I’m always banging on about book marketing and book sales, the good and the bad, the glaringly obvious and the borderline insane. But if this blog were a book, how would I sell it? Would I be able to sell it at all? Of course I wouldn’t. In other news, the blog gets new pants.
And now, ladies and gentle man: in the grand old tradition of Lazy Summer Journalism, I present to you a list of potential blog posts I didn’t write this week, followed in some cases by a half-assed explanation for why I didn’t write them, and sometimes no explanation at all.
You’re welcome.
What really happens at a book festival? Is it true they’re like music festivals for adults? And when it comes to fiction, why does crime always pay? Answers to these questions, along with others nobody ever bothered asking, within a click.
When customers want things, they want things now. They don’t want to wait for things to be manufactured or delivered or tested or marketed. If the fashion industry is now managing to get from catwalk to customer in six weeks, why does it take a year for a book which has already been written to get on the market? Also, naked men. Honest.
Holiday reading lists are ridiculous. They are lists of books people haven’t read yet, and therefore full of books people won’t ever actually read. Authors are particular culprits, promoting their own books by lying about their intentions to read those written by other people. But are the rest of us mortal folk missing out on a trick? Not being quoted in newspapers doesn’t mean we can’t also go around lying about what we’re reading this summer. Why should authors have all the fun?
What makes a comedy black? And why are black comedies so black these days? Is life itself a black comedy? Is there any comedy left in black comedy? Is this excerpt getting too repetitive? Am I asking too many questions? Don’t expect any answers, but you might get a (slightly choked) laugh.
Dear Mister Publisher, I have written the best book. My book will be bigger than the bible. It will make cynics laugh, optimists cry, and toast. Before he died, David Bowie said he wished he had written it. Anyone who does not want to read my book is a potential terrorist.
Why is Young Adult Fiction pigeon-holed into a daftly narrow age category? If so-called General Fiction is a mirror held up to society which helps us to cope with what we are – how better to do this, than to look at ourselves while we are becoming what we are? But don’t worry, it’s not all serious. Or perhaps it all is, except for that last sentence. Hmmmm.
Who likes the social media ‘Like’? Nobody, that’s who. It would be like appreciating a poor phone line, or an alarm clock that worked at least every other Thursday. Some things are woefully inadequate, but we put up with them anyway. Please stop, and lend me your ears.
I am sick to the back teeth (ew) of people going on about ‘grip-lit’. Not the genre. The term. We can’t get rid of it. We can only try to outshine it. For that reason, Ladies and Gentlemen: I give you Wick-Lit, Flip-Lit and Crick-Lit. Go forth with them, and prosper.
Tara Sparling writes 