gotta try new things.

To that end, I decided to try something a little different with my new supernatural suspense novel, REVENANT. The way the Kindle Select Program works is the author or publisher gets five days of free promotion in exchange for making the work exclusive to Amazon for ninety days. I had three promotional days left for REVENANT approaching the end of the ninety day period, so I decided to use those three days during the last three days of the period, then re-up with Kindle Select, and use all five promo days at the beginning of the next ninety day period, giving me eight free days in a row.

Something different. Worth a try, right?

Well, there was a problem. Of course.

Turns out you can't schedule the free promo days with Amazon until after the new ninety day exclusivity period has begun, so there will be a break of one day between the three free promo days at the end of the old ninety day period and the five free promo days at the beginning of the new period.

That day is tomorrow. Saturday, September 29, 2012. The only day during the nine-day stretch from September 26 through October 4 when you will have to pay to download REVENANT.

I don't know if making my book free for eight days will do a damned thing for it or not, but I do know Medallion Press made FINAL VECTOR free for fifteen days at the end of August and we went on a pretty good sales run immediately following that promo. I figure it's worth a shot, but I will feel a little guilty if you buy the book tomorrow when you could have gotten it free the day before or the day after.

So please, spare me the feelings of guilt. Don't buy my book tomorrow. Get it free on Sunday. Or wait and buy it on October 5, if you prefer...

Thursday, July 5, 2012

REVENANT excerpt: Chapter Six

It's Day Five of my REVENANT preview week - today features Chapter Six. Here are the links to the first four days of previews if you'd like to check them out before reading today's preview:

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three, Four and Five

Now, here's Chapter Six:




6


The basement was dank and forbidding, even under normal circumstances, although it seemed more terrifying than usual now, Max thought. But maybe that was just because of what was about to happen here.

Two portable work lamps had been set up on sturdy metal tripod legs to augment the dim lighting, one mounted on the north side of the basement and one on the south. The lamps faced each other at an angle, splashing their light across roughly an eight foot gap, focusing the glare onto a heavy-duty tarp which had been spread out on the concrete floor.

Max and Raven stood side by side next to the tarp, dressed in identical denim coveralls, their hair stuffed under baseball caps. Latex medical gloves adorned their hands and disposable paper booties covered their feet. It was probably overkill—pun definitely intended, Max thought with a smile—but he didn’t care. There was no point risking contact with dead human tissue and bodily fluids when a few simple precautions could more or less eliminate the possibility.

“Ready?” he asked, and Raven nodded. Together they walked to the corner of the basement where an industrial grade floor freezer had been set up against the east wall. The freezer was constructed of shiny stainless steel and its interior measured more than six feet in length and two-and-a-half feet in width, roughly the size of a casket, making it perfect for their needs. It had set him back nearly twenty-five hundred bucks. He considered the price a bargain.

Max raised the lid and gazed down at Earl Manning, now almost five days dead, his body a solid block at the bottom of the freezer. The corpse was naked from the waist up. Removing the plastic bag from their victim’s head had been messy and difficult; Max had pulled the sturdy cord so tight during their brief but deadly struggle that it had disappeared into the delicate tissue, leaving a narrow furrow running under the victim’s jawline. It resembled a ghastly necklace.

Manning’s lifeless eyes stared fixedly at the ceiling. The expression of fear, helplessness and confusion frozen onto his face made it seem as though the corpse was accusing them of his murder. Perfectly understandable, under the circumstances, Max thought. Not that it will do him any good. He’s still dead. For now.

Max looped an arm around Raven’s waist and pulled her into him. He could feel her body trembling like a tiny bird’s as she stared at the dead man. “Let’s do this,” he said, and walked to the north side of the freezer. Together they reached to the bottom. Max hooked one large hand under each of Manning’s armpits, feeling his fingers immediately begin to stiffen from the intense cold despite being encased in the gloves. Raven placed her own, more delicate hands under the dead man’s ankles.

Max counted to three and they hauled the body up and out of the freezer. It rose with surprising ease, with their victim’s weight distributed relatively evenly along his nearly six foot frame. It was similar to lifting a heavy wooden plank. They began walking the corpse slowly across the basement floor.

They worked in silence, the only sound an occasional grunt from Raven as she struggled to balance the dead man’s lower half. When they reached the tarp, they bent and set the cadaver on its back in the middle, then stopped back to catch their breath. Manning had been a perfect fit inside the industrial freezer, filling it lengthwise, his shoulders clearing the side walls with a couple of inches to spare, almost as if he had been measured for it.

Now, however, the body looked small and lost, positioned in the middle of the mostly empty basement atop the oversized tarp. Its empty eyes stared steadfastly upward as if beseeching God—or anyone else who might be paying attention—to explain what was going on here. If God had an answer, though, he kept it to himself.

A thin layer of sparkling frost which had built up over Manning’s body now began to melt, giving him the appearance of a sweating athlete, which Max found amusing. Earl Manning’s days of heavy physical exertion—if there had ever been any—were long past, a fact demonstrated by his thin arms and generally scrawny build.

Max picked up a Black and Decker cordless rechargeable drill, which he had placed in a line of tools on the floor next to the tarp. He squeezed the trigger, listening to the satisfying whine of the motor. The drill was fully charged and ready for use. He straddled the slab of frozen flesh, one knee on either side of the subject’s waist, and placed the tip of the drill bit in the center of the chest, just below the sternum.

He squeezed the trigger again, exerting a steady downward pressure, and in a matter of seconds had punched a small hole through the mass of unyielding bone and tissue. Backing the drill out of the hole, Acton set it aside and reached for the next tool, a cordless rechargeable jigsaw, also fully powered and ready to use. Raven crouched on her knees next to Max, watching quietly, obsessive fascination glittering in her emerald-green eyes.

Max smiled at her, then slid the jigsaw’s blade into the hole in Earl Manning’s chest and began cutting. He sliced the flesh in a straight line to the top of the rib cage, the saw’s motor screaming in protest, almost as if speaking for the dead man who could not. The frozen tissue gave way grudgingly but steadily, and after a few moments, Acton withdrew the saw, placing it on the floor next to the drill. He had begun to sweat from the exertion, despite being seated astride what was essentially a six foot long ice cube.

After a moment to catch his breath, Max picked up a rib spreader, a frightening-looking contraption consisting of a pair of heavy metal bars placed side by side, each one widening out to a flat surface with a curved lip. The two bars were connected at their base by a third bar, adjustable along a corrugated track by a large thumbscrew. Max rested on his haunches atop the lifeless Earl Manning, holding the spreader in his right hand. He smiled again at Raven. “Having fun?” he asked. She smiled back tremulously and said nothing.

Squinting in concentration, Max leaned down and placed the twin bars of the rib spreader into his crude incision, positioning each lip snugly against the dead man’s ribs. Then he began turning the oversized thumbscrew, literally spreading Manning’s ribs apart inside his frozen chest.

It was hard work, made even more difficult by the body’s frozen state. Max began to breathe heavily and Raven asked, “Why did we have to freeze him? Wouldn’t this have gone much smoother with a normal body?”

Max wiped the back of one gloved hand across his forehead. “Sure, it would have been easier. But I froze him for two reasons. Doing it this way is not as messy; there are no nasty bodily fluids running all over the place. It makes clean-up a lot easier. That is the secondary benefit.”

Raven nodded. “What’s the primary benefit, then?”

“The main reason we froze him, sweetheart, is because I want to delay the inevitable decomposition of our friend Mr. Manning for absolutely as long as possible. We are only going to have a finite amount of time to accomplish what needs to be done, and every minute counts. So by freezing him, we are left with a body in as close to its original state as possible.”

“But won’t the freezing and thawing cause damage to his body?”

“He’s dead, remember? Who cares?”

“Of course I remember he’s dead, I just wondered if the tissue damage would cause problems for us down the line.”

“I hope not, but who really knows? This is uncharted territory, my dear.” Max pursed his lips and resumed cranking, moving the metal arms steadily apart, spreading the corpse’s ribs wider and wider. A Crack! split the air and Raven jumped. Max chuckled and continued cranking, breaking more ribs, one after the other, until the opening in Manning’s chest was wide enough to serve his purpose.

He reached inside and grasped his victim’s frozen heart firmly with his left hand. With his right he picked up a surgeon’s scalpel and began slicing muscle tissue, arteries and blood vessels. He started with the pulmonary veins and arteries, making clean incisions with a steady hand. Then he raised the scalpel, sliced through the thicker inferior vena cava, and finished with the superior vena cava at the top.

The victim’s heart was now separated completely from his body. Max lifted it out of the frozen chest and held it up for Raven’s inspection. She showed no reaction. He shrugged and stood, holding the muscle carefully in both hands, and walked to a small table set up along the wall near the industrial freezer.

A box adorned with beautiful, intricate animal carvings had been placed squarely in the center of the table. It was the prize Max had gone to so much trouble to procure three months ago in Arizona. Next to it was a similar box, although much plainer. Both lids were standing open. Inside the fancy box was the strange, perfectly smooth grey stone recently liberated from Don Running Bear, and inside the plain box was a sealable quart-sized plastic freezer bag.

Max slid the heart inside the bag and zipped it tightly shut, then placed the bagged heart into the plain box. He closed both lids and secured the latches.

“What do we do now?” Raven asked, glancing at the frozen body of Earl Manning, prone atop the tarp, chest gaping open like it had suffered an explosion from within.

“Now we wait.”

__________
 
Tomorrow will feature Chapter Seven. REVENANT is a 75,000 word novel which works as Book Two in the Paskagankee series and also as a stand-alone supernatural suspense novel. It's priced at $3.99. Thanks for reading!

Friday, June 15, 2012

In a perfect world: a manifesto for writers and readers

In a perfect world,


- Authors and publishers would rewrite, edit and proofread their work a lot.

As many times as it takes to produce clean, sharp prose with as few typos, formatting errors, and printing mistakes as possible. You owe that to people spending their hard-earned money on your product.


- Readers would understand mistakes happen.

We're all human, errors are unavoidable, at least until the machines become self-aware and take over the writing and publishing of all books for us. Then everything will be perfect, right? Boring as hell, but perfect.


- Authors wouldn't be so damned whiny and protective of their work.

You got a one-star review, suck it up and live with it instead of complaining to anyone who'll listen on Facebook and Twitter about the unfairness of it all. Not everyone's going to dig what you wrote; that's been the case with the most highly-regarded authors ever, it's certainly going to be the case with me and you.


- Readers wouldn't be so quick to blister authors with their keyboards simply because they can.

Authors live and die by reviews, sales - and reputations - are to no small degree based on them, and to attack an author in a hurtful way simply because you disagree with his politics or the way she markets and promotes her work is just wrong.


- Traditionally published authors would stop treating Indies like gum stuck to the bottom of their shoes.

The world of publishing remained unchanged for five centuries. Now, in the space of half a decade, all that is history, and whether you like it or not, things are never going back to the way they used to be. Sneering at Indie work doesn't make you look superior, it only makes you look petty and vindictive, not to mention out of touch.


- Indie authors would stop thumping their chests and jumping up and down about how wonderful their method is compared to traditional publishing.

 Most of the authors published traditionally worked damned hard to get where they are, just like you did. In many cases they endured years, sometimes decades, of rejection before signing that trad contract. Can you blame them for being a little resentful of you, especially if you brag about rushing a book to market in three weeks or something equally ridiculous? Try to act like a professional, for crying out loud.


- All authors would take a moment to appreciate how lucky we are.

Whether you've written a NY Times bestseller or you're having trouble convincing anyone besides Mom to read your book - or, like most of us, you're somewhere in-between - take a second to smell the coffee, baby. You're doing what you love, and how many people can say that? How many people have the opportunity to touch potentially thousands of other people with their words, to make them laugh or cry or get angry, to focus their attention on an issue or a problem, to entertain them?

Not very freaking many. You're a writer, man, enjoy it. Okay, that's enough enjoying it. Now get back to work.

Tuesday, April 24, 2012

Adapt or Die

I attended a webinar this morning hosted by StoneHouse Ink, publisher of my novels, THE LONELY MILE and PASKAGANKEE. Featured was Thom Kephart of Amazon, who gave an online presentation titled, "Maximizing your book and Kindle sales on Amazon."

The presentation was interesting and informative, and after the two hour session was over, I started thinking about how the subject matter dovetails perfectly with a fascinating blog post I read a couple of days ago by one of my favorite authors, Lawrence Block.

In his post, the entirety of which can be read here, Block talks about his foray into self-publishing, and how quickly the literary world is changing:

But bookstores were closing, and sales were down. Authors of mid-list books, many with lengthy backlists and no end of flattering reviews, found themselves cast adrift. Some of them were trying to do something about it.


I thought this was interesting. But I wasn’t having trouble getting published. I’d been doing what I do long enough, and had built enough of a following in the process, so that first-rate publishers were still willing to print and distribute my books, and to pay me decently for the privilege of so doing.

Still, I could see changes. My advances were down. And my books were getting harder to find. The new ones got shelf space, but the mass market backlist titles did not; for years my paperbacks filled two shelf sections at a Barnes & Noble, and then one day I stopped at a B&N and could only find one copy each of four titles. And it’s been like that ever since.

"My advances were down...my books were getting harder to find..."

These words weren't written by some newbie nobody struggling to find an audience. This is Lawrence freaking Block, a guy who has made a living by making stuff up and writing it down longer than many of us have been alive. A guy who has won awards, written bestsellers, created more unforgettable characters than any ten other authors.

Lawrence Block.

If Lawrence Block is having trouble maintaining a foothold in the traditional world of publishing/bookstores, what chance do the rest of us have? But here's the thing - Block may be advancing in age, but he's no dinosaur. Here's more from his post:

I moved very tentatively into self-publishing...The ebook of THE NIGHT AND THE MUSIC went live the last day of September [2011]...The book covered its costs within the first month or so, and continues to sell well. It seems to me that I’ve already netted more from it than the modest advance a publisher might have shelled out, and from this point on I can market the book at least as effectively as a publisher would, can keep the price point where I think it should be, and will receive a significantly higher portion of every sale than would ever appear on a publisher’s royalty statement.

I realize you're not stupid, but I'm going to emphasize this statement, more to illustrate my sense of wonder than anything else: "I've already netted more from it than the modest advance a publisher might have shelled out..."

THE NIGHT AND THE MUSIC is a book of Matthew Scudder short stories, and if you're a crime fiction fan, I need say no more. If you're not a crime fiction fan, I can only illustrate the enduring popularity of Matthew Scudder with the following numbers: He has been featured in eighteen separate books over the last four decades.

Again, if a guy like Lawrence Block could expect a "modest advance," and declining shelf space, for a book featuring a character like Matthew Scudder, what chance do the rest of us have in the world of traditional publishing?

Sure, some authors will hit it big, but for every Lee Child, there are a hundred or more Boyd Morrisons, who traditionally published THE ARK after phenomenal success self-publishing the same book, but who was cut loose by his U.S. publisher after more modest success with a couple of other books and is now back to self-publishing. If recent history is any indication, it will probably work out to his benefit.

All of which brings me back to my original point: This morning I attended a webinar designed to help me maximize sales at Amazon.

Amazon is a lightning rod, the eye of the storm when it comes to the disconnect between the proponents of "traditional publishing," and the proponents of "indie publishing."

These two groups view each other with a seemingly deep-seated mutual suspicion - when they're not openly hostile to each other - and I've never really understood why. I've always felt that more opportunities for writers can't possibly be a bad thing. And the more often well-known writers begin to realize they can make more money and have more of an impact by maintaining more control over their output, the more the barriers between the two worlds -I believe - will continue to break down.

On the other hand, as more bookstores close and more bestselling authors desert their traditional publishers, things may well become more nasty, not less, at least for the short term. As a book lover, I'm not happy to see bookstore after bookstore close.

But here's the thing: There's nothing I can do about that. I've tried to interest bookstores in my work, with absolutely no success. I'm not going to lose a lot of sleep over the increasing irrelevence of an institution which has demonstrated zero interest in me. I'm not happy to see bookstores close, but on the other hand, I'm excited to welcome new readers, as Amazon and other e-retailers help me do that.

Adapt or die. Lawrence Block knows that. Other big-name authors are realizing it, too.