Being Your Own First Believer
This is something I’ve always struggled with as a writer. But in the past two days I have aced it. Smashed it. Seized the bull by the horns, gone for it, and any other clichés I can get my hands on.
Yesterday, on the way to the swimming pool (which is in Church Stretton, the town around which my third book, Lies Beneath the Mynd is set) I, at the last minute, snatched up a handful of postcard-sized flyers which, alongside the covers of my books, feature a QR code for my website and email list sign-up. ‘Yes, I can!’ I thought, much in the manner of Bob the Builder.
There is a lovely bakery/coffee shop in Church Stretton called Mr Bun the Baker which appears briefly in Lies Beneath the Mynd and this was my first port of call. I have to admit to a flutter of nerves before I walked in, but the man I spoke to (Mr Bun himself?) said he’d be more than happy to have a few flyers. Beneficial for both of us, he said.
Next, I went to The Outdoor Depot. In the book, I gave it the name Mountain Pursuits as a couple of dodgy characters work there and I wasn’t sure the business would be happy with the association, but it occupies the same location and would be easy to find with the book as a reference point. The woman I met there was also very nice and, while they didn’t have space for a pile of flyers, she took one and rearranged the flyer display to give it prominence. We had a lovely chat about walking in the area and the joy of being introduced to a new part of the country by reading about it in fiction. She had fallen in love with Edinburgh through reading Rebus.
With a glow of accomplishment, I set off for the swimming pool, housed in Church Stretton Leisure Centre, which, I remembered as I parked the car, also features in the same book. Would they take some flyers? On the tables in the communal area, were a few flyers for health related schemes and a couple of old issues of Shropshire Life magazine. The receptionist said I was welcome to leave mine alongside. Yippee!
And you know the weirdest thing? It was easy.
Buoyed up by this success, I had another go today. My first book, Death at the Devil’s Chair, is set in the Stiperstones country, in south-west Shropshire, close to the border with Wales. The best place from which to explore it is The Bog Visitor Centre, a former Victorian school and one of the few remnants of a once bustling mining community.
A few months ago, I contacted them asking if they might be interested in stocking that book. I had seen that the only new books that they stocked (they have a small second-hand collection) were non-fiction, and while the secretary said she would pass the enquiry on to the committee member in charge of books, I heard nothing back.
This morning, with no advance planning (very unlike me, as my partner would tell you) I packaged up a copy of Death at the Devil’s Chair with a letter to the book committee member and some flyers, then bundled myself and the dog in the car before I could think better of it. I didn’t expect to see the man himself. In fact, I thought I’d have to leave it with a mystified volunteer, but the man himself was there, rearranging and sorting the books. And, like Mr Bun, and The Outdoor Depot lady and the Leisure Centre Receptionist, he was very nice. He liked the look of the book and asked me if I could drop in four more copies to begin and we’ll see how it goes!
When I first started writing, I told no one except my children. In fact, for years, I only wrote for them and would read the stories I’d written to them in our campervan on rainy holiday days.
Before my creative writing MA, I had written six novels (which remain hidden to this day) but told no one except my children and one brother. I didn’t even tell my friends, so sure was I that they would look down their noses at me. Even when I signed up for my MA, I kept it quiet and if I admitted to it, did so apologetically. Why? My friends are delightful. Since I’ve come out of the writing closet, most have been very encouraging. Even so, I told no one until after I had published my first book.
So what has made the difference this past week? Why do I no longer feel apologetic? When I first approached the local bookshops about stocking my books, I was like a creeping mouse. Now, all of a sudden, I am an evangelist (although of the book-promoting kind rather than the gospel-spreading kind.)
Time, perhaps. The knowledge that the book is selling well locally. Last week I delivered a batch of two of each title to the local bookshop on Wednesday. Within twenty-four hours, two titles had sold out, and I was asked to provide another six of each.
I’ve also had emails from a few readers recently (readers probably do not know how much it means to an author when they get in touch), wonderful verbal feedback from a near neighbour who’s just discovered the series and for the first time since the heatwave began I am feeling well. (I have dysautonomia and flare-ups are often triggered by heat. While the heatwave lingers, I have at last found a medication which helps and am enjoying life again.)
Maybe I just realised that this whole first believer business has something in it. If I don’t believe in my books enough to go out and promote them, why should anyone else? Sadly, the days of the reclusive author (JD Salinger, Harper Lee anyone?) are over, if they ever existed for any but the most genius.
And maybe I’ve also realised I’m not bad at it. Quite good even. As my neighbour said the other day, ‘Ah, go on, you’re a good talker, you are.’
More to the point, I’ve discovered I enjoy it.
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