I think all self-published authors feel the same way as Jane, the OP (obviously apart from the best sellers!).
I don’t tweet or blog the life out of anyone; it’s counter-productive. I know how irritated I get if someone shouts: ‘Buy my book! Buy my book!’ every five minutes.
You have to be a little bit subtle. But what do you do when that doesn’t work either?
I’ve no idea. I’ve done my share of straw-clutching when this or that self-proclaimed kindle guru tells you that his idea is THE ONE. The one that will make all the difference.
But hey, we all read the same books on how to improve sales, so what difference can it really make?
Imagine if you didn’t really love writing and you discovered that being an author bears a lot of similarity to beating your head against the wall.
I know I couldn’t carry on without that basic love of words, the feel and the sound and the rhythm of them.
And when you manage to put them all together in a book-length work of fiction, it’s magic.
So I will just carry on, carrying on. How about you?
Today I have been formatting the final volume of The Green Woman series, Beyond the Realm of night. Tomorrow it will all be done, blurbs and acknowledgements written, and ready to go. This should be a moment of great excitement. I should feel a great sense of acheivement. Do I? Not really. For one thing, like all good stories, it isn’t over. I am still writing stories about incidental characters, and have written 100k words of the follow-on series.
But there is another reason for not feeling particularly excited about the ending of this particular chapter: a great sense of frustration. I look at how other authors promote their books, I read their promotional blurbs, their frantic tweets and FB posts. I sometimes even dip into some of the ‘awesome’ stories using Amazon’s nifty look inside feature. What do I find? A morass of mediochre, badly-constructed, unoriginal writing. I know…
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