Writing books is what I love to do.
I’m not just saying this. It’s my true passion; something that brings me happiness for 1,001 different reasons. I love delving into subjects. I love sports. I love travel. I love sitting in the rear of a coffee shop, digging through clips. I love finding myself lost in research. I love being able to drop my kids off at school in the morning. I love picking them up in the afternoon.
Writing books is what I love to do.
Promoting a book, however, is very hard. But, more than hard, it’s gut-wrenching. I’m not sure how many people even realize this, but Amazon has a ranking system that many authors live and die with. It literally ranks all books by sale totals. Some authors—King, Hillenbrand, Gladwell—know they’ll hit No. 1 without much effort, then stick at/near the spot for months, if not years. Other authors never even think about such things—they write purely for joy and thrill, and even having a book on Amazon is reward.
I don’t fit in either category. I’m not Gladwell. I’m not the guy who’s just happy to be there. I think, with Boys Will Be Boys, I peaked at No. 6 on Amazon—a huge thrill. Showtime recently hit No. 23, also pretty sweet. But, unlike the supersonic guns, I struggle mightily to remain in a high perch. I’m not entirely sure why. Name recognition? Quality? Marketing? Really, it’s a riddle I have yet to solve. But I desperately want to get there; want my books to sell and sell and sell and sell and sell. Instead, I watch—hand in front of eyes—as my book slowly heads down the mountain. I mean, I’m not complaining. I get very high, and am grateful for that. But as one goes from 23 to 43 to 56 to 68 to 98 to 122 … well, it sucks. I try doing more and more media; more and more Tweets; more and more … anything. Everything.
This, however, is the riddle that plagues me.
This keeps me up nights.
