Keep Writing

Keep Writing

So, here's the scoop on getting your book out there. First off, keep those expectations in check. The happiest authors are the ones who don't expect too much. And if you're thinking about promoting your book, start like three years before it even hits the shelves. Seriously, use that time to build your author platform, get a blog going, gather a following, and make those all-important connections.

Now, about editing—hiring a good one is worth every penny. They do more than just fix typos; they turn your ramblings into something people actually want to read. You know how some people marry their partner for their money? I married my husband for his editing skills.

Remember, a non-fiction book is just a vessel for your ideas. You want those ideas to spread, so don't hoard them. Share away! And when it comes to selling your book, don't try to reach everyone. Focus on a niche market where you have credibility and where people just can't live without your book.

Oh, and about hiring a publicist to get you on television—resist the urge. It's pricey and not likely to happen. Instead, focus on smaller markets where you can make a real impact.

If you're considering a big publisher, think twice. You might lose time and control over your book. Self-publishing gives you more freedom and can be just as rewarding. And don't underestimate the power of a great book cover—it matters more than you think.

If you do go with a traditional publisher, invest in things that help them help you, like pre-editing and negotiating cover rights. And while we're at it, blog mentions are gold, even if blurbs are a bit overrated.

Bookstore signings and book club calls might not pay, but they're fantastic for promoting a really good book. And hey, consider offering a free PDF version. It can reach millions without the usual publishing headaches.

To reach people who don't usually buy books, show up where they are—both online and in real life. And remember, books that sell well often do so in bulk to organizations.

Publishing is all about marketing and sales, not just printing. If that's not your thing, focus on the printing part. Bookstores are run by amazing people, but they're not always the best for sales. Most readers discover books before they even get to the store.

Finally, writing a book is an incredible journey. It clarifies your thoughts, builds credibility, and spreads your ideas far and wide. So go ahead, write that book! You've got this!

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And Now A Fiction Break

A Smoke and a Drink

By

Liz Dubelman

She had never expected that life would be like this. It wasn’t like there were dead bodies in the street, but the numbers pealed off the announcer’s voice with as much sympathy as could be conveyed over the radio, “Half a million dead worldwide.”  Her mother had told her stories of polio, but that seemed so far away. Surely there were smart doctors, scientists, epidemiologists, or whatever that should have saved us. 

She called out to Michael. “Do you want a drink?”

“Yes,” he said, “it must be five o’clock somewhere.” God, she hated her life. She hadn’t liked her life all that much before Covid-19. Covid-19. Was there a COVID-18? A COVID-2? And how was the COVID family different from CoronaVirus? 

She turned her attention, such as it was, back to the task at hand. Mixing the cocktails. She was so tired of those sugary drinks that Michael loved so much. She was tired of how she had to wash her sticky hands after making them. Then again after drinking them.  Her poor seventy-year-old hands had seen so much soap and water in the last four months.  She wanted a dirty martini. Michael would find this choice unacceptable. He would drink it, but not without a silent “fuck you.” She knew these inaudible sentiments after forty-odd years. She used to think he was being polite by not voicing his objections out loud. Now she just thought he was a coward. 

Cocktail hour was their time to be together, which at first seemed romantic and now it seemed they couldn’t be in a room together unless it was with a drink. She was sleeping in the guest bedroom. She had turned it into a sewing room at some point but never used it. She had moved into the sewing room when she began sewing masks. That was just another unspoken evolution of their marriage. They no longer slept in the same bed. He would linger in his bed, she in hers in the morning. She would take her coffee on the balcony. He didn’t drink coffee. Sometimes during the day, they might text each other a funny meme or a song. But, they only met for drinks and sometimes they scrounged up dinner.  Then off to their separate rooms.  Where he would watch CNN or MSNBC, which to the best of her knowledge, he had on all day (except for cocktail hour). And she would go to her room and read a book or listen to a podcast. 

It wasn’t so much of a marriage anymore. They were more like trails of smoke that sometimes intertwined. It was inconceivable to divorce now. The best they could do is try to be kind to each other. She decided to make piña coladas.  It was the least she could do. 

She poured the rum, coconut cream, and pineapple juice into the blender, the familiar whirring sound filling the kitchen. As the icy concoction swirled, she lit a cigarette, taking a long drag and watching the smoke curl lazily towards the ceiling. It was a habit she had picked up again during the pandemic, a small rebellion against the monotony of her days.

Michael wandered in, his eyes scanning the room before settling on her. "Smells like a tropical vacation in here," he remarked, a hint of a smile playing on his lips.

She handed him a glass, the frothy drink sloshing slightly as he took it. "Cheers," she said, clinking her glass against his. They both took a sip, the sweetness of the piña colada masking the bitterness that lingered between them.

They sat in silence, the only sound the occasional clink of ice against glass. She watched him from the corner of her eye, noting the way his hair had thinned, the lines that had deepened around his eyes. They were both older, wearier, but there was a comfort in the familiarity of it all.

"Remember when we used to dream about retiring to a beach somewhere?" she asked, a wistful note in her voice.

Michael chuckled, a low, rumbling sound. "Yeah, we thought we'd be sipping these under a palm tree, not in our living room."

She smiled, a genuine one this time, and took another drag of her cigarette. The smoke mingled with the scent of the piña coladas, creating a heady mix that was both comforting and suffocating.

"Maybe one day," he said softly, his gaze meeting hers.

"Maybe," she agreed, though they both knew it was unlikely. But for now, they had their cocktails, their cigarettes, and the quiet companionship of two people who had weathered life's storms together.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting the room in a warm, golden glow, she felt a flicker of hope. Perhaps, in their own way, they were still finding their way back to each other, one cocktail at a time.