Author Mark Munger (Cloquet River Press)

Tattered Cover Bookstore Denver, Colorado

Every once and awhile, I run across commentary from someone who says something better than I could. As I’ve often revealed in my blogs, I relish my time spent reading Glimmer Train literary magazine. Though it’s unlikely my short fiction will ever be displayed inside that journal’s pages, I thoroughly enjoy the multifaceted writing that appears in GT. I also enjoy the interviews with writers in each issue. For the Spring 2011 edition, Andrew Scott sat down with writer Christopher Coake and discussed writing and marketing short fiction. This is what Coake had to say about the utility of independent bookstores in marketing midlist authors.

My second wife…works at Sundance Bookstore, which is our local independent, and which has been thriving in Reno for twenty years. They’re terrific…They will hand-sell a book they believe in and move many copies. For people like me, whose book will only ever sell in the low thousands, this sort of attention is vital. If six independent stores sell twenty copies of my book…that’s a measurable percentage of my sales.

The big chain stores generally won’t do this. There are exceptions. Let me be clear: I like all bookstores, even big chain ones…But you I can’t tell you the number of times I’ve stood in a Barnes and Noble and listened to a customer ask an employee where to find an author I know, only to hear the employee bumble around…

Borders and Barnes and Noble can’t help midlist authors, except here and there, almost by accident. Unless you’re the sort of author who gets a stack on the front table, you might as well be invisible…Our local Barnes and Noble has a pretty good fiction selection…but they still miss some…(I)f you care about literature, go to stores like Sundance, City Lights, Prairie Lights, the Tattered Cover, Square Books, Powell’s. These are the places that understand…Ask their advice, and read what they tell you to.

(c) 2011 Glimmer Train

I agree. The local indies (and we’re down to one here in the Twin Ports now; we used to have three), are the places to find books that the big box retailers either have forgotten or never knew about. In my wanderings around the US and Canada selling my books, I’ve read and signed at over 100 Barnes and Noble, Borders, or Chapters stores. All of them are basically the same: Very nice folks who love books but who have a corporate bottom line and corporate philosophy to address. The little guys and gals, like my pal Sally at Fitger’s (or Anita at the now closed Northern Lights)? Sure, they need to make money: Otherwise the store will close like so many other indies have. But their personal touch, their concern for the little guy or gal who gets up at 5:00am (hey, sounds familiar) to churn out stories, well, that just can’t be translated into corporate America.

So if you value the marketplace of ideas, stop in at the Bookstore at Fitger’s when you’re in Duluth or, if you’re out and about on a vacation, pick up a good regional novel from an independent bookseller. Ask the clerk what he or she would recommend as a novel from the area that sets the mood and tone of the place and captures the essential character of its people. That’s what I do and I haven’t been disappointed yet.

Peace.

Mark

Saturday. The sky threatens to open up. Though there is a brief respite to the clouds, as I drive west on US Highway No.2 towards Tall Timber Days in Grand Rapids gray envelopes the landscape.

“Shit,” I mutter, sipping hot coffee as I listen to KAXE, a great independent radio station from ‘Rapids, “another rainy weekend in the E-Z Up.”

I know, I know. My son Matt, my webmaster, has implored me to be “positive” in my posts. I’m trying folks, I really am. But damn. Every time I drive off for another event, the sky seems to want to open up. Where’s the positive in that? Haven’t we had enough rain for the summer? I mean, aren’t these incessant storms causing flooding, destruction, and the loss of crops? No to mention crappy book sales for certain semi-famous regional authors?

OK. Here’s something positive. I am able to unload the Pacifica and the trailer I’m pulling and get the entire booth set up (including three of my wife’s concrete mosaic benches) without a drop of rain falling on my little head. There, that’s a positive thing, right? The author and his books not getting drenched. Very upbeat, I’d said.

The day is slow. The folks that mosey through the festival aren’t buying much. I do sell the biggest, heaviest, most ungainly of my wife’s concrete artwork to an elderly gentlemen as part of a memorial garden for his recently departed wife.

Very positive. Rene’ will be pleased about how the man chose to remember his beloved.

But the books? They aren’t exactly flying off the tables. And the weather? It drizzles for the better part of the day, making the concept of selling paper in the rain very dubious. Of course, the optimist in me (channeled there by my eldest son) is happy it didn’t pour.

When I get home, my wife’s entire family is at our house: Rene’ called them together for an impromptu picnic. Dog tired, I don’t say much to the in-laws as I wander up to the shower and rinse off the grime of the road. Later, after my belly is full and I’ve had a couple of cold ones, my mood lightens and I’m a happy guy. Leinenkuegels will do that for you.

Sunday. The sky is still gray.

What the hell good are those weather forecasters anyway?

Every television guy or gal spouting their knowledge of all things weathery said that it was going to clear up and be a sunny day. Wrong. Pewter clouds sit above the river and off to the west. I don’t leave the clouds behind as I drive towards the festival. But on a positive note, I’m listening to To Have and Have Not by Hemingway on the CD changer.

Hemingway’s the guy that showed me how to write, how to tell a story.

I’ve read just about everything Papa wrote down on paper and I still admire his unique, crisp style. A bit misogynistic but still, one of my favorites. The story makes me forget about the close sky and the likely slow sales I’ll encounter at Tall Timber Days.

The festival continues at the same snail-like pace. Some vendors literally pull up stakes: They take their tents down and leave early. But not me: I’m an optimist, always looking for a surge of customers at the end of an event to make my bottom line better. Never happens, of course. Sundays are always slower than Saturdays. Wait, that’s not true. Phelps Mill, out in Fergus Falls is an exception to that rule: Sundays at Phelps Mill are always better than Saturdays. Don’t know why. But they are. And guess what? That holds true at this year’s Tall Timber Days as well. The sales aren’t great but I do sell more on Sunday than Saturday. Maybe my positive vibe is showing. Or maybe it’s because it didn’t rain as much on the Sabbath. Or maybe it’s because local writer Tom Chapin (Poachers Caught) takes pity on my plight and starts hawking my books inside the E-Z Up with me. Whatever the reason, I drive home a bit happier. Not a lot happier: just some.

Peace.

Mark

Dusk on the Cloquet River: All is well…

My son Matt (who is also my webmaster/tech guy) says I have been too much gloom and doom of late, that I need to be more upbeat. So, here it is, “Positive Monday”. I borrowed the title of this piece from “Garage Logic”, Joe Soucheray’s cranky, often edgy radio show out of the Twin Cities which has a distinctly anti-Liberal bent and which usually features Joe going off about something Nancy Pelosi or the President or some other Left leaning American has done. I am going to be positive today, even though this weekend was the worst Ely Blueberry Festival on record for Cloquet River Press. Really, I am. Here goes.

Well, I was able to stay for free up in Ely, on beautiful White Iron Lake, thanks to Dennis and Roxanne Korman who let me bed down in their place for two nights. Oh, and I got to drink beer and yell at the Twins (we were cheering only positively of course, even though the A’s were kicking the Twins’ collective asses) with Uncle Buck (Rod Skube) the caretaker of the place. Not having to pay big bucks for an overpriced hotel room or stay in a tent, and also watch the Twins on satellite is a positive, right?

And then there were the fabulous blueberry pancakes I ate both Saturday and Sunday morning in the pavilion in Whiteside Park where the festival was held. The Lions provided the all-you-can eat (another positive, right?) pancakes, two sausages, and juice, milk or coffee. The cakes were fresh and the crowd was lively, making me, even in the early morning hours after drinking beer with Uncle Buck the night before, feel distinctly alive.

And how about the fact that, even though it rained cats and dogs around noon on Saturday of the three day festival, the bad weather lingered for only an hour or two at most? It could have stormed all day (which has happened in past Blueberry Festivals) but it didn’t. Another very good thing, right?

Then there was spending two days in my little E-Z Up tent with the talented, wise, energetic, and gifted Sarah Stonich, a Minnesota author based in the Twin Cities with roots on the Vermilion Range. Sarah had never done a “tent show” before (may well not do another one after being confined in an E-Z UP with the likes of me for two days) but was a real trouper. She managed to sell some copies of her new memoir, Shelter and of her older books as well, and, during the many lulls between sales (not a negative as you will discern from the rest of this passage), we were able to talk about writing, publishing, and life. A very “thumbs up” attribute to the weekend, I must say.

The people who stopped by to tell me (and Sarah) how much they liked our writing? Well, of course, that’s what an author lives for. Critics have agendas. Newspapers and other media outlets may or may not discuss your books, depending upon available space and whichever corporate big-wigs are in control. But readers? Having them stop by and chat, even if they’re not in the market for another book, and gush over a story you put on paper is just about the most positive aspect to being a writer there is.

Oh, and then there’s festival food. Now naysayers might cringe at the fat content in the Chinese I ate for lunch both Saturday and Sunday or argue that the frozen custard I had for a treat after a hard day in the booth on Saturday (black raspberry despite the fact I was at the Blueberry Festival) are not very healthy options. Especially the deep fried egg roll. Too bad. It tasted so darn good and, well, since my time in Ely had to be a positive experience, I ate what made me feel, well, positive.

The swim I took Friday night after getting up at five, driving from Duluth to Ely, setting up my booth (including my wife’s ever-present and extraordinarily heavy concrete mosaic garden benches), and spending a long day trying to hawk words to strangers? Oh, sure, I was a bit disappointed that White Iron Lake was not what I expected. Instead of the nice sand and gravel bottom I’m used to when I swim in the Cloquet River by my house, I was greeted with a confusion of boulders the size of small hay bales strewn across the lake bottom. The jumbled mess made it impossible to swim: I kept hitting rocks with my feet and hands as I tried to move through the sweetly cool water. Oh, oh. Sounds negative. But it isn’t because once I let the lake win and I found a nice flat rock to settle on, sitting in waist deep water after a long, hard, hot day in a airless tent, well, the lake was heaven. See? I can turn something bad into something good, now can’t I? I’d say that’s the mark (no pun intended) of a gifted wordsmith.

Finally, there’s this: Even though I grouse and moan about the size and heft of my wife’s hobby, I came to Ely with four of her concrete benches and left with three. That’s right: I sold one, which lightened my load for the trip home. A very, very positive outcome, if I must say.

Peace.

Mark

“Judge,” the caller on the telephone said, “Mark Rubin here.”

When the St. Louis County Attorney (the head man and not some lackey) calls you on a Sunday afternoon, the news generally isn’t good. It wasn’t.

“Ya?”

“I’ve got some bad news.”

Go figure. What, a mass homicide that needs search warrants? A child abduction? There’s no end to the bad news one can receive from the county’s chief prosecutor.

“Colin Isaacson passed away.”

The message was a shock. Colin, a social worker for St. Louis County up on the Iron Range, was a mutual friend. Closer to the other Mark than me but still, I considered him to be a friend. Worse yet, he was our contemporary: He was only 58 years old.

Too damn young to go.

I first met Colin through author Pat McGauley, a former school teacher in Hibbing. When I began my writerly career, Pat was one of the first local authors I hung out with. Through Pat, I was invited to the Greater Mesabi Men’s Book Club, not once, but twice, to read from and discuss The Legacy  and Pigs: A Trial Lawyer’s Story. Colin was a member of the group and an avid reader. The group is infamous on the Range: They’ve been together something like thirty years and read over three hundred books. The unique thing? They only read fiction, books that few men crack open. I met Colin at Pat’s house in Hibbing where we sipped good beer and talked writing. I found out he was a musician. After that, I kept bumping into Colin as a guitarist and singer: at Land of the Loon in Virginia; at the Range Mental Health Christmas Dinner at Valentini’s; at a retirement fete for our mutual friend (and gifted guitarist) Jeff Rantala; at Jeff’s memorial service in Duluth where Colin and Mark Rubin and John Ely (famed steel guitarist and Grammy Award winning member of Asleep at the Wheel) performed; at a John Prine concert in Duluth where some yahoo in a cowboy hat disrupted the show by standing up and insulting Prine.

My second stint with the book club was at one of the member’s cabins on Crane Lake. Colin and I car pooled from his house  on the Range to the lake in my SUV. The weekend spent amongst strangers (I didn’t know a soul except Pat and Colin) was one I’ll always cherish: We ate big steaks, played poker, talked politics, took a boat ride and, yes, listened to Colin, who despite a long battle with MS, was still singing and playing the songs he loved: Steve Earle, John Prine, Bob Dylan, Townes Van Zandt, Guy Clark, and my personal favorite, Stevie Goodman. Colin could really finger pick the acoustic and he had a soft and gentle voice that fit the songs (music filled with meaning and empathy and angst) that he loved. Anytime Colin sang, the listener was treated to that cherubic face, the long ringlets of hair and an overwhelming sense of kindness emanating from a thoroughly decent human being. When he found out we shared a love of all things Goodman (Steve, not John) Colin sent me a copy of video he’d accumulated over the years showing Stevie’s live performances on Austin City Limits and in other venues. Not many folks would do that for someone they only saw once or twice a year.

And then there were the jokes: Bad jokes and bad puns were always Colin’s opening gambit in any conversation. His humor was kindergarten level stuff: silly and immature. Delivered with Colin’s leprechan-like persona, you just couldn’t help but laugh as you groaned.

I called him up a few years back when I wanted to do a book launch of Suomalaiset: People of the Marsh on the Iron Range. Despite our meager connection, Colin put together a group of musicians and showed up at the little Episcopal church in Virginia to play some music behind my reading. There were more musicians on stage than folks in attendance that night but that didn’t daunt Colin. He and his mates played until the last book was signed and then, he refused to take anything in payment. That was Colin.

Beyond sharing a love of music and the acoustic guitar with Stevie, Colin shared another trait with the Chicago troubadour: Both men went about life with joy and passion despite battling insidious diseases. Goodman died in 1987 from the leukemia that had plagued him for nearly two decades. Colin fought the symptoms of MS, a disease that does not render playing a guitar easy, for about as long. I’m sure that God is smiling this morning as Stevie and Colin work through chords to some new song that came to them when they finally sat down together to play.

Would you like to learn to dance?
Well I can show you that
Gotta book here, all you need to know
We can draw the Arthur Murray patterns right here on the floor.
All ya have to do is follow.
And then we’ll dance around the room a while
You can lead now if you want to, I don’t mind.
Nothin’ I wouldn’t do to see your smile
Go dancin’ ‘cross your face in perfect time
Go dancin’ ‘cross your face in perfect time.

(C) Steve Goodman

Rest in peace my friend.

Mark

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                   Colin’s the guy on seated on the stool with the glasses.

Watch Stevie play the song and think of Colin playing with his pal at the pearly gates: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3Ltdp1-vJoI.

Judy Collins

Saturday. I’m supposed to be at my booth in Two Harbors at Heritage Days by 9:00am. I rise from bed, wander down to the kitchen, make a pot of coffee, and power up the family iMac. My eyes are drawn to rain cascading across our newly mown hayfield.

Not very good timing. It’ll take at least three days of sun to dry that stuff out so it can be raked and baled.

I log on to the computer and write a blog about how it is I can be surrounded by hundreds of people and sell only two books.

An entire day. Two books. I didn’t even make my gas money back, much less pay for the entrance fee for my booth. Rain ain’t gonna make this picture any better.

I’ve been doing outdoor art festivals since 2002 when I had my first booth at Wisconsin’s quintessential gathering: the Bayfield Apple Festival. That’s a full ten seasons of enduring heat, wind, rain, vile porta-potties, and festival food. I’ve tried to make a go of it in my white E-Z Up tent in venues as far south as Adel, Iowa  and as far north as Thunder Bay, Ontario; as far west as Grand Forks, North Dakota and as far east as Bayfield. I’ve watched storm clouds gather and let loose lightening bolts and deluges in East Grand Forks, Bayfield, Ely,  Stillwater and many other locales. I’ve felt July and August’s heat through the vinyl roof of my tent with enough intensity to fry an egg. Add to these weekends lost to my family all the trips I’ve made to bookstores and libraries as far east as Youngstown, Ohio  and as far west as Calgary, Alberta; as far north as Saskatoon, Saskatchewan and as far south as Council Bluffs, Iowa and you’ll come to understand that this self-publishing journey I’ve been on has taken stamina, grit, cold hard cash, and an enormous amount of time. Don’t get me wrong: This gig hasn’t all been negative. I’ve been to some wonderful cities and small towns and met thousands of folks who love books. But the clouds I am watching today are disheartening: There’s simply not enough gumption left in my tank to overcome a feeling of dread no matter how pleasant the memories.

I shower, shave, eat a toasted bagel, grab a cup of hot coffee for the road, and drive off without ever saying goodbye to my slumbering bride. Rain drifts down as the wheels of my Pacifica roll over pockmarked asphalt. I take the back roads to Two Harbors. Theresa, my ever-present GPS, tries to steer me south, towards Duluth, where I could take the expressway. That’s boring. Like my trek through self-publishing (where I’ve repeatedly done things the hardest possible way) I am not about going to take the easiest road to the festival. I turn on the car radio and tune in “Mountain Stage”.

Judy Blue Eyes.

Judy Collins (about whom the classic CSNY song, “Suite: Judy Blue Eyes” was penned by Stephen Stills) is singing. Her voice remains strong and captivating after a long and storied career.

Would that my books do as well when I’ve been at it as long as she has.

Then I learn something from the show’s host that makes me smile: Judy’s newest album, Paradise, is on her own label. That’s right: Judy is self-published, just like me. (You can learn more about her latest album at http://judycollins.com/index1.php.)

When I arrive at my booth, the rain is torrential. The only folks around are vendors hiding in their booths and local musicians trying to set up on the covered stage. The nice couple who was selling clothing next to me have pulled up stakes. The vendors on the other side of me selling jewelry have taken down everything except the white metal skeleton of their E-Z Up. Rain drips on me as I open up the blue tarp that’s the “door” to my vending space. In a matter of minutes, I’m ready for business. The ugly brown tarp that I insist upon covering my E-Z Up with is doing its job: No rain leaks in. I settle into my camp chair, Tolstoy’s short stories in hand, and wait. And wait. And wait.

The music starts up. The rain lessens.

At least they’re playing some good tunes.

The band on the stage is fronted by a guy about my age backed by his son on drums and some other young dudes, members of a local metal band. They’re not playing metal and, at one point, the lead singer, the old guy, starts telling a story:

“And Woody had all these song lyrics in a trunk, thousands of ’em, with no tunes. And his daughter approached the band Wilco about putting the words to music. This is one of those songs.”

I know what they’re about to play.

California Stars.

The guy’s no Jeff Tweedy but he does an admirable job of it. The band’s rendition brings tears to my eyes as I consider Woody Guthrie and the Huntington’s Disease that laid him low. The old guy switches gears to a country tune and is joined by his wife on mandolin and vocals. Her harmony adds a nice touch to the song. Then the real show begins. All the old folks leave the stage. Two kids (barely twenty, I’ll wager) playing guitar and drums launch into a series of heavy metal tunes that rip the gray sky. The guitarist is amazing: as good as I’ve seen since watching Nels Cline of Wilco at the DECC.

The rain stops.

Maybe music really can sooth the savage breast.

I wander off in search of food. I find deep fried Lake Superior whitefish and cold slaw. I take my food back to my booth and settle into Tolstoy’s 19th century Russia between bites of sweet fish and tartar sauce.

Awesome.

Throughout the day, I check with Rene’ as to how Jack’s soccer games are progressing. The Hawks tie one and win one. Whether Jack’s team advances to the next level is uncertain. I’m not there to cheer him on and I lament this as I finish eating.  Patrons gather to watch  a street theater troupe that has set up right in front of my booth. This act is followed by a series of events on the main stage: a kids pie eating contest; an adult pie eating contest; a silly race to don clothing from a suitcase. When the excitement is over, I return to Tolstoy.

Towards the end of the day, bagpipers and drummers in kilts form a circle in front of the stage and perform.I recognize the first tune though I don’t know its name.

That’s from “Braveheart”.

The pipes and drums are a perfect coda to the day.

It’s just like being in Scotland.

I call Rene’ to join me. I’ve made the executive decision that I’m not coming back for Sunday, the final day of the festival. I’ve sold less than a handful of books and none of Rene’s concrete benches. By the time my wife arrives, the tent is down and my gear is ready to be loaded.

This is likely the last summer of festivals for Cloquet River Press.

I come to this conclusion because God has played the ultimate practical joke on me:

The rain clouds part and the sun appears as I fire up the Pacifica and leave Two Harbors.

Peace.

Mark