It is no secret that when a book is published, much of the responsibility for selling it is left to the writer. Apparently, writing the thing was merely the entrance exam.
I write nonfiction books about women of the American West. I have devoted more than thirty-five years to the subject because I believe these women and their stories matter. I would like to spend my workdays researching forgotten lives, examining old newspapers, and transforming history into something readers can experience.
Instead, more than half my day is devoted to sales. I make calls. A lot of calls.
Most people are incredibly kind. Then there are the book buyers with the interpersonal skills of a wolverine with a toothache. They impatiently tell me to send information to an “info@” email address.
I have come to believe that messages sent to “info@” do not arrive in anyone’s inbox. They are transported to a vast electronic cemetery where press releases, book catalogs, author biographies, and unanswered prayers go to die. An “info@” address is about as useful as a steering wheel on a toaster.
Then there are the book buyers who cheerfully inform me, “We don’t carry the types of books you write and we never will.”
That is always good to know. It saves me from wondering whether I might someday crack their carefully guarded market of scented candles, novelty socks, and commemorative spoons.
Rejection is simply part of the work. Still, it is comforting to know that authors infinitely more famous than I am also worked hard to sell their books and frequently failed.
I suppose misery really does love company. Just look at a fly strip. You never see one fly stuck there warning the others, “Go around! Go around!”
Walt Whitman personally financed the first edition of Leaves of Grass. He helped produce it, distributed promotional copies, solicited attention, and even anonymously wrote favorable reviews of his own book. It still sold very few copies.
Writing your own favorable reviews strikes me as remarkably efficient. Whitman was the author, publisher, publicity department, and satisfied customer. Had social media existed, he might also have created several accounts just to argue with anyone who gave the book three stars.
Henry David Thoreau paid to publish A Week on the Concord and Merrimack Rivers. When the book failed to sell, his publisher returned 706 unsold copies to him. Thoreau stored them at home and personally sold some to acquaintances and admirers.
Nothing tests a friendship quite like opening the door and finding Henry David Thoreau standing there with another copy of his book.
William Blake operated what amounted to his own tiny publishing company. He engraved, printed, colored, bound, advertised, and sold his illuminated books, often directly to patrons. His wife, Catherine, helped him.
Blake built an inventory while waiting for readers to discover him. They mostly declined to do so during his lifetime. I imagine Catherine eventually asking, “William, do we really need another box of books in the garage?”
Edgar Allan Poe used his own money to print approximately fifty copies of Tamerlane and Other Poems. There is little evidence that he actively tried to sell them, but he did publish the book anonymously under the name “A Bostonian.” This may have been less a marketing strategy than an early attempt at witness protection.
So, when another book buyer directs me to the digital wasteland of “info@,” I will try to remember that I am in distinguished company. Whitman promoted himself. Thoreau had 706 books in his house. Blake colored his own pages. Poe hid behind “A Bostonian.”
And I make telephone calls.
My latest book is The Last Ride: Outlaw Laura Bullion and the Wild Bunch, the story of the only known woman to participate in a Wild Bunch train robbery and the extraordinary life she created after prison. It is available everywhere books are sold, including, I assume, at a few establishments that also carry scented candles and commemorative spoons.
You can also enter to win a free copy at www.chrisenss.com.
The technology has changed, but the author’s job remains much the same: write the book, believe in it, and then spend an astonishing amount of time trying to persuade someone else to believe in it too.
