by Tosh McIntosh

(Originally published 2-25-12)

Brad Whittington’s AIW post titled “The best way to sell lots of books” addresses a problem that can be accurately described as a:

• catch-22 noun: a dilemma or difficult circumstance from which there is no escape because of mutually conflicting or dependent conditions

This post is not about the specifics of selling lots of books in the indie marketplace. For that, you can visit the forums and blogs of writers who have proven they’ve broken the code to generating sales. And if the truth be known, tactics in use today will probably become archaic at the speed of light in the online universe. To have the last word is like trying to nail Jell-O to the ceiling.

With that said, please pardon a short digression into a word comparison:

• simile |ˈsiməlē| noun: a figure of speech involving the comparison of one thing with another thing of a different kind, used to make a description more emphatic or vivid

• analogy |əˈnaləjē| noun ( pl. -gies): a comparison between two things, typically on the basis of their structure and for the purpose of explanation or clarification

• metaphor |ˈmetəˌfôr; -fər| noun: a figure of speech in which a word or phrase is applied to an object or action to which it is not literally applicable

I don’t know about you, but whenever I encounter wording that reads like a simile, anology, or metaphor, I often ponder the difference between the three and conclude that I’m looking at a mixed bag. And I don’t mean a mixed metaphor (horrors!), but a similar analogy, or an analogous metaphor, or a metaphorical analogy.

All too frequently, I’m sure, members of the Novel-In-Progress Group of Austin have heard me refer to story structure with what is likely an example of a grandaddy figure of speech, an analogous metaphorical simile. It goes something like this:

On the first page, your novel is like one of many steam-driven trains sitting in Grand Central Terminal waiting for passengers. You’d like them to board your train, which we’ll call The Story Express, and not the one on the next track, so how do you best attract them?

First and foremost, don’t have a cold boiler. If the passengers have to sit in their seats staring out the window at the station while you toss fuel into the firebox, they’ll disembark before you spin the first wheel on the rail. But if they climb on and you immediately accelerate out of the station, they can’t leave. Kind of like what you want to happen when a reader opens your book to page one, huh?

Okay, so that’s part of the craft of writing the good book Brad talks about in his post. It all has to begin with the sine qua non (“without which there is nothing”) of generating sales. Unfortunately, books have no chance of selling themselves without help. Grand Central Terminal’s 48 acres is tiny compared to the infinite amount of virtual shelf space for books.

If you will pardon the following metaphorical analogous simile, your book can also be compared to a horse-drawn wagon. The horses have names, and they are always connected to the wagon in tandem: Discoverability is the wheeler (rearmost) horse, led in order by Exposure, Traction, and Momentum.

Readers can’t purchase your book if they don’t know it’s there, and the first day on the shelf is like (another comparison!) having built a beautiful wagon in your basement. The author’s online platform mentioned in Brad’s post can be considered as the harness for the team of four. In a perfect writer’s world, all you have to do is hook ’em up and off you go. But if we accept the results of the RWA poll Brad referenced as indicative of readers in general, a different picture emerges.

Pardon me again, but the current writer-based social networking frenzy is like boats caught in an eddy of closed-loop communication on facebook, Twitter, blogs, forums, etc., in which we are promoting our books among ourselves. Readers don’t have a vessel in the eddy. They’re out there in the swift-flowing water. So how do writers join them?

If it were only as simple as reading how authors X and Y and Z did it, then we could all duplicate their tactics and ride the rapids. The problem, however, is the reality that we can’t do that. Consider the following definitions:

• duplicate verb |ˈd(y)oōpləˌkāt| [ trans. ]: make or be an exact copy of

• mimic |ˈmimik| verb ( mimicked , mimicking ) [ trans. ]: imitate (someone or their actions or words)

Unfortunately, we’re stuck with the latter verb. Talk about trying to nail Jello to the ceiling. Far too many variables exist to predict how any single action taken to promote a particular book will fare in the marketplace. Not only that, following Brad’s entreaty to write a good book is even harder.

• good |goŏd| adjective ( better |ˈbetər|, best |best|): to be desired or approved of

Have you seen what you consider to be bad book selling well? And what about a really good book that languishes in the eddy? Can we draw any conclusions from this dichotomy?

Here’s one: If savvy marketing can promote a bad book successfully, think what it can do for yours. And another: If you expect readers to find your book on their own, that finely crafted wagon in the basement will remain there. Just like the engineer having the steam up in the boiler on The Story Express, the wagon master has to harness Discoverability and be ready to crack the whip.

A final comparison: Snipers use scoped rifles from long range on carefully chosen and defined targets. But in the trench warfare of indie publishing, your chances of hitting the bullseye are greatly improved by actively pulling the trigger on a 12-gauge pump scattergun.

And that means actively promoting your books to readers in every way you can so that sales provide the energy to bring the process to a metaphorically analogous full circle. What begins as steam-driven train, hauled by a horse-drawn wagon, ends up as a bullet train.

And guess who gets to ring the bell?