Originally Published on OpEdNews
There are tens of thousands of us around the globe. Most of us spend solitary hours alone in our rooms doing it. We arise before dawn, forgoing the delights of pre-alarm congress with our lovers, to sit pen-in-hand or at a keyboard and write. For most of us those word-crafting hours are golden, each one dearly bought at the expense of time we could be doing the “normal” things that make life good.
The words we craft may please us in our solitude, but frequently they are never seen by others. The number of us who count ourselves as serious, if not truly professional, writers is growing. But the number of those who read is shrinking. There is far more product that there is the market to absorb it.
I am a short fiction writer. Those of you who are wise in these matters know that I will never feed myself by writing short fiction, even if I am very good at it. That fact of life must have been in my mind when my wife asked the seminal question: “What would you like for your 70th birthday?” Marguerite was seated across from me in the Jackson Mountain Café, a popular Cape May tavern.
“I’d like my book to be a best seller.” I blurted. It was out. I don’t know where it came from. I had told everyone that I had given up on submitting stories to magazines and literary journals. In the year that I submitted work with any serious regularity, I had succeeded in getting only one story into a national magazine. It was, in my view, a waste of time and postage.
I had reconciled myself to being obscure. The year before, I set a goal of collecting the best of my stories and self-publishing them for friends and relatives as a short paperback. I had no illusions that I would sell hundreds of copies. I would content myself with the satisfaction of having a book on my shelf that I had produced. My daughter and sons would get copies and thus I would become a published author in the eyes of those closest to me.
Marguerite smiled. After a moment she said, “Okay, let’s make it happen.” Marguerite is a professional Life Coach with the certification and credentials, as well as a life of accomplishments, to prove her competence. She is used to helping people realize the impossible. “We’ll have a book signing party and invite everybody we know.”
“I don’t know, do you think…”
“Sure. We’ll call it a birthday party, and everybody will come and buy a book,” she said.
“Sounds expensive,” I said.
“You’re worth it. People will love the idea.”
“I guess we could call it the ‘Buy the damned book’ party.” I said.
She had the bit in her teeth and was running. What evolved, as we brain-stormed how we could do it, was a dinner, book signing, and reading to be held at a local fire hall. It would be catered by a guy who did barbeque. We’d give the book profits to local charities, so it would also be a fund-raiser.
I had about six weeks to go from manuscript to delivery of 325 copies. The book’s launch became very real in the space of an hour over lunch. I needed a very good copy editor. There were three volunteers, but when the manuscripts came back, they had conflicting corrections. One had used the Associated Press book of Style, another used the Chicago Manual, and the third the Times Style Manual. In the end I had to decide what looked and read best.
Marguerite sent pre-publication manuscripts to our writer friends who were asked to read the stories and write a blurb for use in promoting the book. My daughter, a graphic artist, produced a huge promotional poster. Marguerite had the book cover blown up to poster size and made a collage of photos of me for another. These would be the backdrop for the book signing table.
As the day drew near, I asked friends who were actors to do readings with me. I would read one story with my friend Jim Fisher speaking some of the dialog. Gail Stahlhuth and Lee O’Connor would dramatize another one. By this time a second signing party was evolving for our former neighborhood 120 miles away – same concept, but different players. My daughter was the planner and organizer and friends whom I had not seen in years were invited to come.