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| Photo credit: funmozar.com/alone-in-the-world/ |
I had a tough moment a few days ago. Ever have a nightmare where you arrive at work only to realize you're not wearing pants? Yeah. Kinda like that. But I was very, very awake.
I
attended a book launch of a friend of mine. She's a local favorite,
traditionally published by one of the big houses, and knows how to write
terrific women's fiction. The bookstore where she has launched many of her six
novels is a cornerstone of the community. Combine a local favorite with a
trusted bookstore and you get a crowd of book loving folks and avid readers. I
recognized more than a few faces of the writing community. Authors, publicists,
columnists, and fans dotted the audience.
My
friend is a hybrid author. Toward the end of the Q and A segment of her talk, a
question prompted a discussion of traditionally versus independently published
books. My name came up as an example of independently published. The audience
member had read my first book, The
Charity, and said she enjoyed it and did not know I was independently
published.
This
is where I wish I had pinched myself awake.
The
discussion touched on editorial quality. When asked if the audience member saw
typographical errors in my book versus traditionally published books, she wagged
her hand in the air in a pantomime of balance and said, "Well..." The drawn out
word and hand gesture sliced into me like a hot knife through butter.
But
wait. It gets worse.
The
bookstore owner used the opportunity to talk about some of the self-published
train wrecks she had declined to put on her shelves. For what seemed like
forever, the owner vented on the demise of publishing quality due, in no small
way, to the deluge of self-published crap that has flooded the market.
I
was guilty by association. In that conversation, in that horrible moment where
reality and nightmare merged, in a room filled with my peers, I was lumped
together with the crap she wouldn't put on her shelves.
I
withered. My pants were no where to be found.
The
event ended and the reception and book signing began. Still trying to process
exactly what had happened, I immediately went to the owner. I asked if she would
prefer my books be removed from her shelves.
The
conversations I've had since that moment have nurtured me. The owner said my
books wouldn't be on her shelves if they were not good books. I've launched
both The Charity and The Troubles at her shop and sold, by her observation,
more books than many best-selling and widely known authors did when they have
had events with her. To her, my books are not crap. I deserve the right to be on
her shelves because I do the work. I make sure I produce a quality product.
At
a writers' dinner, my friend approached me and apologized for not defending me
right then and there. She confessed that her traditionally published books have typos despite the
fact that she has a team of editors, designers, and proof readers at her
disposal. Other folks have expressed their support of me. To each one, I am
grateful.
I'm
not going to thump on a tabletop and proclaim my perfection, nor am I going to pick
apart a traditionally published work as not being as good as many independently
published works. I understand that in a rapidly changing world, it's easier to
find reasons to dismiss than to support.
My
books are my business. I put out a damn good product.
Here's
the irony. The audience member made a point to speak with me afterwards,
expressing surprise. She sensed she had touched off something, but was simply
happy to meet me. We chatted for a bit. Her name was familiar.
Turns out she had reached out to me via my website a year earlier. She had purchased my
book at another location. Maybe the version she had did have a typo. I don't
know. All I know is that one luxury of being indie is I can upload corrected
versions of my books, and do--something traditionally published can't do
easily.
She
contacted me out of the blue all those months ago because (drum roll please) she
loved my book. Her five star review on Amazon is short and sweet.
