Postcards From Across the Pond

Much has been going on in the alternate universe that is Lindenwald Press.

I was happy to self-publish my books (Finding Rachel Davenport and The Talisman Series) on Amazon dot Com, list them on my ersatz publishing company’s website, and move on. For a while.

The annoyance came from Amazon listing my books as “Independently Published” (READ: self-published garbage), instead of Lindenwald Press. Other self-published writers had their books listed under equally ersatz publishing houses, so why couldn’t I?

It took a few days, but I eventually ferreted out the answer: when you publish on Amazon and use their free ISBN (note to normal people: an ISBN is to a book what a VIN is to a car) they become, de facto, your publisher. All you need to do to change that is buy your own ISBN. Then you can put that on your book’s title page and write whatever you want in the Publisher slot. Simple, right?

Right, if you’re an American living in America.

The ISBN vendor I was directed to demanded a US address and phone number. So, I quickly set up a US branch of Lindenwald Press International by listing my son’s address and phone number, then texting him to tell him he was now CEO of the US office. (He texted back asking what his salary was; I told him it was the same as mine: nothing.)

The next step—registering with Nielsen—also demanded a US address, so the US office came in handy once again. (Note to normal people: this means absolutely nothing to anyone living in the real world.)

The end result, after days of research, admin, emails, and a not insubstantial amount of money, was to have my books listed on Amazon as “Published by Lindenwald Press” and registered with Nielsen, which makes no difference to anyone but gives me a measure of satisfaction.

I told you all of that so I could tell you this:

Still chuffed with my spiffy new covers and smug at having elevated my ersatz publishing imprint into ersatz respectability, I decided to have another whack at promulgating the books. This time, I thought I’d try Facebook ads.

I hadn’t known they existed until I began being bombarded by them, but the idea intrigued me and, after some independent research, decided to give them a go. It seemed a no-brainer: I could reach tens of thousands of people and it wouldn’t cost all that much. (Though, after checking Amazon’s marketing offer, anything would seem cheap by comparison.)

Long story short: Facebook ads is an insanely labyrinthian, complex, non-intuitive process that took days to research and ultimately led to taking a ten-day course on how to do it that, after day three, was so over my head that I stopped downloading the free lessons. But I kept tinkering around with it until, in the end, I literally (in the literal sense) accidentally spawned an ad.

I don’t know how I did it, but a test ad I tried setting up suddenly started running on a 5-day campaign. Then, on day two, I received this:

Panicked, I set about trying to request a review. Long story short: it turned out to be, literally (in the literal sense) impossible.

So, I settle back and waited for my account to be cancelled. So far, however, that has not happened.

The end result: I spent £103. The ad reached 68,875 people. I sold one book.

But at least now I know; it is not worth it.

In a conversation with another, local self-publisher, we both observed that we were spending so much time trying to publicize what we had written that we didn’t have time to write anything new, to which my acquaintance observed, “But you have to, don’t you?”

I thought about this for a moment. “No,” I replied, “I really don’t.”

You only have to if you need the royalty income to keep Weetabix in your bowl. I am in the enviable position where this is not the case. So, the choice for me is:

• Devote all my time to something I am rubbish at and hate doing.
• Write another book, make it the best I can, publish it as professionally as I can, and take pride in a job well done.

The choice is, literally (in the figurative sense) a no-brainer.