“Persistence can look a lot like stupid.” Kristen Lamb

It’s pouring outside, the landscape is as saturated as a sponge, and it feels like one of those stay-in-your-pajamas kinds of days. Who am I kidding? I’m retired. Clothes are always optional. 

I have three things on my mind, when do I not, you’ll be relieved to know I’m compelled to share every gory detail. 

So I’ve been trying to keep up with all the demands of self-marketing your own book on social media (which is awkwardly self-serving), and can I just say it’s not going well? My tweets are not trending (big surprise), people are getting annoyed with all my ingratiating posts, and you know how they call difficult brides bridezilla? I’m an authorzilla. Okay, glad we got that out of the way, now we can move on. 

So you published a book. Now what? 

Is it neurotic to think my publisher should write me every day and tell me how fabulous the book sales are going? I don’t care if he has to lie, and the only people buying come from the same gene pool, at least I’ll be able to sleep at night. 

I watch my Amazon rankings like a slut, I mean sleuth, and every damn hour something changes. They have some sort of inexplicable algorithm that arbitrarily ranks your bloody book, and I don’t know how it is possible, but mine is always going down. I blame Jeff. He’s basking on some exotic island, maybe on the moon, while we fret over fickle rankings.

Just when a callous is forming on my finger from refreshing Amazon, a banner shows up at the top of my page that says #1 in mid-life crisis and family dysfunction. 

What the hell?

That disappears as if a bunny running from some sketchy guy with a black hat, only to be replaced by a new banner that says #1 in psychological humor and self-help gone wrong.

Okay, let’s ignore the banners because something super exciting just happened, reviews started showing up! (Yes, your payments are on the way) But seriously, that’s where it all happens. Apparently, Amazon likes lots of reviews, their algorithm is a bottom feeder, and if you are so inclined to feed the monster, I’d be ever so grateful. I’ll iron your white shirts, clean your kitchen, work on your taxes. Whatever you need. 

One-sentence reviews are okay, bonus if you use the words hysterical, brilliant, absorbing (or does that sound like a Depends ad?). Maybe something more like, I highly recommend, can’t…put…down, or I bought one for my mom. 

Not that you asked, but this is what I think about at three in the morning when I can’t sleep because Jeff flunked basic graphing in high school.

Last night I couldn’t decide if I retired too early. Or not soon enough? I debated whether this will be my last decade of life or only the fourth quarter. I get morbid when I can’t sleep, the sheets get all tangled, my neck starts to hurt, and Larry’s peaceful snoring is making me think such horrible thoughts I’ll have to go to confession next week. 

This is when I miss Shaggy most. He always got up with me, walked down to the kitchen, and sat with me while I pulled up a chair to the refrigerator with a fork and ate anything that wasn’t expired. He was motivated because I’m a giver, and I share.

Satisfied, I crawl back between the wrinkled sheets and pull out my iPhone to order some gel pens from Jeff for book signings. Not that I have any scheduled, but I was able to order two purple, two blue, and two pink ones before Larry complained about the light on my phone. Tempting, but I left the fork in the kitchen.

Here’s what I really want to know. When exactly should I be smelling the roses? Didn’t we prune that option months ago? What exactly does that mean? According to Gertrude Stein, “a rose is a rose is a rose,” but what if your rose has thorns?

And why is William Shatner mansplaining on UnXplained about hoarders? 

I consider myself a collector? But honestly, how many books can you own before it’s considered excessive? I’m counting them like sheep, and it’s not helping.

So this morning, we’re having some blessed coffee, and Larry says, “We need to hit all the local bookstores today and pitch your book.”

“Maybe, we should can some peaches or clean out the garage?”

“No, you’re going to get dressed up, memorize an elevator pitch, and sell your book.”

“An elevator pitch. I’d rather go without wine for a week.”

He sits down with his computer, types into some AI chat thing and asks for an elevator pitch for a lifestyle book. In 30 seconds, this perfectly written pitch types itself onto the page. Below is what he would like me to memorize. 

Are you tired of feeling overwhelmed and unfulfilled in your daily life? Do you want to make positive changes that will bring you more happiness, success, and satisfaction? My lifestyle book is here to help! With practical tips and strategies for everything from managing stress to cultivating meaningful relationships, this book will guide you toward a more balanced and fulfilling lifestyle. My book has something for everyone. So why wait? Start living your best life today!

Bahaha!

In the meantime, I’m googling local bookstores. I print out a list, and Larry comes from the office to go over our itinerary. 

He says, “You might want to rethink Bascom Bookcase.”

“Why, it’s only a few miles away.”

“It’s right next store to the Pink Poodle (a local strip joint). They mostly sell pornography and blatantly sexual novels.” 

“Well, Grow Damn It, will fit right in.”

I get the look, but I can hear him laughing as he returns to his office.

“Okay, we’ll only use that if we’re desperate.” Honestly, I’m sort of desperate now, but I keep that to myself.

The first store we hit is called Books Inc. It’s located in the Pruneyard, just a few blocks from our home. We could have walked, but for the pouring rain, so we drove and spent ten minutes hunting down a parking space. Don’t these people have jobs?

I have two copies of my book in my bag, along with the elevator pitch and all the links store managers would need printed on a piece of paper. I threw in some old business cards. Just in case.

We enter the store timidly. There are at least seven people rummaging through the stacks of novels. I’m giddy when surrounded by books. I note the general organization, crowded shelves, but welcoming atmosphere.

I approach one of the salespeople after she finishes up with a customer, and with as much confidence as I can muster, I say, “Can I please talk to the person who orders your books.”

She walks me over to a woman in the back of the store. The one who looks busy and annoyed. She says, “this is Robin.”

I shake her hand, “nice to meet you, Robin (I’m trying to act as professional as possible). I’m Cheryl Oreglia, and I’m hoping you’ll consider carrying my new book in your store.”

She must be related to Larry. I get the look over the rim of her glasses. She says, “do you have a copy?” And holds out her hand like my mother used to do when I tried to sneak a second cookie out of the kitchen.

“Yes, I do,” and I hand her a copy as if it is the first edition of some rare manuscript. She casually flips through it, remarking on the nice cover, the binding, and the general layout. I try not to look smug.

She says, “so this is through a traditional publisher?”

“Yes.” I forgot every word of the elevator pitch, and by the way, where the hell is Larry?

“Are you on Ingram?”

I can’t remember, but I say, “of course.”

She looks it up while I’m standing there and says, “Oh, there you are, but it’s not returnable.”

I look over her shoulder because I have no idea what she is looking at. And there’s my book, not returnable. 

She says, “We can carry your book on consignment.”

We chat for like ten minutes. The news is really good and really horrible, as if someone is making a cake and decides to mix in a little shit. Right?

Here’s what went down.

She says, “This is how it works. You need to get your publisher to allow returns and assign a proper discount on Ingram, or I’d be happy to consign your book, sell them at a twenty percent discount, and you get half the profit.” 

I’m calculating that as fast as I can, but either my math skills are rusty, or I don’t make a dime.

I say, “so, exposure is the profit.”

She says, “Exactly, books are a tough business. And I’d love to have you read at one of our author events once your books are in stock. We get approached by hundreds of authors a month. I only accept a few. You have a book I’d be happy to carry. Think about it and let me know.” 

I found Larry hiding in the back of the store by the biographies. Really? But we walk out with a new contract in our hands. 

He says, “let’s go celebrate at Luna’s with a margarita. You got your book in the door.”

I say, “But I’ll lose money with every sale.”

“It’s a win.”

After our celebratory margarita, we hit another store and came away with the same scenario. 

I’ll write Black Rose tomorrow and see what they think I should do. 

Besides being unable to sleep at night and forced to publicize my own book, I have the distinct pleasure of watching Larry read Grow Damn It from cover to cover! Every time he comes into the room, he sits down and picks up the book. He tries for stoicism, but sometimes I can tell he’s trying not to laugh because his face gets red, and he sort of jiggles silently. Then he puts the book down and sleeps. 

I should give it a try.

And here’s the third absolutely crazy thing that just happened. Wynne Leon asked if I would like to be a guest on her podcast and talk about the book! A podcast! This requires a rather specific skill set not common to writers, like talking spontaneously and not being able to edit words. Podcasts are done in one take, with no redacting, and you have to talk without saying “uh” before every sentence! She wants me to be funny. Clever. Professional. All the things I’m not. 

I know, just calm down, we’ll survive this with lots of coffee and lavender candles. 

She just sent me an email with the prompts. Shit. They’re really good. Tonight I’ll be lying awake in my wrinkled sheets, trying to figure out what witty things I can say about Grow Damn It! 

Whose idea was it that I write a book in the first place? That’s right. It was Nancy! 

Maybe she should do the podcast?

Anne Lamott says, “I still encourage anyone who feels at all compelled to write to do so. I just try to warn people who hope to get published that publication is not all it is cracked up to be. But writing is. Writing has so much to give, so much to teach, so many surprises.” An’t that the truth? 

I’m Living in the Gap, can’t sleep a wink, pricked my finger on a store-bought rose. How are you doing?

I used my cousin Mike’s music choice ~ perfect.