How to Promote Your Debut Novel Without Money, Social Media, or a Publicist

My debut novel Please Stand By has been on the shelves for a month and a half now. In that time, I am delighted to say that over 200 books have been sold. Some of you might be thinking “that’s pathetic”. Yes, I know Margaret Atwood’s The Testaments sold over a hundred times that amount, but that’s only because she is an enormous success. I would be embarrassed to be that talented.

You may wonder how I’ve managed to sell over 200 books without any publicity. What follows are my ten tips for promoting your debut novel without money, social media posting, or a publicist:

1. Come From a Big Family:

My extended family is big, with the mouths to match it. Thank god for catholic guilt. My siblings and their friends have probably snapped up 50% of the books.

2. Cry In Front of Your Audience at Readings:

First of all, give readings. Then make sure you cry in front of your audience. Mention having a mysterious illness, or that you are being renovicted.

3. Have Giveaways:

This is recommended on Goodreads. Everybody wants something for free. Give some books away. Hand them out at busy street corners, at the laundromat, on the subway. Go table to table in restaurants – compete with the rose sellers.

4. Get on Television:

Everyone focuses on social media, but don’t discount good old fashioned television. Stand behind a reporter and wave your book at the camera. Car crashes and murder scenes

attract more eyeballs, so get a radio scanner and find a police channel relaying the latest tragedy near you.

5. Be in a Car Crash, or Involved in a Murder:

A little extreme, but how far are you willing to go for readers?

6. Go on Tour:

There is no need to only do readings in your home town. Hit the road. Cheap means of transportation include boxcars, airplane engines, and bus roofs.

7. Run Naked Through the Streets:

A classic attention grabber. Grabber? That’s what he said! ... and promptly got arrested for.

8: Network:

This is standard advice, but raise it up a notch. Go to conferences – any conferences. Dental associations, gemmological conventions, toy train shows – those in particular

are known for their lonely men. These fellows are likely to buy anything from a woman who pays attention to them.

9: Get Your Book Reviewed:

This can be tough, but not impossible. It helps if you have a common name, like Carolyn Bennett, James Patterson, or Stephen King. Blackmail book columnists. Tell them you have compromising photos of them the public may want to see.

And finally:

10: Write something offensive:

It has to be offensive enough to attract the attention of all the political spectrum, but not so offensive that it’s delegated to the nutter bin. Lean toward outrageous, rather than putrefying.

Good luck!

You, the Russian spies, lonely people and bleary-eyed internet addicts who stumble upon this blog may have noticed I have not updated it in some time. That is because I know have a website:

https://www.carolynbennettwritercomic.com/

You can read the latest nonsense from me there.

Finally -- Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays from Bennettworld and all my imaginary employees.

Warm wishes from a tolerable 2020.

Born To Be A Plumber: A Story

          He wants to put her earrings in his mouth. He wants to lick the smoothness of the metal, let it roll around on his tongue. Her earrings look like water droplets, like clean, clear water, water that would quench and rejuvenate him, make him holy. And those are just her earrings, he thinks. Imagine the rest of her.

          She's frowning and pointing at an item on the sheet of paper in her hand.

          "It says 3/4 inch. Not an inch and a half. That's three quarter of an inch more. That's about" -- she puts her thumb and index finger close together -- "this much. What am I supposed to do?"

          She's wearing a wine-coloured scarf, bordeaux swaddles what must be a fine white neck. The contrast makes him tilt his head, like a confounded dog.

          She's standing in front of his white work van, waving the sketch in her hand, then lowering it with a sigh. She brushes a strand of blond hair away from her face and turns her head toward the house. Grey overcast sky makes the blue coat she wears pop and zigzag in his vision. He figures he should offer her some comfort.

          "The countertop guys should be here soon," says Bogden. "It doesn't effect the dishwasher hook up."  He scratches his nose and looks at her right earring. Redemption

          She's standing in front of his grandson's picture plastered on the side of his van. The toddler has enormous blue eyes and is holding up a wrench. He is adorable, or was adorable when the picture was taken. Now he's 15 and rarely lifts his head up from his phone. Underneath the picture is a proud declaration -- Born To Be A Plumber. Bogdan prays that his grandson will put down his phone and pick up a wrench, but his grandson shows no interest in the trade. He shows no interest in anything, as far as Bodgan can tell.

          The thought flushes him like a flu. I don't want her to notice the picture. He takes a step back, and hopes she will follow his lead. She holds the sketch limply by her side, and it flutters in the breeze. Her eyes are squinting toward the house.

          The reno is almost finished, The two storey addition of a new master bedroom, new en suite bathroom, rooftop patio and new kitchen matches the other two storey additions in the neighbourhood. Huge windows, sliding doors, dark grey aluminium siding -- sleek minimalism for tumultuous times.

          She's not moving. Her jaw is firm, her breath is quick, she stares with determination, but he sees her blink, a crack of sorrow.

          He takes a deep breath to collect himself. He wants to make her life better. He resists the urge to ask for her hand. He could measure at her pleasure, ensure that space is precise, that everything is symmetrical. But he is a pipe man. They don't get the glory -- the cabinetmakers do.  His work is vital but homely.

          She sighs again. Does he hear a soft moan?

          "Listen," she says finally.

          He looks into her eyes, the grey sky and blue coat stirred together, a colour in the painter's palette on the stairs inside.

          Suddenly, he's following her into the house. She's moving quickly, through the front door, passed the painters and the finishers and into the spacious kitchen and living room space. His arthritic legs, two rusty pipes, carry him along. She runs her hand over the kitchen island's granite countertop and then tries to open a drawer underneath. The drawer stops at the lip of the countertop.

          "This is," she says, her voice trembling "unacceptable."

          She turns away and looks out the floor-to-ceiling glass sliding doors. Bogdan also looks out the windows, at the damp autumn leaves on the new deck. He wants to apologize for something that wasn't his responsibility. He was born a plumber. Born a plumber.

          "How am I going to feed my family," she asks.

          "Mam?"

          She looks sideways at a corner of the room.

          "How am I going to feed my family? If I can't open the drawers?"

          Bodgan fishes around his front pocket and holds his wallet. He thumbs the leather and searches for the picture of his wife. He knows the picture by touch -- it's resin-coated and dog eared. He caresses it with his thumbs and gazes into the woman's eyes.

          Then he remembers. He wags his finger at her and makes his way over to the stairs. He finds the painter's palette and fans it out, searching through the hues. The colour is a cool bath in the mountains with her.

          "This is it," he says, "this is the colour. Borrowed Light! Number 235. Borrowed Light!"

          She looks at him quizzically, and he feels his throat closing in on itself.

          "I don't know what you mean," she says.

          He makes a fist. His grandson will pick up the trade. He'll show him how to cut holes for piping and install drains for waterlines. Get the bastard to carry a bathtub up two floors. Bring his grandson down into a basement to look into a pipe and get another tradesman to flush a toilet to let water and shit rain on his grandson's face. His grandson, no longer a toddler like he once was, just seemed to be, not long ago.

          Bogdan clears his throat and places the colour wheel on the counter.

          "This colour. This colour is popular with clients," he says.

          She glances at the paint chip. "It's more of a wash, really," she offers.

          He hears heavy footsteps approaching.

          "I think the counter top guys are here. It will be okay."

          He wants her to be okay, but doesn't say so. Instead, he looks around for some tools to take to the van. He grabs a few wrenches and hammers and leaves, brushing by the counter guys.

          Taking the stairs slowly, he heads to his van, his toddler grandson looming large on the side panel. Bodgan makes his way slowly, reminding himself that he has no mortgage, no debt, and makes lots of money. He gives the tools in his hands a light squeeze. Yep. Born to be a plumber.

         

         

  

The Raptors Have Already Won

Photo: Mark Blinch Copyright: 2019 NBAE

Homage to Walt Whitman's I Heard America Singing.

I Heard Toronto Singing

    I hear Toronto singing, the varied carols I hear,

    Those of Raptor fans, each one singing their/they as it should be delirious and enraptured,

    The dishwasher singing their as they craft a homemade sign,

    The administrative assistant singing their as they make ready to cheer, and leaves off work,

    The retail worker singing Drake from their store, the programmer singing anticipation at the computer,

    The street food vendor singing as they feed throngs from truck, the beggar singing hopeful as they sit with hand outstretched,

    The sports commentator's song, the City employee on their way in the morning, or at noon intermission or at sundown,

    The delicious singing of the fan, or of the young fan aloft on parent's shoulder, or of the groups of friends hugging, jumping joy,

    Each singing what belongs to him/her/they and to all,

    The day what belongs to the day—at night the party of diversity, robust, friendly,

    The swell of heart for the gift of each other,

    I hear Toronto and Canada singing,

    Singing with open mouths their strong melodious songs.

Tunnel (A Short Story)

                                                                                                                                                Photo credit: Spacing Magazine

My phone is busted. I downloaded, or I'm least sure, I downloaded Money by Cardi B, but it doesn't show up on the playlist I called Artificial Intelligensia. I like making playlists, so don't tell me to just Spotify it all. I get to be the DJ this way, tailoring my own personal atmosphere and my self-artistic expression and moving all the people I visualize. It takes talent to curate music this way, letting one song flow into another, the waves sometimes smooth, other times choppy. I have to fall into a space that's infinite and notate the algorithms that stream through my mind.

My dad says I didn't create the music, so it's not my artistic expression, I'm just a disc jockey, as he calls it. What does he know? I mean, really, what does he know? It's because of him that I go to therapy. My mom says I should do it for myself. but really, he's the reason I haul my butt on the TTC and head up to Forest Hill. Mom says I can't see a therapist in the Kingsway because that's where dad's therapist is. What is she afraid of -- that we'll be outed in the neighbourhood for being that family who goes to therapy in the building on the corner of Bloor and who gives a rat's behind? Right, as if. Nobody cares, least of all me.

Great. My Presto Card isn't working. I put money on it, but the gate declines my card. When I look at the fare collector's booth, the TTC employee, a young brown guy wearing a toque, is looking down at something, maybe the counter. I go over to the booth and speak into the speaking area and I say "My card isn't working and I just put money on it and I don't have anymore money to put on it". I see the TTC guy is looking at his phone, which is cool with me, hey I'm not a narc. He looks up at me with tired, droopy eyes, like he just got bad news that's sinking in. He acknowledges my presence, as my dad would say, and waves me through, like this is an everyday occurrence.

The tiles at Royal York remind me of the bathrooms in the two houses my parents bought in High Park. Whoever thought pinky-orangey tiles on the walls in a bathroom were chic should be shot. The designer must have been taking tranqs. She probably looked at the  little pinky-orangey pills in her sweaty palm, raised her heavy-lidded eyes to the blank wall in front of her and thought, yeah, pinky-organey tiles for everyone. The houses have been gutted anyway, their desperate little bathrooms demolished. Goodbye doleful, crying tiles. Hey. Maybe that's where the term weeping tiles comes from.

I never have much to say to Dr. Cohen, if she is a doctor at all. I like calling her doctor, even though she wants me to call her Ruth. When she wants me to talk or express my feelings, I play her God's Plan by Drake, because he says it all. Wishin and wishin and wishin and wishin. As in, my dad is wishin I'll enrol in STEM, but he knows I'm hostile to science, technology, engineering and mathematics. Hey, at least I know what that acronym means, dad, I say, that makes me smart right there. I could be good at it, but I don't want to be, because it feels like I'm lost in formulas as it stands. My mom will say 'why can't you be more like your brother Eric.' Well, because I'm not a business scumbag who'll end up like dad. She hit me once, my mom did. A little smack on my arm. I didn't speak to her for days. She kept texting me to come downstairs for dinner, trying to lure me with sushi and Uncle Testu cheesecake. She deserved a lesson. Hope that put the fear of Child Family Services in her.

Passing Ossington makes me breathe a little faster. Same tiles, different colours though. Some committee in the dark ages thought ripping off the London tube would elevate our public transit and stamp Toronto as worthy. Who has the last laugh now? Developers like my dad. The world became a dart board and Toronto a bullseye. Throw your money at this sleepy little backwater folks, the people will just say thank you and sorry. I'm only 16 and I feel 66 most days.

A woman is shuffling from passenger to passenger in the subway car, asking for a loonie, toonie, fiver. There's inflation for you. I'm only in the last half of my teenaged years and I remember when people asked for a quarter. I crank up the tunes on my phone and close my eyes. I imagine giving this woman a wad of bills. Because that's God's plan, according to Drake. I can feel her hovering over me now, I can smell sourness, wet wool and piss. Even with my earbuds in I can hear her say to me "loonie, toonie, fiver". Behind my eyelids, I picture me putting my arm around her neck and her screaming with surprise and joy. I wave a handful of hundred dollar bills over her head and then let them go, raining down on her like manna. She  kisses me on the cheek again and again. I can feel the loonie, twoonie fiver lady's scarf grazing my forehead. I hold my breath and bless her from behind my eyelids as she moves on, begging her way down the subway car until she gets off at Bathurst.

I'm wishin wishin wishin my parents were fire-breathing Catholics, like my friend Anika's parents. Her parents make her go to church and care about who she hangs out with and they won't let her date, which she does anyway behind their backs. But they don't let her, is the point. My parents would typically "understand" and show their "support" if I wanted to bring home someone. I wishin wishin they worshipped something other than the Bank of Bland. I'll make them understand me someday. 

For now, when I go into our tastefully recessed can-lit basement slash living space and see my dad binge-watching Netflix, headphones on, ensconced in his fat chair, hand wrapped around his drink, I won't take it personally. But OMG he binge-watches The Crown, for Drizzy's sake. One night when I went downstairs and pretended to look for a toy in our old toy box (as if that wouldn't tip him off) I glimpsed his face as the blue light from the tv flickered on him. His eyes were shining and tears were pooling in the bags under his eyes. I shot a glance at the TV. Queen Elizabeth was talking to a lady-in-waiting, as far as I could tell. I looked back at my dad. He blinked and had a sip of his drink. I pulled out some fucking old teddy bear piece of shit from the toy box and rang its neck. I know not to talk to my dad when he's like that, but I wanted to so badly. I wanted to say, dad, I know where you hide your stash and this is only a tv show and I'm sorry Aaron died of an overdose and I miss my brother as much as you miss your son, but, fuck, I'm here. Right here. Don't disintegrate on me.  But instead I start listening to Drake because at least I'm in forward motion when I listen to music. I don't look back.

I'm walking straight ahead now, because I transferred at Spadina to go northbound to St. Clair West. And I'm walking down the pedestrian tunnel. I could get off at St. George to have better odds of getting a seat, but I love this tunnel. It's like the hallways at Havergal (Haver-gul), which I can't believe hasn't kicked me out yet. I go straight ahead when I walk those hallways where I pace up and down with my earbuds in, ignoring everything around me, my friends, the teachers, the other kids. It brings me comfort to look ahead and ignore my peripheral vision. Too many doors to open and voices that may scream.

There's something I hear right now though. something high and wobbly outside my phone, which keeps fucking up because the 4G keeps dropping out so I have no data to keep Drake going. The sound is coming from the middle of the tunnel, from someone sitting on a stool, I think. A person in a  white coat drops something by the person on the stool. I squint to see them better because my vision is blurry. I can see my phone just fine, but distances are becoming a problem. This phone is becoming a problem. I stuff it in my coat pocket and take my earbuds out.

The air is cool, and the high wobbly sound grows and stretches. People hurry past me, their footsteps echoing. I'm getting closer to the person on the stool. It's an old man sitting and playing a musical instrument of sorts. The sound it produces is weird, like a warped violin. It makes me slow down because it sounds like a wail. The old man is Asian and he's fingering the long-necked instrument while running a bow along a couple of strings. He plays a note and it hangs over my head like one long cry. Its weirdness stops me. For like a minute I can't move. What is this thing he's playing? I'm by the instrument case he has open for donations. Suddenly the music gets very quiet and still. He leans forward and closes his eyes and lifts his head. His hand and arm is working the bow quickly, the bow hovering over the two strings creating a sublime tension. Then he swoops into the strings with the bow, making sounds that hurt my heart. The notes mourn and wobble and lift and my ears blush. In a burst with my eyes open I see a snow-covered mountaintop and an emerald lake and my brother Aaron dipping a cup into a stream and having a drink of water.  The old guy keeps his eyes closed and he's smiling a bit. He's right in front of me and I'm listening. He knows I'm listening. We're both listening.

I think I'm crying. I dig the palm of my hand onto my right eye socket and it's wet. I cough on the sigh in my throat.

I'm going to be late for my therapist appointment. I clutch for my phone and pop my earbuds in. There's a few coins in his case and, feeling sorry for him, I dig in my purse, find a loonie, drop it in and continue straight ahead. My face is red hot. Why do I feel sorry for myself? I hear the northbound train below and I start rushing down the escalator with the others to catch it.

What a strange instrument. Should I tell Dr. Cohen what it did to me? Maybe I can learn it, if someone teaches me.