Tag Archives: self-publishing

Another bout of writer’s block and finally! Chapter III

Hi there, I’m not dead, in case you’re wondering. Just took a little, ahem, two-month break from any creative activity whatsoever. Ok, almost three-month. And it wasn’t even a break, it was more like a coma, in which I couldn’t bring myself to enjoy even reading or fantasizing about anything. Nothing at all, least of all working on the novel or painting. It’s like my body and my mind rebelled against any further demands on my time. I stopped doing anything not directly related to keeping my job and spent my free time wisely by going to several doctors, demanding to know what’s wrong with me. Finally, my physician sat me down.

“The bad news,” she said, “is that there’s nothing wrong with you. Physically.”

She went on and on about stress management and yoga, and I made feeble promises to “look into that” but of course didn’t. I am back with the living now, and it’s only thanks to an emergency vacation to Queensland and the renewed hope that I will move there someday. If you are by chance contemplating moving to Australia, do consider Queensland. Yes, it’s hot and humid, and full of bogans, but they are nice, happy ones. You could move to the cold, miserable Melbourne and I guarantee you would find plenty of bogans, only they would be depressed and aggressive. Plus, I must have finally reached the age where I find high concentrations of humans no longer exciting, instead oppressive and suffocating. I’m old.

Ah, but back to the exciting news! One week in the sunshine, away from angry customers and meaningless bureaucracy, and I am back! Today was the last day of my leave and I managed to break the inertia by not only writing a whole new chapter but by painting as well. I don’t have a progress photo of the latest portrait, instead here is me working with my new friend, rescue Eclectus named Archie (I am using water soluble oils and only linseed oil as solvent, in case you’re worried about toxic fumes). He is actually interested in what I’m doing:

And now, for the proof that vacations are important and necessary, and so worth the money. The chapter I feared I’d never write.

 

CHAPTER III

I forgot all about it for the rest of the week, mainly because I was dead tired. Melbourne winter and taking public transport to work in the city meant that even if I wasn’t sick, I was either getting over “something” or fighting off the next something else. Work was stressful, as usual, and I ended up taking thick folders home almost every night, even when I knew I was just going to fall asleep on top of them. Even Clare seemed a bit down. We had a new starter, some young hot shot, and one of the partners did an awkwardly overenthusiastic introduction of him, after which the new guy talked for at least twenty minutes about his resume and aspirations.  I expected Clare to drop a burn about it, there was enough material in that speech for a whole stand-up routine, but she just went back to her computer.

“What about the new bloke?” I said, trying to get something out of her.

“Who, Joe? What about him?”

“What was that thing he said about what it takes to succeed? I swear, he was looking at me when he said that. And what’s with the suit and the haircut…looks like a real estate agent, doesn’t he?”

“I guess.” She shrugged. “They are all like that, aren’t they?”

“I guess.”

She turned back to her screen and I turned back to the nagging thoughts about my life, specifically on how it did not turn out the way I expected. I’m not even sure what it was I expected, just certain that I never wished to be so consistently miserable, with both short-term and long-term forecasts indicating further downpours of gloom, with possible strikes of bad luck. There was the seemingly unsurmountable mountain of divorce to cross, and who knew what awaited me on the other side? Most likely rejection, by men I was hoping to date and men or maybe even a woman I was hoping to woo in an interview. Just six more months at Rich&Richer and I could look for a different version of it without getting branded a flight risk. I wasn’t looking for a promotion, just a place that didn’t provoke suicidal thoughts.

“Rose?”

I jumped in my seat, then inwardly cursed myself.

“Yes, Mr. Bigford?”

“The landfill people are here.”

“Oh!” I shuffled through the papers on my desk and pulled out a folder. “Here’s all the background info. I’ve put tabs in, so it’s easier to find – starting from when it was a bluestone quarry. I managed to find some newspaper articles on the illegal dumping, here, I put the red flags at the top. The EPA notices are at the end, and I have drafted some speaking points, here. Preliminary, of course.”

He thumbed through the pages and I could see he was pleased. A wave of pride came over me, so strong that I almost choked up. William Bigford was never big on praise or even smiling, but I understood why, he had a certain image to maintain. He wasn’t fatherly, but then again I was not familiar with any expressions of fatherly love. I just wanted approval, desperately. I was willing to work overtime for it.

He looked up from the folder. “Tell you what, Rose.”

I swallowed hard.

“Why don’t you go get us a couple of lattes and a cappucino from downstairs? Here,” he shoved something in my hand, “get something for yourself, too.”

He left with my folder and for a minute or two, I just stood there, looking down at the twenty in my hand.

*

I was in the kitchenette making yet another cup of green tea, when the new guy walked in. I wasn’t trying to schmooze him, he just kept opening one cupboard after another and finally I felt that I had to say something.

“Cups are here,” I pointed out. “Are you looking for cups?”

“Yes,” he said and smiled at me. Genuine, non-real-estate smile. “Thank you so much.”

“No probs,” I said. “If you need Stevia, I have a stash. There’s only sugar. Unless you like sugar.”

“Thank you. I don’t use either. I drink black coffee, no milk or sugar. But thank you very much.”

Up close, he didn’t seem at all stuck up, maybe even nervous about starting a new job. Maybe even nervous about making new friends.

“I’m Rose,” I offered my hand.

“Joe,” he shook it. Not in a crashing macho way, just a normal handshake. And eye contact.

“I’ve heard all about you,” I said. “This morning, I mean. Quite a CV you have there.”

“Oh,” he said and started to open and close cupboards again. “I hate talking about myself, but it’s expected sometimes. Where do you hide your coffee?”

Something inside me fluttered. He was nice. Nice, normal, funny, not to mention successful. Maybe even single.

“Well,” I said in a conspiratory tone, “You’ve come to the right place. We have an all-in-one coffee machine – one push of a button and you can have your free espresso in just a moment.” I gestured with a flourish to the large black apparatus in the corner.

“You don’t say,” he whispered, leaning towards me. “Free coffee in a law firm charging clients by the minute? Surely, this is an oversight of the management?”

I squinted at him. “It’s proven to be a generous return on the investment.”

“How so?” He moved to inspect the machine.

I looked at his back. Broad but not bulky, the V accentuated by the perfect cut of the silvery-blue suit. I forced myself to look away.

“For starters, there’s no need to go downstairs and waste valuable company time. Imagine seventy-six employees taking what? Three daily breaks of ten minutes each?”

“Unthinkable.” He turned and smiled again.

“Not to mention productivity. The caffeinated workforce–”

“Rose!”

My heart dropped back to the deep dark hole, where it belonged. “Yes, Mr. Bigford?”

I have learned to read people over the years of trying to please first my father and then Alex, but you didn’t have to be a mind-reader to know he was pissed off. Employees of Rich&Richer are not supposed to chit-chat anywhere in the office, unless said chit-chat is billable. He shoved the landfill folder into my hands.

“Call them and set up another meeting, next week.”

“Yes sir.”

*

I put Joe out of my mind for the rest of the day. It was easy – a skill you learn with years of experience in squashed expectations. A man like this most definitely has a partner, I told myself. He wasn’t wearing a ring, but Australians are notorious for getting married only after about a decade-long engagement, a house and a couple of kids. And he’s too pretty and well-groomed to be straight anyway.  And new to the company. With time, he will figure out my place on the ladder and will start passing me folders rather than looks. Best to be disappointed early, before it hurts too much.

It was Friday and I was planning to excuse myself from the after-work drinks, on the account of being under the weather, which was true, but Clare practically begged me to come. She wanted to tell me about her Tinder dates, but I think she just didn’t want to go home.

“Okay,” I said. “One drink, and then I’m leaving.”

It was a two-for-one happy hour and we each had a margarita, and then another one. Damn it, I just love margaritas. I love licking the salt off the rim, which is stupid, because the salt costs practically nothing. Plus, it makes you bloat.

Clare was getting animated from the alcohol and reliving her most recent date disaster, but I could not stop checking the door.

“And then he said he would like to bite my neck! Rose!”

“What?”

“Did you hear what I just said?”

“Yes. The guy was awful.”

“Yes, of course he was, but did you hear why?”

“He wanted to bite you?”

She let out an exasperated sigh. “He’s into BDSM! He wanted to tie me up and hurt me.”

“Oh. I didn’t know you’re into that.”

“I’m not! Seriously, what got into you today?”

“Nothing.” I rubbed my finger along the glass rim, but all the salt was gone. “I so need another job.”

“You and me both. How about another drink for now?”

I was about to say no and that I need to go home, when Joe appeared next to our little table. “Hi there. Can I get you ladies a drink?”

Clare snorted. “Ladies? Which ladies are you talking about?”

Joe seemed unsure for a moment and I slapped Clare’s hand, only half-jokingly. “Why, thank you, good sir. If I could trouble you for a margarita, I would be much obliged.”

“Make it two,” Clare said, and once he left, whispered to me, “What’s going on with you?”

“Nothing,” I said. “What’s going on with you? Why are you mean to Joe?”

“Joe? Are we on the first name basis with the real estate agent?”

“Stop it,” I slapped her hand again. “He’s a nice guy, you’ll see.”

He came back with our drinks and he was nice. He listened to Clare’s Tinder stories and my stories about Pa and his cats. He told his own, mostly about growing up in Queensland and then about his parents divorcing and moving to Sydney with his mum. None of his stories mentioned a partner of any kind. He offered to buy another round, but I insisted on paying, like I always do, even though I usually end up kicking myself for it later. “You need to let the man take care of you,” I could read in Clare’s eyes. “Don’t be so damn self-sufficient and persistent.” She didn’t touch her purse all night.

Joe helped me put Clare in an Uber when it became clear she couldn’t risk getting on the train with some shady characters that might pick up on the fact she was no longer entirely there. He waited until I got an Uber too and kissed me lightly on the cheek before walking away. He was nice, but for some reason, I wanted to cry.

*

When I opened the front door, as quietly as was possible, given the rusted hinges, it was probably around midnight. I took off my shoes and tiptoed in the dark towards my room.

“Rozochka!”

Thieves and robbers don’t call you by your pet name, but I almost had a heart attack during the long second it took me to realise that. Pa’s voice was coming from somewhere in the living room.  I found the switch and turned on the lights – he was lying on the sofa, rubbing his eyes.

“Sorry, Pa. Why are you sleeping down here?”

“I wasn’t, Rozochka.” He struggled to get up, so I had to help him. “I was waiting for you.”

“Why? I told you I was going out.”

He blinked at me. “I wanted to talk to you. How was your day?”

“My day? Pa, you stayed up till midnight to talk about what I did at work? Even I don’t want to talk about it.”

But we did end up talking for another hour, although it was mostly about why he didn’t join the University of the Third Age. He did go to the city, just as he promised, but the crowded tram and the crowded streets got to him.

“Everybody was pushing, Rozochka. Zey were so unhappy. I was unhappy.”

I tried suggesting that he might go mid-morning, after the rush, or on the weekend, even though I knew there would be tourists, even on a miserable day, but he was adamant.

“I like here. I can walk. I walk to vet and store, and nobody is pushing me.”

I was too tired to argue and that’s where the whole thing might have ended, if only I wasn’t so damn persistent.

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It begins. Working Title – Chapter 1.

(Text and images by Ana Spoke. All rights reserved).

concentration-camp-woman-e1533812001791.jpg

CHAPTER 1

I know terrible things. Big, awful secrets that I can’t unknow, no matter how long I lie awake at night, rolling them over in my mind, sweating over the fantasies of going back in time and undoing all the wrongs, even though I would be powerless to change anything. I “what if” and “I wish” and I wipe away angry tears, but they keep on coming. I wish I was someone else. I wonder what would have happened if my father was never conceived. I cry over what could have been. But most of all, I wish I could go back to the last year, to the day I bought that paint set, so that I could set fire to the damn thing.

*

I moved back in with Pa and the cats thinking it was going to be only temporary, until the divorce came through. I didn’t yet know Alex was on the war path, determined to waste every cent of his and my money on proving that I was some evil, manipulative monster responsible not only for the demise of our marriage, but also for his mental health, life goals and his ability to be gainfully employed. I was sure then that things were about to get better, and how could they not, after a decade of living with an abusive drunk.

Pa couldn’t be happier about his little girl moving back home. He never said anything, but I knew he was secretly relieved that Alex was gone and so were my desperate attempts to cure my husband from his many addictions. He was happy to have my company, too – Pa loved his cats, but the conversations with his flock of strays were mostly one-sided. I would often catch him chattering away as he loaded their bowls with canned food, furry tails of all colors rubbing against his legs. They would meow back occasionally, but once their bellies were full they would move on to licking themselves and generally ignoring Pa and the whole world. Ungrateful creatures. Once I told him so.

“Zey are innocent, Rozochka,” he said. “Zey are like children, don’t know any better. And you know I do it for me. I like feeding.”

He did. Pa was a feeder. I blamed him for my thighs when I was young, before I knew about refined sugar and self-restraint. But when I got married and moved out my thighs got even bigger and it wasn’t until the day Alex picked up our wedding photo and said “boy, you really let yourself go, haven’t you?” that I had to admit it was all me. I can’t even blame Alex for the bout of bulimia that followed. I knew what I was doing. It was hard to show that self-restraint, though, when I found myself back in Pa’s loving care, showered with attention and casseroles.

“I can’t eat this much,” I said one day, sitting down to a plate full of carbs and unidentifiable fat. “This is not healthy, Pa. You need to eat more vegetables.”

“Potatoes are vegetable.”

“But not the butter you’ve drowned them in.” I poked around in the mound, trying to find anything that had not been fried.

He smiled at me, a wrinkly grey angel. “But you love butter, Rozochka.”

“I do.” And I did. But I loved him even more.

*

Come to think of it, my entire life I have searched for a man like Pa to take my hand and wrap me in a warm blanket of love, and care, and protection, and all those things that you expect from a relationship. Twice, I thought I found such a man, but each time they morphed into needy, greedy, gross, lazy, addicted, dependent Peter Pans. They morphed into my father.

I don’t know if I ever loved my father. Every now and then, when he came around and was sober enough to talk to me, he tried to tell me stories of how we used to play together when I was little or about all the times he took me fishing. I never could remember us playing, but I do remember at least one fishing trip when he yelled at me because I wouldn’t sit still in the boat. I remember how he forgot to pick me up from school once and I just stood there, cold and alone, until my mother rolled up, tires screeching and tears streaming down her face. I remember her hugging me for a very long time, and how she kept saying sorry over and over. I don’t remember my father apologizing. But then again, I don’t remember much of him at all. Mom didn’t suffer fools for nearly as long as I did – it was over between them by the time I was in the second grade. From then on it was the three musketeers – Pa, Mom and I. We were happy, so I didn’t understand then why she got married again. I understand now, but when she said we were going to move to Perth to live with Richard, I cried hysterically until it was decided that it would be better for everyone if stayed put. I had nothing personal against Richard, he is still a decent man. I just couldn’t leave Pa. So technically, from the age of eleven I was an orphan.

Eventually Mom had two more kids, and so – again, technically – I have two siblings, but not the kind of siblings with whom I can share the life’s burdens. I have a brother and a sister, but they’d never even met my father, so I can’t talk to them about Dad’s drinking. My brother is fourteen years younger than me, so I can’t ask him to scare off my no-good husband. My sister is even younger, and never been married, so she can’t relate to the seven-year itch. I have been visiting them at least once a year, in summer, but they never came to visit me. I never asked, but I got close to when I moved back in with Pa. I needed someone to share Pa’s obsessive attention.

Other than cat-saving and cat-feeding, some gardening and an occasional trip to the hardware store, Pa didn’t have any other interests. He’d kept mostly to himself his whole life and now there were no buddies to play bridge or whatever else the oldies do when they get together. He never travelled, would not go to restaurants or even movies because everything outside his four walls cost too much. Which I imagine it would if you had close to a dozen dependents at any given time. I never thought about how he’d managed while I was married and preoccupied, he certainly never complained about being lonely. Or anything at all. I only realized that he must’ve been once I was back – every day when I came home from work, he was on the front porch, in one of the rocking chairs, waiting for me.

“You must be tired, Rozochka,” he would say. “I made dinner for you.”

He did. He made dinner for me every single day. But he didn’t stop there. He was never a good sleeper, so he was usually up with the birds, waiting for my alarm to blare, so that he could come to my room and give me my coffee.

“Pa, you don’t have to. Really.”

He would just smile at me and shuffle off back to the kitchen, where I knew he was already making my lunch.

“I put something nice in for you, pet.”

Every day there was something nice. At first it was candy, then after I told him I don’t eat sugar, he started making fruit salad from scratch. Sometimes he’d put in a note, in summer it would be a flower from the garden. Once he put in a book because he thought I might want to read on my break. I should have been happy, and I was, but it was too much. I could never reciprocate enough, not that he expected me to. He never expected anything, but he followed me around like a shadow.

“You want to watch movie, Rozochka?”

“Cup of tea, Rozochka?”

“Rozochka?”

“Rozochka?”

I should have watched more movies with him. I should have hugged him more often, longer, closer. I should have said “thank you.” Instead, I bought him a paint set.

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100 days of self-brainwashing: Day 1, Ted Talks

I’m in Cabo, y’all! Having a grand time – here’s the proof:

  

After the miserable Melbourne winter, the heat and the sun are doing wonders for my well-being, and I have even started writing again. It’s easy to do when you have all day to do what you want:

I wrote 1,600 words on the first day. I was elated. Then the next day I wrote 900, the day after it was 600, yesterday it was 260, and today I have written nada, if you don’t count this post. Why, do you ask?

I thought I was lazy at first. Too much sun, food, tequila, you name it. Everyone else around me moving at a snail’s pace. Wanting to savor every moment, as if the ocean would cease to exist the moment I stopped staring at it. All very good reasons, except in the back of my mind I knew it was more about the uphill battle of publishing this third book. It was more about knowing that I have not yet made back my investment into the first two, about how hard I will have to work to sell each copy, to get reviews, and above all to keep going against the grim odds. I could very easily just relax, keep working on my career, which is going gangbusters, and let this little dream die a quiet death, like the one in which I was going to be an actress (four years, forty roles, whole of career earnings: $2,000).

The only problem is, without a big, ridiculous dream, I feel like something is missing. I’ve been miserable for the past few months, partly due to that miserable weather I’ve mentioned earlier, and partly because I got myself locked into a routine of going to work, giving it my all, then coming home to collapse and recover just enough to put in another day. Sounds familiar? Where’s Ana from ten years ago, the one that went to Australia on a tourist visa, convinced against all odds that she was going to get a job and a work visa sponsor? The one that signed up for triathlons and kiteboarding and could run 10K every day? The one that was abused so badly by her manager, she decided to become a manager herself? The one that thought “I can write a book, start a blog, and publish against those very glum odds”?

That fit, excited, and energetic Ana had not only the big goals in mind, she truly believed that she could accomplish them. And after some pondering this morning, I’d realized that I started it all with self-brainwashing. I was living in the US at the time, and I was miserable. The weather was great in Florida, I can’t blame it, but my first marriage was hell, and I was caught in a corporate hamster wheel of produce-get promoted-produce some more. Then something miraculous happened. The terrible first husband insisted that we move out to the boonies, where he could safely smoke dope and shoot deer out the window. That’s not the miraculous part, by the way. The move resulted in two major changes: we couldn’t get cable TV and I had to commute almost an hour each way to my corporate hamster job. I was bored at home, and I was bored driving. So I started reading and listening to audiobooks in the car. For some miraculous reason, the local library had the entire Tony Robbins audio collection and after a few hours of Tony insisting that I could do whatever it was I wanted to do, I was hooked. At the time I thought all I wanted was more money, as if that could fix my terrible, terrible marriage, so I kept reading and listening, and reading some more. I got hooked on psychology, motivation, self-help, and anything that promised to grow my mind. After a few months of that self-brainwashing, I realised that I didn’t want more money. What I wanted was to leave – my terrible husband, my hamster job, and unfortunately the US. It was a huge gamble, but it has paid massive dividends since.

So that’s what I’m going to do again. Brainwash myself again. I have started today by listening to a few TED talks, because I could still stare at the blue ocean while various successful people told me that I could do it, whatever it was. This was my favourite one:

It’s also the one from which I stole the idea of challenging myself for 100 consecutive days. It’s too early to tell, but hey, this blog post is 775 words, which is a whole lot better than yesterday. I’ll come up with something else tomorrow and see what happens.

 

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Need a quick, FREE cover design? Try Canva templates

Hi everyone,

You may or may not remember my endless trials and tribulations over design of Shizzle, Inc and Indiot covers, which have started with concepts by professional designer, went through a number of versions and online feedback. In the end, I have designed them myself, using Photoshop and images from Shutterstock. It was a costly exercise, to say the least, so it doesn’t surprise me when authors opt for a pre-designed cover, which a number of designers sell for just $50-100. At least you can see exactly what you are getting.

But what if you don’t have even $50 to risk? Until now, your options were limited. Either try to enter a contest and win a free cover design, or opt for embarassing yourself with one of those home-made covers that become the laughing stock of the Internet. If you are lucky, beg a friend for a favor.

Turns out there’s another option! Apparently, Canva has a whole range of pre-made, FREE cover templates. I have not personally used them, but Canva is a simple, drag-and-drop, design software that’s completely online and free to use, so it’s not much of a risk to try. You can choose from literally thousands of book cover templates, add your own text and be on your way in less time than it would take to read Adobe’s terms and conditions (and believe me, you have to read them, unless you don’t care that they will keep charging your credit card with the monthly subscription fee, and charge 50% of remaining fees if you decide to cancel.)

Have fun and let us all know if you’ve given it a go.

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Mr. Hue finally comes to life

Well, sort of.  I have not sold the movie rights, at least not yet. But as promised, here’s the result of the last Crash Test Drafts event. Note that the actor had just one hour to rehearse the monologue, that’s why he has the text in his hand.

If anyone lives in Melbourne, I highly recommend connecting with Crash Test Drafts on Facebook, either as a writer, director or writer. I have learned a lot from the judges’ feedback, and surprisingly most of it from the feedback given to other writers. The one bit of advice that really stuck with me was that we as writers have to make the reader care about what’s happening to the characters, care about what they are going through, and why. Elicit a response. The most intricately plotted novel would fail with flat characters.

The next Crash Test Drama event is on 3 June, so there’s still time to submit your play or excerpt. And if you are not in Melbourne, why not start your own?

Next on my list of promises was a stand-up routine. I have not done that yet. Because I’m scared, that’s why. But I will.

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Storyteller UK competition and why Shizzle, Inc is no longer free

UPDATE: please note that the book has to be published between 20th February and 19th May 2017, so Shizzle, Inc is ineligible. However, I can still publish my collection of short stories (the prequel “This is Why”) by 19 May and enter it.

Shizzle, Inc is now back to $2.99USD, and it’s the Storyteller UK competition to blame. That, and partly the negative reviews that come from readers grabbing a freebie without even reading the blurb. Oh, and the fact that in June I’m going to pitch it to a dozen publishers and a $2.99 book may look better than a free one. Lastly, because I will try to get Bookbub for the US and hope discounting a book to free temporarily will get it more attention.

Wait, slow down, what’s that Storyteller UK competition you’re talking about? Glad you’ve asked! Let me take a breath…

Do you have a self-published book in Kindle Select and available in print format? Well then, if you just add “StorytellerUK2017″ as a keyword, your book will be featured in a list of entries to win a $20,000 pounds! That’s $24,936USD, at least at the moment. Interested? Then visit Kindle Storyteller page for more details. Hurry, it’s open only until 19 May 2017!

Good luck!

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Thinking outside the book cover

I’ve had not one but two completely new and possibly brilliant ideas and I have two brilliant people to thank for them. If they work, they will help me sell more books, but more importantly, they will be the two new shots of adrenaline I need to keep going. In this preoccupation with trying to sell books and land a publishing contract, I’d forgotten that there are other creative ways to express myself while getting my name “out there.” At least one of them is comedy-specific, but I hope they make you think outside of the confines of the book covers.

The credit for the first idea goes to Josh. He’s about to get up on stage for the first time in twenty years and try stand-up comedy again. He’d done it in his youth and had some success, but ultimately had to stop because the experience was so stressful and literally gut-wrenching. He’s been talking about an open mike night at the bar around the corner for nearly two years, and now that he has a looming deadline, he wants me to do it with him. I’ve said “no” before because while I love comedy, I feel that my calling is to write it, not perform it and because I don’t have any standup material to perform. But for some reason today, maybe because it’s so stinking hot and my brains are melting, it suddenly seemed like a great idea. First of all, I have tons of material – two books worth of it. All I have to do is take the one-liners I’ve been tweeting and put them together with some intro and transitions. Secondly, if I started doing that with any new material, still in draft, I can get instant feedback on what is funny and what may fall flat. I have just over a week to put together a five-minute routine, and I’m so doing it. There will be video evidence posted shortly thereafter and I hope it prompts me to do more open mikes in the future.

The second set of credits goes to my friends, a lovely creative couple who have genuinely “made it” by transitioning from acting and theater directing in their spare time to now running a successful children’s theater company. They are also involved in a monthly event in Melbourne called Crash Test Drama, which brings together scriptwriters, directors, and actors. Imagine this – as an actor, showing up one Saturday morning, receiving your one-sentence audition piece, practicing it for about fifteen minutes, and then getting up on the stage in groups of four or five, for an opportunity to say that sentence in some novel way. A group of writers and directors would then cast you (if you are lucky) in one of 10-minute plays chosen for the day. You’d have about an hour to rehearse and then would have to perform the play in front of the others (you’re allowed to read from the script). Talk about pressure!

I’d participated in Crash Test Drama before, but only as an actor. It didn’t occur to me to submit an excerpt from Shizzle, Inc, until a few weeks ago, when we were having a couples dinner out. We were talking about the next event, and for some reason, maybe because of the relentless heat or too many margaritas, it suddenly seemed like a really good idea to submit an excerpt. I’ve just submitted two – the scene in which Isa and Dad argue about science, housing market, and computers before he helps her with Yomama merger, and the one in which Mr. Hue spouts his dubious business advice while Isa tries to come up with a blame strategy for her failures. I should know by the end of March if I get to be on the other side of the audition game on 22 April.

What do you think? Are there any other ways to blow off humor steam? I’ve been doing it in meetings, too, but the problem is that I can’t follow a laugh with “Oh, you liked that? Then buy my book!” And that’s exactly what I plan on doing at the end of my standup routine. I won’t try to sell it to actors, they are notoriously broke, but in my previous dealings with Crash Test Drama, I was once approached by a TV program director. She wanted to know how she could find me if she ever needed Ukrainian actors instead of Australians trying to fake a Russian accent, and nothing ever came of it, but you never know. This time she may want to option Isa and the gang for a pilot. It could happen.

Hope this prompts a brilliant idea of your own.

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You didn’t write the book I wanted

Well, it’s been eight whole days since my International BookBub ad went live and I just hit 6,000 free units downloaded! Wippee! That’s more than twice of what was predicted by BookBub themselves (2,500)!

The sell-through has not been great, with just 7 full-price copies of Indiot have been purchased and the equivalent of additional 4 copies read through KU. Still, I could not wait to apply for the US distribution, and then could not believe my eyes when I was promptly rejected. But…but…why won’t you let Americans have a free copy of Shizzle, Inc? Everyone else in the world loves it!

Well, that’s not entirely true. Yes, I did get at least one new fan, who’d not only inhaled Shizzle, Inc in just a day or two, he or she immediately posted a glorious review:

And then, just a couple of days later, he/she posted a review of Indiot:

Aw, shucks…I was practically glowing, but then this one dropped:

I’m not sure who was the prince that supposedly saved Isa, and I’m also not sure what that person expected from a book with a tagline of What could possibly happen when a gloriously dippy millennial becomes the right hand of an equally clueless playboy billionaire? Of course, with any free giveaway, your book is bound to end up in the hands of people who didn’t read the description and I know I should be all cool about it by now, but my hand just ached to respond to the comment…

I slapped that hand away and undertook immediate damage control. Once again, it helps to keep this blog, because I’ve already been through the pain of a 1-star review and have written A Simple Guide to Overcoming 1-Star Review Grief. It reminded me that my hope was one day to have tens of thousands of 1-star reviews, just like the bestsellers in the above Simple Guide. So this particular one just brought me one review closer to the goal.

Suddenly, it didn’t matter so much. In fact, I wanted to share some of the other 1-star reviews of Shizzle, Inc that I hope you might find amusing. Keep in mind, these were written about a book from a “defining series of a generation!” if you believe one of the 5-star reviews:

  • “The behavior of Mr. Hue was unrealistic and quite frankly, shockingly rude. A complete douche. If this were reality, his company would have gone down in flames before it ever got off the ground.”
  • “There are just too many screwballs in this book. Everyone is a screwball or a screw-up.”
  • “Good gods, this was stupid.”
  • “The main character is an idiot, her employer is an idiot, and I think the story might be set in an alternate universe. Otherwise. . .wow. just wow.”
  • ” I’m not sure if Shizzle, Inc. can be classified as satire because it bears so little relation to the real world of corporate greed and weirdness.”
  • “Other reviewers either are being nice and writing fake reviews or they were of low intelligence to begin with and easily amused by letters and words.”
  • “Had this been a paper book, I would have burned it to save another reader the 1.5 seconds they might spend reading the title and thinking it might be worth opening the cover.”

Yeah, so other than a slight eye twitch, I’m no longer affected by those and I hope you feel a bit better about any 1-star reviews you might have gotten of late. I have just over 30 bad reviews now, across the different platforms, so still not close to the tens of thousands.

That’s okay, though – I can apply for the US BookBub in 29 days.

 

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Drumroll…BookBub results! Spoiler…they are awesome!

I’m not one to wish that every day was Christmas or my birthday, but I wouldn’t mind reliving the 6 March 2017 a few times. Well, 7 March, actually, because even though my BookBub promo was international, in Australia the email didn’t go out until 1am on 7 March. I spent the entire prior day checking the stats and telling myself to just calm the hell down, while worrying that something went wrong. I didn’t need to worry – when I woke up the next morning, I could see that long-awaited spike. Over 2,000 copies were already downloaded in those first six or so hours, and the green line keeps moving since. It has completely dwarfed my prior stats, which were in 5-10 per day range (without advertising). Isn’t it beautiful?

That’s a total of an amazing 5,094 downloads over the first three days. The breakdown per country is as follows:

  • UK: 2,698
  • Canada: 1,172
  • Australia: 754
  • India: 329
  • The US: 139

Three things surprised me: first of all, that more than twice as many books were downloaded compared to the BookBub’s own estimate of 2,500. Secondly, even though the US was excluded from the promo, somehow 139 copies were downloaded via the amazon.com site. Thirdly, that despite including Kobo and Nook in the promo, I had no spike whatsoever in my Smashword sales. Maybe the data is delayed, and I will check again in a week, or maybe I should just concentrate on Amazon.

I’d spent the last three days marveling at the stats and trying to decide what to do next: should I make Shizzle, Inc full price and hope a few people actually buy it? Should I pull it from wide distribution and enroll in KU? Should I finish the third book in the series instead of going down the path of the new one? After much deliberation of myself, I kept everything as is and applied for the US promo in hopes that the excellent result will convince BookBub to give me a fair go. I’d also submitted Indiot as a $0.99 deal. I should know in about a week’s time if either deal is accepted.

Meanwhile, I’d updated my Super Duper List of Book Marketing with the results. When I first announced that after 18 months of trying I was offered a BookBub promo deal, a few people on Twitter mentioned how expensive BookBub is. Well, just compare the cost and the result to anything on that list – no other company comes close. If you are so lucky as to get a deal with them, just take it. Take out your credit card and just ask “How much?”

You won’t regret it.

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Quick How-To: add bold and italic text to your Amazon book description

I’ve promised a hurricane of activity leading up to my Literary Speed Dating date on 24 June, and one of them is updating book blurbs. Content is king, of course, but even a king could benefit from a little mascara. Just ask Johnny Depp.

So, speaking of using the equivalent of a Kohl pencil to give your book description that extra impact, have a look at Shizzle, Inc’s updated book blurb. What do you think? Have you always wanted to bold the hell out of your tagline but never knew how to do it? I have good news – it’s easy.

As it turns out, KDP’s supports some HTML for book descriptions. I’ve only used bold and italic so far, but it’s good to know where to go for reference if I ever want to add a horizontal line or something else fancy. If you’ve come across a beautifully composed book blurb, please share!

Back to the nitty-gritty. This is how Shizzle, Inc description looks in HTML, when I paste it into the “description” field of KDP form:

<b>What could possibly happen when a gloriously dippy millennial becomes the right hand of an equally clueless playboy billionaire?</b>
Be prepared to face-palm as you follow Isa Maxwell on a dizzying ride through the world of corporate intrigue; roll your eyes at the dubious business advice of Mr. Hue, the owner of Shizzle, Inc.; cringe as you are sucked into the Maxwell family drama.
Praised as “not only a hysterically funny romp through corporate practices but an astute satire on current American culture,” Shizzle, Inc. offers a hilarious escape from reality.

<b>Praise for Shizzle, Inc.:</b>

Writers Digest:
<i>”I loved this book. It has everything that we want to see in a great story. The situation is unique. The character is relatable and likable. The opening was fantastic. It drew the reader in and made them want to read more. The production values would stand up to any book being published by New York today.”</i>

<b>Independent reviews:</b>
<i>“Ana has delivered a fresh and completely novel, pun intended, novel. If you are up for a joy ride with all the bumps, crashes and with the characters running around like something right out of the Keystone Cops, this novel is for you.”
“This is smart kind of humor – blondes would not be able to understand it.”
“Funny beyond words! Sort of like Forest Gump but with a higher IQ.”
“The top-notch humor hides poignant critique. This is a very intelligent silly story!”
“Some of us fancy ourselves more evolved than Bridget Jones, others don’t. Either way, Ana Spoke got you.”</i>

Try it for yourself. If you make a mistake, it’s easy to change, but it’s a good idea to compose your text first in this Try It Editor to quickly work out any issues.

Have fun, but beware: just like with makeup, more is not necessarily better.

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