Posts Tagged ‘Marjan Kamali’

(Fourth in a series on month-by-month preparations in the year before a book launch. In this case, the book launch is in October 2014. These are some of the things to think about, questions to ask oneself, issues to research in the course of this complex process which these days involves more and more of the author’s time and savvy. Previous posts are here, here, and here.)

Seven to eight months to go: 

Tip sheet (Title Information Page)
At this point, the publisher asks for some information to populate the sections of the Title Information Page (TIP sheet) that will then go to the sales reps at the distributor. These will be used to sell the book to various accounts–bookstores, libraries, etc. Each publisher will have a slightly different form and requirements. There are some examples here and here. For She Writes Press, the sections included: sales hook, description, key selling points, audience, author bio, author residence, comparative titles, marketing & publicity highlights, and endorsements. Some of this information also gets fed into databases that populate fields on Amazon and other online book retailers.

Toughest here, for me, was coming up with comparative titles. The SWP preference was for titles that came out in the past three years, in the same categories as my book, with a similar audience, and of course with a good sales history. Not easy. For example, I think readers of Memoirs of a Geisha, by Arthur Golden, would be drawn to my book and enjoy it, but that one came out back in 1997, which in the publishing world was at least two eras ago. But I did include it, along with more recent titles, such as Teatime for the Firefly, Russian Winter, and The Twentieth Wife.

Final cover design
The designer, publisher and I finalized the cover, with which I am delighted. (See the end of this post for working with a designer.) The designer began concepts for the back cover and spine, which we finalized within a couple of weeks. We included the blurbs (see below) that I received.

Publicist
After a lot of soul-searching, budgeting and general reflection, I finalized my choice of a publicist at this point, finding what I believe is a solid choice from among the various proposals I received, and sticking to a contract that is focused on those areas in which I have the least experience/contacts of my own: print and online reviews, radio, and the book blogosphere. I’m handling social media and the setting up of most local events on my own, and might expand to a Phase 2 with the publicist once I begin to travel.

Social Media
I’m lucky to have a social media expert, Crystal King, as one of my good friends and writing partners. Under her guidance, I made a list of social media tasks/goals. There are lots of posts out there on this, and I’m not in a position to wax eloquent, but this I can say: it’s never too early to get going on social media, or at least on figuring out what one wants to put into social media, and what one wants to avoid.

Lists
I’m a list-y type of gal. Have always been. Lists are how I keep everything organized. My oldest child started copying me, making her own “lists,” scribbling on a pad with a pen, before she could actually write. At this point, I started a mega list. It’s in an Excel file with many tabs, including: balance sheet, expenses, master pre-launch to-do list, month-by-month to-do list, media contacts, marketing ideas, endorsement requests, events, web site changes, and more. To some it might seem a thing of beauty, but others it might horrify. Either way, there’s no denying it: there is A LOT to keep track of, and it gets more and more overwhelming as the launch month approaches. I started populating all these tabs about eight months out (actually, I started putting marketing ideas in a mishmash on one tab about two years earlier), and I go back to this list several times a day. I’d be at a complete loss without it.

Blurbs
Having given my potential endorsers a deadline of March 15th, I checked in with them politely at the end of February, sending them a gentle reminder of the deadline but also giving them a potential out (although I really, really hoped they would not take me up on the latter). One required an extension, to which he assiduously adhered, and by March 15th I received the first two (glowing) blurbs, from Marjan Kamali and Bret Anthony Johnston.

First pages
The publisher sent me my “First Pages,” i.e. the interior pages of the manuscript all designed and laid out as they’d appear in the book itself. My first reaction upon opening up the PDF file was sheer joy at seeing the lovely choice of font and designs for chapter headings, section breaks, etc. The second reaction was one of horror as I realized I was expected to re-read the whole thing, again, for the four hundredth time, to catch any errors. I was very tempted to skip that step, but I am glad I did not, as I caught not only some small typographical errors, but also a couple of more substantial ones, such as the fact that one of my characters knelt to be at his brother’s height, except his brother was 15. That would have made the kneeling character a giant. The error was a remnant of an older draft, in which the brother was a little boy, not a 15 year old.

Random bits:
Little, random thoughts started popping into my head at odd moments. I started dropping those into Evernote (as I always have access to the program on my phone), then adding them to my various lists: look into credit card readers for my phone, open a separate bank account (or not? Should I? Need to figure this out!), consider a P.O box to use as an address with a MailChimp account (MailChimp? Constant Contact? iContact? Which one? Need to figure this out!), etc. More and more to add to the lists.

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Brookline_Booksmith

Brookline Booksmith. Photo by Eric Wilbur

I had one hour and forty-five minutes. It was a rare oasis of time for a Sunday. Time for myself, away from home, away from the temptations of planning out the week’s meals or running a load of laundry so as to start the week in an organized manner. Big One had a birthday party just far enough from home for it not to make sense to drop her off, go home, then pick her up again. But she’s just about 9 now, and it was made clear that parents were not to taint the party with the uncoolness of their presence. (Besides, I confess to doing a little jig for joy when she was invited, four years ago, to her first “drop off” birthday party. I think there may have been some liability waiver to sign, a padded room and gymnastics equipment, but it all seemed wonderful to me at the time.) So I left her in a moon bounce with about eight other girls (and many more, disgorged from vehicles sidling up to the sidewalk while parents watched them cross, streaming over to the yard, present in hand, shoes already half kicked off) in the eighty degree relative coolness that has followed a week of temperatures hovering around 100 degrees. Feeling light, I decided to take a stroll around Coolidge Corner a few blocks away.

I was well aware of the danger: the Brookline Booksmith, fabulous independent book shop, sits squarely in the center of Coolidge Corner, wedged between two coffee shops. I intended simply to mosey around and take in the new stores and restaurants, let my thoughts float. I considered crossing the street before getting to the book shop, just to reduce the likelihood of my getting ensnared. I thought: I do not need more books. I do not need more books. Not now. My shelves are already overflowing, and on my bedside table alone are three books I’ve been toting about for weeks: Erin Morgenstern‘s The Night Circus, to investigate what all the hullabaloo is about; Rosie Llewellyn-Jones’ Engaging Scoundrels, part of my research on Lucknow; and Janet Burroway‘s Writing Fiction, my current craft Bible. I tried to convince myself I had no immediate need for more unread books. I can always go purchase one later, correct? In my study, piles of unread books hide the spines of others.

I approached the book shop door, confident of my fortitude, steeling myself against its power. Just then, a woman pushing a stroller with another young child on a scooter trailing behind her paused in front of the door, clearly trying to devise her strategy for pulling it open and maneuvering her charges in. Instinctively, I opened it for her, and instinctively, I followed her in. Just for ten minutes. Not intending to buy anything. Just curious as to what books were displayed up front. Research into marketing and promotion for a book I hope to send out into the world soon.

Stop snickering, please. I can hear you.

I abide by schedules, even–perhaps especially–my own. I was, in fact, in there for just ten minutes. But in those ten minutes, an entire sea of thoughts, emotions, memories, hopes and ideas. Even dreams. In those ten minutes, I took in, in the most superficial of ways–my eyes sliding over displays, barely taking the time to focus–the “Recently Arrived” and “New in Paperback” tables and the second half of the fiction section, going backwards from Z to K, not even bothering to turn my head to read the spines. But even in that quick time, in my refusal to succumb fully, the book shop worked its magic.

There were many of the books I hear about repeatedly, and I must have reached the magical hear-about-it-seven-times-in-order-to-buy it moment in the case of three of them, because within two minutes they were tucked under my arm. There was Cheryl Strayed‘s Wild, which has received, well, wild acclaim. In what I’ve read of her and by her, Ms. Strayed seems like quite a likable person, and her story is compelling. There was Hilary Mantel’s Wolf Hall (actually, Bringing up the Bodies, but once I decided I’d buy one, it made sense to start at the beginning) which I justified as another piece of research, to see how an author brings to life such a distant time period with such success. There was B.A. Shapiro‘s The Art Forger, which keeps popping up ever since I took a seminar with the author at last year’s Muse & the Marketplace conference, and which I can also chalk up to research (neat how I do that, no?) because it is fiction that involves the art world, the way mine does.

There were the books of people I’ve come to know via social media and for whom I’ve been cheering, whose familiar names staring out at me from book covers made me smile for their success at bringing a book to market: Together Tea, by Marjan Kamali, whom I met in person at the conference last year, and whose journey to publication seems not dissimilar to mine (barring the minor fact that she actually has a book in stores now); and Eden Lake by Jane Roper, a woman of extraordinary grit and humor who is managing to have a writing career in the midst of a massive family challenge.

There were books I have read, and whose images, atmospheres and characters remain strong in my mind. Yann Martel’s Life of Pi, magical for its storytelling power, and vividly rendered on the screen by Ang Lee. There was Jesmyn Ward‘s Salvage the Bones, which left me with searing images of a bone white dog, ragged but tough children, earth and blood and roiling water. I give it as a gift to an elderly Jewish grandmother and to a teacher/mentor of mine before reading it myself, then wondered, after I had read it, what they’d think of it, of me. There was Abraham Verghese‘s Cutting for Stone, memorable for its cast of characters, its unusual setting (beginning in Ethiopia of the 1950s) which I recommend widely. There was writer and polemicist (isn’t that such a wonderful word?) Arundhati Roy‘s The God of Small Things, and images of a small boy’s confusion in the sticky darkness of a cinema (the “talkies”) in south India, and an alluring dark body dancing by the river.

There were the many, many books I wanted to purchase that I didn’t. Not this time around. I was drawn to the cover of Polpo, a beautiful octopus splayed out on a cookbook from a Venetian restaurant by the same name. I thought of how much my children both love octopuses–one of them sleeps with a stuffed octopus, one of them is always keen to eat marinated octopus. There was Flight Behavior by Barbara Kingsolver, whom I admire greatly not only for her writing but for her success as a versatile writer, adept at many genres, and able to avoid being pigeon-holed. There was The Tiger’s Wife by Téa Obreht whose name and background, and achievement at a young age, are intriguing (enviable?).

But my time was up. Ten minutes. I worked my way through the pleasing crowd to the cash register, paid my $49, and left.

I stepped out into the world, a dramatic sky overhead, part thundercloud and part dazzling blue, and it seemed everyone around me harbored an obsession. A wrought woman, all skin and bone, walked in the opposite direction, one hand clutching her phone to her ear, one arm wrapped around herself, as though to hold herself together. A group of seemingly homeless folk were gathered around a bench, one of them perhaps three hundred and fifty pounds, wedged into a electric wheelchair, the arm rests digging into the folds of flesh at his sides. The others were weathered, coarse, cigarettes dangling from their dry lips. A short man covered in tattoos held a beribboned little girl in his arms, her shoes, skirt, t-shirt, sunglasses and hair ribbons all varying shades of pink. In the coffee shop, an elderly woman so thin as to look two dimensional was hunched over a tall cup of coffee and drinking the entire thing with a tea spoon, occasionally looking up and around with wild and distrusting eyes. Stories everywhere.

When are my next ten minutes?

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