It almost went unheard amidst the exciting chatter about what it was like to get “the call,” work with an editor, decide whether to hire a publicist, and to do that all-important thing every writer wants to do after the first sale–order swag (oh yes, we love the shinies.  Pens, fridge magnets, bookmarks, little bitty bubble bottles with the name of our book stuck to them, hell yeah, we love that shit).  It almost went completely under the radar amidst the talk about how making the USA Today list or the Waldenbooks list or even, gasp, the Times or the Times Extended can change your career (and simultaneously have no effect on your life, because people still don’t recognize you at the grocery store).

She spoke those quiet words, and silence swept the room for just a second.  Things returned to normal shortly afterwards, of course, but those words tucked themselves away in my brain, only to resurface years later after I’d gotten “the email” and wondered, “what next?”

I knew I wasn’t going to be one of the ones who immediately ordered a bazillion pens (but damn, did I want to.  I never say no to a pen).  I didn’t have the budget, and kept my head firmly on my shoulders–no spending more than I’d likely make, and epublishing being what it was at the time, I knew I wasn’t likely to win the lottery of a runaway hit (and even if I did, the digital version of “runaway hit” does not a millionaire make).  I chose Fridge Magnets (next to pens, I love fridge magnets–my refrigerator keeps ice cream cold and also serves as filing cabinet and art gallery), and I did so acknowledging that most of my promo should happen online, where my books are.

I made a website and started a blog.  I created a sig line and haunted forums where writers and readers gathered.  I joined yahoo groups.  I guest-blogged, group-blogged, and blog-toured.  Guess what?

That’s right.  It ate me alive.  I ran contests–although not nearly as many as others have, and without nearly as many of the hair-raising results.  I participated in chat loops and author chats where the emails flew fast and furious and ate up gigabytes.

And I hated it.

Yeah, that’s right.  I couldn’t stand getting on the loops and talking up because it felt so damn fake.  I wanted to sell my book.  I still do want people to buy my book (and read it and like it!), but I have never been one of those people who enjoys talking myself up.  I feel like a fake and I feel like a dork.  Sure, put me somewhere where the subject matter is something I got something to say about and yes–I’ll talk your ear off.  Eventually.  But only after I’ve lurked forever and feel like I have something meaningful to say.  And reading for me has never been a large-group experience.  I like a book, I’ll tell a handful of people about it, but I don’t gush over it to all and sundry.  Video games, yes.  Books–no.  They’re an intensely personal experience to both read and write.

I didn’t want to be yet another voice screaming out, “Look at me! Look at me!”

That’s why I don’t make appearances on loops much.  Occasionally, I’ll post an excerpt, blurb, or rarely, an announcement, because I feel like excerpts and blurbs have value–they are samples of my writing.

I know that’s probably not the right way to do it.  I should be chatting, getting involved with readers, making connections and making friends.  But friends and connections are about more than squee/agree posts on a chatters’ loop. And they should damn well be a hell of a lot more than thinly disguised marketing efforts.  We all brand ourselves as authors with catch-phrases and taglines (I’m guilty of it myself), but at some point, the advert is over.  What you have left, then, is the writing.

And if you’re eaten alive by the promo, what’s left over for the writing?