Happy 85th birthday, Cormac McCarthy. 85 years. What a genius.
The video here is me reading my poem, “The Kid,” inspired by his novel Blood Meridian. One of my favorite horror stories of all time, although it usually isn’t classified as horror. To me, it certainly is. What else would you call a novel about a gang of ex-Army scalp hunters gone rogue during the Mexican-American War?
It is my belief that poetry should be heard, not read, and while mine isn’t that good, it’s a form of writing I’m constantly trying to practice and improve. Take a listen and let me know what you think in the comments.
Hey friends. This is a breakdown (for educational purposes) about the outcomes of my recent free book promotion with BookBub for Lurk. It will probably not be of interest to you unless you’re a self-published or small press author, thinking about becoming a self-published or small press author, or are just really really into the process of marketing books (if the last one is you, you’re sick).
After about 30 days, the steady flow of reviews, KENP page reads, ebook and paperback sales is finally starting to peter off back down to my normal, pre-promotion levels, so I thought I would do a quick post-mortem to show how exposure really is everything, and that even giving away your ebook to thousands of people can be a huge boon to sales and visibility.
Back in August, I was accepted to BookBub’s promotion newsletter for my first novel, Lurk. At the time, Lurk had seen some moderate success, but was still mostly unknown. I’d sold about 1,000 copies across all media, long since made back my initial $1500 investment in cover art + editing + promotion, and was taking in about $250-350 a month in combined royalties (ebook, paperback, audiobook, and KENP). Some authors may not wish to discuss sales and income but since my sales are pretty pathetic, and the purpose of this post is transparency, I don’t mind. When I was accepted for BookBub, the book had 26 reviews on Amazon, around 40 text reviews on Goodreads, and 100~ish ratings on Audible (my main source of sales).
I made my book free for five days. The BookBub promotion was on the first free day. For a free book promotion in the horror category, BookBub charged me $160 dollars. I opted for the free promotion rather than a $.99 or $1.99 promotion both because it was much cheaper, and because my main goal was not sales but exposure. I just wanted to get my book on as many people’s Kindles as possible, as I was confident that once most started reading it, they would be hooked and want to finish.
The Initial Results
More than 26,000 people downloaded the book in the first three days of the free promotion. Reviews began flooding in almost instantly, most of them positive, some glowing – one lady said she thought I was Stephen King writing under a new pseudonym (she was being super nice, but that felt pretty good). Lurk reached the number one spot in all of its categories, and the number 4 overall (free) book on the Kindle store. For a brief moment, I got a taste of the pie that the very very very most successful of you self-pubs are eating, and it was awesome. Seeing my book hit those ranks alone was worth the $160 bucks I paid for the promo.
However, the real benefit came later, from Kindle Unlimited. Lurk is in Kindle Unlimited, something I never paid much thought to before this promotion, as I was only hitting about 10k KENP pages read every month (around $40). But at the height of the promotion, and for about two weeks after, I was getting 10k pages read or close to that every day. As of writing, I am still getting around 4k per day.
Because of this massive boost, my combined royalties for the past month are going to be over $1k. That is a milestone I honestly thought I would never reach in my writing career, much less with this book. In a way it feels like winning the lottery. There are many of you out there who probably see $1k as a bad month, but I write weird books about weird shit, my audience is niche, and I’m admittedly terrible at finding it, even worse at the whole marketing thing.
The first two weeks after the sale also saw my normal ebook and paperback sales get a massive spike. At one point I was moving 10 ebooks and 3-5 paperbacks a day. Again, shit numbers for some of you, but for me, this was huge. Audiobook sales hit a snag, though, which is interesting. A bunch of people who got the book for free during the promotion downloaded the audiobook through Whispersync, and maybe that particular well has gone dry, because the past month has been the worst for my audiobook sales since I released Lurk on Audible. Not complaining, but it is interesting.
How Did This Promo Affect My Reviews?
As for reader reviews, that magic, ever-elusive phenomenon we all know is worth more to us than all the BookBub promotions under the sun – Lurk * currently has 65 reviews on Amazon, most of them verified. I’m a little bit peeved the top review is a 3-star review that talks about plot holes/character inconsistencies that are resolved in the first chapter … but I digress.
The vast majority of the new reviews on Amazon have been four and five stars. Lurk is currently sitting at around 300 ratings and 70 reviews on Goodreads. Goodreads in general is a bit of a tougher crowd, and the spread of positive to negative reviews is a little wider there. Still mostly positive, although I have seen some interesting trends on there that I haven’t seen on Amazon (like a few people one or two-starring several different editions of the book at once to lower its score).
My conclusion is that the BookBub promo, if you can get it, is a massive boon to helping your book find its audience. I made back my $160 investment for the free promotion more than six-fold, got a ton of new reviews, and am extremely happy with the outcome of this promotion. It’s a myth to say that nothing good can come from giving away your book for free. I wonder how my results would’ve differed if I’d asked for a buck instead of nothing during the promotion, but I’m content enough with the results to not really care.
My Eastern Europe-based dark fantasy/post-apocalyptic/Wizard of Oz on three bottles of vodka novel Corruption, Book one of the Corruption Cycle, has had an admittedly small number of readers since it hit Amazon two months ago. Much smaller than my horror debut Lurk, which seems to be selling better each month (especially on Audible). I never planned to make money writing books, and so the royalties I get from Lurk continue to be a pleasant surprise.
By comparison, Corruption doesn’t have a single review yet on Amazon, and none of the reviewers I reached out to before the book’s launch have gotten around to it yet. I have done exactly zero promotion for the book, which I know is not ideal. A few people have purchased it on Amazon or read it on KDP. But, so far, the book is still a complete unknown.
What’s the deal with my crappy sales?
There are a few reasons for the book being slow to launch, and I’m not ignorant to them; it is my fault for not putting a bunch of money behind it to buy ad space and promotion stuff right when it came out, which is the typical strategy indie authors use to get a book off the ground. My approach to editing was iterative. Some of the early drafts I sent to my beta readers or interested friends/family were pretty rough, which I could’ve waited on. I also don’t think the first blurb I wrote was very good, and made the book sound kind of boring. So I did the sensible thing and rewrote it, and the new blurb is a vast, vast improvement.
The last thing, and this is smaller but still important… I didn’t do my due diligence in getting reviewers lined up before the launch. Group psychology is a real thing when it comes to book sales. Readers want the books they pick up to already be vetted by other readers, because books take a lot more work than other forms of entertainment to truly enjoy. The reviewers I reached out to were people whose opinions I trust for good or ill, but they are all pretty popular, which means their to-be-read piles are gargantuan.
Word of mouth is king. If nobody knows your book exists, they can’t talk about or recommend it, can they? This is the precisely the conundrum I found myself in with Corruption. I needed exposure, but I know my flaws, and the biggest one by far when it comes to writing stuff is that I am terrible at self-promotion.
The SPFBO is a contest held by best-selling grimdark author Mark Lawrence each year to shine a light on works by indie authors that fall under the umbrella of fantasy fiction that would otherwise go lost in the shit sluice that is book publishing in 2017. I don’t mean that every self-published book out there is shit. My books are both self-published (Lurk had a publisher, but they went under). No, “shit sluice” here only means that there are a ton of books out there – something like 1,000,000 e-books on Amazon alone – and getting yours noticed without the push of a big New York publisher behind you is near impossible without a fame-wave or mountains of disposable cash to ride on.
As far as exposure goes, the SPFBO is an indie author’s dream come true. Fantasy readers are voracious for new stuff to read, and the contest tends to filter for some truly awesome books. Authors who make it to the final round get a massive boost in eyeballs, if not sales, and it’s not just the fans who are watching. Josiah Bancroft, who wrote the Books of Babel, one of last year’s SPFBO finalists, just nailed down a book deal with a big New York publisher. How cool would that be? And he wasn’t the only one.
Anyway, the contest takes about a year to play out. But the initial feedback from the reviewers is in, and Corruption made the top 12 covers in the contest… out of a pool of 300! Go go go little book. Of course, a great cover doesn’t mean a book is good or bad, but it is absolutely true that the cover is the first thing that sells the book. I’m extremely proud of how Corruption’s cover came out, and think my designer, J. Caleb Clark, knocked it out of the park, capturing the story perfectly in a simple, clean image that really stands out on the shelf.
Take a gander:
Plan of Attack Moving Forward: Do More Stuff
I’m planning to really start pushing Corruption end of summer/beginning of fall. I just don’t have time or funds to do it seriously before then, and my experience getting Lurk airborne has taught me that it’s better to do it right than right now. The audiobook is in production, though, and should be on Audible in the next two or three months. I’m already hard at work on the sequel, which is tentatively titled Virtue.
If you dig grimdark fantasy/portals/end of the world stuff/tales of drunken debauchery in foreign countires or all of the above, Corruption may be just the dark fantasy fix you need. A link to buy the book is at the beginning of this article. The ebook is $5 and paperbacks are $18.
WHEN HE WAS YOUNG, Covfefe’s father would take him for wharble rides. “Watch for the spout!” his father would say, and hoist the young birpl into the air to blow a big, wet kiss on his belly. Covfefe would squirm and laugh, and they’d fly together through the endless halls of their world-house, father and son, the perfect pair, until his father got tired or dinner was ready or some other cataclysm wrenched apart their loving bond.
Would that those short bursts of birplhood bliss could’ve lasted forever. But bliss is not something made to last.
Whenever Covfefe considered what it meant to be good, in all the long millennia he lived to consider that question, that was the memory his mind always came back to: his father taking him for wharble rides through the empty, root-filled halls of their world-house. And now that Covfefe was dying, what it meant to be good was the single, all-consuming thought rattling around in his quantum brains. That, and the pain of slow disintegration.
How was it possible he had wasted so many millions – or was it billions? – of years, when his father, a strong, sturdy mirple, simpler than Covfefe, but good, had seemed to live so well on a measly three hundred thousand? How had Covfefe consumed so many worlds and all their myriad species, yet never seemed to feel content, while his father had only needed the two? Those damned two. His dad always bragged about those two like they meant something. Those pitiful two worlds were a veritable family myth. Every time Covfefe’s father had gone out with his friends and gotten drunk on the Good Old Dark Stuff, he’d told the same damned story about how he’d grown to his size without ever extinguishing another life, not even one as small as a single cell. His father’s world-stomach had been so refined with the liquor of goodness it had only consumed cold planets.
Covfefe felt another world slip out of him, and his quantum body slimmed a little more. This one hurt. In the vastness of spacetime, Covfefe winced. It wouldn’t be long now. A few hundred million, maybe a billion years. Not much time at all.
How could his father have been so proud of only two worlds? The old fool had missed the best part of being a mirpl: drinking that beautiful energy as a hot civilization disappeared down one’s world-gullet. Covfefe had surpassed his father’s record before the second millennia of his quantum life. And, as all strong, conservative, world-stomach-minded mirpls knew, once you devoured your tenth star system, your world-intake skyrocketed. Covfefe’s world-stomach-portfolio had exploded after his tenth at a rate that could only be described as “mental.”
Yet here Covfefe was going cold himself. His quantum body was finally, albeit slowly, dispersing back into all its inanimate, constituent parts, and the question of what it meant to be good was unrelenting, like a super-massive black hole at the center of his being sucking in all other possible thoughts. His world-stomach-portfolio didn’t mean a damned thing now, did it? All the lives he’d consumed, from the small to the tall, raised their ever-deafening screams from the silence of the void at all hours. How was he supposed to rest, if he couldn’t even close his local clusters without seeing them? Without wondering what if?
What if someone had done that to him and his family? What if he had never had the chance to take a wharble ride at all, because someone else’s world-stomach-portfolio was more important?
He’d enjoyed eating all those warm worlds, hadn’t he? Feeling their lives disappear into his own insatiable mass? He had. They’d made him drunker than the Good Old Dark Stuff, so drunk that for most of his adult life, all Covfefe could think about was eating more of them.
And only now, in hindsight, could Covfefe see that this was the worst part of the deal. Because, like any rational creature large enough to have a quantum brain spanning millions – or was it billions? – of miles, Covfefe knew what it meant to be good, and that he wasn’t. He knew that it was too late for him to change. He knew he would never give anyone a wharble ride, despite having more offspring than there existed atoms of certain heavier elements in this universe. He knew he could never brag to his friends over a parsec of the best top-shelf Dark Stuff that he’d grown to this size by only consuming cold matter.
The disintegration quickened, and one more world slipped away. Covfefe thought of the wharble rides again. Between the stabbing daggers of pain, he wondered if it was possible, had he grown large enough – another dozen or three dozen or three million worlds, perhaps – that he could earn the power to reverse the flow of time. He still had the energy to give it the old Particle Era try, didn’t he? To eat a few more, hot or cold? To do anything but sadly wither away without leaving a single positive mark on the universe of his birth?
But there were no more worlds in this quadrant. He’d eaten them all. And, sadly for him, there would be no more anywhere else, either – by the time he reached them, he would be too weak. It dawned on Covfefe then that not even gods have the power to undo their mistakes once it’s too late.
Which sort of makes all their other powers irrelevant, doesn’t it?
There is a click, click, click coming down the hall. The eaves that echo with every footfall, the ladder creaks as she begins to climb. Hands parting the cobwebs of this old attic. She hasn’t been up here in years.
The picture fills her hands and she cries. “I miss you, Mom. I love you so much. I miss the way you used to sing. I miss you making me soup when I was sick. I miss you just sitting there, watching me sleep. I miss you. I miss you.”
But she can’t hear me when I whisper, “I still do.”
I’ve posted a few pieces of previously-published short fiction here lately, and here’s why. It’s my goal to eventually make all of the short stories I publish in magazines or anthologies free to read online, once the rights revert back to me. I’ve never published original short fiction on here, but that might be in the cards someday, too. I know it’s fashionable these days for some bigger-name authors to post shorts as Patreon rewards to their donors, which is annoying, and would hurt my image as a grumpy old curmudgeon, so I’m not gonna do it.
So far, of the roughly ten pieces of short fiction I’ve sold, almost all of them meet the “free” criteria, and are free to read for anyone with an Internet connection right here on this website (or several others). Many are also available as Kindle ebooks. I’m still trying to master the art of making Kindle books perma-free on Amazon, so for now the ebook versions are set at $.99.