Self-publishing and Expectations
As writers, we want everyone to not only read our books, but also love them. The reality is, of course, a bit less stellar and much more sobering. Not everyone will love your books. Not everyone will read your books. In fact, even your closest friends and relatives may not buy and read your books.
What is happening here? Why aren’t these people who I consider friends and close acquaintances buying my book? They don’t love me? They don’t care? What, then?
You may have wondered about these things if your experience is similar to mine. The answer to these questions is complicated and lies as much in your expectations as in the reaction of your friends and relatives.
In terms of expectation, there is nothing wrong with aiming high and dreaming big. But self-published writers need to brace themselves for the most likely scenario of a slow start of their career. Gaining recognition and gathering a readership is generally a marathon, not a sprint. Even many traditionally published authors attest to many difficult starts. Allow yourself time and be prepared for a long journey. Nurse patience and develop a hard skin for negative criticism and rejection.
In terms of your friends and relatives, they are not really to blame. At least not en masse. They love you, of course, each in their own way. Some of them are forgetful, fully intending to check out your work, but then life got in their way. Others simply are non-confrontational and do not want to tell you they are simply not interested in the genre in which you write. After all, we have different tastes and what you spent a year or more writing, re-writing and revising may just not be their cup of tea. Then, you could even have the occasional acquaintance or “friend,” who considers your success as a threat or resents it for whatever reason and has has no intention of supporting your efforts.
The bottom line is that even if all your friends and acquaintances bought your book, that is still quite a limited number. The goal of each author is to sell to complete strangers, who pick up your book solely because they heard something good about it, and they want to enjoy a great story. Then, if they like it, they will want to tell their friends about your work.
During the first few days that Arctic Wargame and my two short stories were published I used to check my sales and ranking almost every hour. Now I checked it once a month, just to make sure there some activity is taking place. I promote my work vigorously and I advise you do the same. We can’t control who buys our books, but there is something we can all control: how much promotion and marketing efforts we put on our products. I know we are writers, but self-published authors have the additional task of becoming salespersons. We need to take our work to the public and hope and pray they will enjoy our stories.
And don’t forget to keep writing. Perhaps your second, third or twentieth book will become a best-seller. At least, that’s my hope.
Justin Hall and Carrie O’Connor, Canadian Intelligence Service Agents, find themselves in lawless North Africa on the trail of an assassination plot. The target is the US President, and the hit is scheduled to take place during a G-20 summit in Libya’s capital, Tripoli. But the source of their information is the deceitful leader of one of the deadliest terrorist groups in the area. Ambushes and questionable loyalties turn an already difficult mission into a dark maze of betrayal and misdirection.
Forced to return to Tripoli, Justin and Carrie dig up new intelligence pointing to a powerful Saudi prince bankrolling the assassination plan. What’s worse, Justin and Carrie realize something crucial is very, very wrong with their plan. The summit is only forty-eight hours away and they still have to stop the Saudi prince, dismantle the assassination plot, and save the life of Tripoli’s target.
Tripoli’s Target promises to take the reader through a great story as it becomes the next international bestseller. Fans of David Baldacci, Vince Flynn, and Daniel Silva will love this high-octane spy thriller.
An Excerpt From Tripoli's Target:
“An army of sheep led by a lion would defeat
an army of lions led by a sheep.”
“It is better to die in revenge than to live on in shame.”
Arab proverbs
Prologue
Tripoli,
Libya
May
13, 6:15 p.m. local time
Satam,
the driver of the fifth suicide truck bomb, turned onto Ar Rashid Street,
merging with the warm evening traffic. He rubbed his sweaty palms against his
short khaki pants, his gaze glued to the silver BMW Suburban in front of him.
He heaved a wheezing sigh and tapped on the brake pedal. A red traffic light
halted the five-vehicle convoy.
A stream of cars rushed through the intersection leading to the
business district of downtown Tripoli. Tall skyscrapers rose over most of the
city’s old colonial-style buildings. The green and gold banner of Jacobs
Properties—one of the major British real estate developers in Libya—beamed from
atop the glass-and-steel façade of the newly finished Continental Hotel. The
same logo had been painted hastily on the left side of the BMW packed with
Semtex explosives. Walid, its driver and a Jacobs subcontractor, had exchanged
his blue coveralls for a business suit and the promise of martyrdom.
A glance at the dashboard clock told Satam the synchronized
explosion would take place in ten minutes. The thought of the coming carnage
drained the last drop of courage from his heart. He rolled down the window, but
the humid air—blended with the aroma of fried falafel, onions, and lamb donairs
from a nearby street vendor—made him nauseated. He gasped for air, sticking his
head out of the window. He coughed and struggled to catch his breath. The
drivers in the other vehicles shot him curious glares. Behind the truck, the
driver of an old Mercedes honked his horn twice. Satam swallowed hard and wiped
the sweat off his narrow forehead. He waved at his audience to show them he was
doing all right.
“Satam, what’s the matter, brother?” the radio set on the dashboard
crackled. He recognized Walid’s gruff voice.
Satam looked at the BMW. His watery eyes met the reflection of the driver’s
face in the rear-view mirror of the Suburban. The driver’s usual wicked smirk
stretched his lips, revealing his large buckteeth. Walid waved his hands
wildly. Satam could not see behind Walid’s black aviator shades but assumed his
eyes were ablaze with rage.
“Nothing’s wrong. Just needed some air,” Satam replied over the
radio.
He rolled up the window before Walid could scold him with another
howl.
“Great. Now that you’ve closed the window, open your eyes!” Walid
barked. “You’re not a coward like the infidels, are you?”
Satam shook his head.
A third voice came on air before he could say anything.
“Cousin, I pledged my honor so you could be a part of this mission.
Don’t you back down now!” Satam’s cousin said. He was driving the Toyota at the
head of the convoy.
Satam sighed and paused for a couple of seconds. “I’m not backing
down. You can trust me. I will not disappoint you or the brotherhood.”
“That’s my flesh and blood who is soon to be a martyr,” said the
cousin in a relaxed tone. “Our families will be proud of us, and our reward
will be glorious.”
“It’s easy for you to say, since tonight you’ll be welcomed to
paradise,” Satam said.
He noticed the traffic lights changing and stepped cautiously on the
gas pedal. The truck jerked forward a few inches before the ride turned smooth
again.
“Won’t take long before you join us there,” Walid said.
“Yes, but not before being dragged through the secret police hellish
cells…” Satam’s voice trailed off.
“Allah will give you strength, cousin, and soon he’ll take you home.”
“He will, brother, he will.” Walid revved the BMW’s twelve-cylinder
engine. “For sure, I’m going to miss this ride.”
“There will be plenty of rides up there to keep you and everyone
else busy,” the cousin said with a quiet laugh. “Now may Allah be with us all.
Over and out.”
Walid nodded and turned left toward the Continental Hotel.
Satam’s destination, the Gold Market, was to the right. He steered
in that direction. He zigzagged through a few crooked streets and slowed down
when reaching the Old City. The blacktop disappeared, and the uneven gravel
crackled under the tires. Old cars, horse carts, and pedestrians came into
view, along with whitewashed stores selling gold and jewelry. The streets
narrowed into barely a single lane.
Satam rolled down the window for sideways glances to avoid brushing
against planters, chairs, and vendors selling all kinds of junk. A
stomach-churning stench from days old fish, fried grease, and sweat overwhelmed
him. Satam felt his head grow heavy, and he hit the brakes.
The street vendors lost no time peddling their wares. A crowd of
young boys swarmed his truck. He yelled and shoved away a few of the bravest
salesmen waving handfuls of souvenirs in his face. He kept brushing away the
hagglers, when suddenly a pointed metal object was shoved against his forearm.
Startled, Satam withdrew his arm inside the cabin. He glanced at one of the
boys holding a string of scimitar replicas, the sword tribesmen in North Africa
carried in ancient times. The curved blade was dull with a rounded point to
prevent accidental stabs. Still, the swift jab at his forearm summoned awful
visions of the future.
He saw himself hanging upside down in a dark, grim dungeon, tied to
the ceiling beams, while three secret police agents “interrogated” him. They
would use various methods to “jog” his memory and break his psyche. Sleep
deprivation and intimidation by police dogs were just the welcome package.
Other techniques included breaking fingers and simulated suffocation with
plastic wraps and water boarding. I will
tell them everything right away before they even touch me. He struggled to
wipe the vivid images from his mind.
Satam slammed on the truck’s horn to clear a path through the crowd.
The blaring horn startled him more than the boys and the occasional onlookers.
He glanced at the dashboard, realizing he had less than two minutes to reach
the busy marketplace square five blocks away. It will be impossible to make it on time.
He blasted the horn again and stepped on the gas. The truck moved slowly,
and Satam wrestled to make a left turn. The alley grew wider. The truck sped
up, its wheels dipping and climbing in and out of the potholes. He rushed
straight ahead, inches away from oncoming taxis, their honks protesting his
unsafe speed. A few sidewalk vendors dove out of the way, their overflowing
baskets of bananas and grapes spilling all over the place. Tires screeched as
he turned right, jumping the curb and narrowly missing a large bronze planter
outside a soap store.
The Mediterranean Sea was now visible to his right, through palm
trees, coffee shops, and fruit vendor stands. Satam stared ahead at the wide
square, one of the busiest markets in El Mina, the ancient city. The bazaar
rumbled with vendors squabbling over a few dinars with tight-fisted tourists. I made it. Yes, I made it. He turned his
gaze to the left, toward Tripoli’s skyline, and slowed down before parking the
truck in front of a small restaurant. He took a deep breath and dabbed at his
forehead with the back of his hand, wiping off a sea of sweat.
The dashboard radio crackled and he picked up the receiver.
“Allahu Akbar! Allahu Akbar!” The loud voice echoed over the radio.
Satam recognized Walid’s shouts.
A second later, a loud explosion rocked the entire square. Satam’s gaze
spun toward the business district, where a cloud of grayish smoke billowed
around the Continental Hotel. Chaos erupted among the street vendors who scattered
and forgot about their produce and the evening’s clients. The patrons of coffee
shops rushed to the streets, staring in disbelief at the sight. Cries of
hysteria overtook the growing crowd. Elderly women beat their heads and chests
with clenched fists. Young men pointed and shouted, their bodies restless. The
sharp siren of an ambulance sliced through the cacophony of terror.
With a quick movement of his wrist, Satam consulted his watch. Just
as the digits registered 6:31, another explosion shocked the crowd. This time,
the bomb hit closer, much closer, merely five blocks away. From inside his
parked truck, Satam looked at the bright yellow glow of the blast. High flames
leapt at a ten-story office building. A thick cloud of black smoke began to
swallow up the tower. The crowd broke into smaller groups. People scurried in
all directions. Some ran back to their shops and apartments. Others simply
circled the area, perhaps unsure of the safe way out.
Satam knew his time had come. He revved the engine and stomped on
the gas pedal. The truck arrowed toward the vendors’ tables. The market was
mostly empty, and the truck crashed into crates of fish, baskets of grapes, and
barrels of olive oil. Produce scattered everywhere as the truck rampaged
through plastic tables and chairs.
A police truck zipped toward him. Satam steered around, not to
escape, but to meet the approaching vehicle. The two policemen in the truck
ignored Satam. They were going to drive past him, but Satam swerved hard. The
right fender of his truck smashed into the left side of the police truck. The
police truck jerked to the other side. He pulled over and stopped less than
thirty feet away. The other policeman rolled down the window. Satam stared at
the muzzle of an AK-47 assault rifle.
“Don’t shoot. Don’t shoot,” Satam shouted and opened his door.
A quick burst of bullets sent him ducking for cover in the front
seat. A shower of glass shreds fell over his head.
They’re going to kill me
before I even have a chance to open my mouth. Or one of the bullets will blow
up the truck. I can’t let that happen.
He looked at the back of the truck. Thirty pounds of Semtex
explosives wired into a homemade bomb were stored inside the seat compartments.
He noticed the cellphone on the floor mat by his left hand. He reached for the
phone. All it would take for him to set off the explosives—and pulverize
himself and the policemen—was to tap three preset numbers. His fingers hovered
over the phone, but he remembered his family’s honor and the reward waiting for
him in paradise. He dropped the phone to the floor, buried his head in the seat,
and locked his fingers behind his head.
A minute or so passed before the shooting stopped, but the screaming
continued. At some point, he heard the distinct thuds of combat boots marching
down the street. The police were approaching his truck. He looked up slowly as
a policeman pulled open the driver’s door of his truck and aimed an AK-47 at
his head
“Don’t move!” the policeman ordered.
Satam nodded.
Without a word, the policeman juggled the rifle in his hands and
slammed its buttstock hard against Satam’s head.
Links:
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I love readers' feedback. They can get in touch with me via e-mail at this address: fictionwriter78@yahoo.com I promise to write to each and every one of them.
My works can be found here:
Arctic Wargame (Justin Hall # 1)
Tripoli’s Target (Justin Hall # 2)
Carved in Memory: A Justin Hall Story
Burying the Truth
The Last Confession
Author Bio:
Ethan Jones is the author of Arctic Wargame—the first spy thriller in the Justin Hall series, released in May 2012, and Tripoli’s Target—the second book in this series, released on October 4, 2012. He has also published several short stories. Ethan is a lawyer by trade. He lives in Canada with his wife and son.
