You know those moments when you throw up your hands and mutter, “I don’t care about conventional wisdom, I’m gonna do this my way?”
I became an indie author last July, and I love it. Please remember that: I. Love. It. Love getting my books out there, love getting feedback from readers/reviewers, love knowing I have control.
I do not … I repeat, not … love promoting.
Lord knows, there are droves of really smart people out there who can tell you the hows and whys and wherefores of marketing your book. There are tools to help and websites to help and courses to help even more. Facebook groups. Twitter folk. Trust me, there’s no shortage of knowledgeable, willing mentors.
To them, I say, “Thank you. For your graciousness, your time, your patience, your willingness, and the advice I did take. But from now on … count me out.”
Count me out, as in, no more frenetic/clever social media marketing campaigns. As in, I might try guest blogging—when/if I have time and something to say—but blog TOURS? Not happening.
I’m on the far side of 60 years old, and I have books to write. If they’re good books, the word will spread. (You know, like, “If you build it, they will come.”) Probably glacially, maybe not in my lifetime, but them’s the breaks.
Does believing people will find my books make me a Pollyanna? Quite possibly. Are smarter, more talented, more experienced, much more successful authors reading this and making with the, “Tsk, tsk?” No doubt.
But I know my own capabilities. I don’t have the energy to build marketing momentum AND tell stories. I love to tell stories. I detest marketing.
So, this is me, leaping out of the social media frying pan into the fire of probable anonymity (not to mention penury).
►End of rant◄