Being an unknown writer has advantages, one of which for me is creative freedom. If you are an emerging artist or writer, maybe you know what I mean. Being unknown means our art is free to burble up or geyser forth as it will. We can gleefully pursue detours and plunge down rabbit holes without fear of judgment or pressure. We bestow our creativity upon the world with a naive joy, with no expectation that we will ever find an audience for our work.
Most of us would like to find an audience, don’t get me wrong. Recognition for our contribution is a human need. However, many of us will have to settle for the adulation of our friends and family. That’s been the case for me, more or less. Not all my friends and family have praised me without feeling compelled to fix my grammar. Still, I consider myself one of the lucky ones. Imagine how difficult it must be for the author or artist who has one successful book or one well-attended show. What then? Is this the beginning of a career? Or the end of something that never actually began?
I have lots of ideas. Ideas has never been the problem for me. As a child, I spattered reams of notebook paper with cheap Bic pens. I was a writing maniac. Who cares about plot or character development! The goal was to bring forth the stories in my head, like sewing the parachute as I’m jumping out of the plane. It was a compulsion.
Now, I’m old. I realize that if I want recognition for my work, I need to join the grown-up world of marketing and promotion. I’m embarrassed to admit, I hate marketing. I hate promotion. The idea of posting regularly to social media makes me want to live under a rock in the desert. The day my cell phone died was one of the happiest days in recent memory. It’s ironic that I got a graduate degree in marketing, as if more knowledge was the answer.
Knowledge is useful, but not sufficient. The compulsion to write is necessary, but not sufficient. The essential ingredient is a willingness to become visible. From there, willingness leads to action. When we take action, the universe has something to respond to. In other words, when we take action, consequences can occur.
I talked to an artist recently about a children’s book series she wanted to self-publish. She described her project and her goals. I thought it sounded great. Then she said, “I want to publish anonymously.”
We talked about writing under a pseudonym. Lots of writers choose pennames, it’s nothing new, we agreed. They publish through a traditional publisher and manage to keep their real names hidden, sometimes for years.
“How would it work if you are your own publisher?” I asked. “How would you maintain the separation between your publisher self and your anonymous writer self?”
We tried to imagine how it would work. “It might be hard to go on book tours or do bookstore signings,” I said.
“I could wear a wig and sunglasses,” she said.
“You could wear a paper bag over your head, like the unknown comic,” I laughed, getting a blank stare in return.
Even though I knew it would be virtually impossible to promote a book series anonymously without the support and deep pockets of a traditional publisher, I encouraged her to give it a try. We brainstormed for a while longer. When we hung up the video call, I don’t think either one of us was feeling optimistic.
As a marketer, I know selling anything—books, art, ideas, causes—is all about finding the right target audience and communicating to them a message that says I understand your problem and I have the solution. However, as an author, I hope she figures out a way that works. If I could earn money from selling my books without having to do the actual chore of marketing, I would.
Who is my tribe? People like me. Demographically, we are older, female, probably White, and middle income. Psychographically, we are looking for an escape into some happier, funnier, more colorful world where blood and guts and sex are left on the doorstep. A community of quirky characters, none of whom is truly a villain, all of whom are endearingly human. A land of low dread.
Where do we hang out, these older gals bent on escape from reality? In our caves, if I’m any example. We don’t tend to coalesce in groups much, at least not groups centered on cozy fantasy magical mystery novels. We might be serving in the PTA or in a Twelve Step program or as a union steward at our job. We probably don’t know each other. You might pass me in the grocery store, and I would not know you are a member of my tribe. You might have written a cozy fantasy novel too, and I would never know! Oh, the humanity.
How do I find you? How do you find me? Maybe I’ll see you perusing the sci-fi fantasy section at our local library or independent bookstore. Hey, it could happen. You could hand me your book (assuming it is there on the shelf). I could hand you mine (assuming the same thing). We would smile that special smile to say I see you. And then, having taken a quick reluctant breath of reality, we would dive back into our fantasy worlds.
