If you write for a traditional publisher, you get paid twice a year. That payment covers a period that’s up to twelve months prior to the date of the check. The sales are lumped together in various line items, some illuminating (e.g. Canadian e-book sales), some… less so (I’m looking at you “Additional Earnings” line item).
So yeah, you may be wondering what LSD-dosing psychopath invented such an arcane business model. And you may find yourself asking why any self-respecting literary artiste such as moi would put herself through it all. Maybe for the fame and fortune?
BAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! <<wipes tears>> BAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!
Yeah, no.
Overall, there’s almost no way to track whether a specific promotion/appearance/snippet of media coverage had a measurable effect on sales.*
*Unless you obsessively track your Amazon rankings and Nielsen Bookscan numbers and try to extrapolate your weekly sales numbers from there. Which I for sure don’t do on a regular basis. ‘Cuz that would be batshit crazy. <<deletes browser history>> 😬
I, like most of my writerly brethren, have zero job security and little understanding of how to make this modestly-profitable hobby/poorly-remunerated career work for me. I end up saying “yes” to almost every marketing opportunity, constantly afraid that I’m not doing enough, that my next project will implode like a billionaires’ submarine. Thus, over the past few years, I’ve found myself running on a relentless hamster wheel of social media posts, guest blogs, newsletter articles, giveaways, and appearances, trying to find success. I live in fear that the Spigot of Modest Recognition could, without warning, stop dribbling out the little droplets of validation that sustain me.
And that’s because I’m lucky enough to be afforded those opportunities. I have a series of mass market paperbacks with a Big Five publisher. They sell, if not like hotcakes, at least like very warm cakes. I’m well aware that not every writer is so fortunate. So I also get to feel guilty for being ungrateful! Yay! The shame cherry on my fear sundae!
For several years, I’ve been burning the candle at both ends, trying to justify this career choice. And, inevitably, I have a mini-existential crisis whenever a new book comes out or a major deadline looms or my royalty check comes in lower than I expected it to. I’ve been living in a constant state of low-grade existential panic.
A few things have happened over the past couple months that caused me to start to recalibrate. My beloved grandmother, the bedrock of our family, died. My entire nuclear family got sick, some of us more than once. My aunt was struck by a car and nearly killed on the front steps of the post office. (Yes, you read that right. A car went out of control and up a flight of stairs.) I’m realizing that all the career-related, mini existential crises were just a prelude to the real deal.
It got me asking myself why I do this writing thing. Here’s what I came up with:
This little pizza friend was part of a cheer-up gift box my friend Desiree Di Fabio sent to me recently. Desiree and I, along with fellow mystery writer Korina Moss, bonded over cheese fondue during last year’s Mechanicsburg Mystery Book Fete. I’d never met Desiree before that event, but we had an instant connection. That happens a lot in the mystery writing world. You’ve spent your whole life searching and suddenly HERE ARE YOUR PEOPLE.
Maybe in school, you were the only weird kid reading a book during outdoor recess. Maybe, while your high school classmates were out doing whatever normal high schoolers do (drugs, probably? IDK), you were that nerdy teenager the public librarians all knew by name. Maybe you were that oddball who spent decades wondering if other people thought about death as much as you do. Welcome, my friend. The world of crime fiction is your happy place.
My life is infinitely richer because I have written and published my books and stories. The community of readers and writers I am a part of is wonderful. Telling stories is a joy and a privilege. Through this work, I learn so much about myself and what it means to be human. Also, I FREAKING LOVE WORDS. They are so powerful.
I’m still in the midst of a pretty rough season of life. But when I look at this fuzzy little pizza, I’m reminded of the joys of my life as a writer. Joys that cannot be quantified on any bestseller list or with a six-figure check. Pleasures that defy external metrics. When it comes to a full creative life and sustaining personal relationships, I am very rich indeed.
