My fourth book, “The Rocket That Fell To Earth: Roger Clemens and the Rage for Baseball Immortality,” comes out two weeks from today.
Let the whoring begin.
Yes, whoring. Not writing, not editing, not readings—whoring. It’s the worst part of the book business, and yet—oddly—also sort of enjoyable. I’ve never enjoyed calling in favors to people, which promoting a book requires. I also feel awkward talking, talking, talking, talking about the book; telling the same stories over and over for the 5,000th time. It’s not that I have a problem with radio stations asking things—hell, I appreciate their interest. But there’s something about repeating a story that feels almost … dishonest. Like you should be giving everyone new material. Can’t happen, obviously, but that’s how it feel.
Anyhow, I’m babbling. But such is the life of a blog guy. I truly have no clue how this book will do. With the Cowboys, I felt fairly confident—and it sold insanely well. With Bonds, I felt REALLY confident—and it bombed. With the Mets, I had no clue—and it did great. I’m 2-for-3 when it comes to making the NYT list which, as my wife always says, is a helluva batting average. Even if this book sells 12 copies, I’ll still be a .500 hitter. Right?
Seriously, if anyone has any whoring advice, I’m all ears …
