They say if you learn from it, money is never wasted. If that's true, then I'm just a regular fount of wisdom!
When I launched my first self-published book back in 2011, it was a big deal. And I really, really fucked it up.
Just entering my junior year, I was 20 and lived on my college campus in a shared suite with five other guys. I was active in the community, and a sports reporter and Managing Editor of the school newspaper. My suitemates would joke that every time we went somewhere, I found someone I knew (accurate most of the time). So when the book launched, it was a campus-wide announcement.
Friends, acquaintances, almost everyone I knew bought a copy and wanted my signature. I donated some to book giveaway and drop-off locations and they would vanish near-instantly. People I didn’t know would recognize me just walking around campus because their friends bought it.
If you're thinking this is the perfect scenario and no one could mess this up, then rest assured, I did!
This is how I fucked up.
My first mistake: I didn't know it at the time, but I published with a fairly well-known vanity press (Xlibris). FUUUUUCK.
And then when I released the sequel in 2012, I did it again.
All together now: FUUUUUCK.
Why did I do it? Lack of research, I didn’t know any better…continue ad infinitum. I was old enough to make my own decisions, but too young to realize their consequences.
If you don’t know what vanity presses are, they’re self-publishing companies that prey on writers.
Like your stereotypical fuckboy, they assault you with compliments on your writing, tell you how pretty you are, and trick you into forking over thousands of dollars for ludicrous “publishing packages.” The packages do include editing and cover design (plus some other useless shit), but in the end, result in a book being published with the author retaining all the rights.
My saving grace? I bought at a heavy discount. If I commissioned cover art and editing services from freelancers, I would have spent about the same amount.
So at least I was smart about being stupid.
It wasn’t all terrible. The edit of my first book was good. Whomever the editor was took time to comment and explain the different grammar rules and reasons for suggested edits. Granted, they don’t do developmental editing and I did not have the book beta-read. So you can imagine some of the terrible writing that managed to slip through. But we’ll come back to that later.
The cover is fine, too. It’s probably just a stock photo with some minor Photoshop-ing, but it’s eye-catching, fit my genre, and looks professional.
Anyway. My first book sold well and actually garnered some reviews, despite me doing little (if any) promotion, and I did (somehow) make back my money spent, and then some. Which is pretty wild for using a vanity press.
And, get this, people liked it. I’ve re-read it and I think it’s fucking horrible. But one of my friends told me they read The Hunger Games just before, and said mine was better (LOL ok man). Someone’s brother said they loved it so much they wanted to do a book report on it for school.
But that’s enough positivity—this is still How I Fucked Up.
I should have seen the signs, but we never do, do we?
Even when we’re walking, not paying attention, and smack our faces right upon their cold, metal edges.
The edit for my second book wasn’t great. Neither was the cover. I went back and forth with a designer until it was acceptable, but I still don’t like it all that much.
The editor didn’t have as many comments or corrections, but I chalked it up to me being a better and more experienced writer. While that was true, geez, the ego on this dude (me).
Oh well. The book released to similar results as the first. So, fine, whatever.
However, I’ve omitted something pretty crucial. Any of y’all self-publishing wizards probably noticed.
I haven’t mentioned eBooks. Or Amazon.
Everyone wanted copies from me in person. Meaning, I sold paperbacks and hardcovers. Once my personal stock ran out, I bought more at heavy discounts and repeated the cycle.
You can probably see what I’m getting at.
My Amazon ranks tanked. The listings sucked. I had no idea how to edit it or make it enticing. Before I knew it, the two books had fallen into the depths of Amazon where no book-buyers dare traverse, akin to the deepest parts of the Mines of Moria.
Yes, those are real screenshots I took years ago. My 3rd book is included.
I would say the deepest parts of the ocean, but at least there I would have bottom feeders to eat whatever floats down—not where these books went. Not even a fucking sea cucumber would be there for me.
My social media presence? Didn’t help. I was as active as most college guys on Facebook, but had no platform otherwise. Notice how my Twitter account only has ~1,000 followers and I’ve owned the account for 12 years? That’s pretty much all from my 2021 Nick Twitter Revival Tour™. Just don’t ask about Instagram…
Anyway, blah blah blah eBooks, blah blah blah Amazon, blah blah blah Twitter. Because I neglected my online presence, guess who else bought the books?
Nobody.
Thought that was bad? Well, button your britches. It’s about to get worse.
It’s cliché, but life got in the way. I didn’t write again for five years. Despite me saying this series would have four books, and I’d finish before I graduated. Hey, gotta give me some credit for ambition.
I finished undergrad in 2013, went right into an accelerated MBA program that following semester, graduated in 2014, and started my first post-college professional job. Then in 2015, I bought a home (condo, but home sounds better).
Side note: Apologies to the women I dated from 2012-2015 whom I promised a signed copy of my third book, once written, but we broke up before I finished. In my defense, it was a pretty good line. Also in my defense, I didn’t have a book to sign.
Fast-forward to 2017.
At age 26, I started writing again. A better writer than I was in my early twenties, and my third book is awesome. I loved every second of writing it, and my select-few beta readers loved every second of reading it.
I stopped holding back, and poured into it every fiber of my writerly-being. My longest book, my most complex, a culmination of so many character arcs and plotlines finally melding together. My magnum opus (at the time). Might still be.
It was done and ready to publish in 2018.
So, with what I learned and experienced since college, the writing process, everything…what do you think I did?
The exact same fucking thing I did before.
Same tactics.
Same vanity press.
Louder, for everyone in the back: FUUUUUCK.
The edit wasn’t good. Worse than book two. Long stretches of pages without markups or comments. Any editor worth their salt would never let that happen. I don’t care too much about a few typos because every book has them, but the published version has more than I would’ve liked.
The cover is pretty dope, I won’t lie. If it was a stock photo, then they definitely edited it to fit the setting of my book. The designer—or someone guiding them along—absolutely read it. Kudos to whoever you are, slaving away at a scam-artist “publishing” house—you done good.
I received my complimentary copies late one night. Boxes of books. They were beautiful, professional. I sent pictures to my girlfriend and everyone I was close with. I was so excited to finally tear the boxes open.
But I wasn’t in college anymore. I kept in contact with less than 25% of the people I knew. My massive reader pool was now more like a bathtub.
Care to guess what happened next?
I barely sold any copies.
This was my best work, something I was so proud of, and nobody bought it.
Okay, I’m lying. Some did. My awesome family and friends. A few strangers. And I am thankful for each and every one.
I didn’t have a blog, my social media presence was (and still is) garbage. So none of my “fans” (lol) had any way of keeping in touch with me over my six year hiatus. My marketing was non-existent.
To those who know me: Yes, I am fully aware of the irony of a marketing major fucking up the marketing of his books.
I tried Amazon ads.
I researched and enrolled in a couple courses on how to optimize your Amazon listings & position your books to be god’s gift to literature. I had a plan, my listings for all three books looked gorgeous, I knew my budget, and was ready.
Then, Amazon wouldn’t let me.
The thing about using a vanity press is, even though you’re self-published and retain all the rights, you are not the publisher. The vanity press is.
And to use Amazon ads, you need to be the publisher.
Fuck.
But I didn’t quit.
I unleashed my secret weapon.
It's really not that exciting but I enjoy being overly dramatic.
A domain name I had been sitting on since 2013.
I learned how to build a website and implement SEO—as much as my pea-brain can handle, anyway. It’s not live anymore, but my site wasn’t bad for a first-timer.
Still didn’t do social media though.
I created a press kit and offered “ARC” copies—and by ARC copies, I mean unsold books.
But I hustled the shit out of those kits, reaching out to local magazines, newspapers, and other media outlets for reviews and/or interviews.
The great thing about your book not selling is you can continue to say it’s a new release because no one knows it exists.
And, I shit you not, I got a few bites.
One local magazine asked for an ARC, so I sent one of my, uh, “ARC” copies. The editor told me she thoroughly enjoyed the book, but it may not suit their audience—in her defense, my books are epic fantasies with copious bloodshed, and this was a small-town magazine—so she chose not to promote it. She said to let know if I ever write anything less violent. Bullshit? Maybe.
I never wrote anything less violent, so I lost her email address.
A popular local newspaper reporter wanted a phone interview. Said it was so cool a guy from my hometown wrote a few books, and loved the material I sent. She chatted with me about it via email for some days, and scheduled the phone call.
Sick. Here we go. My big break. I was so pumped, I requested a couple of hours of vacation time in the afternoon to accommodate her schedule.
At the time, I worked in a multi-story building with dozens of companies throughout its many floors. I ascended to one of the upper stories into a public conference room, sat and waited for this phone call as well-dressed people meandered on by, sneaking looks at this weird, sweaty guy in a suit hanging out in a conference room all by himself.
And the reporter fucking ghosted me.
A half hour later came an apology email, asking to reschedule. But I was met with excuse after excuse, delay after delay, for days and weeks after the fact until she stopped responding.
I know, I know, it seems like I’m just complaining about nothing. I’m sure others have had worse. But that fucking hurt.
My SEO and website efforts weren’t doing much, either—I hardly saw any traffic on most days, and the elation from each notification that someone signed up for my email list dissipated pretty quickly when I learned it was always a spam bot.
I gave up.
A box of “ARC” copies is still hanging out in my garage, and I cringe whenever I park my car. I went to take out a hornet’s nest the other day, and I debated using one of them to do the deed.
Posters and bookmarks are shoved into the darkest corners of my closet, far enough away that I sometimes forget they exist.
On the bright side, I was finally able to keep my promise—my girlfriend is the proud owner of my third book, with a personalized message and signature. I can see it on her shelf as I’m writing this.
What now?
In February 2020, right before the U.S. went into COVID-19 lockdown, I made the difficult decision to cancel my contract with the “publisher.” Well, that part wasn’t difficult—fuck them, I’m happy they no longer take my pennies in royalties. But cancelling my contract means my books would be out of print and removed from existence.
I retained my original Word and .epub files, the cover designs, and the formatted PDFs. I suppose it’s the least my “publisher” could do—they already had my money anyway. So I could make it easy on myself and just throw them back online and try again.
But no. Fuck that. Not again.
My new plan: Re-publish everything. Re-establish myself as an author. Re-brand myself. New titles, new art.
I tore everything up.
At the beginning of lockdown, I utilized my newfound work from home perk to rewrite my first book. I killed 20k words’ worth of scenes, and wrote replacements. The rest of the book, a writing refresh. It’s not a long book—the OG was 78k words, chopped down to 58k, then written back up to 75k.
In November 2020, I took part in my first-ever NANOWRIMO, and wrote the first draft of my fourth, and final, book in this series—156k words in six weeks. Sorry if I’m bragging, but I fucking killed it.
In May and June 2021, I added some much-needed world- and character-building to book one, and the additional chonk brings it to 106k at weigh-in.
I will be doing the same for book two. Book three doesn’t need the same level of care, and I’ll sit on the book four draft for now.
Prepare your socks to be rocked, kids.
I may have fucked up, but I won’t let it define my writing career. I’ve learned so much over the past 2-3 years, and I’m ready to re-invent myself.
11 year-old Nick dreamed of writing a book, but didn’t have the means to.
20 year-old Nick made it a reality, but didn’t quite grasp his ideal vision.
30 year-old Nick will write the book that 11 year-old Nick dreamed of.
Let’s fucking go.
-Nick