Guest post: "Never Sit on the Stool" by Robert Lane
Her eyes did me in. Feel them to this day.
That’s why, while
I’d much rather type about writing—that creative throbbing pulse that renders
my daily dose of ecstasy—I’ll strike the keys for promotion. Someone’s got to
do it.
Warning: If you’re expecting your thirty-ninth article in five days on how
to build a platform, Amazons latest algorithms, or why your career is destined
for comatose-city unless social media is your new religion—save your time.
Punch out now. I offer no magic bullet—just a metaphorical frame of mind.
Ever go to one of those weekend art shows where they
close off the streets and a few dozen—or a few hundred—artist show up, man
their tents, sit on their stools, and pray an open wallet takes notice of their
heart’s labor?
You can imagine the herculean effort that goes into the
production of their life’s calling. The earrings/paintings/pottery/sculpture,
crap you don’t even know what it is. Ever consider the travel time and time
away from home? To do what? Slump on a stool all day—Friday, Saturday, and
Sunday? Pittsburg in May. Indy in June. Tampa, Orlando, and Naples squeezed in
some winter months. Stick to the ones close to home; but you heard St. Louis
was buying, big money there last year. Better
give it a try. But they’ll all the same. Cost more money for travel and
hotel than you make.
And you sit. And sit. And sit. Waiting
for someone to notice.
Yikes.
I admire their
effort. I applaud their dedication. Feel their sacrifice. Appreciate their
work. Occasionally even cart home their wares—but really, there’s no place any
more for all the stuff. One of them, (‘them,’ as if they have no names and are
not real) haunts me to this day. Perched on her stool like a quarter moon,
surrounded by her hand-made Christmas ornament-sized glass globes. (Zillions of
the damn things, reflecting the blue sky like they were oblivious to their
creator’s plight. How can something your heart creates be so cold?) Enough that
she’d likely go a year without blowing a new one. But that’s what she likes to
do, right, create glass globes? No one ever created a glass globe because they
were in the mood to promote it.
No one ever wrote a book because they wanted to spend
time and money advertising it.
This is where the
eyes come in.
My lady,
surrounded by her globes, had that thousand-yard stare. Haunting. Lost. She was
gonzo. Checked out. Disillusioned you want to add? That’s a soft-gel word. This
dame was toast.
Jesse Livermore, a
famous Wall Street trader from the first part of the twentieth century, said no
one can tell you how to get rich. If they could, everyone would be rich. A country
of three hundred million Bill Gates scurrying around. Who’d make the hotel
beds, deliver the babies, teach the children? Doesn’t work that way. Jesse hit
the old nail on the head. You need to figure it out on your own.
No one can tell you
how to successfully promote a book. If they could, we’d all be little James
Patterson’s, selling tens of millions of books. Impossible. (Patterson, for
those of you in the dark, ran the North American branch of J. Walter Thompson,
one of the largest advertising agencies in the world. Yes, the world’s top
selling author is a Mad Man to the core. If you didn’t know this, you’ve got to
start reading the program notes.)
I have no key, no
advice as to how to promote or what works. I write the best story I can and then
I tweet, Facebook, polish my web page, run ads, solicit reviews, make
contacts—write another best book I can—tweak the tweets, fix the Facebook page,
work on the web site, seek more raving reviews, run more ads, forge more
contacts—write a book better than I
thought I could—and then I…
You got it. Do what
you know. Do what you don’t know. Get out of your comfort zone. Make mistakes.
If you don’t, you’re killing yourself. Sorry I can’t be more specific, but
here’s the best advice I can give and it follows a personal mantra: you are
defined as much by what you don’t do as by what you do.
Never sit on the
stool.
No. I didn’t buy a globe that day. Yes, that bothers me.
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ABOUT THE BOOK
Title: COOLER
THAN BLOOD
Genre: Mystery
Author: Robert
Lane
Website: www.robertlanebooks.com
Publisher: Mason Alley
Purchase on Amazon
18-year-old Jenny Spencer is
missing after a violent nighttime encounter on a Florida beach. Jenny’s aunt,
Susan Blake, asks wisecracking PI Jake Travis to investigate.
Susan and Jake had only spent one dinner
together, but both felt an instant, overpowering attraction. Jake walked
away. After all, he was—and is—committed
to Kathleen. But having Susan in his
life again could be dangerous:
dangerous in more ways than one.
As Jake and his partner, Garrett Demarcus,
close in on finding Jenny, they uncover a shocking secret in Kathleen’s
past. Even more shocking is that
Kathleen and Jenny’s life are strangely intertwined.
For Jake, this case may hit way too close
to home—and what started as a race to find Jenny could become a fight to
protect Kathleen.
As the case heats up and the danger
escalates, Jake is forced to examine his moral boundaries. How far is he willing to go for the woman he
loves? At what cost? And what about that question that has dogged
him since the beginning of the case: was there another person on the beach that
night?
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Robert Lane resides on Florida’s west
coast. He is also the author of The Second Letter.
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