Like a prize fighter, I mean. This year was one of turmoil and upset and meager sales for Cloquet River Press. I struggled to sell books in an ever-changing world amidst the worst economic conditions since the Great Depression. 2010 saw digital platforms; Kindle, the Sony Reader, and the Nook seriously contest print as the most viable means to present fiction to readers. (Remember Garrison Keillor’s lament?) Most of the events I appeared at, from the Living Green Expo in May to my only book signing of the year at a bookstore (yesterday at Fitger’s), drew sparse traffic and even sparser sales. There were a few highlights: My appearances at Kaleva Hall in Virginia and at Petrell Hall in Brimson were well attended and generated sales. But uniformly, traffic at events and interest in my work was down, which led to a year-long writer’s funk that has become extremely difficult to shake.
It’s like I’m a journeyman boxer on the threshold of getting my big fight, the one that will change everything, but I can’t get the attention of the promoters. My chance at the title remains elusive. I’m doomed to fight in second tier venues against has-been pugilists: Not because I lack the skills to compete but because I lack a hook that sparks interest in the money men who promote the big fights.
I have a new book ready for its final edit. Laman’s River is nestled comfortably in the digital memory of my iMac, awaiting finishing touches and a launch into the public’s hands. Two new editions of previously released collections (short fiction and essays) also await release. But sales have not kept pace with expenses. My words remain financially locked in their rooms like naughty children, waiting parental permission to go out and play.
And then there is my newest project. Tentatively titled, Kindred, I’ve started crafting a sequel to Elin Gustafson’s story. (Elin was one of the protagonists of Suomalaiset.) I envision a broad shouldered, full bodied historical novel set in Finland, Karelia, and Estonia coming together behind Elin’s powerful presence. It’s slow going because my mind, instead of being occupied with research and writing, is plagued by doubt.
Is this really worth the effort? If only a few hundred, maybe a few thousand, readers ever buy my books and enjoy what I’ve created, is this worth the effort?
Of course, authors know, at least in a general sense, how other authors are faring in the marketplace of ideas. I’m not talking about Grisham or Sanford here, but folks like my friend and fellow judge, John DeSanto, whose take on the Congdon murders in Duluth, Will to Murder (a finely wrought, excellent study of a sociopathic personality) has sold more copies than all of my collected work. I wish John and the other word boxers out there who have won their bouts all the best. Really, I do. It’s just, well, after taking punches fight after fight, standing up after being dropped to the canvas, wading back into the fray on tired legs and with bloodied eyes, it wears on you. That’s a fact. I guess in the end, a self-published author, like a bedraggled boxer, has to decide whether to pack up his sweats and leave the gym or get back in the ring for another practice session with the trainer.
The ice bag is covering my eyes. I’m sitting on a little three legged stool in my corner, stars flitting above my head, my manager telling me to stay put; that the fight is over. And then the song that got me through twelve weeks of Army basic training at the age of twenty-six years old starts to play in my head.
In the clearing stands a boxer and a fighter by his trade,
And he carries the reminders of every glove that laid him down,
Or cut him ’til he cried out in his anger and his shame,
“I am leaving, I am leaving.”
But the fighter still remains…
(“The Boxer” (c) Paul Simon)
Wearily, I stand up, put my mouth piece in, shuffle my tired feet, and raise my aching arms in defiance as I eye another challenge.
Peace.
Mark
