I’m trying to sell short stories. Don’t ever try it. It’s like trying to sell steak to a cow. Moooo… In order to sell steak to a cow you’ve got to be a good salesman. I’m not. So the solution to that is trying to get someone to do it for you.
“Here Daisy, here’s a nice T-Bone. Mmmm… Only twenty-eight dollars a pound.” I can’t even afford that. When was the last time I bought a steak? It’s more likely Daisy will get a juicy filet before I ever do. She’ll get the money by selling one of her cutlets to the butcher.
You can’t sell books to anyone. You might as well try selling a fire extinguisher to the Devil. What the hell is he supposed to do with that? You’d be more successful selling a porno magazine to Jesus. “You better give me that, son. I wouldn’t want you to be tempted by such a thing.”
If you find someone to ‘push’ your product you have to be pretty careful about understanding the terms of the agreement up front or you might be in for a surprise. I found someone who would do the work for me. The fee was about a hundred dollars. I thought that wasn’t too bad a price for getting my material more easily noticed on a search site for a year. Then I found out that it wasn’t for a year, it was for a month!
In any case, writing is a cursed activity. Everything is overpriced, nothing you do goes as planned, and there are dozens of things you didn’t know about when you started and that no one told you about. If you did know those things you wouldn’t have started writing at all. That’s why no one tells you all the problems you are going to come up against. If you knew, you wouldn’t try, and if you didn’t try they wouldn’t make any money off all your failures.
“Oh, sure, you can do it. Anyone can. It’s easy. Just give me a thousand or so up front and you’ll be Ernest Hummingbird in no time.” More like a thousand dollars poorer with a trash can full of books you can’t pawn off even on your family, is more like it.
You’re better off with a career writing sappy, sickeningly sweet, sugary prose for the insides of glitter covered greeting cards. You know the kind where all the cheaply glued sparkly things fall off and make a mess all over your floor.
“May the sun shine bright on this your special day, and may the birds sing in the tress, so delightful and gay.”
Christ, you got to be kidding me.
“Remember – when the road is tough and the sky turns gray, He is with you this and every day.”
Oh for God’s sakes, that’s worse yet. But see? It’s easy to come up with this crap. And seventy-five year old grandmas buy this trash by the bucket load.
“Sweet sixteen, so precious and dear, don’t get knocked up for at least another year.”
There, that’s better.
Give up on books and short stories. No one wants them. Write gut churning putrid greeting card poems instead. You could make millions.
“Here’s a birthday wish just for you, have some cake and some ice cream and a bottle of wine, too. Eat it all in one big swallow, then put your head in the toilet and stay there ‘til tomorrow.”
That’s my favorite. I’ve been there.