MEMO TO SELF: Take head out of sand. Here’s an article from today’s Galley Cat about self-published authors getting on The List. I gotta say, even though it puts me out of a job, I really admire people who get their work out there. I know I’ve asked before if you feel self-publishing is an option. Most people say as a last resort. When I’ve asked how many read on devices, very few say they do. From this I glean that this group is a bunch of beautiful papyrus loving luddites. We like to hold books, feel paper and sniff the glue.Self-Published Authors Make NY Times Best Sellers List
Four Smashwords authors made The New York Times Best Sellers list for eBook fiction this week. Many of these authors have also topped our Self-Published Bestsellers List.
AppNewser has more: “Author Colleen Hoover‘s book Slammed is No. 8 on the list and her title Point of Retreat hit No. 18). Author R.L. Mathewson‘s book Playing for Keeps ranked at No. 16 on the list and author Lyla Sinclair‘s book Training Tessa hit the No. 17 position and Bella Andre had three titles on the list If You Were Mine at No. 22, Can’t Help Falling in Love at No. 23, and I Only Have Eyes for You at No. 24.”
Smashwords CEO Mark Coker encouraged writers to consider his platform when he blogged about the news: “maybe tomorrow’s bestseller is languishing on an undiscovered writer’s computer, still waiting for a publisher to give it a chance. Maybe that writer will now realize they don’t need the blessing of a publisher to become a published author, or to reach readers. Maybe they’ll realize that that the tools to publish and distribute a book are available at no cost, and the knowledge to professionally publish is available for the taking. It just takes effort.”
To help GalleyCat readers discover self-published authors, we have compiled weekly lists of the top eBooks in three major marketplaces for self-published digital books: Amazon, Barnes & Noble and Smashwords.
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It’s official. I move to Brooklyn tomorrow for the month of August. Got the keys. Dropped off a suitcase. Tonight: pack meds and computer, leave a check for the dog walker. I’m not going to set myself up for failure with unrealistic goals. The plan is to finish my screenplay, write my new sitcom, adapt Food & Loathing into a YA (hey, I already have the first sentence), lose 10 pounds, run every day, and invent the next Facebook. (Oh, and agenting. Hello?) Wish me luck!
Some consider it morbid, but the only thing I like writing more than my Oscar acceptance speech is my obituary. My husband has lovingly reminded me that agents don’t generally get eulogized in the NYT, but a girl can dream. I would like my obituary to mention that I devoted my life to writers and books. I’d like it to say that I was punctual. And of course I would like a handful of books to be mentioned, those that were career defining, those that people truly love. I think I will die in my mid-Eighties from accidentally lighting myself on fire with a cigarette,which I will be smoking in a linen closet at the nursing home.
What were you hoping for? A thick medal with a ribbon the colors of the flag. A long line of people shifting their weight? Was it fingers smudged with typewriter ribbon from fixing a sticky key. Were you hoping to find a new way to describe a flock of geese, a craggy promontory, a kiss goodnight? Is this your notebook? Is this seat taken? Are you elevating, this being August? Did you go to the reading? Did you fuck a great writer? Did you lose his favorite pen or steal it? Does time fold in on itself like some gorgeous origami? Is that your writing desk? Can I see what you’re working on?
Perfect NYC day. After a grueling day as a power agent, meaning I had a power breakfast, power lunch, power meeting at a law firm right out of Grisham, and a visit to my beloved psychopharmacologist, I went to see Uncle Vanya with Cate Blanchett. It was a star studded night of literati, of indie actors, Broadway war horses, a sit com actor in a straw hat and a lot of short men with Chekhovian facial hair, which is to say unkempt. Afterwards, John and I walked down to Soho and this may have been the best part of the night: everyone, literally everyone, looked amazing in the sultry New York night. Then m&m’s in bed. Some days life doesn’t suck.
Someone asked if I would write another book. Not if I can help it. I really want to write movies. I think I might have mentioned that I got kicked out of NYU film school. I would like to get an Oscar and say, “no thanks to NYU.” Do I know that I’m too old to break in (yes, yes, the King’s SPeech)? Do I know that most indie movies are made by writer-directors? Do I know that family dramas are the last thing anyone wants (yes, yes The Kids Are All RIght, The Descendants) And yes, the rules are made to be douche bags. But I do have book ideas. Especially during the month of August when the sun follows me. THere’s my old idea, THe RIng of Truth which looks at why people have mini orgasms when they read or go to readings; My Carrie-inspired YA, I want to adapt Food & Loathing as a YA, or rather a publisher asked me if I ever thought to then disappeared. I want to write LOVE IS BLINd and Other Cliches. I want to write a book called Knowing When To Quit (about Family, love, and work). A sort of counter-intuitive self help that suggests quitting and giving up is just as valid if not more than persisting. I’d like to write a book about seeds. A cultural history.
Betsy Lerner 