I’ve been publishing books since 1990 and have seen publicity fads come and go (and sometimes come back).
Over the years, publishers have urged me and other authors I know to do postcards, bookmarks, business cards with a book cover on them, and all sorts of doo-dads. They’ve pushed attending mystery conferences. Sending out posters to book stores. Advertising in magazines, newspapers, and mystery conference program books.
But wait, there’s more! Hiring your own publicist and taking yourself on tour. Starting and constantly updating a web site. Cultivating reviewers and famous authors. Doing professional trailers for your books. Having a fan page on Facebook separate from your regular page.
Then there’s blogging. Guest blogging. Setting up a blog tour. Advertising on line.
And that’s not all, folks. Creating contests and book giveaways. Establishing a presence on Goodreads and carefully pretending to be there for discussion while you slowly mount a campaign to take the site over and crown yourself queen or king. Tweeting. Jumping on Tumblr and Instagram so you can be the Beyoncé of the book world.
Plus, if you’re one of those authors getting a book out every year, you need to be supplying your fans with “content” between books to keep them in a buying mode, so you have to be writing short stories and novellas and loading them as e-books.
The pressure can be relentless. Push, push, push. Sell, sell, sell.
One thing that hasn’t come up yet, at least not widely, is selling yourself. I mean, your physical self. While people do have their hair and makeup done for photo shoots, publishers haven’t yet become body bullies. They don’t push their authors to lose weight or go for spray-on tans. They don’t suggest fashion makeovers or keeping track of your body fat percentage. They don’t send links for Spanx. They don’t raise the subject of cosmetic surgery. They don’t urge us to take hot yoga, sign up for spinning classes, go running, do Pilates, enter Iron Man contests, train for marathons, and try liposuction when all else fails.
Because otherwise you’d see a new wave of hokey photos: authors at their laptops in thongs or Speedos (or nothing at all); authors casually nude or semi-clad as they take notes in a coffee shop or at the Eiffel Tower for their next books; and most obviously, working out at the gym. There would also be a new tacky classic, standing around shirtless or topless, perusing your latest opus. Or the super-obvious reading nude in bed. The publishers would love it: hot author! hot book! What could be bad?
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