My first suggestion is so dead easy, you’ll wonder why you haven’t done it already! In the back matter of your novel, include a list of questions to stimulate discussion. For whom? For book clubs, of course!
In Vengeance Is Hers, I added a list of questions to get book clubbers talking and possibly arguing. The hardest part of getting a book club on track is keeping everyone on task, reading the books, and not devolving into a wine club. (There is nothing wrong with wine clubs, but I’m talking about getting more readers on board.) Make it easy for book club organizers to choose your novel for their next read. When everything else is in order, this is an easy add-on.
The second enhancement is harder to do and not always scalable, but it would entice more readers.
If you’ve spent any time on TikTok’s Booktok, you’ve seen videos of books with spray-painted edges. Some of them are really beautiful. I love gilded edges. Some edges continue or are consistent with the jacket design.
If you have an artistic streak with a paintbrush, you could elevate your game by decorating the edges and shipping special editions directly. There are other options, like using stickers. Most authors will probably try the DIY approach.
A quick Google search reveals a bunch of companies that will pretty up your edges for you. The first time I heard of this, the author added to the print specs so the printer could add edge art or messages. For direct shipping special editions, selling on Etsy, or to enhance your in-person sales, I see the value in artful edges.
Hemingway said, “Write drunk, edit sober.” I say, stop being such a chicken. Take more risks.
In my fiction, I look for opportunities to do innovative and unexpected things. The chapter titles to This Plague of Days trilogy aren’t just numbers. Go to the table of contents, and the chapters form an epic poem that hints at the complex events across the narrative. Is that weird? I don’t care if it’s weird. The clues to the story are there, but it’s actually more fun for the reader to go back to read that poem again after they’ve completed the trilogy. They’ll gain a deeper understanding once they’ve read the story. (In gaming, they call that replay value.)
In my new thriller, every chapter title is one word that ends in -ion, and relates to what’s happening in that chapter. For instance, instead of Copyright, Table of Contents, and About the Author, you get Notification, Configuration, and Confession, respectively. (And yes, there really are that many useful words with the -ion suffix.)
Some publishers would clutch their pearls at such deviations from the norm. Who cares? I am the helmsman on this voyage, and I say we skip the Panama Canal and risk the storms around the Cape of Good Hope. No one remembers a voyage over calm seas.
Have you got anything besides title tricks, Rob?
Sure. Proper editing ensures that we communicate well and do not confuse readers in our efforts to entertain them. I’m not getting in the way of that, but I will deliver the unexpected. Editors make prose clear, not safe. Who said it was supposed to be safe? To quote another sage of our age, Captain James Tiberius Kirk insisted, “Risk is our business.” Put another way: Let’s be interesting. Resurrect old idioms. Come up with new idioms. Experiment with expressions that have never existed in real life. (Not yet, anyway. I’m hoping some of my innovations catch on.)
I look at Papa’s advice with the same dim view as, “Kill your darlings.” That mindset done too broadly will eliminate your most clever stuff. Inside jokes can be okay. That’s the writer writing for themselves and the die-hard fans. As long as you don’t disappear up your own metaphorical butt, it works a treat. “Works a treat” is a dated British expression some beta reads would flag. Leave it in. They are readers, so assume they’re smarter than stale toast. Trust them to pick up context clues.Free yourselves! Break the rusty chains of the Olde Gods!
Readers who aren’t in the know will skip right by sub-references.
In 1985, I met with the great science fiction writer Spider Robinson. I was a fan, but I hadn’t read all of his stuff yet. He sat me down over coffee and spoke of his origins as a writer. He looked very serious as he opined something like, “I was on my bed, naked, with some good tunes on the stereo, a drink in one hand, some hash in the other, and a book in my lap. It occurred to me that I was bored.” So Spider decided to write his own novels instead of just reading them.
Only after I read more of his work did I run across those words in one of his novels. I didn’t know it at the time, but he was quoting himself.Good on him. When you’ve got good words, don’t give the same speech once.
On Black Friday, I visited Villains, the companion shop to Heroes, the best comics shop in Other London. I bypassed the men-in-tights stuff of my youth and went straight to the indie publishers’ offerings. On the hunt for fresh and interesting stories, I found them. Think in terms of Harvey Pekar’s American Splendor. Or lush watercolors without a single line of dialogue that still tells a story. I’m a fan of Iron Man, but you can’t say Marvel and DC are taking risks. Their products are dependable, but you won’t experience many new flavors.
Writers, take risks. Readers, please indulge us. We’ll make it more fun for both of us.
Now about those pictures
Last night, I could not sleep. With an appointment to get to this morning, I decided to do battle the snowstorm. The first snowfall has always been a tentative thing, a warning of what’s to come. It’s Motherhumping Nature asking, “Have you got your snow tires yet? Did you remember to pull the snow shovels from the shed?” (Yes, to the first question, negatory on the second, dammit.)No mere warning this time, though. Got a big dump of snow that is still pummeling us as I write this.
At 4:45 a.m., I was out there slinging it, testing my new hip. Worked fine and barely raised my heart rate. I shoveled about a foot of snow. By the time I was done that and had cleaned off the car, I had to shovel again. Dug a fresh six inches at 8:45 a.m. Saints preserve us, winter is here. I prefer palm trees, but I do like how quiet the landscape becomes once the sharp edges and hard surfaces are soundproofed under a thick blanket of snow.
And when it gets very cold — Moon cold — the snow squeaks underfoot. Of course, by then, I’m afraid to go outside and hide in my blanket fort, writing the next novel.
I’m happy to be working on a thriller about vigilante justice. The apocalyptic genre has much cooled. This Plague of Days provides many solid tips for doomsday preppers, but fewer readers are inclined to read end-of-the-world stories when they fear they’re about to actually experience them. Citizen Second Class seems closer to where we’re now headed.
President-elect Trump is threatening 25% tariffs on America’s principal trading partners, Canada, China, and Mexico. Every economist is certain that it will increase prices, slow the global economy, and hurt poor people most. Today, I’m hearing several commentators saying he doesn’t mean it. It’s supposedly an opening negotiation tactic, but how can they know? They’re giving him too much credit. Such tactics suggest there’s a strategy and foresight, but Trump’s history is chaotic. He tends to get his opinion from whoever last spoke to him. Destruction of the economy and punishment of the poor is definitely on the table.
While immunologists worry about H1N1 jumping species to humans, RFK wants to freeze immunization research and remove mandates for common vaccines (which is absolutely not how herd immunity works). He thinks the solution to depression is simply to send the afflicted to farms where they have no access to processed food. While Biden wants to get weight-loss drugs covered by insurance, Kennedy wants to ban them. Amid a long-standing epidemic of dangerous obesity and diabetes, RFK says the answer is simply to eat healthy foods. Gee, why didn’t we think of that? For a former heroin addict, he sure doesn’t understand addiction.
Recently, Bill Maher hosted a Stanford-educated doctor who claims med school taught her nothing valuable and that eliminating processed foods is the answer to all metabolic problems. So, “Doctor,” aside from the problematic classism in that stance, you’re telling me that RFK has all the answers, and Trump supporters everywhere will breathe a sigh of relief when you take away all their hamberders?
There was one powerful person who advocated healthy eating, and they condemned her as a communist and a fascist. Remember? Her name was Michelle Obama.
Everything is unprecedented until it’s not.
This post is not a prediction. This is a warning.
Another commentator suggests that all the stuff about tariffs will prove a distraction from Trump’s real goals. Namely, to persecute minorities, transgender people, and the undocumented. Rather than deport undocumented immigrants, the real money may be in the for-profit prison industry as these people, and the unhoused, are put in camps.Trump even plans to eliminate birthright citizenship. A lot of potential for collateral damage there, even among many of those who voted for the Trump presidency.If he goes through with his stated intentions, expect a rise in crime, stress, chaos, and a recession. A lot of people will definitely get hurt. I can’t say how many will be killed due to malice and recklessness.
I write novels. It’s fiction, but I extrapolate from the state of the world.Citizen Second Class, for instance, relied heavily on the premise that the ultra-rich elite would imprison, disenfranchise, and exploit lower classes. In a new society based on classism, racism, and sexism, the over-privileged Illuminati would enter fortified conclaves to keep the starving masses outside their walls. It was supposed to entertain and provoke thought. It wasn’t supposed to be a prediction or prescription.
So, what’s next?
I’ve never heard leftists speak the way some did after Kamala Harris failed to win the White House. I ran across a vocal minority on social media who had become more interested in self-defense, namely arming up. Others sound like the preppers and doomers I’ve written about in This Plague of Days. At the very least, those who could are stocking up on foodstuffs in anticipation of a rise in the cost of living.
I suspect many people will withdraw from political action if they have that privilege. Some people who were politically active will find solace in sports, music, and whatever else soothes them. Maybe more people will read again, much like they did during the height of the pandemic. Others will be spurred to reorganize to meet the moment when the mid-terms and the next presidential election arrive.
It is silly to say, “He didn’t do it last time, so he won’t this time.” Last time, he had a few people holding him back. Last time, the Supreme Court didn’t make him a king who could do no wrong. This time, he’s surrounded by hateful, sycophantic nuts.
Another favorite: “I like him because he says what he means. Now let me bend your ear on why he doesn’t really mean the bad stuff.” Trump’s stated intentions for changes in tax policy, immigration, deportation, foreign policy, and tariffs comprise a perfect storm of humanitarian and economic disaster.
Petulance is not a policy. It’s the basis for recrimination for his grievances, and it won’t help his constituency. He’s not even interested in serving all Americans.I don’t have to extrapolate into the future to say that. We need only look at his history.
If you are happy Donald Trump was elected, no worries for you. No one listens to my warnings, anyway. What’s making some of his supporters nervous are the voices of liberals saying, “Okay, you won. Now we’ll see if you’ll enjoy what you voted for. You assumed he’d only come for us. Wait. We’ll see how you feel when the melon felon affects you.”
I take no pleasure in this. I prefer disasters described in fiction. It seems that if you want real positive, progressive change, it’s up to the accelerationists now.
My coffeemaker died this morning. Usually, this would be an earth-shaking event. Looking for reviews of new hot bean juice dispensers, I went down a rabbit hole and found myself in a hilarious corner of Internet Shopping Hell.
While scanning for Black Friday and Cyber Monday deals, I indulged the whim of searching “Best Retirement Gifts for Men.” I’m not retiring. Writers never retire. We just keep typing until we expire. First thing that pops up? Memorial wind chimes.
MEMORIAL WIND CHIMES?! Really, Amazon? Ah, yes, every time the breeze blows, the gentle tinkling reminds me of dead Papa! He haunts the back patio, demanding entrance to the house. And at night, the demons come.
That’s the gift you want the moment you retire, right? Now that you’ve opted out of producing for capitalism, please die quickly. We will remember you fondly, Gary! (The guy in the memorial wind chime photo looks like a Gary. The other guy looks like a Eugene. Both tragic.)
And then there’s this bullshit.
Wear that anywhere, sure! However, you won’t be able to sit down and rest for a single moment. You’ll be too busy running from jeering children. Women will spit. Men will weep. Grandmas will beat you with umbrellas. Even the village idiot will look away, embarrassed for you. Clergy will throw rocks, urging you on, forever fleeing, banished to wretched solitude in dark, cursed forests. Only there will you be able to finally sit on your contraption to a cold repast of earthworns, pine cones, and regret.
Wearing sweatpants in public used to signal that you’d given up. Welcome to the new sweatpants.
My parents did brave things. Having kids is brave. Starting and running several businesses took courage and ongoing resolve. My mom saved lives as a lifeguard and a nurse. My dad dealt with criminals and physical conflict several times. The hardest thing they dealt with was the end of their lives. Mortality is scary, but they faced the Reaper with grace. (Well, Mom was pretty mad about it, but with her last breath she did wave goodbye.)
I was unfair to my parents.
When I was younger, I thought fear governed them. I felt that whatever I wanted to do, they were there to thwart my ambitions. Mom and Dad seemed to wage a war on fun. I don’t think I fully understood their protective impulses until I had kids of my own. You want to shield your children from harm, and you worry a lot. You also want to prepare them for the world. It’s a difficult balance.
When I said I wanted to be a journalist, my parents were supportive. Working for newspapers and magazines sounded relatively safe to them. Switching my aims to working for book publishers pleased them, too. Later, when I said I was going to be a freelance writer, they got nervous. They were right to be so.
The night I told my parents, “I’m an artist,” I’m sure Mom hurt herself rolling her eyes. I could never make enough money to satisfy my father. They never asked if I was happy, only how much money I was making. With my kids, I’m only concerned if they are not happy. They’re smart and good, so I have confidence everything will work out for them.
Part of what I do is not so different from what my parents did, anyway. They started and ran multiple businesses. I’ve done the same over the years. I am now down to one. Writing is the artistic side, but publishing is a business, and it is not easy.
Too often, authors don’t think of what they do as a business.
If you are writing for a readership greater than one, you’re an author in business. Though putting words to paper can be therapeutic, it is not my therapy or merely a hobby. I write crime thrillers and apocalyptic epics to entertain. Is it profitable? My point is it’s supposed to be. I put movies in my readers’ heads. The story in your head lasts much longer than a trip to the movie theater. My latest thriller took two years to write, and there are many costs involved in bringing a book to market. So, yes, I’d like to get paid so I can continue to write. No shame in that. I love writing, but that doesn’t mean I can do it for free.
With much disapproval in her tone, Mom once told me, “You’re judged by the company you keep.” The company I keep is Ex Parte Press. Please support authors. Read books. Literacy makes everything better, and I’m a big fan of fun.
I added a little scene to my vigilante thriller yesterday, so I thought I’d share it. Here’s what you need to know: Molly Jergins attends Poeticule Bay Consolidated High School. After a fellow student, Barry Graves, is attacked by the school bully, Keith Faun, Molly confronts Keith. After that scene, a teacher shows up. Molly proves that, despite her young age (or perhaps because of her youth), she’s made of sterner stuff.
Oration: Scene fragment / Molly and Mrs. Simmons
Molly’s history teacher, Mrs. Abby Simmons, pushed her way through the crowd. “Hey! People! The bell has rung! Get to class! What’s going on? I’ve got an empty classroom, and I get lonely talking to myself! All of you have somewhere to be!”
Molly, sporting a wide and grateful grin, turned to her. “Sure, Mrs. Simmons!”
Keith turned and walked away, and Molly called after him, “You’re welcome!”
Some students snickered. Mrs. Simmons shushed them and waved them on. The crowd dispersed. A few of the juniors and sophomores touched Molly’s shoulder as a silent gesture of respect as they passed. She was relieved, certain that those witnesses and their phones had saved her from getting a black eye, or worse.
“What are you up to, Molly? Did you just make a bad situation worse?” Mrs. Simmons demanded.
“Me? Nah. That guy is like an ice cream headache. He’s going to get worse before he gets better. Not that anyone cares, but a lot of us don’t feel safe going to this school.”
By her eyes, Molly could tell the teacher didn’t disagree. Mrs. Simmons didn’t feel safe, either.
“You should know,” Mrs. Simmons said, “when you’re young and immature, you’ve got a lot more anger and energy. You look at the state of the world and….” She trailed off. They were alone in the corridor, but the teacher still looked around nervously to make sure no one else was within earshot.
“What is it, ma’am?” Molly prompted.
The teacher’s jaw worked for a moment as she searched for the right words. Finally, Mrs. Simmons said, “I just think you should appreciate that a lot of people around here, not just the students, are appalled by the incident between Keith and the Graves boy. But we’re also tired and just trying to get through our days. The police and the principal were informed. The ball’s in their court now. What’s best is to leave it be. Not our monkeys, not our circus anymore, right?”
Molly cocked her head to one side. “You’re tired?”
“Of this business? Surely and immeasurably.”
“If you’re tired, imagine how exhausted Barry must be. It sounds like you’ve given up, ma’am.”
“You will, too. Everybody does. When you learn the limits of what you can do, it makes sense to set your sights lower.”
“Spoken as a true educator, Mrs. Simmons! You’re an inspiration!”
The teacher shot her a sour look. “Tend to your own knitting, Molly, and get your butt to class.”
“I’ve got a free period in the library, ma’am.”
“Then get to it.”
She’d meant to curb Keith, not shame Mrs. Simmons. “Sorry,” Molly said, “maybe you’re right. I guess a lot of people do give up for whatever reason. I understand you’re trying to help me.”
But Molly couldn’t leave it at that, couldn’t stop herself. “As long as I’m still young and full of energy, though, I think I’ll keep on being angry when it’s right to be angry. Your way, powerless people stay powerless. You taught me that in your history class.”
Molly thought she had earned herself a detention, but Mrs. Simmons said nothing more. The teacher spun on her heel and strode back to her classroom.
Whatever happens, Molly cautioned herself, don’t turn into her. Don’t get so chicken of being wrong that you don’t do right.
Looks like we’ll get our first real snow here tomorrow. The malls are packed with shoppers, but people don’t go into panic-shopping mode until the weather turns and it really looks like Christmas is coming. Now that December 25 is just a few weeks away, it’s time to order your Christmas books.
