The wind carries grace notes of pine resin and wild lavender. It fills the valley like a sail, and my legs run me, effortless and lithe. Now I am still and the world turns past me. The sun climbs the dome of the sky, pulling a circling hawk, and me after it. I race down the slope towards battle, crushing soil and ancient bones. Fear is squeezed deep down, to a small stone into my belly which I will pass when I pee. My head rings bell-clear, sounding the war cry. I will defend, I will kill, we will prevail.
Friday fictioneers is a weekly challenge set by Rochelle Wisoff Fields to write a 100-word story in response to a photo prompt. You can find other stories here
You send your book out into the world. But unless readers know it’s there, they can’t find and buy it. Without promotion, the work dies. I’m not a natural at promotion. In fact, I don’t even like it. But my experience is that there are things you can do. Some of them depend on seizing opportunities. Others just rely on doggedly working through the system.
Opportunities
I was lucky that there was a news event linked to the theme of the book—the opening of hearings in the UK’s official enquiry into undercover policing. I timed the production of the book to coincide with this date and was able to get some press coverage.
The other opportunity has not yet come to fruition. But I’m part of the way there. I entered the novel for various literary prizes. And it has been longlisted for the McKitterick Prize. Judges won’t begin shortlisting until 2021.
Press launch and reviews
Tears was published on 24 September. Review strategy and pre-launch promotion concentrated on the paperback, paving the way for sales boosted by the press launch in November. I secured 20 reviews across various platforms. NetGalley, from which I was hoping for great things, was disappointing—only two reviews. And I only managed to place two pieces on book-blogging sites.
The press launch produced a significant boost. Forty two copies had been sold by launch date on 6 November. Five days later, an additional 54 copies sold.
The launch made a small splash, which died away quite quickly. It wasn’t enough to generate sustained sales. The good news is that you don’t need to despair—you’re not in the hands of fate. There are things you can do that will make a difference and raise your book’s profile.
Advertising
Principal among the things that can make a difference is advertising. Amazon advertising, targeting the US market, began in early December. It worked, adding another 10% to sales.
By 22 December, Tears was number 666 in the Kindle rankings for terrorism thrillers, and 1,062 for magic realism. Overall, its ranking climbed from number 1,683,775 to 99,986 (of over 14 million books) on Amazon.
But it’s a little like succeeding in coaxing a spark into a handful of kindling. I need to find ways to get a warming blaze going and keep it alight.
I don’t yet know what these ways are. It may simply be a matter of more advertising. But I’m hoping book discovery sites will make a difference.
Some might describe His Lordship’s sense of humour as wicked. But, then again, many called him wicked. He told us it was art. We preferred the word revenge.
The sculpture, at the village entrance, of the donkey with its head in the sand were funny, no mistake. Except, we was the butt of the joke. Bugger had the whole settlement flattened and renamed Gone.
If only Maisie hasn’t refused him.
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Friday fictioneers is a weekly challenge set by Rochelle Wisoff Fields to write a 100-word story in response to a photo prompt. You can find other stories here
The natives are more notable for their industriousness than cleanliness. I cannot pass among them unnoticed because their skin has a deathly pallor, but they will talk to strangers. Many worship a man nailed to a tree, whom they consume symbolically on their holy day. They carry his image as a talisman around their necks, believing this will protect them from evil spirits.
Leadership is poorly developed, and they choose chiefs to make their decisions for them, rather than thrashing out problems in community meetings as civilised people do. Wealth is determined by possession and ritual display of little bits of paper, rather than by the real utility of cattle. I miss the heat of the savannah.
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Friday fictioneers is a weekly challenge set by Rochelle Wisoff Fields to write a 100-word story in response to a photo prompt. You can find other stories here
The screaming girls and the boys swallowing their terror in feigned insouciance. That was me once. I remember the stolen taste of candy floss on Carol’s lips. And the accidental brush of a soft breast in the chamber of horrors.
Carol was taken a decade ago. These days, I can only sit and watch. There’s always the possibility of a spectacular crash. I’d like that.
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Friday fictioneers is a weekly challenge set by Rochelle Wisoff Fieldsto write a 100-word story in response to a photo prompt. You can find other storieshere
I sense it. I can almost grasp it. The future. Sitting just outside my window, like my first shiny new car on a festival. That time is not here yet, but anticipation brings it into the present. One day, soon, this will all be over. We’ll emerge, blinking in the sunshine, laugh and greet old friends. Now it’s clear who we really depend on. We’ll put an end to misery and want. We can build back better.
Can’t we?
Friday fictioneers is a weekly challenge set by Rochelle Wisoff Fields to write a 100-word story in response to a photo prompt. You can find other stories here
With The Testaments, Margaret Atwood’s sequel to The Handmaid’s Tale, published and sales of Camus’ The Plague surging, in troubled times is the line between fact and fiction becoming blurred?
Some may say that all times are troubled. And yes, there are always troubles, but not all times are troubled. Contrast, for example, the societies emerging from World War Two and the present.
In the US, in particular, people in the 1950s expected the economy to grow, consumer goods to be plentiful, and life to get better and better (the Cold War notwithstanding). In much of the colonised world, there were struggles and hope for independence.
Today, we are anxious about our future in the face of pandemic, climate change, threats real or imagined which trigger waves of populism, and a sense of economic decline in which many people expect life to get worse and worse.
Maybe that’s why it’s important to write, especially in troubled times, when it all seems hopeless and full of senseless strife. Writers help us make sense of what’s going on and what it means. They probe the big questions of our time. When everything is beautiful, it’s good to share stories. When everything seems to be going to hell, we really need stories.
“I am a writer. My writing has come to a standstill. I cannot see the value of, or think of writing about anything else except this that’s going on. But I cannot write about this, for really, we know less about it now than we did till yesterday. When we felt we were on top and saw ourselves as the force of current times. Visionaries for the future. Unchallenged. Suddenly everything is challenged and everything is changing too fast around us – new tones, new colours, new voices, new visuals. Killings go on. Other atrocities too. And fiery speeches by ‘religious’ politicians
….
I just stand, like many others, caught in the ‘moment’ which will not/cannot pass me by. I cannot wait for heart and mind to emerge clear and apart before I start writing. It is like being caught in a storm which has to be dealt with right there and then. Right here and now. An inevitability, an incumbency, an immediacy. But what sense can be made of scenes whipping around in a storm? Then leave that be, but record what you see flying around, quickly, it’s urgent, even without making sense maybe, to be able to make some sense in better, easier times maybe.”
Everything has changed—the way I fit into the world and how I move through it. In an instant, I have become old. I am invalid. Kind people offer help, and I feel anger. Inquisitive glances glide off me when I look up at them. I am a Teflon pan—nothing sticks to me.
If only I hadn’t climbed that roof. If only I’d left home five minutes later.
“We’ll remove the cast next week,” the doctor says, and I am summoned back to life.
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Friday fictioneers is a weekly challenge set by Rochelle Wisoff Fields to write a 100-word story in response to a photo prompt. You can find other stories here
The blankets hide us in warm safety. Your legs part when I put my hand on your thigh, and I feel the moist arousal. You offer me your virginity. Yet, I cannot. Or, I should not.
Three years planning and your five-thousand-mile journey stymied by a single look.
While you were already in the air, just half a day ago, I fell in love. I lack the wisdom to know what to do next.
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Friday fictioneers is a weekly challenge set by Rochelle Wisoff Fields to write a 100-word story in response to a photo prompt. You can find other stories here
They called it the magic door. Crowds would gather outside, peering in. When Harvey pushed his way to the front and squinted at the glass, all he saw was a dim hallway beyond, with some tatty overcoats hanging from hooks.
And then. The reflection of mama crossing the street, shopping bag swinging from her hand. Mama, dead these seven years. He whirled. But the street was empty.
Perhaps, he’d find her again if he went in. Throwing his shoulder against the door, he crashed through. Black and white tiles, and a flock of coats nattering like old ravens.
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Friday fictioneers is a weekly challenge set by Rochelle Wisoff Fields to write a 100-word story in response to a photo prompt. You can find other stories here
Neil MacDonald Author 