The idea was to have a half dozen or so blogs in the can, and post one a week or so to prime the pump.
But life intervened. In self-publishing, I’ve learned, emphasis on “self” has meaning. Like Stephen King, Dan Brown and Janet Evanovich, I’ve written a book. The similarities end there.
They no doubt have armies of hangers-on to build their websites, figure out how to share from said website to Facebook without it looking hackneyed and amateurish, tweet to Twitter lists, pin to Pinterest, fetch their dry cleaning and swing by the vet clinic and pick up the $90 bag of Easily Digestible Dog Food for Pooches with Sensitive Stomachs.
I gotta do all that sh-t myself.
Throw in the fact that I’ve recently changed jobs (which requires a little bit of emotional and intellectual capacity) and my book promoting blog cranking time has been, shall we say, limited.
Apparently, I have a knack to arrange words in such a fashion that some find compelling. My motivation to write this book was to connect these dots:
My father’s behavior and attitude as a young parent (He was a prick. Yeah, I said it); his upbringing; my alcoholism and subsequent recovery therefrom. (Is there such thing as an Oxford Semicolon?)
Four years ago, when Pop saw the end of his life approaching, he wanted to download some data about his childhood and I was his guy. At the end, with me, some of the walls he spent 80 years building came down just enough to allow for some insight into his upbringing.
Those conversations led to the book.
Three years of wide-ranging conversations that we’d both look forward to. The essence of those visits is something I had long suspected. Both his parents were alcoholics. The deeper we dived, the more I learned about his parents and his childhood. I began to get some answers to the obvious, burning question I had carried throughout my life about my father’s attitude, demeanor, and behavior.
Three years of writing also brought me down to Earth and helped strengthen the essence of my recovery – to get out of myself.
The target audience consists of three buckets of people: friends, family and those in the addiction recovery community (givers and receivers).
It’s an 80,000 word, 33-chapter, 312-page creative non-fiction family memoir. It’s titled, Spifflicated, a 1920’s/30s-era slang term for drunk. The book spans 25 years (1931-1956). This summer, I marked 25 years of sobriety. Coincidence? Maybe. Nice hook? Clearly.
Publish on Demand is just that — eventually. Six months from now, when someone wants to order a book, they’ll simply go to Amazon and knock themselves out. But to start, Amazon will set their algorithm and project future sales by pre-sale ordering, page clicks, phases of the moon and the side of the bed from which those who design algorithms arise on any given morning.
My POD vendor says, and these are their exact words, “the more eyeballs you send to Amazon, the better.” Sounds like something I’d say.
There’s a million little things I gotta find time for, e.g., the “about the book” text on Amazon’s looks like one massive stream of consciousness. Paragraphs, people!
I’ll get there. Sigh.
Meantime, please feel free to cast your eyeballs on Amazon.