A man from a recent Zoom group got in touch with me to ask if I would be interested in having his help in marketing The End-of-the-Line Club. I looked him up. He retired from fifty years in advertising and communications and won multiple awards including from the Advertising Association of New York. He’s also a poet. He says he would like to work with me, pro bono, because he believes in my book. Well.
All those books. How did they get there on that table? Who did the work of getting them there?
I have gone about this partnership with trepidation. I am a natural hermit and have always been a terrible marketer. Marketing feels icky; you know what I mean if you’re a poet. But Howard (that’s his name) is thoughtful, very generous, and I think genuinely interested in helping people. He feels that my personal experience with moving into a retirement community can help others, but not unless the book gets into more hands. He’s read the advanced reading copy, calls it “brilliant,” (smile), and suggested ways to get the book into the world. You know how poets are—if we sell ten copies at a reading, we think we’re a big success.
Working with Howard has an entirely new experience. He works fast and knows some powerful people. I am working my tail off, but he’s working harder. (Just to say, he also helps others. That’s what he does these days.) We’re writing letters to gerontologists, compiling a list of senior center directors at the moment, testing the waters to see if we can provide some useful Zoom programs based on what I talk about in my book. We’re developing a website dedicated to expressly senior-type issues. We’re making a monthly newsletter. None of this is ready to go. Of course the book isn’t out yet.
Han Shan the poet, also known as Cold Mountain.
Now I want to talk about how difficult this is for me and why. I have so many poems I’ve never published. I have whole potential collections. He calls me “humble,” but I call me reticent, hiding, in a sense. I want people to have my books, but I want the books to mysteriously land in people’s hands without my intervention. I would like to be Hanshan, living on a mountaintop in the 9th century, writing poems on trees. Oh, not true. I suppose maybe “marketing” feels wasteful of my energies. While I’m out “selling,” more poems go unwritten.
I am learning stuff about myself. I can’t say exactly what, yet, but I don’t think this is “marketing,” the way I’ve thought of it. One could think of this work as an act of generosity, getting the work out there, to be a benefit. That thought walks a dangerous line. If it (the work) tips too far one way, it becomes about self-aggrandizement. If it tips the other way, here I am, hoarding my words.
My father was autistic. He loved poetry,, the kind that made literal sense, but was scornful of the rest. Maybe I fear being scorned, on some level. This is not exactly related, but I have a memory of him selling encyclopedias one summer to make extra money (he was an associate professor with four children). He claimed—joking, I assume? that he said to potential customers, “I don’t suppose you’d want to buy these, would you?” Sometimes I think this is how I’ve approached my own work.
Nonetheless, no matter how this experiment goes, my brain is trying to stretch, waking up new synapses. It feels scary and a little bit exciting.
The P.S. . . .
I need 20-30 volunteers to read my advanced reading copy and write a short review of the book on Amazon (2-3 sentences) between June 3-22. If you’re willing, I’ll send you the digital copy, with my deep thanks. Write me bfleda@gmail.com . I would really appreciate it.
The PPSS . . . .
There are still a few places left in the June Interlochen Writers’ Retreat! Go to this link: Writers Reatreat for information.