Codename: Indie-published author Amanda Brice

The Rockville 8 welcomes YA debut author Amanda Brice!

First of all, I just wanted to thank the Rockville 8 ladies for having me here today to talk about my indie-publishing journey and to celebrate the release of my debut YA mystery, Codename: Dancer.

By now, unless you’ve been living under a rock, you’ve probably heard of Amanda Hocking. We may share the same first name, but that’s about where the similarity ends. Well, other than the fact that we both self-publish books for teens. (I wish that wasn’t where the similarity ended. I’d take even a fraction of her sales!)

I never set out to self-publish. If you’d told me 6 months ago that I would self-publish, I probably would have laughed at you. Actually, I’m wrong. I definitely would have. At this time last year, the idea wasn’t even on my radar screen. Some of my author friends had taken J.A. Konrath’s advice and started putting their unpublished manuscripts up on Smashwords and Kindle, but those were the ones who already had a backlist and dedicated readership who knew them. Surely nobody would buy a debut self-published book from a complete unknown.

Then Barnes & Noble created PubIt. More authors rushed into self-publishing, but still I resisted. I was convinced that self-publishing was only a good deal for previously published authors who wanted to put up their backlist (such as all the abandoned Dorchester authors who’d gotten their rights reverted). Any debut author who went this route was seriously deluding herself.

You see, I was still working under the mindset from a few years ago, when the average self-published author was lucky to sell 100 copies over the lifetime of the work. In my narrow worldview, self-published authors were hacks who shelled out hundreds and possibly thousands for the privilege of calling themselves “authors.” They had boxes of their books in the trunk of their car, and would hang around in the Wal-Mart parking lot trying to hawk them to unsuspecting passersby. Or the person standing behind them in the line at the grocery store. Or the desk clerk at the gym. Or anyone with two brain cells, really.

No, I would never go this route. After all, we’d all heard Yog’s Law that money should flow towards the author, not the other way around. And wasn’t self-publishing just a glorified form of vanity publishing? You’ll never find a readership, and will never make any money.

Except that isn’t necessarily the case anymore. At some point in the last year or so, the Kindle revolution made self-publishing a legitimate career option. I just hadn’t been paying attention.

In my defense, I have a 16-month-old, so from roughly December 2009 to December 2010 I was living in one big sleep-deprived haze. So I feel like I get a pass for not quite getting it until this year.

Once my non-writing friends started talking about Amanda Hocking and direct publishing on Kindle, I realized that maybe there was something to all this fuss. And maybe I needed to examine it a little closer. And I liked what I saw.

It occurred to me that I had several manuscripts just languishing on my hard drive. Now granted a few of them shall never see the light of day. And for good reason. But others were actually pretty darn good. I just hadn’t managed to find the right editor on the right day.

My former agent shopped Codename: Dancer widely. The book was named a finalist in Romance Writers of America’s prestigious Golden Heart® Awards, and it had gotten a lot of attention. Editors at several Big Six houses raved about the premise, the writing, the voice, the characters…and even though the manuscript made it to several final acquisitions meetings, ultimately they all passed. Despite editors who loved it, marketing didn’t know where to place it.

The kiss of death.

The YA imprints called it Middle Grade. The Middle Grade imprints called it YA. I’ll let you in on my dirty little secret…they’re both right. It wasn’t that I didn’t know my audience. I just had a different audience in mind.

For years I’ve lamented the fact that there isn’t a category between Middle Grade and Young Adult, despite a large segment of readers who could benefit from one. There’s a real market void. The Middle Grade books are too babyish for this group, yet many YA books are too mature (for lack of a better term). My middle-school-aged niece is a prime example. She’s a voracious reader, and is ready for something meatier than what’s offered for her age group. But my sister-in-law doesn’t want her reading Twilight (and Twilight is actually on the tame scale compared to some YA books out there) yet, and frankly I don’t blame her. Intellectually, she’s ready for it. Emotionally? Not so much.

So with this age group in mind, I sat down and wrote Codename. But because NY didn’t know where to shelve it (is it a “children’s book” or would it go in the “teen section?”), it never sold. Apparently main characters can only be 12-or-under or 16-or-older. Fourteen-year-old high school freshmen need not apply.

Some might consider my book to be “tween” but even that seems a bit limiting, because I know several teenagers who have read it and loved it. And what 13-, 14-, or 15-year-old wants to be lumped in with the 10-to-12-year-olds? Uh-uh. No way. So I’d call it a “Younger YA,” but that’s not an accepted trad-pub term. Where do you shelve it?

New York called it “niche,” but that’s the beauty of indie publishing. Doing it on my own, I can afford to take risks. Sure, I invested in a freelance editor, a cover artist, and a freelance formatter, so it certainly wasn’t free, but I’ve always spent money (organization fees, chapter fees, conferences, workshops, postage, etc.) on my pursuit of publication. This is merely another cost of the journey. The manuscript wasn’t doing anything for me while wasting space on my hard drive, so I decided to roll the dice and see if I could find it a readership on my own. Get it out there in the world and let readers decide whether it has any merit.

Granted this means I’ll also sink or swim on my own, too, but I’ve always been a risk taker.

I think if you have a niche book, indie-publishing is perfect for you. Or anything out-of-the-box. I do love NY, and I hope to have a traditional contract one day, but sometimes the definitions are a little too rigid. And I can understand their reluctance to take a chance, because that's their risk on the line if a book doesn't sell out its advance.

But I don't think you should simply bang out a book and put it up on Kindle. Ultimately it's your professional reputation at risk, so just like a traditionally-published book, you must put forward the absolute best product possible. And that's the problem. The best thing about self-publishing is that anyone can do it. The worst thing about self-publishing is that anyone can do it.

I hope I don't sound elitist, but unfortunately, there are a lot of self-published books out there that never should have been published. It's not that they're not good books, or their authors aren't good writers -- they're just not ready. But there are also a lot of really excellent self-published books, and the revolution of the last year has shown that it's a viable career choice.

So I guess my advice is that if you've gotten excellent feedback on your manuscript (and not from your mom!) and you think that NY is not quite right for it for whatever reason, then indie-publishing might be for you. But please do yourself a favor and give it as close to a traditionally-published experience as is possible.

Invest in a professional cover. Hire an editor (or at least utilize multiple critique partners and beta readers...as well as a qualified proofreader). Teach yourself formatting or hire a freelancer. Set a "launch date" and build up buzz ahead of time by giving away copies in contests and undergoing a blog tour. Send it to published authors in your genre for a cover quote. And send it to reviewers. Call on your networks. Were you in a sorority in college? Ask them to feature your book in their alumni magazine. Is there a particular hobby or activity featured in your book? Contact the various magazines or organizations for that activity and ask if they would help you promote. You never know unless you ask!

But remember that for every Amanda Hocking, there are hundreds or even thousands of indies who will struggle. And it's a marathon, not a sprint. Even the indies who have hit the NY Times list in the recent months started off selling just a handful of copies.

So the moral of the story is that if you have a “niche book,” don’t be discouraged. It might be perfect for indie publishing. And I bet you’ll have a blast!

Amanda Brice lives outside of Washington, DC with her husband and toddler daughter. An intellectual property attorney for a large federal government agency, she combines her love of writing with her legal career by speaking on basic copyright and trademark law on the writers’ conference circuit. Her debut novel, Codename: Dancer, was released on April 16, 2011. You can learn more about Amanda and her books at her website (http://www.amandabrice.net/).

Let me out . . . unless . . .

As an aspiring writer of young adult fiction, I volunteered to judge the YA category in my local RWA chapter's contest. All of the entries that I received to judge were in first person point of view.
Sigh.
First person POV is popular in young adult books. I guess that's because it's supposed to make it easier for the reader to identify with the main character? Or because it worked so well for Stephenie Meyer.
And those are pretty good reasons.
But for me, personally, and not just in YA but in any genre, it is my least favorite POV choice.
It's too claustrophobic.
In first person you're confined to one character's head. But what if you don't like them? What if you don't get their sense of humor, or don't like their descriptions or you get sick of their snarky comments? Too bad for you. If you want to know what happens in that book, you have to let that character tell you.
It's like being stuck on the plane next to the guy with the monologue who insists on talking to you about people you don't know doing things you don't care about and the seatbelt sign is on so you can't get up and walk away.
It's exactly like that, except for one thing. You can put the book down.
Sometimes I wish I didn't have to. Sometimes I really like the concept, or the story, and I want to find out what happens. But if I don't like the first person narrator's voice, I drop the book in the bag to take to the Friends of the Library store.
Because I don't choose to torture myself like that. And when I don't like the voice, that's what it feels like. Torture.
At least with third person POV you get the author's voice. So even if you only get the one main character's point of view, you are also getting observations from outside of that character's head. And with third person, you often get more than one character's point of view.
So even if you don't particularly care for one character, you know it's not going to last forever. The seatbelt sign will be turned off soon.
On the other hand . . .
When I was complaining about how much I usually dislike first person POV, two of my fabulous Rockville8 critique partners reminded me that I LOVED their first person POV books.
I was shocked.
Because I did love their stories, but when I thought about them, I didn't remember that they were written in first person. I remembered the characters or the details or the setting or that they grabbed me by the throat. But not that they were written in first person.
And then I realized that some of my favorite books ever are written in first person.
I know! I just said it's my least favorite POV choice. And that's true . . . but sometimes I like the guy next to me on the plane. I get his sense of humor, and I love his descriptions, and his snarky comments.
And when I get off the plane, I will quote him to my friends and make them jealous that they were not lucky enough to sit next to him.
In that same spirit, here are three of my favorite first person POV young adult books:
"And finally," Jamie said as he pushed the door open, "we come to the main event. Your room."
I was braced for pink. Ruffles or quilting, or maybe even appliqué. Which was probably kind of unfair, but then again, I didn't know my sister anymore, much less her decorating style. With total strangers, it had always been my policy to expect the worst. Usually they—and those that you knew best, for that matter—did not disappoint.
—Sarah Dessen, Lock and Key
I've loved every Sarah Dessen book that I've ever read, but Lock and Key is my favorite. It's completely in Ruby's POV, but that's not the first thing I remember about it. I remember that it grabbed hold of me and never let me go.
Then there's As You Wish, by Jackson Pearce. It's written in two first person POVs. Viola's and the jinn she calls forth by wishing . . .

Viola:

All I've learned in today's Shakespeare class is: Sometimes you have to fall in love with the wrong person just so you can find the right person. A more useful lesson would've been: Sometimes the right person doesn't love you back. Or sometimes the right person is gay. Or sometimes you just aren't the right person.

Thanks for nothing, Shakespeare.

A Jinn:

She screams.

Of course. Mortal females tend to do that. It just had to be a female again.

—Jackson Pearce, As You Wish

Viola and Jinn's voices are unique and they tell the story in alternating chapters which adds to the tension.

And finally, there's the book I read last night.

The book that grabbed me by the throat and would not let me go, even though I often wished it would.

Living Dead Girl, by Elizabeth Scott. If the first few pages don't hook you, here is Chapter 3. In it's entirety.

But read at your own risk. (I'm just saying.)

Once upon a time, I did not live in Shady Pines. Once upon a time, my name was not Alice. Once upon a time, I didn't know how lucky I was.

—Elizabeth Scott, Living Dead Girl







So yeah. I hate first person. Except for when I don't hate it.

And then I LOVE it . . .


p.s. Some day, I will be able to link to one of those contest entries that I read because it was so good it just HAS to get published! It grabbed hold of me and didn't let go and I wish I could read the rest of it RIGHT NOW.


Photo credit: http://www.istockphoto.com/index.php

With all your might

I'm truly sorry. But it has happened again. And I can only hope that next week when you stop by to read, no one will have died. But someone did, and I feel I must take a moment to tell you why this matters to me.

Salinger is dead. I have no scholarly insight to offer you; I can only tell you that his voice formed the writer I am and the writer I am becoming. It is and has been his lyrical, cynical, judgmental, patronizing, puzzled, thoughtful, idealistic, bewildered, lonely erudite voice that has echoed in my heart and ear for more than two decades. And I cannot believe that he is finally and forever gone, and with his death, that creative voice is now silenced.

There is nothing much to be said about the life or lifestyle of the man, Jerome David Salinger. It neither impressed nor altered my soul. He sounded like the worst kind of misanthrope who took patronizing to new levels. Besides, he was 91. It was probably as good an age to die as any. But I am not here to write about his life, his choices, his reclusiveness. Only, his voice.

No longer will words be plucked out of the universe and set carefully in certain orderly lines that in my view were meant to be written, meant to be read. When Zooey comforted his sister, Franny, and tried to draw her out of her stupor of the Pilgrim's prayer, he shared his idea of Jesus- a man who would join you for a glass of gingerale at the kitchen table. And ask for only a small glass.

Here was a Jesus that I understood. Here was a brother I understood. Here was a writer I understood.

I'm traveling just now, and my copies of Salinger's books, the used paperbacks, the early hardback editions that my brother found for me, are on the shelves in my living room, nestled between Douglas Adams and Jennifer Crusie. And I can't touch them, can't thumb through them, skim, dive in, remember a time when they were brand new to me, when I had yet to have read them, or even thumb through my dog-eared photocopy of "Hapworth 16, 1924" and remember the day I discovered it even existed.

It wasn't Catcher in the Rye that drew me; nor Nine Stories, whose stories saddened me as one by one, the Glass family let me down, those fictional, former contestants of It's a Wise Child who had seemed so precious and so wise in other stories. And "A Perfect Day for Bananafish" nearly killed me - though as a college student I understood both the lure and the hubris needed for suicide. Just not his. Not Seymour's.

No, the clarion call of JD Salinger sounded for me through Raise
High the Roofbeams, Carpenters/Seymour: An Introduction and Franny and Zooey. Here was the birth of my writing, and the solidification of my faith. I too wanted to write stories that could make their own way to the editor's desk by train with only a wax paper-wrapped sandwich and thermos of coffee for company. My stories too would one day make other passengers somewhat uncomfortable, I hoped. I felt his words. I understood in my teen-aged heart the Zen of shooting marbles. I wanted to tell Zooey that I would only ask for a small glass of ginger-ale, too.

I was in college when I first discovered his books, published in those solid, plain covers of white and green, mustard yellow, maroon. No frills. No pen and ink drawing of Holden, no shy watercolor of Franny. Just stripped down and serious. I wanted serious, something true and real, no gimmicks, no guile. I was 19 or 20, and really, who is more deep, who has more understanding of how the world works than a 20 year old? And who spoke to me about what really mattered? JD Salinger. Or more accurately, Buddy Glass.

I understood the Glass family. The paths that wove through the stacks of books in their apartment in New York City resonated with my childhood, binding my fantasies to my reality. An apartment crowded with brilliant, opinionated children, books and the smell of cooking meat and cigarettes. Elder siblings handing out reading lists to the younger, privacy invaded even in the bathtub, parents more than a little bemused by their offspring. This was the voice my heart heard.

Salinger in the flesh has never lived up to his alter-ego, Buddy Glass. Should I care? Allow his actions and pretensions rather than his writing to define his genius? Truth be told, the foundations have been laid too long and too solidly in my thoughts and writing for me to ever be released from the affect (some might say taint) of his voice. And I can only join with the cyber-wake in raising a glass- of whiskey as rye is a bit more difficult to come by these days- to salute the passing of the voice of JD Salinger.