Category: Guest blogs

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Preparing to Launch Part 2 — guest blog by Harold Macy

Whatever the occa­sion, go­ing to town re­quires thought as to dress, or could re­quire thought if one was giv­en to care. A quick run to the feed store or Central Builders is pretty straight­for­ward. But for such an event as a book launch, espe­cially if it is one’s own book launch, may call for a bit addi­tional consideration.

If it is a high-brow lit­er­ary event, would I wear the tried and true tweed jack­et with suede el­bow patches, pos­sibly over a sweat­er vest? — how time­less is that combo? Or is it so dated to be pathet­ic. Or per­haps I could try the po-mo look — lots of black, maybe even a fake pier­cing and a temp ‘tat.’

My cri­teria are not driv­en by the whims and caprice of the Style Section of the Globe and Mailwhich we buy each Saturday, but rather by neces­sity. Something that doesn’t show dog hair is high on the list. There is enough black hair in the seat crevices and cranny’s of my truck to knit a new hound. Something that relates to the weath­er, usu­ally water­proof, rein­forces the gum­boot archetype.

Harold Macy is the au­thor of The Four Storey Forest, As Grow the Trees, So too the Heart

But really, I don’t care. I take les­sons from my Grandpa. His long legs were per­petu­ally clad in blue den­im over­alls. Annually, upon Grandma’s ur­ging, he bought a new pair, stiff as boards, which he ini­tially saved for church. After a few months, they be­came his town and house pair. Eventually they were worn in the shop, on the tract­ors and in the calv­ing barn do­ing the chores he loved. After a year or so on this duty, they were fit only for wipe rags. Grandma made quilt squares from any sec­tion that was not thread­bare, grease stained or soiled by the wet but messy mir­acles of anim­als, but there were only few.

But it is not your clothes that are no­ticed at a book launch. It’s your fingernails.

I gave a talk re­cently and was set­ting up to sell and sign books to the good folks in line, money in hand. I glanced down at my hands and saw the half-moon of cargo delin­eat­ing each and every nail. Not only that but there was a stub­born smear of chain­saw oil giv­ing the edge of my hand a del­ic­ate blush of purple, not un­like a fresh bruise. Various scratches. Enough grit in my fin­ger­tips to make cop prints and a dust­ing of Merville Silt, appar­ently a par­tic­u­lar nox­ious ele­ment accord­ing to the Sears Carpet Cleaning Technician who does our rugs once a year.

So, as the first pink-fingered, smooth-handed lady passed me my book to sign, I al­most felt the urge to make some glot­tal grunt to match what really mattered, my hands there on the page. Now her page. Soiled. She glanced down at the vir­ginal page, at my stub­born grime and made a small si­lent “Oh” with her mouth. I felt her gaze, looked up, and gave a wan smile.

Don’t worry about the clothes, check your fin­ger­nails first.

Paula’s note: Harold ori­gin­ally sent the above in as a com­ment to Preparing to Launch, a guest blog by Susan Ketchen. It’s so well writ­ten — and funny — that I de­cided to run it as Preparing to Lauch Part 2. 

The sub­ject of clothes, fin­ger­nails and po­ten­tially em­bar­rass­ing mo­ments that hap­pen to au­thors at book sign­ings seems to have struck a chord for many writers. Check back in a couple of weeks for Preparing to Launch Part 3 & 4. 

 

 

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Preparing to launch — guest blog by Susan Ketchen

For the nor­mally re­clus­ive au­thor, one of the es­sen­tial com­pon­ents of new book pro­mo­tion is — un­for­tu­nately — The Launch. Even if a form­al af­fair — at a gal­lery, with of­fer­ings of wine, fancy fin­ger-food from an exot­ic cater­er and nap­kins that look like works of art — is avoided, the ven­ue is but one of many many de­cisions which must be made.

The date should be close to the is­su­ing of the book, but not so close that you’re in heart fail­ure for days be­fore, wor­ry­ing about wheth­er you’ll have stock on hand. You also have to de­cide how and when to ad­vert­ise the event, who to in­vite, how many chairs, how much stand­ing room, who will sell the books, and oh yes, what you’re go­ing to say dur­ing your presentation.

But for me, the first and most daunt­ing ques­tion, every time (and I’ve launched three books) is al­ways and im­me­di­ately: What am I go­ing to wear? Perhaps for most people this is not a dif­fi­cult prob­lem to solve. But I live on a small farm, and spend days on end see­ing no one oth­er than people on neigh­bour­ing farms and some­times the Hydro meter reader.

On the few oc­ca­sions I go to town for gro­cer­ies or chick­en feed, my stand­ard of dress aims not for style but for clean­li­ness. I have no idea what is cur­rently fash­ion­able. Reading the Style sec­tion of the Globe and Mail is ab­so­lutely no help — I’m sure they are ca­ter­ing to people on an­oth­er plan­et, the one called “Toronto.”

For one launch, I threw my­self on the mercy of the clerk in a fash­ion store. I told her I needed to stretch be­yond my usu­al com­fort levels, but in ret­ro­spect I think she was bored and look­ing for someone to play a prac­tic­al joke on. I still can’t bear to look at pho­tos of that launch. I wish I’d tucked in my shirt the way I wanted to and not left it dangling the way I was told I must.

For an­oth­er event, I had my en­semble well planned in ad­vance, some­thing light and airy, to min­im­ize sweat (us farm folks sweat) un­der the hot lights in a small room. On the day of the event, it snowed. This was March, on Vancouver Island, where of­ten a whole winter can pass by with no snow at all. Back to the draw­ing board.

And then there’s the shoe prob­lem. In my closets I have rid­ing boots, rub­ber boots, hik­ing boots and run­ners. When I try on clothes in fash­ion stores, the clerks are known to say, “You won’t be wear­ing those shoes, will you?” They will be look­ing askance at my (new­est) run­ners, which are in­ex­plic­ably dirti­er in town than they were when I left the farm. There is of­ten a piece of hay stuck to the laces, be­cause on the way out the drive­way I had to stop and re­spond to a plaint­ive ex­pres­sion from a horse who thought he was hungry.

It oc­curs to me, re-read­ing this ri­dicu­lous state of af­fairs, that per­haps fret­ting about cloth­ing is a form of pro­cras­tin­a­tion, as I avoid think­ing about what surely is the main point of the event: What am I go­ing to talk about?

Well, I could go on about that too, and I would, but the thought of it is mak­ing my palms sweat, which is not good for the keyboard.

Paula’s note: I also suf­fer from out­fit anxi­ety be­fore a book launch. I won­der if this is some­thing only fe­male au­thors go through?

As for Susan’s book, Grows that Way, I was read­ing it in bed one night and kept laugh­ing out loud and wak­ing my part­ner up. I’m long past be­ing a young adult but the ori­gin­al plot, feisty char­ac­ters and fresh writ­ing kept me read­ing – and stifling chuckles — un­til the wee hours of the morn­ing. You can find out more about Susan at www​.susanketchen​.ca.

 

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Writerly spaces — guest blog by Katherine Gibson

This week I will be­gin a new book. But, be­fore I write the first sen­tence, I em­bark on a ritu­al that read­ies me for the jour­ney ahead. I need to get my web­site up-to-date, a task that seems to stall when a book is in pro­gress. Then, with my cy­ber-world in or­der, I will tackle my writ­ing room with an aim to trans­form the jumble of notes, books, and files on my desk and around the room into clear, un­cluttered space.

Katherine’s desk pri­or to be­gin­ing her next book.

The visu­al ap­pear­ance of where I write af­fects my clar­ity and pro­ductiv­ity as much as the state of my in­teri­or land­scape. To be present and fo­cused, dis­trac­tions must go. That in­cludes the ma­ter­i­als and re­mind­ers of my last book, an il­lus­trated bio­graphy of the great Canadian writer and artist Ted Harrison.

The residue from that four-year pro­ject still fills nooks and cran­nies of my study. It is time to sift and sort. I will archive some ma­ter­i­als and store them un­der the stairs. But most of what was once es­sen­tial is not longer im­port­ant and can go. Now I have space on book­shelves, a clear bul­let­in board and empty file draw­ers for my cur­rent pro­ject. Later, I’ll sweep from my desk the minu­ti­ae of every­day life that rep­res­en­ted in bank state­ments to be filed, magazines to re­cycle and orphaned bits of this and that.

Some pa­pers and ma­ter­i­al are boxed up for long-term stor­age; the rest gets tossed.

But I know this newly cleared space will be tem­por­ary. As I build the next book, my study will trans­form into a visu­al re­cord of that writ­ing pro­cess. Reference books, pho­tos, notes, tapes, let­ters and ran­dom thoughts scribbled on scraps of pa­per will find homes in the space around me.

The per­son­al­it­ies of my char­ac­ters will speak to me through these stat­ic fac­sim­iles. Together we will in­hab­it an en­vir­on­ment that will be ut­terly our own. It will change as we go deep­er into know­ing each oth­er. And so it will be un­til we reach THE END, when they too, will be sor­ted and either dis­carded or packed into stor­age boxes.

When I re­flect upon my stu­dent days, I see that even then, I needed a com­posed ex­tern­al space to put my in­tern­al world at ease.  Because I am a visu­al per­son — someone who in­stinct­ively piles rather than files — this is a con­stant challenge.

In the past, I’d con­vinced my­self I knew where things were, even if my work­ing space was a con­fu­sion of chaos. I’ve since learned that I am more pro­duct­ive, clear and fo­cused when it is calm and orderly.

With space for my new book to grow, and with plant or two, a few pretty pic­tures and a little light jazz to keep my com­pany, the scene is set for my next writerly adventure.

Katherine’s desk and of­fice ready for book #4.

Katherine Gibson is the au­thor of Unclutter Your Life: Transforming Your Physcial, Mental and Emotional Space; Pause: Putting the Brakes on a Runaway Life and Ted Harrison Painting Paradise. 

 

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Making the BC Bestseller list — guest blog by Rick James

Ever since the re­lease of my book, Raincoast Chronicles 21: West Coast Wrecks & Other Maritime Tales, in October, I’ve been very eager to pick up a copy of the Vancouver Sun every Saturday morn­ing.  Why? This is when the B.C. Bestseller list, com­piled by the Association of Book Publishers of B.C., is fea­tured in the paper’s Weekend Review.

I must say, it’s been heady times see­ing the out­come of my ef­forts up there on that list for over four months now; es­pe­cially after pound­ing away at the key­board in the base­ment in isol­a­tion for so many years.  Still, my mak­ing the ‘list” didn’t hap­pen all on its own.

Rick at the Royston hulk breakwater

I can’t say enough about Harbour Publishing who have done an ab­so­lutely fab­ulous job of pro­mot­ing the book. Howard White’s staff went the ex­tra mile en­sur­ing that book re­view ed­it­ors in all the big pa­pers on the coast, as well as vari­ous ra­dio show hosts all had their re­view cop­ies and in­vit­a­tions to in­ter­view me.

But I also went the ex­tra mile on my own since since I wasn’t con­tent to just sit back and leave it en­tirely in Harbour’s hands. And I real­ized that they, like all pub­lish­ers, only have so much money avail­able to send an au­thor gal­li­vant­ing around the land­scape to book store read­ings or PowerPoint presentations.

So I vo­lun­teered to head over to Tofino and up to the North Island, where I was con­vinced there was an ex­cel­lent mar­ket, on my own dime. I was right, and much to Harbour’s cred­it, they con­trib­uted to ex­penses after all.

And what about so­cial me­dia you ask? That must have been a ma­jor factor in the book’s suc­cess. Right? Well, as much as some friends and col­leagues are totally con­vinced this is the way to go, I avoided it.  No blogs, Facebook, or even a webpage!  While it might seem I’m a total throw­back to a dif­fer­ent day and age, I have nev­er been fully con­vinced that this route was ever worth pur­su­ing.  (God for­bid, I waste enough time try­ing to keep with emails!)

I must ad­mit though, I did rely on some so­cial in­ter­ac­tion. But it was the old school kind. Since I was up and down Vancouver Island a lot this winter, I made it a point to stop at each and every book­store I was go­ing by. Whether it was Chapters in Nanaimo or Ivy’s, the small in­de­pend­ent on Oak Bay Avenue in Victoria, I  walked in, in­tro­duced my­self and vo­lun­teered to auto­graph any cop­ies of my book they had on hand.

I did this, not once but twice and even three or four times over the past four months.  And has it paid off? You bet! Here it is mid-January and I’m still sit­ting at #6 on the BC Bestseller list!