Secrets In Publishing…I’m Over It.

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I recently shared on a writer’s board that I’d queried a few agents for my wolf/cowboy/biker dude novel (maybe 10) and had close calls with 2 of them. I swear I heard a collective gasp, followed by condolences of concerned citizens who thought I’d committed career suicide by sharing such details.  If you’re a writer trying to break in and are just beginning your research on how to query, you’ll eventually run across the advice to keep your querying results hush-hush. It made me think of all the other things I wanted to know before I was published. Today, I’ve decided, if someone wants my book, they won’t be swayed because I dropped a handful of queries into the market and admitted rejection out loud. We hear so often about individual tastes, so like, whatever. I’m here to holla to the world…

I AM DONE WITH PUBLISHING SECRETS.

The big news running through the literary world this week is that 3 big publishers have finally decided to share sales data with their authors. Yep, that info has been a closely guarded secret since forever. Really? I, as an author, create a product and work with my partner (the publisher)  to promote it, yet I’m not privy to how many units have moved? Cuh-razy! Yes, we get royalty statements. Twice a year. With information that’s 6 months old. And irrelevant by then. True, some authors don’t WANT the data, because it causes stress and distracts them from their writing. But fine, others DO want it. Why?

SECRETS CAUSE FEAR.

As a debut author, I had no idea what to expect in terms of sales. I’d done some research and learned that the majority of books LOSE money for publishers. They make their cake off the top 10% or so of successful titles, probably less. I also read that the vast majority of books sell fewer than 5000 copies. Guess what? 20 months after publication, my sales numbers are not busting out of the norm anytime soon. Is it the kiss of death for my 2nd book that I’m currently revising? Too many variables exist to say for sure, like genre, age group, literary or commercial appeal, whether it’s of the same vein as the first or totally different. But I do know that in this digital age, options are opening up for authors like never before. The whole industry is changing, much like what happened to the music industry when MP3s hit the market. So a no from a publisher no longer means no to readers. Clap, clap!

WHAT ABOUT YOU?

In your path to publication, what are you desperate to know? If you’ve done your research and still can’t find an answer, drop a question in the comments. I’ll do my best to answer or holler at some other author friends to come give you their two cents. And if you’re already published, is there a secret that you were dying to know? Share it!

PEACE OUT!

Oh yeah, what about the wolf/cowboy/biker dude novel I’m working on? Some people say don’t share it online. Phooey. Here’s an excerpt…

CHAPTER ONE

Her headlights sliced through the night, a yellow blur of road lines flashing past. The desert air, warm as breath, wound her hair, circled her neck.

Malia hit the brakes. Dust rose in her headlights, lingering shapeless like fog. Her only company was the hum of the Jeep. Her breaths came fast, the seatbelt cutting across her chest. She killed the engine, killed the lights. Darkness knocked into her, and her eyes pushed against black, hunting for even a speck of light.

She waved a hand in her face. Nothing. “Hello!” Her voice fell away fast. “I’m here!”

When she’d arrived earlier that day, she marveled at the sunlit desert, its plain of dry grasslands surrounded by erupting mountains, so striking compared to the rolling hills of the Midwest. She’d never felt so weightless, moving under the massive Arizona sky with no more significance than a snowflake on fire. But at night, Malia felt as much a part of the landscape as the massive hoodoos sprouting from hilltops.

As each minute passed, the sky wrapped Malia in more glitter. “Hello stars!” Faint currents of air swirled over her like a thousand butterfly kisses.

She unlatched herself and stood on the seat but she wanted to be higher, closer to the night sky. She stair-stepped her way from dash to doorframe to headrest until she balanced like a warrior, one foot on the windshield, one on the roll bar. A rumbling tickled her throat and she laughed. Why bother stifling it? No one was listening. No one was watching.

Her muscles uncoiled. She tore off her shirt, jumped from the Jeep and was off, racing down the desert road. To maintain a straight path, she kept her eyes on those black giants in the distance, the mountains that weren’t star-studded. After fifty yards or so, Malia raised her arms as if crossing a finish line. She lay down on the road and fanned out her long hair, black on black. She’d hear a car a mile away, or see a beam of light breach the dark, should any come down this one reminder of man’s intrusion.

The sun-soaked asphalt warmed her back. The smell of creosote hinted at recent rain. Scratching drifted from the east—a rodent searching under rocks for dinner. Hoofed feet too, mule deer probably, or javelina, clacking on outcrops. And the squall of captured prey, snatched by an owl with silent wings and lethal speed.

Malia watched the stars swell. She reached up, brushed their light with her fingertips. “Can you see me, Mom?”

As if her words were a cue, Malia heard it. A distant howl worked its way through the night. She held her breath to listen, convinced that her hopeful mind had conjured it. But no, a chorus performed now. Multiple voices, beckoning a reunion of the pack.

Malia sat up. She imagined the night air a whisper tickling her ear. The Mexican gray wolf was alive and well again in its historic range, but what was it doing this far south? The primary zone in the Blue Range Wolf Recovery Area was two hundred miles north.

Mom would know.

Their plaintive wails nudged Malia’s sorrow from that secret spot in her bones where no one could see. After all the years watching Mom work to see the lobos reintroduced to their desert home, this was the trip she’d wanted to take with her. But Dad always nixed it. Maybe next year, Honey, Mom would say. Mom never got a next year. Malia hoped Dad was happy in Kansas City, sitting all alone between the walls of the house that used to rattle with Mom’s energy.

Malia lay there like an undiscovered corpse no one knew to miss. Only the stars could see the dolor dig its claws into her, and Malia trusted the stars to let her be.

Then came another crest of howls. She pictured the wolves’ golden moon eyes, so human-like, captivating people throughout history with their intensity, making them wonder if wolves could see their souls. She remembered holding her breath while watching vets at the Endangered Wolf Center return an alpha to his pack after a long illness, her joy swelling at all the tail wagging and playfulness he received upon his return. She remembered her first glimpse, via a den camera, of pups born that would one day be released into the wild, the desert where she now lay.

Malia opened her eyes to a hairline sliver of moonlight etching a smile in the sky. She stood to go, finally able to make out the white on her running shoes. She walked slowly so she could focus as each new howl swelled, trying to count. Four wolves could sound like a dozen as their voices modulated and scattered past ridges and trees. Malia broke into a sprint again, wondering how it’d feel to travel in the security of a pack, owning the night.

She barely saw the black hulk of Jeep as the baying died down. The sudden quiet left room for her mother’s voice. People could learn a lot from wolves, Malia, if they paid attention. The way they mate for life. The way they hunt together to provide for everyone. The way the alpha watches for danger while the whole pack raises the young, pitching in like family should.

A shooting star bloomed across the sky. “One one thousand. Two one thousand. Three…” Its glow flickered and faded on the horizon. Malia’s body felt heavy now. She needed some sleep at least, before her supervisor came knocking to explain exactly what a volunteer interpreter does for the National Park Service all summer long.

She stood outside the Jeep’s door, her own panting filling her ears. She fumbled in the seat for her shirt when her blood turned brittle.

She wasn’t alone.

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