I keep reading blog posts on the importance of writing and releasing new books to boost sales of existing works. Posts like this; Marketing: “Why Isn’t it Working?” by Chris McMullen (point 12) or this, Why Slow is Good for E-Publishing by M T McGuire or this How to Sell a Million Books, suggest that one of the key things an author needs to do to succeed is to write more books.
A post by August Wainwright, guesting on the blog No Rules Just Write, explains how an author need not sell books on the scale of Stephenie Meyers, Suzanne Collins, E L James, J K Rowling or Amanda Hocking (yes my choice of female authors is deliberate – read this post) to make a career out of being a writer. Mostly one needs to be prolific. As the post states: “Slow growth is the sustainable way to success as an author”
The key is to write good books and keep writing them. A sale a day (I aspire to a sale a day!) doesn’t sound like a lot until you multiply it by ten or twenty and project it over a thirty year curve, knowing digital books can be in print forever.
I love reading these things because they support my own goals and ambitions. I don’t actually want to be the next “insert big name here.” I want to earn enough to consider writing a career and still be able to do the school run. I’d have to be selling thirty books a day to come close to even a modest income (not factoring in editor/proofreader/cover costs). That feels a long way off. But entirely doable.
In the post, August Wainwright talks of writing novellas, which makes it easier to write the projected 8 books a year his figures are based on. Reading the post it seems tempting to write novellas but it’s not my current skill set. (That doesn’t mean I can’t learn!)
However, when I look at the words I’ve accumulated for Two-Hundred Steps Home this year – currently approaching the 200k mark – on top of editing Baby Blues and marketing Dragon Wraiths, suddenly writing three books a year feels possible. Whether they’d be good books is another issue and one I’m not in a position to judge. But it gives hope.
The problem is it also makes me fish out an in-progress manuscript (Class Act!) whenever I have five minutes to myself, instead of writing my next Claire installment or readying Baby Blues for print format, or any of the other tough things that need doing. It gives me justification to do what I love, which is to write stories and have them read.
Like every other writer in the universe; this gal just wants to write.
Below is the next installment in my novel Two-Hundred Steps Home: written in daily posts since 1st January as part of my 2013 365 Challenge. Read about the challenge here.You can catch up by downloading the free ebook volumes on the right hand side of the blog:
“What will you do?”
Claire stood in front of Josh and drew circles in the dust with her toe. She’d come down to breakfast to find him waiting outside the hostel with his bag.
“I’m getting a shuttle to Christchurch in about half an hour. I can catch a flight from there back home.”
Without looking, Claire imagined the hurt in his eyes: the sense of betrayal. She couldn’t blame him. Having lain awake most of the night reliving her diatribe, she was certain he couldn’t hate her more than she hated herself. Words of apology filled her mouth but refused to be spoken, in case they broke her resolve. Wrapping her arms around herself against the early morning chill, Claire looked down the road past Josh.
“What about your tour ticket? I didn’t even ask whether you bought a package for the bus? I know how extortionate the prices are; are you out of pocket?”
“Nah. I chucked the driver some dollars, said I was chasing a pretty lady. Guess he figured we’d sort it out one way or another after a few stops. He was right, wasn’t he?”
Claire turned involuntarily to face him, and wished she hadn’t. His pale face and the dark circles beneath his eyes told their own tale. Hugging herself tighter, Claire resisted the urge to run her hands through his unkempt hair. No matter how much she knew she was doing the right thing, it still hurt like hell.
“What will you tell Fiona?”
Josh’s face twisted into something between a grimace and a sneer. “I’ll have to tell her the truth, I guess. It’s not like anything happened.” The bitterness in his voice tore at Claire and she inhaled, ready to defend herself.
“No, don’t bother.” His voice softened and he rubbed at his face as if scrubbing away his ill humour. “I’m being an arse. I deserved everything you said last night. I am being a child. Fiona was always there for me, you know, before the kids. I suppose I came to rely on her. Now she needs me, and I’ve done nothing but cause her agro.”
“Do you need to tell her all the truth? Don’t hurt her just to ease your own guilty conscience. Why not tell her you needed time away to think?”
Claire wasn’t sure if advising Josh to conceal the complete truth was a brilliant idea. But she didn’t relish the notion of Fiona seeking revenge, or throwing her husband out for something he hadn’t done; even if he’d wanted to.
Josh didn’t respond, but Claire was rewarded by seeing a hint of colour return to his cheeks.
“You always know the right thing to say or not say,” he said eventually. “Have you considered a job with the UN?”
Claire felt the seriousness pass, heralding a return to the lightness of friendship. She welcomed it. “Me a diplomat? Not likely: I don’t have an ounce of tact. I’m going to have to think of something, though. I can’t be an unemployed traveller forever. Not least because the money’s going to run out soon.”
“What will you do?” Josh echoed Claire’s question from earlier.
She laughed. “I have no idea. Go home, I guess. Find a job. Go and work for Conor. Who knows? Maybe I’ll set up a bus tour in the UK, so there are fewer unsuspecting girls offering lifts to strangers.”
She wished the words unsaid as soon as she uttered them.
“Do you regret it? Coming to the observatory? Giving me a ride?”
Claire shook her head, unable to speak around the lump in her throat. She winced as the movement aggravated the sore muscle in her neck. Josh reached into his bag and brought out a small white box.
“Diclofenac. For the pain. It’s the least I can do.” He held them out to her and, after a moment’s hesitation, Claire took them.
“There you are. Ridding you of two pains in the neck in one go.” He smiled his lopsided grin and Claire felt tears sneak out and dribble down her face.
The sound of an approaching vehicle made them both turn.
“That’s my lift,” Josh said, “the hostel manager’s taking me to the shuttle.”
They stood together watching the car approach. Too soon it was parked in front of them, and it was time to say goodbye.
Claire stood with her arms hanging by her sides as Josh threw his bag into the foot well. He turned and tilted his head, peering under her mane of hair until she met his eyes.
“No hard feelings?”
Claire shook her head.
Josh held out his arms. “Hug?”
With a nod, Claire stepped into his embrace.
“I’m going to miss you,” Josh whispered into her hair.
“Me too,” Claire mumbled, before turning to walk slowly towards the hostel. She waited for the sound of the car door, the rev of the engine. As the wheels span in the dust she turned and watched the car drive away.
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