Using Social Media to Market Books

I first published DEAD SERIOUS in 1987 with the paper back edition out the following year.  (Yikes!  That does date me.)  The book had a good run with excellent reviews, awards, and actual sales that made me some money.  

I don't know when both versions of the book went out of print, but they did.  Unless a book lingered on library shelves, potential readers were out of luck.

Earlier this year, I decided to reissue DEAD SERIOUS as an eBook.  I had a new cover designed, revised the statistics, and wrote a new introduction.  Initially, I issued the eBook as an Amazon Kindle.  Later, I expanded to several other eBook sites.

Heck, the book cost under $10.  A deal!

But no matter how inexpensive a book is or how well it did lo these many years ago, authors must do their share of marketing to get the title back out into the book-o-sphere.  With no publisher support (as if they did much to begin with), books rarely get into the hands of readers save for a savvy marketing campaign.

And, boy, how things have changed since the end of the 1980s.  Then, there were only big, bulky desk top computers, and social media hadn't yet been born.  

Now with Twitter, Facebook, email, and a plethora of web sites, the trick is to get the word out over and over again in new ways that continue to grab potential readers' attention.  

I read somewhere that Twitter was the best place for authors to promote their wares.  I had had a Twitter account back in the day but didn't know how to use it and, for whatever reason, was bombarded with photos from men who used Twitter as a dating site.

So, I changed my handle and started tweeting.  I also signed up for Bublish.com, a marketing site for eBooks.  Oh, and I revised my web site with links to Bublish, a built-in tracking system, a new cover photo, links to the eBook, and a radio player for listeners to hear my first radio documentary, "What A Difference Differences Make" that profiles three adults with intellectual disabilities.

And wham!  In only four weeks, 500 people had viewed either Bublish or Twitter, more than 200 folks had gone to my web site, and I actually received my first royalty check from Amazon.  (I can't tout my horn on this last one because the check wouldn't even buy a lunch at a local health food restaurant.)  Still, it was money in the bank.

I check my views daily.  I tweet regularly with new information and new visuals.  I have contacted suicide prevention/education groups and several have put a link to my web site on theirs.  I've been interviewed for one of the sites whose director will be distributing it to organizations nationally.  

I don't know whether all this marketing will translate into sales.  But it's been a blast and kept me out of trouble.

No Chance to Say Good-bye

It happened like this in the dream: I was thumbing through the latest issue of Vanity Fair when, after surviving all the slick ads and free pull-outs hawking everything from perfume to People Magazine, I turned a page and stared at a photo collage of my husband at various stages of his life from childhood to the present, just a week or so from celebrating (well, not exactly celebrating) his 70th birthday. Why were these photos in Vanity Fair? I mean, my husband is a cute guy and all but hardly a household name, except, of course, in our household where he is known as the joker, the cook, the artist, and sometimes the jerk. And why hadn't my husband let on that he would be featured in a national magazine, best known for its coverage of scandals of the rich and famous. Yeah, there is some serious stuff, too, about war and business and start ups. Mostly, though, it's a step above the other gossip rags that pack the weekly newsstands. Then in small print at the bottom of the second page, I noticed the byline as that of an old friend who had died over two years earlier. Tom never liked dancing much, but, ironically, that's how he died --- dancing at a relative's wedding. According to what we were told, he collapsed, still conscious, mumbling about the pain. He was carted off in an ambulance to a nearby hospital where he was pronounced dead from a massive heart attack. Tom didn't believe in doctors and cavalierly said many times that there was no sense in preventative medicine because when it was time, it was time. My husband's best (and a close friend of mine) was a smoker, an avid tennis player turned golfer in a cart, and a hardy eater who paid little attention to the food he ate. But he must have known something wasn't right because, ironically, he'd scheduled an appointment to see a cardiologist for the week after he dropped dead. My husband and I heard all of these details from our friend's sister who called early on a Saturday morning to insist that we attend a memorial service for Tom before his body was flown back to Miami Beach for a proper burial to be officiated by one of that city's most revered rabbis. (Quite an honor because Tom, born and raised a Catholic, was a convert to Judaism in order to please his soon-to-be wife's parents who otherwise would have disowned their daughter.) "But we haven't spoken to him in two years," I said. "Just a misunderstanding, I'm sure," she said. A misunderstanding? Simply ruffled feathers? Cross signals that destroyed a friendship that spanned more than five decades? And now no chance to understand what had caused the rift or to make amends. No chance to say good-bye. We went to the memorial where we were embraced by Tom's family but all but ignored by his wife. I had followed her into the women's room for a moment of privacy. I hugged her, but she felt like dead weight in my arms. "I'm so sorry," I said. "It's too late for that," she said and walked away. Hurt, baffled and then furious, I wanted to leave immediately. But I put on my Zen robes (even though I'm Jewish), and my husband, who had gotten the same cold shoulder, and I decided to stay for the sake of Tom's brothers and sisters whom we'd known for years. The minute the service concluded, we offered our condolences to the siblings and got the hell out of there. One of Tom's sons visited several months after the funeral. He and my husband met for lunch. "My mother has written you off as dead," he said. "But you should write her and apologize." My husband was stunned. "Apologize for what?" "For saying 'No' when my father asked you to come with him to visit my uncle." Tom's brother was dying from brain cancer, the result of Agent Orange unleashed during his stint in Viet Nam. "Are you kidding? Every time your dad was in town, I begged him to let me meet him wherever his brother was being treated. He turned me down every time." "Well, that's not true." "Were you there?" "No, but . . ." "But what? "That's my mother told me. My dad, too." "Your mother is dead wrong." "Write her and apologize. It can't hurt." Alan stood up, tossed his share of the bill on the table. "I can't apologize for something I didn't do. And what's the point? I'm already dead as far as your mother is concerned, right along with your father." My husband turns 70 this week. I'm convinced that his beloved but estranged friend has been hanging around. He wants to wish him a Happy 70th and wishes for a long, healthy life --- something he wasn't able to enjoy. Why after all would he have published the photos in Vanity Fair?

What A Difference Differences Make

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The facts are dramatic and unsettling:

1. In the U.S., roughly 6.5 million people are identified as having an intellectual disability.
2. Every year, 125,000 children are born with an intellectual disability.
3. Children with cognitive disabilities may develop slower than other children in terms of speaking, walking, and taking care of themselves (showering, eating, dressing).
4. 10 percent of Americans have a family member with some sort of intellectual disability.
5. Intellectual disabilities are 25 times more common than blindness.

 In an attempt to take a journey with a group of adults with intellectual disabilities, I wrote and produced a radio documentary about my experiences as a volunteer at Misericordia, a residence with well over 600, most adults, many with physical disabilities as well.

The link to the documentary is below.  While I make a few minor tweaks, this will give you an almost complete listen to my first radio documentary after having helped produced several video documentaries and written a host of books, including the award-winning book, DEAD SERIOUS, that has just been reissued as a Kindle on Amazon.

https://soundcloud.com/j72545/what-a-difference-differences

Dead Serious

REVISED VERSION of original book first published in 1987 now available as an Amazon Kindle!

My Friend Daniel

Daniel is a dear friend.  We met four years ago at Misericordia, a campus of about 600 folks with mild to serious intellectual disabilities.  From the get go, the two of us bonded as long, lost friends who had so much to talk about.

As far as Daniel sees it, I can do no wrong.  I'm the "lovely Miss Jane" who is one of the funniest, most amusing (not to mention cutest) women he knows.  The minute I walk in the door of Room 201, there's Daniel waltzing up to wrap his arms around me in a big bear hug while saying my name over and over again. 

When I first started volunteering at Misericordia in 2010, I, along with all the other new volunteers, was advised to avoid physical contact with the residents.  I guess that meant no hugging and stuff --- just a handshake would do.

Well, give it up!  For a time, I tried to gently push Daniel and others away.  But in no time, that seemed not only silly but impossible.  There are many Wednesday afternoons when I'm greeted by what I like to think of as a wedding receiving line in which six or seven residents line up to give me a hug, shake my hand, even give me a quick peck on the cheek.  

The teacher in the class doesn't seem to mind; in fact, I've watched as a host of residents hug her, tease her, treat her as one of the "gals" whom they've come to love.

Two weeks ago, I attended Daniel's thirty-second (or what it his thirty-third?) birthday party at a restaurant in Northbrook, a suburb of Chicago.  I was one of 18 invitees that included his family, his staff, and the five other men, or housemates, who share a one-story ranch home about 15 minutes west of Misericordia.  I'd met Daniel's housemates before when I'd gone to interview him for a radio documentary, but this was the first time that I had seen them all outside of campus in a social situation.

When it was time to open his presents, Daniel stood up and remained standing while he ripped open every shred of wrapping paper and accompanying envelopes.  He was deliriously happy with every DVD, every piece of sports paraphernalia (pennants, a blanket, a throw rug, hats ___ enough to open a sports bar) and thanked everyone profusely for their thoughtfulness.

Daniel can't read very well, so his mom helped him with some of the cards.  But his joy at receiving, for example, a music card that, when opened, blasted an accordion practically jumping off the page was infectious.  Daniel screamed and yelled and clapped and made everyone there feel like the best and most ingenious person on the planet.

For me (always the center of his attention on Wednesdays when I volunteer), it was interesting to see him relate to some of his best friends and to his staff.  He lives with these folks every day (except when he's home on what is called "Home Visit") and loves them all dearly. 

And I love Daniel and the joy he has added to my life and the lessons he has taught me about what a difference differences make.

Beginning of the End?

Okay, I know aging isn't, as my dad would say, "for sisses."  But, so far, I think I've done quite well.  My body parts are in tact and, as best as I know, not diseased.  Sure, my headaches are a pain but usually controllable by medication.  I still hear well, have strong teeth, have good eyesight (with my glasses), and so on down the line.

But Sunday changed my "Gee, you're in great shape" list.

I had a busy schedule.  First, a dance class, then an art opening, and, finally, a birthday party out in the burbs.  I drove my rental car (mine is in the shop) to dance and enjoyed a rousing class, even if the humidity signalling a rain storm caused a more pronounced sweat than usual.  I zipped home, bathed, changed, and drove down to Chicago's Old Town, an area of quaint, older homes and winding streets that seem to snake in multiple directions making confusion an operative word.  The photo show held in what is really a community center didn't show the photographer's work in the best light, but he's a friend and I stayed longer than what I had determined was enough time to drive all the way to a northern suburb.

Prior to the gallery opening, I'd parked my car on one of the main streets in Old Town.  I also looked up at the intersecting street signs to make sure I could find my car upon my return.

No such luck.  When I reached the spot, the car was nowhere to be seen.  Now, mind you:  The four-door, silver car looks like about 50 per cent of other cars on the road today and an overly abundant number of cars in Old Town, at least on this particular day.  Panicked, I raced up and down the adjoining streets, squeezing my key door opener every few minutes.  Nothing.  No rear light flashes.  No sound alarm.  Not a damn thing.

It started to rain.  Harder and harder.  Even my umbrella wasn't keeping me dry.  Baffled then extremely stressed, I must have looked completely lost because not one but two strangers stopped to ask if they could help.

It was useless.  My car was gone.  I didn't know the license plate number, and the amount of time I  had left to make it to the birthday party was quickly elapsing. 

I was in big trouble and, by this time, near tears.

So, this is what it's like to lose one's mind?  Was I on the verge of dementia?  Had all my enthusiasm about the state of my body and mind been a charade?

I had no alternative but to walk back to the gallery in shame where I would tell my husband that I'd lost the rental car and desperately needed his help to find it.

As I headed up the street, I pushed my key one last time.  Lights flashed.  And on a silver, 4-door that looked like "mine."  Quickly, I ran to the front door and peeked in.  I'd never been so happy to see a recognizable water bottle and a few paper wrappers. 

Soaked but relieved, I unlocked the door and jumped in.  Of course, I'd be at least 30 minutes late to the birthday party, but my host would understand.  And if she didn't, well there was nothing I could do about it.

I won't go in to detail about how I almost lost "my" car later in the evening after the party or how it took me extra time to find the correct exit out of the shopping court.  I'll leave that to your imagination and to my chagrin.

Maladies

     I couldn't catch my breath as  I climbed the eight cement stairs leading to the second floor of our rented casa in San Miguel de Allende.  I'd accidentally left my cell phone in the bedroom and needed to catch the call before the ringing stopped and what was labeled caller ID read UNIDENTIFIED.  I caught the call but couldn't breathe.  So, this is what it's like to have a heart attack?  I'd read many times that women suffer attacks differently from men, that the pain is less acute and often feels like the flu with extreme fatigue (check), pressure in the heart area (check), even faintness (check.)
     I grabbed the phone, pushed "answer," and, in a breathless voice nothing like that of Marilyn Monroe, told the caller (our house sitter) that he'd have to wait.  I lay the phone on my chest -- maybe that would calm things down -- and waited until my breath slowed before talking.  But I had trouble, mumbled "just a minute," and again laid the phone of my chest.  So, this was what it felt like to have the old heart go wacky?  What hospital in this small colonial town would be able to save me?  Were there ambulances in Mexico or just the ominous looking black police vans, sometimes with men in fatigues and guns bringing up the rear?  What about my Spanish class later the next day?

     Maybe it was the stress that did me in.  The temperature in Chicago had plummeted again to the single digits, and the gas forced air heat in the back of our home was blowing cold air.  Our house sitter couldn't work in the kitchen without a small electric fan running up a bill only the electric company could love.  We'd been warned that our 20-year-old heater had already outrun its lifetime and that it was only a matter of time before we'd have to replace it to a tune of close to $20,000.  It was a no brainer: Keep the damn thing running through the winter.  We needed to save money or take out a home equity loan before even considering a replacement.
     But nobody imagined one of the coldest winters on record with some polar something or other from Alaska and north sweeping with a vengeance down into the lower forty-eight and turning state after sate into a frigid and snowy nightmare only an Eskimo could love.  We midwesterners (at least some of us) are a hearty lot, but the unending single-digit and lower temps had caused intolerable cabin fever, a loss of retail revenue, outrageous heating bills, and a slow but steady universal case of Seasonal Affective Depression.
     So, back to my "heart attack."  In time, my heart rate returned to normal, my breath calmed, and I realized that most likely it had been a mini panic attack instead.  It was 9:30 p.m. and I hadn't heard back from the heating and cooling outfit in the States that would ostensibly make an emergency call to fix the heating problem.  Thank god I'd purchased some kind of deal that provided after-hour and weekend service calls at no additional charge.  This was one time when additional "insurance" might pay off.
     I won't know until I call the house sitter in another hour (It's 7:30 a.m.) whether or not the furnace was fixed or whether he'll have to suffer a very cold kitchen and my husband I will face the expense of replacing the furnace, rendering our two-month stay in Mexico a fool hearty decision and my plans for redoing that same kitchen a deferred dream.  (At least, we'd get the new wood floors because I already paid a 60% downpayment.)
     Just before falling asleep, I ticked off a list of my current maladies:  sleep apnea, migraines, medically-controlled epilepsy, and SADD that I'd thought had been erased by getaway stays in warm climes but now replaced by panic attacks when things go awry back home.

     I am getting old after all.  But several of my friends have already gone to those Pearly Gates way before their time, and I'm still standing, holding down the fort.