The sock drawer of dreams

I can’t recall if it was Doris Lessing or Nadine Gordimer who said it: please help me here if you know. One of those Nobel laureates said something several decades ago that I, as an author, have always found inspiring in the most discouraging of times. She said (or maybe wrote) something like, “I would continue to write even if I knew my manuscripts would never leave my sock drawer.”

Obviously, she said that long after her manuscripts left her sock drawer, so she said it hypothetically, because both Doris and Nadine sold lots of books, and early-on in their lifetimes. 

But I have no doubt she believed it to her soul. All authors do, right? Writing is a calling. We writers are only fulfilled if we write. We would continue to write even if we knew our manuscripts would never leave our sock drawers. AmIright or amIright? Stephen King? Lucy Foley? John Grisham? Colleen Hoover? You’re with us on this too, aren’t you?

If only this calling were that simple.

(In a moment I’m going to provide some ugly talk, throw around some distasteful, even offensive concepts in the arts world, like money, expenses, and revenue. Then I’m going to make confessions. If you know me, you know I gotta back into that, because I’m an optimist, albeit a tortured one. Please bear with me.)

I’m currently writing my fourth novel, Hotel Stella, and I’m having so much fun with it. I just got my third novel, The Space Coast Tattler, back from my editor, and she loved it. People who’ve read it all say it’s my best novel yet, though I think Hotel Stella will be my best novel yet. My second novel, The Murder Plague, was just published in February, and it’s getting great reviews. My first novel, The Roswell Swatch, is, well, Mom loved it. And I’ve got some short stories in various stages.

Life is good for me as a writer. I am writing. I am keeping my sock drawer full. I have reason to get out of bed in the morning. I have reason to go to bed content, feeling I made something of the day.

If only I didn’t have to get my manuscripts out of my sock drawer.

But that’s the rub, isn’t it? After all …

What do we writers want? We want readers!

When do we want them? We want them now!

How do we get them? Unless we’ve got that rare star contract for publication—one with advances or big marketing budgets—we spend our own money!

Does spending money assure readers? Not a chance!

So, how much should we spend? How much you got?

Editors cost money. Proofers cost money. Book launches cost money. Book signing tables in bookstores cost money. Book fairs cost money. Little signs, business cards, bookmarks, flyers and other promotional materials cost money. Most book reviews cost money. (Shocked? Puleeze.) Book contest entries cost money. Writers’ workshops and authors’ conferences cost money. Book tours cost money. Consultants cost money. Publicists cost money. I haven’t even gotten to advertising to get the book’s cover and pitch in front of potential readers yet. Yes, it costs money too; and no, your publisher probably isn’t going to pay for much, if any, of that, unless you have a star contract.

There are many, many indie authors like me without star contracts. And there are many, many repped authors who are no better off. We make up the vast majority of all working authors today. Hard to say exactly; nobody seems to have any data on this. I’m guessing maybe 75 or 80 percent. Maybe more. What we have in common is, if we want to get our manuscripts out of our sock drawers, we have to pay most or all of these expenses ourselves, and the ceiling is: How much you got?

Life is good for me as a writer. But as a seller of books, as a glutton for readers, as someone who would like to get my manuscripts out of my sock drawer? Not so good.

My public confessions time: Royalties plus other sales revenue to me, minus my personal expenses, I lost significant four-figure dollars on my first novel. I just received my first sales and royalties report on my second novel, and, looking at that with profound disappointment, I’m now projecting to lose significant four-figure dollars on my second novel as well. The sales numbers were nauseating. When I whined to my publisher, he assured me that factors are looking up, and he offered every hope he could. Then he suggested I spend more of my own money on advertising.

And I can’t complain. Remember that “How much you got?” line? I personally know authors who I’m certain have invested significant five-figure dollars of their own money to market their books. Good for them! I say; though I personally can’t afford to do that.

And so, as I write my fourth novel; as I prep my third novel for publishers; I wrestle with a tough, heart-breaking question all too familiar to too many authors. This is a moment where faith must battle doubt, perhaps when dreams overcome reality.

Can I even afford to take these manuscripts out of my sock drawer?