My father is fond of saying that there is the business of life and the passion life: not everyone is good at both of them. Lately, I have been trying to market my memoir. I’ve been scouring through essays and blogs that offer advice and tips and tricks for interesting agents. No matter how much I read, practice, and perfect my query letter or attempt to distill my book into a three paragraph synopsis, I feel it comes up short.
After spending the past year in an artistic whirlwind, I have resisted switching gears. It has taken the form of depression, anger, and angst. I try to break down my “business” moments into smaller pieces, sending out query letters a few times a week instead of daily. But even that has been daunting, for no matter how hard I try, I make sloppy, careless mistakes like spelling someone’s name wrong and hitting send, only to realize it after the email has been sucked into cyber space and delivered neatly, but inaccurate and embarrassing, to the agent’s inbox.
My father is right. I have that passion of life down pretty damn well. It’s this business part that I am deficient in, like some part of my brain has been scooped out and replaced with straw. I have neurons that are firing backwards, or places that don’t connect, cracks and crevices where rational thought gets stuck. No matter how much I slow down and concentrate, I still impulsively hit send too quickly or mix up the names on my email. Marketing this memoir has turned out to be much harder than writing it. I guess that’s why there are a million blogs devoted to this never-ending process and why many savvy writers are switching to self-publishing to cut through some of the bullshit.
I’m finding this business a bit soul-sucking, as one smart reader said it. I’m spending more energy boosting my fragile ego than writing.I miss those moments where brilliance strangled reason. I think it’s time to bring those days back.
