ROYALTIES
In the last blast, I mentioned that promotion and marketing one’s book is expensive. I didn’t mention the financial compensation. In the service of complete transparency, I will divulge my earnings. From its launch on March 19 of this year to June, What the Living Do sold over 400 copies. (It’s nice to have friends.) Last week, I received the royalty cheque (check, since it was in US funds) for approximately $180. Paperback copies garner me .12 cents each, while e-books offer a whopping .30 cents per copy. So don’t let anyone tell you there’s no money to be made through traditional publishing. To be fair, my publisher is a relatively small independent press, so I don’t have the numbers for larger organizations. In any case, here’s the breakdown:
If I sell author copies which I purchase for about $19.00 CAD for $25. or their list price of $29.00, I obviously make considerably more per copy. However, these author copies do not count as “Sales” in the world of potential agents or publishers. And that’s who I’m hoping to attract for the next novel.
Still, as I understand it, even best-selling Canadian authors rely on grant money and income from teaching to carry them through their projects. I’ve been turned down three times for Canada Council grants. I’ve had modest support in the past from the Ontario Arts Council and am hopeful some of the publishers in the Recommender Grants program in this round will find my current project worthy.
I’ll keep you posted!
RETREATS
During my downtime after cataract surgery last week, I watched the lovely film, Lonely Planet (on Netflix). It centred around a writers’ retreat in Morrocco with a group of renowned authors. I’ve been hankering to take a group to Morrocco, so it was of particular interest. The writers at this retreat were nothing like those who come to the ones I host, captured as they were by drink, music, cannabis, and general carrying on. In Costa Rica, Italy, Greece, and Spain, attendees have been gracious, dedicated, and supportive, and as far as I can tell, no bed hopping has gone on thus far.
The movie was luscious, focusing on a love story set in an exotic location with literary references thrown in to spice things up. Highly recommended as an antidote to murders and car chases.
Spain this May will likely not have the sort of shenanigans depicted here, but I promise there will be sumptuous food; easy, gentle yoga; guided writing practice; loads of free time to wander or rest; an optional trip to Ronda to hang out in the haunts of Rilke and Hemingway; and evening salons. Oh, and oranges the taste of which will linger…
Clip of flamenco feet in Ronda courtesy of Bernard Dichek
PODCAST
Writers Read Their Early Sh%t. This chat with Jason Emde was so delightful. We only touched lightly on What the Living Do and spoke mostly about writing, why we write, young writing versus grown-up writing, a lot about Beautiful Losers and our shared love of Leonard Cohen. Reading a story I wrote in the early 80’s was pretty humbling, I have to admit. Yikes. Pretentious AF.
KINDLE
This coming Saturday I’ll be presenting at the Kawartha Lakes Book Fair in Lindsay. This will be the first time I’m on my own. No interviewer, just me and a PowerPoint, so I’m a new kind of nervous. I’m delighted that Gwen Tuinman is doing her presentation right after me for her novel, UNREST. Which I just finished. Barely. “Barely” because my Kindle died about ten pages before the end. Luckily, when I messaged Gwen about my disappointment, she advised that I could likely find it on my phone. And voila, there it was in my Audible app. I loved how Canadian history is woven into this compelling story about seemingly impossible dreams and the dark measures these characters are willing to take to achieve them. So I’m honoured to share the “stage” with this fine novelist.
WEBSITE
My website is admittedly a mess. A while back I received an offer to clean up a few things on my site, and even though I didn’t know this person, they were so specific and had examples of their work to demonstrate, I took a chance. It was worth it. He was very reasonable and did a lovely job of making certain aspects look clean and professional. I’ve wrestled with DIVI on WordPress and have to admit that I loathe the setup. Even when I think I’ve got a handle on it, it never shows up the way I’d thought I set it up.
I tried my hand at another platform promising to be user-friendly and seamless, and it likely is, but quite frankly, I don’t have the patience or the bandwidth to learn a whole new system.
So…
I’ve reached out to this designer and he’s working on it. Again, not the thousands requested by other website people.
He’s designing it on another platform so the messy one I currently have is still in operation.
I’ll keep you posted.
WIP EXCERPT
These short scenes occur as Angela regains consciousness after her organ transplant surgery.
A voice, as though coming from inside a barrel. It was saying a name. Something metallic. The walls of my lungs ached but they expanded when I took in a breath. New lungs, ones with space and movement that allowed me to breathe. But within my breath, I heard a voice. Male.
I pried open my eyes. Bright fluorescent light, watery green, dull, dry light through a window somewhere. Echoing dreamlike voices drifted from the outside, punctuated by the clatter of carts. Disinfectant, alcohol, urine, something clean, rust. The sheets of the next bed pulled tight, the pillow flattened. Blue and white. “Ster.” No one at the door. No one in the high-back chair. I let my eyes close. Quiet now. Just the newness of heartbeats, of air moving in and out without complaint.
“You’re awake.”
Opening my eyes caused searing pain, not just at the suture lines but my entire ribcage screamed as if they were again breaking.
“I’ll bet you’re ready for this.” The nurse was a wash of pinks and blues, a bustle of cheer—motherly the way mothers should be. Not that I had experience of such a mother. She held up a large syringe and cheerfully pointed to my IV bag.
I nodded, grateful. I said, “I keep hearing a voice.” My throat felt like sand.
Mother nurse offered me an indulgent smile.
With some effort, I raised my head. “From inside.”
“Probably just the medication.” Her benevolent smile like a pat on the head. “Some people even see things that aren’t there.”
“Medication,” I repeated, letting my head sink back into the plastic crackle of the hard little pillow.
“That’s right. Hallucinations are fairly common, especially with the doses you’ve been given.”
Reassured, I said, “Hallucination.”
The pink and blue nurse ballooned away and shut the door behind her. As the light dimmed and the room faded, my heart beat one-two, one-two, one-two, and inside my fresh new lungs something like a door opened on its hinges. In the rising tone of someone in distress a voice asked a question, but I couldn’t hear any words. It was just the drugs, I told myself, and allowed those drugs to let me drift into a painless sleep.
The lights too bright, the smell of dried blood, relentless beeping, and an ice pick stabbing my chest.
“There she is.” It wasn’t mother nurse, but a man with a smile the size of a city. “How you doing, Miss Angela?”
“Nice teeth,” I said.
“Thank you. You can thank my momma for that.” He grinned. “How’s the pain?”
His whole face came into focus. White coat, that thing to listen around his neck, a picture of his face. “Bad,” I said.
“We can take care of that now, but after this one, we’ll be tapering you off to every four hours.”
“I keep hearing someone,” I whispered. “Inside me.”
He laughed. “That’s your new heart talking to you.”
If you made it this far, I sincerely thank you.
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