My Ego and Amazon

I've made the mistake of monitoring the Amazon Sales Rank for AoaN.



It's addictive, it's disheartening, it's a complete waste of time. This started on Friday, February 17th. I was ranked 97,630th in sales. Out of the millions of books that they sell, and the fact that I had shown no record of sales through Amazon, that number didn't mean much. The next day I looked again. I was 176,304th. Dropping 78,674 places in 24 hours held more meaning than a static number, because I can feel movement. And it felt funny. It felt like more of a blow. It felt as though my online marketing efforts were just not cutting the mustard. Little did I know how difficult the mustard is to cut.

By Saturday I had dropped to 243,243th and on Tuesday I was 327,387th. Later in the week I was 504,467th and 567,264th.

Zero to One

Obviously, the ranking system is based upon how many books you sell. According to Dan Poynter's Publishing Poynters, if you're selling 15 books per week, your ranking will vacillate between 2000 and 9000. If you are selling 265 books per week, your ranking will come in somewhere around 75 to 100. He has no poynter as to how many you must sell to be under 75, but his point is made. According to my weekly sales accounts, I'm somewhere in the range of 0 to 1 book.

This is not necessarily a bad thing. The book has been selling, just not through Amazon, but through the publisher, Booklocker.com. I prefer this because Booklocker and I receive a better payoff. Still, I can't deny that Amazon is booksales in our world today. Unlike how Al Gore invented the Internet, they actually did create the vast realm of Ecommerce as we know it today, and did so with an otherwise poorly selling product: books. Yet for the person behind the book, the world they hatched is very public, completely instantaneous and can make one feel exposed, as though all focus is on the growth-end of the "warts and all" disclaimer.

I needed a little consolation as I was being exiled to the hinterlands of Amazon's ether, so I looked to see who I was sharing the ether with.

Sublime to Infantine

Last Sunday I was at 891,136 right behind "Bronco Buster (Take Ten: Thrillers)" by Susannah Brin, a 96 page paperback for reading level 9-12. Fortunately, I found I was ahead of the apparently brainier "Teaching and Learning Personality Assessment (Lea Series in Personality and Clinical Psychology)" by Leonard Handler and Mark J. Hilsenroth. Oddly, there could be a pattern forming. Yesterday I was 933,552nd, right in front of "Commentary on the Psalms" by Allan Harman - and yet trailing "This is the Bear" by Sarah Hayes and Helen Craig. Again, I seemed to be bookended by the sublime and the infantine. Given the nature of AoaN, there is an obvious poignancy here.

Today I am 979,630th, a mere 20, 370 spots below a 1,000,000th ranking. One million books above me. That's kind of nice, actually. I can visualize it as a ladder to the moon, so I'm going to try to celebrate the million mark. And I'm going to hope that some more exposure through book reviews (which could take months), this blog and other efforts might give me one or two sales through Amazon so that I might dip back down to the 700,000nds.

Meanwhile, I'll turn my attentions to BarnesandNoble.com, where today I'm a coming in at a more palatable 368,901st.

Self Portraits

Casey Stetler brought to my attention an article in the February 19th New York Times, Fashion & Style: "Here I Am Taking My Own Picture" by Alex Williams. (I've added the link, though it might require you to set up an account -- which I recommend, as it's one of the few free major newspaper websites out there.) This is meaningful here because when I was mulling over possibilities for the cover of AoaN, Mr. Stetler had suggested the idea of Tyler taking a self-portrait in the mirror. I liked this idea and set about photographing myself above the bathroom sink - only as a stand-in for Tyler, naturally - then tweaked it in PhotoShop to the point where I would hopefully be unidentifiable. It never worked to anyone's satisfaction, and worse,




it is definitely me.



I ended up going with "Variation on Lepicie's Narcissus" for the cover.

Imaginary Audience

What's remarkable about Mr. Williams' article is that he points out that the self-portrait-in-a-mirror is a modern phenomenon. Guy Stricherz, the author of "Americans in Kodachrome, 1945-65" considers it a new genre of photography. In his review of 100,000 photographs from 500 families during that era, he discovered less than 100 self-portraits. That's an incredibly low number considering that nowadays, everyone is doing it.

"In 1960 a person just wouldn't take a Kodak Brownie picture of themselves," Mr. Stricherz said. "It would have been considered too self-aggrandizing."

Hmmmm. So what is so different today? Why are we more willing to self-aggrandize - if in fact such self-portraits can be considered a form of self-aggrandizement - than we were in the sixties?

Obviously, technology is playing a part in this shift. The dollar value of film is not an issue. And the article does note that this is primarily a phenomenon of youth, particularly of adolescents, and their desires to try on different identities. Put the technology in the hands of teens and they have a new way of addressing what Jeffrey Jensen Arnett, a developmental psychologist, calls their "imaginary audience." However, I think that the elephant in the room here is the incessant flow of media into our personal lives, and more importantly, our self-identities.

Self-Marketing

Jim Taylor, a Trend Consultant at the Harrison Group, calls these images "self-branding." This is where the influence of the media panoply really starts to kick in - when it becomes acceptable to express the parameters of our self-identity using the language of Madison Avenue.

He added: "They see celebrities expressing their self-worth
and want to join the party."

I have to say, there's something I just don't like about Mr. Taylor. I am suspicious of the context, the method and the intention of any celebrity expressing their self-worth. And there's an ick-factor to that which he refers to as "the party." Even his title, "Trend Consultant," bugs me. But for all that I don't like, I appreciate his unintentional point: the media plays a crucial and invasive role in young people's struggle to form an identity. Indeed, it's a veritable Baby Huey. And it seems to be more invasive than when I went through it way back when.

I suppose that way back when I, too, was trying to sell myself and relied on whatever marketing I had at my disposal to get people to buy. And admittedly the celebrities of the day influenced my self-marketing campaign. While I would indicate annoyance at being told "you look like James At Sixteen (aka Lance Kerwin)" nearly every day of high school, I was relieved that I didn't remind them of the janitor. Much better to have a TV Sixteen-Year-Old to aid in the promotion of the product of you. And not to split hairs, but James was much more preferable than Danny Partridge.

Comments On The Novel - The Autobiography of a Narcissist

Herein shall reside all comments on "The Autobiography of a Narcissist."

If you are so inclined, please comment at will.

Self Aggrandizement

Linda Sue and I went for a walk through our local cemetery on Monday. It is easy to discover a quiet there that is not limited to what one can hear; there is a visual peace as well. It’s like a park without playgrounds, and I wouldn’t be against seeing a jungle gym in any graveyard. Wouldn't that be a poignant juxtaposition? I've always thought there to be a kind of a quietude to the sound of children playing. As it was, I found what one typically finds there: markers where the dead are buried, a lot of fine landscaping, and gardeners on lawnmowers. One waved at me.

It is an odd thing, this idea of wanting a marker, a piece of carved stone placed in the ground above where one's remains are buried. It is not in my nature nor my upbringing to have myself remembered in such a way, though I would never pass judgment on anyone who might find meaning in it for themselves. For my loved ones to make that choice on their own behalf is another matter. If they want a place to visit a non-corporeal me after I am gone, I’m all for it - though it strikes me that doing so only grows from your people's habits, like going to Disneyland every summer. As I say, cemeteries were not in my upbringing (Disneyland was), but if I am to be laid to rest in one against my wishes, I hope that I would be remembered with a small, blocky headstone that says hardly anything at all. I may be an epitaph kind of guy in life, but words fall so short in capturing the occassion of death, and are then so permanent when carved in stone.

Humble People

This may be the way most people feel. Linda Sue was disappointed not to find any noteworthy epitaphs. I had to agree. I had hoped to stumble across, at the very least, a stanza or an original quote. Something along the lines of the Leonard Cohen lyric

Like a bird on a wire

Like a drunk in a midnight choir

I have tried in my way to be free.

that Kris Kristofferson promises will go on his headstone. Or even a clever one-liner,

First a cough

Carried me off,

Then a coffin

They carried me off in.

Most of the headstones I read simply had the deceased’s name, their years of life, some filigree and, if from the hand of a more highly paid lapidary, an adoring cherub. Some had short quotes from the bible, or simply a cross - some sidestepped religion and bore the badge of the Rotary or the Odd Fellow. Some were even more elementary, proclaiming “Mother” or “Loving Father,” in the middle of a plot designated only to a last name, and that’s it. These were the folks I would have liked to have known. Those with the means to be buried in the cemetery, yet comfortable enough to leave the specifics to those who know where to go to visit them. Humble people. Quiet lives, leaving a tranquil reminder in their wake.

A Bugle Blast

Blaring across the tranquility, however, as though wealth and power were trying vainly to imitate godly thunder through the most expensive bullhorn money can buy, were the crypts. These fascinated me. Large enough to live in and as necessary as a 50's bomb shelter, they stand as a testament to what one can do with accumulated wealth during one’s final days: self-aggrandize. Admittedly, they are beautiful buildings on first blush, modern tributes to antiquated architecture and stonework. But look past the accomplishment of craft and their gaudy stab at immortalization is hard to miss. In the context of such equality (with death being the ultimate equalizer in life), their final statement about social-economic-political inequality is, for lack of a better term, tacky. It is nothing short of spiritual and philosophical callowness. And in the face of the real McCoy reflecting real achievement - say the pyramids of the pharaohs or Grant’s Tomb - these are McMausoleums. Proselytizing from the mound-tops that they beat the guy two plots over. A bugle blast to get people to look. I assume they’re intended to call out to my reverent, contemplative side, yet all they do is tempt me to pay my respects with a putter and an orange golf ball. They bring out the tacky in me.

Do these buildings stand as hubris? Narcissism to the dying end? Denial of death? In my opinion they do. But I am most taken by the denial of the failure of their original intent. The building, which stands as the final intention of the person who is entombed within, demands that I remember the person entombed within. Its structural size, which exploits the time-honored axiom that “bigger is better,” implores me to honor the size of the person who once was, declaring, “Herein lies someone you must remember, for their power was great!” And yet it closes its eyes to the fact that it is completely in my power to not remember. I can, as I suppose I have chosen to do here, not honor them, not remember them, at least not on their terms. I can forget them. And having done this, aren’t they much like a desperate bugle blast hoping someone else will come along and look?

The Advocate

Under the sidebar heading of OTHER PROJECTS, I thought to point you in the direction of a short movie directed by my wife, Linda Sue.

Film 2880 is a 48 hour film festival (2880 minuts) affiliated with the Port Townsend Film Festival wherein each participating filmmaker is to make a movie 10 minutes (or less) in length within certain parameters. On Friday at 7PM, everyone is given a common theme, prop and line of dialogue. At 7PM on Sunday, they are to deliver their movie.

Linda Sue had me write it after she, Casey Stetler and I came up with the idea incorporating the theme, prop and line. They were:

Theme: False truths
Prop: a teabag
Line: "That's one hog too many."

Here is the link to the film: The Advocate.
It takes a long time to load so please stick with it.

Also, it requires Windows Media Player - if you need it, download it here.

Some terrific acting by Ron Owens, Ragna Sigrunardottir, Melkorka Licea, Susanna Burney, and Jerene and Dave LaRose. Director Jon Ward edited it under the gun. Music was provided by Chris Ballew.

Signs of Spring

in my yard

on my street





in my town

Holistically speaking, I'm not against it.

Rejection

Hopefully, everyone faces rejection. To avoid it would mean that life is not being lived to the fullest. Whether looking for a career change or kneeling with a ring in hand, we all eventually, or regularly, risk receiving a "no." We all feel the sting of it. The slap. The coldcock.

With AoaN, I have collected my share of rejection letters from agencies and publishers. I keep them for a record of where it's been sent, but also for posterity, as they say - though I'm not convinced that anyone's progeny will care to read them. They're generally polite, spell my name correctly, all that. Most of them are form letters. Occasionally they are signed by someone. All of which - and I mean this genuinely - I appreciate. Someone took time away from the arduous job of weeding through thousands of queries to respond to mine. Bless their hearts, as my mom would say. The only response that is difficult to accept is no response at all. And since I tend to expect the worst out of businesses that refer to themselves as an industry, I feel a small moment of "how nice" whenever I open a thanks-but-no-thanks for anything I write.

But then there is the response that is completely unexpected. Unimaginable. Wonderful.

The following is a file I created (borrowing from Harpers) after receiving a rejection for AoaN from literary agency Allred & Allred. (Click on the image for a closer look.)



Bless their hearts!

Celebrity

When I was a bartender in Los Angeles, I served numerous celebrities and gained insight into one very important aspect of each of their personal lives: how they ordered a drink from a bartender. Aside from that, there was never anything too noteworthy about the experience. There were a few exceptions, of course, anecdotes I could share on first dates, that kind of thing. But there was an underlying insult to all of it: far fewer were the celebrities I pushed cocktails towards than the ordinary folk who asked, “Do you ever see celebrities in here?”

No Escape

I hated that question. For one thing, the dynamic between the bartender and the drinker carries the false assumption that there is a conspiratorial relationship occurring, a romanticized notion that for the time it takes to quaff a beer, “we’re in this thing together.” Naturally, such a romance is always on the drinker’s terms, and worse, in his mind, so whatever his views are in that moment, it is assumed that the bartender shares them. (Bartenders must learn how to protect themselves from this.) I can only assume that during those brief moments, those drinkers thought I was as giddy as they were about the celebrities I had served. The worst part of it, however, was that my job became an unrelenting reminder that we cannot escape our cultural obsession with celebrity.

Pondering this led me to an article online. Dr. Kevin Howley, professor at DePauw University says that the obsession with celebrity is evidence that as a society we suffer from a crisis of identity: "A profound disruption to traditional ways of life." Joe Polisi, president of Juilliard, says that the bombardment of pop culture along with the decline of arts education is hurting the nation: "The vacuum that was created has been filled by pop culture."

Heard of these two guys? Not likely.

From Hollywood

In the same article, Robert Redford says that he would rather see more balance: “It draws our society to a lower place... Important issues are getting lost in the froth." And Ron Howard adds that celebrity culture "has replaced the role that mythological characters were given...celebrities provide these little parables."

Now don’t Mr. Howard’s and Mr. Redford’s statements pack a lot more punch? Simply in seeing their names? Yet don't you have to admit that it seems there might be more meat to what Mr. Polisi and Dr. Howley have to offer? In large part, we are drawn to the famous pair out of our primitive attraction to power. A university professor and president of Julliard may hold quite a bit of cache, but Hollywood icons have real credibility. Culturally speaking, of course.

Celebrities from all walks of fame wield undeniable power for their achievements in the world of fame, which brings us to a chicken-or-the-egg paradox. The fact that they are highly visible, if they are succeeding in their celebrity, makes their power all the more potent. The more potent this power, the more famous they seem to be. And this is intoxicating, perhaps made even more so by this mysterious Catch-22.

No One Knows Why

Even I, who make the supercilious claim that I am above such groveling, must admit that I did some rather enthusiastic clicking-through to news on Michael Jackson’s court case. I can't explain it. And I'd rather that it went no further than here.

The most amazing element of all of this is that, sure, everyone - from doctors of sociology to celebrities themselves - can reflect upon the ramifications of our obsessing over celebrities, yet no one can address the reason the culture believes they are deserving of such devotion. To pull from Christopher Lasch, again,

The only important attribute of celebrity is that it is celebrated; no one can say why.

There is much more to be said on this subject. And certainly it will be said. Perhaps over a manhattan.