Never too late to recreate.

(Just keep taking your flea and tick medicine)

I’ll admit it.

I ain’t proud. I’m an old dog learning a doghouse full of new tricks.

Burned out being an art gigolo, I am exploring the new career of writing. Been sniffing and digging around the hood, finding fresh smells to tap about. Enjoying fresh grass to run my whiskers through, discovering novel ways to express myself.

Becoming a writer has released my creative spirit. My imagination expands as I build worlds with characters, scenes, and twisting plots. Reality has become easier to manage. Like discovering clever ways to pay bills, changing the patterns I cut the lawn, and creating fun ways to say “no” to avoid responsibility.

Dormant facets of my mind have revived—innovated ways of thinking, productive sparks of motivation, prolific moments of joy—rejuvenating a new passion for life. The transformation reminds me that change is good. Rediscovering laughter and learning allow me to view life with eyes not so serious.

My bark is louder, and my growls are fierce. This dog’s tail is wagging.

Yes, writing is what I want to do when I grow up.

Now becoming a published writer—a downright gen-u-wine author—has recently caused my tail to tuck and my pace to heel.

Out of the pantry comes a big can of R&D’s Worm Treats. The back label, displayed in micro-sized type, informs me that inside is all I need to know about self-promotion success. It demands opening; the contents consumed one squirmy, informative detail at a time.

Each wiggler I swallow gags the bliss of creative rapture I’ve grown to love with writing.

See, in ancient days before the World Wide Web spun its trappings of social media and self-publishing, becoming an author was different. A writer could pen a manuscript, submit queries to agents and/or publishers, and hopefully get a book deal. The publisher—equipped with editors, artists, and promoters—would tailor and package the book. Agent and publisher would publicize and distribute the author’s novel, assisting with schedules for book signings and interviews—all for a healthy percentage of the earnings.

This history lesson lacks much detail, but the simple lecture allows me to clarify the bad, earthy taste in my mouth.

Today, a wannabe author writes the manuscript. To be truly successful in submitting queries, you should already have a following online. I’ve heard many times, “agents and publishers will not even look at a query that doesn’t give them a follower count next to the manuscript word count.”

WTF? (My old, canine head cocks to the side, like I just heard a fart)

Talk about putting the cart before the horse.

How does a writer, who has nothing published, supposed to promote their book before anyone can read anything?

After scratching at fleas for the last year, I finally discovered the ointment of an answer to calm the itch of confusion: You promote yourself. Gain a pursuit of likes and followers on social media that have similar interests as you. Let them know you are writing a novel and introduce the genre of book you are writing. Blah. Blah, blah. Next, you’ll find influencers to interview you. You do. You. Blah, gabby, gabby, blah, blah.

Again, another paragraph of information lacking so many details. But one important point worth mentioning—compared to pre-internet days, agents and publishers do little to help their authors with promotion. Ideas offered, suggestions made, and they still take their chunk of profit for preparing your book and protecting your rights. Getting you and your book out there to the masses is primarily up to you.

Who has time to write? (Writer’s joke regarding this shit.)

Self-publishing opens another can of squirmy treats. I’ll chew and gag on that in a later post.

Self-promotion is the current issue.

Having worked in the advertising business for way too long, I understand the dynamics of a successful promotional campaign. Having managed social media for clients, coordinating content release and establishing brand identification, I understand the emphasis of interest needed to capture and maintain an audience.

So, Hook? If you know so much about this shit, why haven’t you been updating your own social accounts? Where the fuck is the expertise in posting absolutely nothing for the last few months?

The answer has two parts. First, after spending so much time building the website and establishing my social malarky accounts, I needed to get back to finishing FEAR. It is now out with beta readers, and will proceed to an editor once updated.

The second answer is more excuse than reason. My horse could not push the cart because it’s full of baggage. I unpacked the first bag last week and found a suitcase stuffed with self-promotional paranoia.

This tick has been digging and sucking life-force from under my fur for almost thirteen years. Discovering the bastard, pinching it off and crushing the bloated parasite, is…fucking glorious.

Here’s how it latched on: I entered a short essay in a contest to win a house. I felt confident in my essay, and weeks later received notice that, out of over 28,000 entries, they picked mine as one of ten finalists. Won a digital video camera and some other crap as a bonus. With the cameras, the ten finalists filmed their essays to post online for a voting campaign. I hired a friend in the industry to direct, shoot, and edit the video.

He did an incredible job.

The ten videos posted, and for the next three weeks, a month, seemed like a lifetime, I crusaded. As a daily vote, I got friends, family, co-workers, strangers to vote for me. Calling and emailing everyone, every fucking day, to vote. After buying and designing two billboards in the city I lived in at the time, local news interviewed me about my outdoor message.

To drive people to the site.

And vote.

I dressed in my costume from the video to spend an afternoon with the mascot from the company sponsoring the contest, to drive diners to vote.

Handing out business cards, making phone calls, getting little sleep, posting votes, lapsing at work, driving my wife and kids, all my family and friends crazy…self-promoting myself into an obsessive freak of nature.

Contest ended. We waited and found out we lost. It was time to heal.

Nope.

Two other contestants who lost contacted me. One guy, disqualified for an action we’d all been given permission to take, found the next contestant to discuss the issue. She added being pissed off over the results not being released. A lawsuit began, starting with four of the ten finalists. By the time lawyers met, there were only two of us left.

Almost three months after the contest ended, we were both given minimal compensation and the final tally of votes. By the end of the contest, putting in over 250 votes a day myself (for people who tired of doing it, and no doubt tired of hearing my cheerleading rants), we lost by only 50 votes.

SILVER ALERT: Wooden cart full of stupid shit, pushed by stupid ass.

I apologize to you, m’crew.

The realization hit me like a miss-tossed ham bone.

The hesitation to begin my promotional madness belongs in paranoia-poop bags. Maintaining a low- to no-online profile all these years makes sense now.

Nonsense is a type of sense, right?

That pole I pissed on was all about winning. I’ve scratched dirt and am moving on.

This new adventure is about sharing. Sharing my journey of becoming a writer, and hopefully, a doggone author. If you want to hop on my new cart, outstanding. Share your interests along the trail; your thoughts, your creative journeys as well.

They are most welcome.

If not, that’s cool. We can smell butts and bark farewell.

Young, mature, immature and old—are you starting a new career? If so, I hope it is something creative and fills your heart and spirit with happiness and enthusiasm. Make sure you add a big bowl full of Challenge Kibble. (If it’s easy, boredom will make you rabid in failure.)

To make amends, I will post the first two chapters to FEAR in the next week. Here. On M’blog.

Hope the teaser tantalizes your reader-brain buds.

Be strange, but don’t be a stranger.

Woof.

Hook