In this very blog last month I wrote about why my latest novel, The Opposite of Art, is not going to sell very many copies. To my surprise it caused a slight ripple in the blogosphere, with discussions here and there about whether Christian readers are up to the challenge of enjoying symbolism and theme and so forth. I felt kind of guilty about that.
I shouldn’t blame anybody else for my sales challenges. And although a few people thought I had engaged in a rather devious reverse psychology promotional effort, actually I think that blog might have done some damage to my cause.
In an interview last week I was asked why so many people think my novels might be hard to read. Ouch.
Obviously that’s my fault for posting blogs that make it sound like I only write for eggheads. (For the record, I try very hard to write page-turners.) So I kicked myself a little, but at least last month’s blog did touch briefly on another reason why my newest novel will not sell, and it had nothing to do with readers. In fact, it’s my fault entirely, and probably it’s the main explanation: I am not a very professional author.
Consider what it takes to be a real professional in this business:
“Karen Kingsbury, a popular inspirational novelist, has sold upwards of 5 million books. She wrote eight books last year alone and can sometimes turn out a draft in five days. ‘. . . I love writing [she said]. But the business of writing takes up ten hours to every one hour of writing.’” (Karen Kingsbury interview, Christianity Today, April 30, 2007.)
Now consider this: what Ms. Kingsbury does in one year, it has taken me 17 years to accomplish.
I have published eight novels and one non-fiction book, but that doesn’t make me a professional. I write full time, but that doesn’t make me a professional, either. To be a truly professional author, you not only have to write professionally; you also have to work hard – very hard – at promoting your own writing.
It wasn’t this way when I was first published. Back then, writers wrote, and publishers took care of the publicity. Authors just showed up when and where they said we should. Ah, the good old days. That was one of the reasons I went into writing in the first place.
I entered college to study painting. But even as a wide-eyed youth I soon realized I had to eat, so I transferred my attention to architecture, which seemed like a good compromise. Then, as so often happens when we compromise, the scales tipped too far the other way. I went into architecture for artistic reasons, but ended up spending most of my time on the business side of things. It robbed architecture of all joy for me.
I vowed I would not make the same mistake with writing. I would write to the very best of my ability. I would listen to my editors and do what they said, even when it meant mass-murdering my darlings. I would work hard at improving my craft. I would think deeply about themes, characters, settings and plots (and writing page-turners!). I would strive to make every single word exactly right, and leave the business side of things to my agent and publishers.
At first that arrangement worked just fine. Then came the awful blitzkrieg. Mega-corporations began annexing small publishing houses. On-line sales put pressure on the bricks-and-mortar stores, which put pressure on book prices. Electronic books arrived, applying still more downward price pressure. Shrinking budgets. Consolidations. Downsizing. Layoffs. And most recently, the Great Recession. If publishing was a business before, the business had become an all out war, and in-house publicity departments were among the first casualties.
Pressured by their shell-shocked publishers, my author friends began to talk about their “platforms,” an idea I had only heard before in connection with political campaigns. They started publishing websites. Then blogs. Then posting every day on Facebook, and then Tweeting every day. Every hour. Every minute. They squeezed their novels in somehow — sometimes eight novels a year — because readers need new titles or they will forget us.
“When do they find time to write stories?” I grumbled. “When do they find time to think about the words?”
I had seen all this before, and knew where it would lead. The battle would go not to the finest writers, but to the best at business. This was not what I had signed on for. I resolved not to repeat my architectural mistake. I would dodge the draft this time. I would not become an ersatz advertising copywriter. I would be a conscientious objector to all of that instead.
None of this is intended to disparage any other author’s choices. One can be creative in business just as in literature. I learned enough in business to know that. Some are even blessed to be creative in both areas at once. Mark Twain and Charles Dickens were master promoters who from all accounts worked hard on their “platforms.” Rubens, Leonardo and Michelangelo, too. I would be an idiot to deem my path superior to theirs in any way. But again, it’s not what I signed up for.
Oh, how I wish I was cut from that same cloth, but for the life of me I can’t imagine enjoying a life spent writing something beautiful and interesting one minute, and then working to convince people it's beautiful and interesting the next. I was raised by an artist and trained in schools by artists to believe all good art speaks for itself. That may not be true, but I can’t seem to get it out of my mind.
Still, in wartime one must try to do one’s duty.
I published a website, (but I only remember to modify it when a new novel is published). I have a blog, (but it has been almost five months since my last post). I am on Facebook, (but currently it seems somehow I have nearly 300 unopened messages and unanswered friend requests). I do not Tweet and have no plans to do so. I post here every month of course, but (please don’t take offense, dear reader) I usually dread the interruption. I devote most of my on-line time to editing at DailyCristo, but that has nothing to do with promoting novels.
In the fog of war I even came close to repeating my architectural mistake. A couple of years ago it had become obvious I must work harder at the business side of things or my career as a novelist was doomed. Losing sight of the Main Thing, I thought seriously of writing something that wouldn’t take so long to finish. A series of little pulpish somethings, actually, which would leave more time for the business of promotion.
Then I had lunch with a friend, an artist who knows me. He listened to my plan and asked if it would make me happy. He stared at me silently, waiting for an answer. He knew what the answer would be. He would not let me lie about it to myself. He saved me from a fate worse than the death of my career. This explains the dedication in The Opposite of Art:
“For
My longsuffering agent will read this post today and sigh. (Greg, may God richly bless you for your patience.) My publisher will read this, and hate it. In fact my publisher may call it naive, and unfair given their investment. (I hope they will at least give me credit for remembering to include the novel’s title in this blog . . . twice!)
Others will think I’m self-absorbed. God has given me a gift, they’ll say, and I’m being a bad steward by not doing whatever it takes to make a go of it. I don't want people to think that way about me, which is a part of why I cobbled a makeshift platform together, but my heart just isn’t in it. I wasn’t put here to sell novels; I was put here to write them.
To those who think that sounds like pride, I can only promise it is not. And for comfort I can lean on Thomas Merton’s words, which I found years ago in a chapter called “Integrity” in his New Seeds of Contemplation:
“It is not humility to insist on being someone that you are not. It is as much as saying that you know better than God who you are and who you ought to be. . . . And so it takes heroic humility to be yourself and to be nobody but the man, or the artist, that God intended you to be. You will be made to feel that your honesty is only pride. . . . But the greatest humility can be learned from the anguish of keeping your balance in such a position: of continuing to be yourself without getting tough about it . . . . One of the first signs of a saint may well be the fact that other people do not know what to make of him. In fact they are not sure if he is crazy or only proud; but [they will say] it must at least be pride to be haunted by some ideal which nobody but God really comprehends.”
Anyone who knows me will tell you I am not a hero or a saint. But I do have this ideal which haunts me: I was called to write novels, and only that. If someone wants to say that means I’m naive or unfair, or prideful or careless with God’s gifts, with fear and trembling I must disagree.
But I will admit it means I’m no professional.
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