Travels and Travails

The author at Beagle Books in Park Rapids

The author at Beagle Books in Park Rapids

It was 5:30am on a Saturday morning in June. I was up and working on my tenth book, a novel set in Ely about a Lesbian trial lawyer, a long-in-the tooth female sheriff, an environmental terrorist, and the deaths of two innocent blue-collar workers. As I closed my iMac and padded my way upstairs to the bedroom I share with my wife of nearly thirty-seven years, I thought about the long, long road-the travels that I’ve made-trying to hawk my books and promote my stories. I remembered being at a Barnes and Noble store in Cleveland early on in my life as an author, where I sat in a store devoid of patrons trying to entice Ohioans to buy my first novel, The Legacy. That was 2001, the spring after The Legacy debuted to much critical acclaim and brisk regional sales. With endorsements from the likes of Senator Paul Wellstone, former Vice President Walter Mondale, noted writer and trial lawyer Barry Reed (The Verdict), and criminal prosecutor and author Vincent Bugliosi (Helter Skelter), and having sold out the first printing of the novel in less than six weeks, I was certain the world was my oyster. And yet the sudden, rapid, mercurial rise I’d envisioned for myself and my writing didn’t happen. Not then. Not now. So, as I climbed into the shower on that humid, sunny June morning, considering all my travels, I also considered my travails; the constant pounding of my head against the wall of silent agents, absent publishers, and hyper-critical contest judges, all of whom have declined to give my work a leg up, a helping hand. I’ve been writing seriously now for exactly twenty-five years. That’s a long, long time to try and make a name for oneself in any endeavor, much less one as ego draining as fiction writing. It was a tired man who clambered out of the shower stall, pulled on his boxers, shaved, brushed his teeth, arranged his graying hair, donned his favorite blue Hawaiian party shirt and blue jeans, and kissed his slumbering bride goodbye.

At least I wasn’t alone. My company for the long drive to and from Beagle Books and Bindery in Park Rapids was an author, a writer, who has managed to pique the interest of mainstream publishers, contest judges, and the like. Linda LeGarde Gover, whose two works of fiction set in Minnesota and filled with characters and imagery invoking Ojibwe traditions, climbed into the Blue Pacifica at the Super One parking lot in Pike Lake, a box of her latest book, The Road Back to Sweetgrass, under her arm. She put the novels in the van, sat in the passenger’s seat, and we were off. I like Linda. Love her writing. The fact that she, like me, is a graduate of Duluth Denfeld High School, and that I’ve known some of her siblings for decades (though I didn’t get acquainted with Linda until recently) and that she’s an author who was awarded the Flannaery O’Connor Award by the University of Georgia for her first book, a collection of linked short stories, The Dance Boots, gave us much to discuss as the Pacifica sped west. Despite the level of her success, having her first book an award winner and published by the University of Georgia Press, ultimately culminating in the collection being selected as the One Book read for Northeastern Minnesota for 2015, and The Road Back to Sweetgrass having been picked by an editor at the prestigious University of Minnesota Press for publication, Linda is down-to-earth and pragmatic. She could, of course, look down upon her fellow Hunter as one who is a tier or two below her success, what with all of my books either having been collaboratively published (The Legacy, with Savage Press) or self-published (all the rest) in comparison to her work being picked up by major academic presses and lauded by the critics (including me!). But she does not. We were, as we rode towards the Beagle Books Author Festival, kindred spirits. Of course, there was ugly envy lurking inside me. Writing is all about ego. Show me a writer, an author, who doesn’t lament the fact that his or her book wasn’t picked up by a publisher or didn’t win a contest or wasn’t selected for acclaim, and I’ll show you an author who is dead. Hemingway (my writing (though not lifestyle) mentor) cautioned writers about getting too wrapped up in their quest for notoriety. And yet, of course, Papa himself could not breathe, could not exist, when he himself became, at the twilight of his writing career, the subject of negative reviews.

Linda Grover at Beagle Books.

Linda Grover at Beagle Books.

Readers of this blog, and of my posts on Facebook, have long chastised me for being self-deprecating. “You’re a great writer,” readers say. “The Legacy (or one of my other novels) is a great read, a great book!” folks will add, urging me to forge ahead and spend another year or two or three or four writing a book. But then they will read one of my essays steeped in pity and self-loathing and angst and longing for greater recognition from “The Establishment” (critics, publishers, agents, news outlets) and my readers (friends, family, co-workers, and complete strangers) will decry my attitude. “Buck up,” they will tell me, “Just keep writing and self-publishing and things will turn out alright.” Of course, I didn’t share this with Linda as we discussed writing and publishing and bookstores and the demise of Border’s and the new age of digital publishing before I pulled into a parking space in front of Beagle Books. But in the back of my mind, I thought about the owner of the bookstore admonishing authors “not to bring any CreateSpace published books” to the event.

I understand the prohibition: CreateSpace is the printing arm of Amazon.com, the largest purveyor of books in the world. My older books have all been converted to digital platforms for sale through Kindle (Amazon’s eReader), Nook (the Barnes and Noble equivalent of Kindle) and Kobo (the independent bookstores attempt to have their own digital platform) and are now also exclusively printed by CreateSpace. Why? Why would an egalitarian soul like me choose to “feed the beast” and harm small, local independent bookstores by assisting Amazon? Money. Plain and simple. I cannot, as a small, one man enterprise afford to print my older books through conventional means. The demand for such titles is slight and I cannot afford, my wallet cannot countenance, stacks of books in my basement waiting for readers that may or may not materialize. CreateSpace is unlike traditional printers. Traditional printers charge per book based upon the volume printed in a print run: The more copies you print, the lower the price. CreateSpace starts with a discounted price for the first book and that price never wavers no matter how many copies of a title you order and the quality is good, equal to books produced by traditional printing houses.

But I get that the bookstore owner’s admonishment is rooted in economic survival. Independent bookstores (Indies) loath Amazon and CreateSpace. But if I want to keep my words in print, I can’t avoid feeding the beast. I voiced my concerns about this turn of events in the publishing world to Linda as we drove towards Park Rapids. I shared with Linda the fact that, before she reclaimed critical accolades for Vacationland, Sarah Stonich (These Granite Islands) worked with CreateSpace to bring her older works back into print. Being an award winning novelist, apparently, isn’t all glitter and gold as I’d imagined.

Linda and I went our separate ways when we arrived at Beagles. We both sold some books, talked to some folks, and then, our two hours at the festival completed, we headed next door for lunch. We talked about writing, publishing, life, politics, kids, stories, and just about everything under the sun over lunch and on our way home. I dropped Linda off at her truck in Pike Lake. I motored towards Fredenberg in my blue Pacifica, thinking about whether my tenth book, Boomtown, is something that the world really needs or wants.

Ego is a difficult demon to master. I’m not there yet: I am not yet able to reconcile contentment grounded in the kind words and nice things folks say about my stories with the fact that, outside my little niche in the world, no one knows who I am. It hurts like hell that I’ve never been found worthy enough, despite excellent critical reviews of my work, to earn even an honorable mention from any of the novel-writing contests I’ve entered, including the one sponsored by the college I attended.

This morning, I stare out across the misty, gray day that’s settled over the hayfield outside my writing space. I ponder whether I should, when my current project is completed, simply put all my eggs in one basket and issue Boomtown through Amazon, both in print and exclusively for Kindle. I sell very few copies of my work through Barnes and Noble. With the noted exception of the Bookstore at Fitger’s, Indies are nearly gone from my bottom line. Nook and Kobo are paltry second and third places behind Kindle when it comes to digital sales of my books. I listen to classical music on MPR and ponder the future of Mark the writer, of Cloquet River Press, of the novel and writing and fiction in general. I recognize that, before making decisions about my writing future, I must consider the past twenty-five years and all the readers I’ve connected with from Finland to Australia and all points in between before making any changes in how I publish new work. I also recognize that, when it comes to my writing, emotional balance isn’t my strong suit. Pride is a horrible beast to restrain.

I realize these truths about myself and my writing as I tap the keyboard to my iMac and try to figure out a succinct ending for this piece but the muse fails me in this regard.

Things will be what they are, is the best I can come up before turning back to Boomtown to begin another edit.

Peace.

Mark

Linda and Mark at the Cloquet Library's One Book event.

Linda and Mark at the Cloquet Library’s One Book event.

 

 

About Mark

I'm a reformed lawyer and author.
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