It began with a broken hip.
Not mine of course, as far as I’m concerned the damn thing’s made out of titanium, but Haley’s. To this day we have no clue how she injured it, there was no definitive fall or incident that we could point to and identify as the obvious moment when she wounded the bone. Despite this the doctor’s assured us that the injury was quite severe and that she needed to cease putting weight on the bone immediately. Of course this meant that she had to take a significant amount of time off from work and needed to be essentially confined to the four walls of our tiny apartment.
The problem with this scenario, besides her broken bones of course, was that Haley has no great love for the city of Boston. While I get a great lump in my throat whenever I hear the Standells’ “Dirty Water”, Haley decries her newly adopted surroundings. She busies herself with work and school, including going for her second Masters, so that she has something, anything to keep her mind off of where she lives. However, with a severely broken bone all of this was out the window, the doctor had basically ordered her to stay away from everything that occupied her and just rest.
After receiving this news Haley began to beg me to take her on a sort of recuperating vacation, to return her, albeit temporarily, to the beaches of her native South Carolina. I was reluctant at first, money was tight and there were a variety of other responsibilities keeping me planted in Boston besides my simple love for the city and I didn’t see how any such foray down south was possible. Oh trust me it’s not that I didn’t want to go. Once Haley introduced me to the picturesque beaches outside of Charleston, South Carolina I have been quite taken with them. Still I refused to acquiesce to her request. However, Haley became relentless constantly begging for and at times even demanding that I accompany her, that I fulfill her desire to up and leave for a bit.
It was not until we were returning from the 2010 IPPY awards in Manhattan, which I had mentioned in an earlier post, that I began to see some way that such a trip down the Eastern seaboard could in fact be productive as well as leisurely. Flush with a feeling of success and accomplishment from receiving the award I believed that it could act as an impetus to greater success in selling my novel. There were dozens of independent booksellers dotting our route to South Carolina and I believed that if I could get them to carry my book in stock, get it in front of the book buying public, that some sort of success was possible. It would be an impromptu book tour down the Atlantic coast, a fulfilling and rewarding endeavor I assured myself.
I had tried earlier in the year to get Vargulf on the shelves of independent bookstores. The publishing company had assured me that all booksellers I marketed my novel to would receive the standard forty percent discount off of the list price, but I quickly found out from many shop owners that this was simply not the case. The major distributor which had agreed to carry my novel, which I will decline to name, would only offer the book at twenty percent off the list price and as a result many shop owners felt it was an unprofitable acquisition; they all refused to carry it. When I contacted the publishing company they stated that they would honor the forty percent discount, but only if booksellers went through their customer service line. It didn’t take long to realize that few if any brick and mortar stores were willing to do this.
Dejected I sort of threw up my hands and forgot about marketing Vargulf, choosing to write my second novel instead. It wasn’t until that drive back from Manhattan months later that a light bulb went off. If I myself could offer the title to bookstores at more than the forty percent discount surely this would be the ticket to widespread distribution of my book. I’m constantly reading author profiles on the publishing company’s website describing authors who have found great success through self-publishing and I’ve always wondered how the hell they accomplished it. I thought this must have been the vehicle they too had found towards making their writing profitable and rewarding. Bookstores had been willing to pick up my novel when I had first contacted them months earlier they had just deemed it not cost effective. Surely when I offered the novel at a cheaper distribution price they would happily work with me. Or so I thought…
It was a sunny Thursday morning when we began this traveling road show. Our first “target” was an Independent bookstore just a few blocks over from us over on Newbury Street. The place is wedged between the clothing boutiques and restaurants of Newbury and doubles as a breakfast nook. With a deep breath I walked in and began my pitch. I had never actually stepped foot in the place before, suffice it to say like most Americans I mostly buy my books from the large chain stores which may explain the almost combative attitude I encountered from many of the managers and owners I ran into. Maybe they could smell the Barnes & Noble upon me.
A young man, his hair done up in some bizarre punk style, directed me towards his general manager who was stocking books across the store. I thanked him and started towards the manager only to have the young employee pull me back. His voice low and eyes wide with fear he issued a warning. “Watch out,” he whispered, “he’s in a very bad mood today.”
I nodded and straightening my collar approached the general manager. He was a slight, little man with thinning blonde hair. As I approached he viewed me with an annoyed look which only morphed to one of anger as I began trying to pitch my novel to him. He didn’t even allow me to fully finish, cutting me off with a wave of his hand and informing me that if he did decide to pick it up it would only be through a consignment program the bookstore ran. The consignment process is one where a bookstore will essentially carry your book only paying a percentage of the profits if the book actually sells. Holding out his hand he demanded a copy and informed me that he would contact me if he decided to carry it and if not he would tell me where to pick up the copy I had lent him.
As I write this I can honestly say I have yet to hear from this man and he hasn’t responded to my e-mails or calls. God knows what happened to the copy I gave him, maybe it went directly in the trash or is now used as a doorstop; your guess is as good as mine.
Despite this muddled and confusing experience I kept a smile on my face. I kept a smile on my face even though the interactions at the following bookstores were much the same. Usually they would request a copy and tell me that they would be in touch. Much like the first bookstore on Newbury Street I have yet to hear from them and they haven’t responded to any e-mails.
The smile on my face was nearly permanently wiped off my face at a small bookstore in Mystic, Connecticut. The elderly woman who claimed she was the owner could not have been ruder and she was almost militant in her refusal to even take a look at the book.
“What type of book is it?” She questioned wearily.
“A horror novel,” I replied.
She harrumphed and rolled her eyes. Had you viewed her response it was as if I had asked to relieve myself on her showroom floor. “Well there’s not much of a market for that here,” she stated, despite the fact that the posters for several horror novels were hung behind her, “but if you want we can do some paperwork and offer it through consignment, but I don’t think that’s worth your time.”
“Okay,” I nodded and she looked as if I had physically struck her in the ribcage. Clearly, she had expected me to refuse her offer and angrily storm off. That I would happily accept her offer was something she clearly had not counted on. Growling she stomped to the rear of the store, disappearing behind the stacks of books which lined the store. She emerged moments later from the stacks, no paper in hand.
“I really don’t think it’s worth your time,” she grumbled. By now it was painfully obvious not worth my time really meant she felt the book was not worth her time. Even if I went through with her offer of consignment she would probably handle the book with great disdain; discarding it in some dark recess of her little store. After thanking her for her time I stumbled out of her store in defeat. The most insulting part of this experience was that outside the storefront was a large poster declaring that this particular store proudly supported independent publishers and authors.
Haley and I drove in silence for much of Connecticut after that. It was at this point that I began to wonder if I had made some great mistake. However, as usual, Haley is fiercely optimistic and refused to allow us to give up. The experiences at much of the other bookstores we stopped at on our little bell-whistle tour were gentler than the stop in Mystic, but sadly similar to earlier stops.
I resigned myself to simply e-mailing and calling most of these stores and I am almost embarrassed to report that only one store even responded to me; a small bookstore called Now Voyager located in Provincetown, Massachusetts. The owner, Mark Leach, was remarkably positive and pleasant in his dealings with me and while it’s been a slog I must extend my heartfelt thanks to the man for lifting my spirits and restoring my faith in the owners of these independent bookstores; perhaps they’re not all as bad as I thought.
The best advice I’ve received through this process has been that of fellow self-published author RW Ridley who told me to, “stop focusing on selling books and just enjoy the process of writing.” This sentiment is akin to when Haley tells me that the only thing that matters is that I had fun writing my book. It is this type of advice which had led me to start this blog, a sort of sounding board where I can feel free to air any grievances, to share my own experiences and just interact with other authors and readers. Still, maybe some of those bookstores will respond…won’t they?
UPDATE: This was written several months ago and to answer the final question no they did not.