Book Marketing: How to Reach Millions

Do you ever get completely off task and sucked into the interwebs?

I was perusing youtube yesterday, (looking for awesome music to motivate me,) and came across a fascinating performer, Lindsey Stirling. Each of her videos has millions of views. I scratched my head, wondering why. At first I attributed it to sheer numbers. She keeps putting up new content. Of course she is going to reach a wide audience with new (and highly searchable) song covers. When she joined up with the Piano Guys, some of my favorite performers, I was further baffled. Her production value has nothing on theirs, and yet she has more views.

What she (or her marketing specialist) does brilliantly: cross promotion. In every video she features one (or more) other artist(s), and often a sponsor. Although she could pull if off beautifully, she's not a one-woman show. Believe it or not, I found myself clicking on a couple links, liking several new artists, and even considering concert tickets. Then it hit me: all parties are benefited by co-op projects. One person's audience is being exposed to the other, and through it, their reach expands.

Well DUH, Crystal. (Right?)

Then I applied it to writing.

An author may not have the most amazing product, but it still has power to reach the millions--if marketed/shared correctly. This is why Indie authors are genius. Yes, we all like to share our friends new covers and releases, but often Indies ban together the same way these performers do. One group who does this especially well is the Indelibles.

Enough ranting. I'm not quite to that point of sharing, but I do love promoting friends. Wednesdays here are dedicated to writers, and from here on out, they are all about you. If you write anything for Young Adults with a fantastic twist (fantasy in all varieties, paranormal, specultative ficiton, horror, sci-fi, dystopian, cheese, etc.), shoot me an email (crystal AT crystal-collier DOT com). I'll be sharing a new cover or release every week, and I'd love to share yours.

Finally, check out the video that got me giggling:

What cheese-worthy secrets have you learned about marketing? 

It's all about AUDIENCE

Compulsive... That pretty much sums it up.

Haven't kicked this contest bug yet, so I started browsing writing contests. (Chalk it up to the desire for a few more publishing credits.) I found one for WOMEN in flash fiction. Yay! I'm a woman. I write flash fiction! Not only that, I've got this great flash fiction piece my hubby loves. Done and done, right? Without a second thought I hopped on board.

Then I pulled up the fine print: Women's fiction. The audience and JUDGES are all women!

Shoot.

My piece was written for men.

Double shoot.

How important is audience? (Insert pause for pondering now.) You can have the greatest Science Fiction piece in the world, but if the judge/agent/publisher prefers Historical Fiction, your chances of coming off a cosmic conqueror are a whopping zero. It's like feeding dog food to penguins. Nutritious? Maybe, but not for boy-flipper.

Now I've written an entirely new piece of flash fiction, so help a girl out eh? Toss your thoughts and critiques at me on this 750 word rockin piece of WOMEN's flash fiction.

The Kiss of Death

Marian could not have imagined when she boarded the tram this morning that its derailing and subsequent explosion would result in her finding true love.

With a copy of Glamour and coffee clasped in each hand, she had stepped on, prepared for another mundane day at the office. Her greatest worry had been lipstick smears on her teeth, or embarrassing herself in front of steamy James Laughlin, again. She couldn’t wait to spend lunch proofreading the latest articles, or stealing moments with the boss to get ahead…

Each unrealized routine flashed through her mind as she stood with forty-three other disembodied souls. Their blackened and water-logged remains lay between pools of water and twisted metal, like great lumps of coal.

Firefighters cheered at having put out the flame. People crowded against the police perimeter, trying to get a closer look. Reporters blabbed their take on the “accident” to live cameras, a program she’d watch tonight, if she wasn’t dead.

Dead. Terminated. Over.

She couldn’t believe it. Who would turn off the lights she left on at the apartment? Who would feed Mister Puffkins? Who would teach her yoga class on Saturday?

A tall man pushed through the perimeter. His Valentino suit and tie were oddly out of place next to fireman’s jackets and police uniforms.

He didn’t stop to speak with the police or congratulate firemen. In fact, he didn’t acknowledge them at all, and they let him walk right through their ranks. Dark hair, longer on top, flared in a natural wave about his ears. Prominent cheeks drew notice to his perfect nose and pressed lips. His eyes pinched upward at the corners in a happy way.

He halted in front of we disembodied citizens. “All right, line up, fastest to slowest.”

They glanced about at one another in confusion.

“I see we’re dealing with the latter extreme this morning. We haven’t got all day folks.” He pulled a clipboard out of his jacket and tapped a pen to it. “And what I mean by we, is me.”

In their stunned state no one bothered to ask who he was or why they needed get in a line, just did as instructed, like dumb sheep.

Marian stood over her charred body, unwilling to move, listening as the man interviewed the first person in line.

“Name?”

“Roger.”

“Roger what?”

“Roger Marcum.”

“I see. You are forthwith accepted to paradise. Enjoy the free pastries.” His palm slammed into Roger’s forehead, and Roger disappeared. “Next please?”

A woman hobbled forward.

“Name?”

“Edna.”

“Edna what?” he asked impatiently.

“Edna Barrister.”

“Oh Edna, the summer of sixty-seven, really? I’m sorry, but you have earned a place in prison.”

“But, but-”

He smacked her forehead and she disappeared.

“Next?” He smiled welcomingly.

The line steadily diminished, but Marian couldn’t pull away from her corpse. She shouldn’t be here. She should be in Green Lake, Wisconsin, cheering with cheese heads and wishing her younger brother a happy fifteenth.

Regrets: she could have found work near home rather than graduating from college at twenty and taking this Chicago job. She could have left last winter, her first winter here to help Mom close up the craft store for good. She should have told Mom she loved her…

“Ahem.”

She looked up. Steely gray eyes met hers.

“Seems you are the only one who couldn’t find her way to the line.” The man smiled.

Sure enough, the others were gone.

She looked up into his face, worried.

“Oh Marian, what am I to do with you?” His smile had taken a more tender quality, the lines around his eyes squeezing in agony.

“Have we met?”

“You never do remember.” He stared at his feet. “Tragic, but fair I suppose.”

“No, I would remember you,” she protested.

He frowned. “So, shall we start the cycle again?”

“I’m afraid I don’t…”

“A handshake will send you on. A kiss will send you back, but either way I cannot keep you. Which shall it be?”

“You kissed me before?” she asked, surprised.

“Actually, you kissed me.”

She blushed.

“Several times, and we both very much enjoyed it.” He leaned closer. “In point of fact, I made sure you got on that tram. I had to see you again.”

Hopeless romantic and the guardian of life’s door? She was in love.

“Neither,” she whispered.

“Beg pardon?”

“No handshake. No kiss.”

His grin widened. “I dare say that is the best answer yet.”

P.S. Did you notice the cheese reference? =)
P.S.S. If you are having problems with commenting on blogger (as there's been a lot of that lately), please feel free to e-mail me your thoughts: crystal (at) immortalthemusical (dot) com

ACTION!

Why are action sequences so hard to get right? You can spend hours pounding out the exact moment, and still come away with it all wrong.

I dabbled in film once upon a time, and I realized cinematography can be compared to writing. Both arts require that we depict a world, create the right mood, and engross our audience. What are some elements of cinematography? Shot length. Saturation/Coloring. Angle.

Have you ever noticed the length of camera shots in any given film? Try it. Pull up your favorite movie and count how long the camera remains in one place. Ten seconds? Three? Now compare an action sequence to a panoramic scene. See the difference? As a writer that’s exactly what you have to get your reader to feel—but your tool is not a camera, it’s sentence structure.

Choppy sentences engender urgency. They demand we pay attention. They speak volumes. What’s not said is as important as what is said. Word choice is paramount.

Saturation and hue are another important aspect of cinema. You may not notice it initially, but compare Pushing Daisies (awesome old TV series) to Underworld (for all you vampire fans). Do you see it? The over-saturation of brilliant colors in Pushing Daisies immediately communicates to the observer the mood—chipper, and primed for smug comedy. Contrarily, the dark, luminescent coloring of Underworld instantaneously tells us this film is serious, potentially brooding, and timeless.

In our sequences, how do we see the scene? Bright? Dim? Comedic? Serious? The more directed the tone, the better an image the reader will form. Again, word choice is paramount. Do we use “downhearted” or “devastated”? “Pulchritudinous” or “Beautiful”?

Angle=perspective. These are so important in film that directors, cinematographers and writers frequently confer to get it just right. You can show someone being beheaded several ways. Imagine a falling blade and an observer’s reaction. Or, you can actually witness the gruesome episode. I find not seeing is terribly effective. From the third person you have the power to show the reader everything, but limiting that omniscience and honing in on what is most important will strengthen your voice. From the first person perspective you are limited to what the main character perceives. In writing action sequences we have to remember that, to hold to it. Think how the character would think. Say what the character thinks. Nothing more.

Imagine your action sequence as a film. How long would your shots be? What angles would you take? What color saturation? Now, paint your scene exactly. Make it flow, or not flow to create the mood you want.

And now, the example:
-->

Sunset…

She stopped. This felt familiar, too familiar.

She shook it off. Father had certainly gone mad with worry by now and planned to quarantine her to the house with a constant nanny-watch. She would not find him. She should return.

She turned and stepped into a puddle. Her reflection rippled.

She backed away, landing against a tree. Last night came back in a rush, hazy images of half-perception, rushing glades, panting as she moved in fear…

Threshing in the clearing pulled her about. An animal? Deer perhaps?

“Hello?” she called shakily.

Nothing.

The sun set. Intimidating branches twisted toward her. Odd shadows played over the swaying leaves, shifting in the most disconcerting way.

Quiet.

If she could hear the chatter of birds or scurrying of rodents—even if it made her jump, that at least would feel ordinary. The breeze ceased. In the sinister light—or absence thereof, she felt eyes burning into her…

Alexia shook the impression away and focused. She imagined it. She personified the dream into reality.

Still…

“Is someone there?” she breathed, little more than a whisper.

Wheezing gurgles met her ears. She rounded.

Nothing.

The sound died as quickly as it had come. What kind of creature made noise like that? Did she imagine it too?

She swallowed. The thump of her heart echoed into her ears. “Hello?”

A snicker rippled in a circle about her. She followed it, twirling about, but only caught snatches of something—something moving, fast!

A growl sounded. She needed no greater motivation. She dashed headlong.

Movement ruptured behind her.

Her skirts caught. They snagged and tore, scratching her legs. She ran harder, one arm before her face to fend off the branches. They raked across her sleeve. She gasped as they cut into her flesh.

Her feet slapped the ground in rhythm, echoed by another set of feet, faster ones.

Her chest heaved. She sucked in air, but could not draw enough. Invisible fingers squeezed at her airways. Her lungs pulsed like she was being sucked under a great watery swell. The whoosh of leaves turned her head. A silhouette crashed through her periphery. Blackness blinked at the corners of her vision. Her muscles burned.

She would faint before she’d been outrun!

Air rattled through her lungs. Perspiration chilled her skin as though trying to stiffen her already impregnable limbs. The rasp of her own breathing filled her ears.

She should be screaming. No, she should conserve her air…

“Help!” she screeched. Father had to have taken up a search by now. He’d track her. “Father! Anyone!” But she’d gone miles. Even if he’d begun looking, she’d wandered onto someone else’s property.

A bough slapped her across the face. White light flashed. She blinked it away, uncertain whether her legs were still under her.

She couldn’t outrun it. No one would hear her. It was an empty plea. “HEELP ME!”

Something pummeled into her back. She flew forward. Her head smacked a rock, wind jarring painfully from her lungs. A cry wretched outward as warm liquid eased down her cheek…sickly, wet…

Sight threatened. It blinked out and back. Pounding echoed through her ears, growing louder. Pressure crushed down through her spine. Pain. Piercing, searing, tearing into her back… A scream—hers?

Blackness.

No, she couldn’t give in! She sucked in a deep breath. “Please…” It sounded meager. She forced her eyes open as fire tore through her vertebrae, another shriek wrenching free. Tears wet her lashes. She watched in slow motion as one drop fell to the ground and spattered in a beautiful ribbon of translucent fingers. “Please…”