The Necromancer... Covers

Hello Blogosphere:

I, Alex Stargazer—writer extraordinaire and not-so-extraordinaire poet—presents to you five possible covers for my book, known as the Necromancer.

If you are unfamiliar with it, know that it is a High Fantasy novel with—surprise surprise—a Necromancer (that is, a person who raises the dead) and flying zombies, and magic, and stuff. Oh: did I mention our Necromancer is trying to take over the respective world?

Well, he is. That’s what people with 50,000 strong undead armies tend to do. Right? (Note: those 50,000 undead happen to be really fast, and strong, and fearless and all that. He’s kinda difficult to stop. That’s kinda the premise of the book, ya know?)

In any case, here are some descriptions of him:

Neshvetal permitted himself a small smile. It was not a pleasant one: it revealed teeth that were inhumanly white, and a twinkle of madness within those cold orbs of sight.

His eyes are balls of azure light, glowing with deep, unnatural power; his hair is darker than the darkest of nights, yet it reflects the scant moonlight like some fantastical lake. His form is tall – his posture, arrogant. A cruel smile lights up his long, aristocratic nose and handsome (if rather dark) features. He knows he has won.

As you can see, our Necromancer looks as scary as he is.

And without further ado, I present to you these covers. (Thanks goes to Kit Foster for providing them. Yes, I am paying him. Yes, it is still polite to thank those who enable your success.)

You can share them with whom you think may be interested. And please make sure to rate them on the comments below. After all: a good book needs a good cover to get you lot to read it.

Why I Followed my Dreams, and the True Cost of Self-Publishing

A few days ago, I drafted my budget and wrote up the basics of my marketing plan. When the current sum came up, I wasn’t at all shocked; in fact, I was pleasantly surprised. Having made a few hard decisions, I was looking at £660 to effectively bring to market; previously, that figure would have been around £1200.

For those not in the business, this can sound like a lot. But rest assured: it isn’t. Because of some hard decisions, I can get away with spending less than most successful self-pubs—and certainly a lot less than what your typical publishing house pays. (Hint: it’s usually more than £2000, for shorter books than this. Obviously, it varies; but I’ve heard typical figures quoted in the £5000 area for this.)

Some of the decisions that had to be made included editing. At the low end, it would have cost me £650–800; but more likely it would have cost me something like £1200 (to properly work one-on-one and collaborate). I have seen editing firms charge in excess of £2000 for this, and some even more (the latter was a questionable proposition though...)

Editing is considered a necessity for most works. Certainly, it would have improved the Necromancer and given me some much deserved help.

Unfortunately, it was not something I could realistically afford. I have a fortuitous sponsor right now—my grandfather—but since he has worked and continues to earn in Romania, I cannot expect to ask large amounts of money from him.

Let’s put it like this: for every bread you can buy in the UK, you can get five breads in Romania.

And publishing is a risky business. While I don’t seriously believe I can’t sell at least 3000 books—a writer must believe to succeed—it is nonetheless a risk involving non-trivial amounts of money.

‘But Alex: why didn’t you go the more affordable editing route and do all the marketing yourself, plus some of the design?’

It is ultimately a question of value. Editing will improve my sales outlook in the long term—and even in the short term it may pay off—and it will have the priceless value of making my book the best it can be.

But I would end up with a great book nobody will find. Through this method, I can both save money; and I can have a good book people will find.

Nearly half of my budget will be spent on marketing—this will involve hiring a professional and possibly buying some ads (still playing with the possibilities). The other half is concerned with design. I am purchasing a print-ready cover, plus promotional art; in addition to this, I am going to hire out an illustrator for a map (stay tuned!) and also likely buy better wallpaper for this blog.

(I’m thinking of getting an Extreme Blog Makeover...)

Some of these expenses sound frivolous, but upon closer thought you will realise this is not the case. A good cover is a requisite for selling books in real numbers. As it is, there are higher end artists out there; though, unsurprisingly, they charge too much for me at present time.

Promotional art is also very important.A key part of my marketing is going to be physically done by me. I am going to work with libraries, bookstores, and I may even do a school assembly. But to that, I need two things: physical books, and something to tempt passing readers.

A good blog appearance isn’t really important in the short term but will build my name in the long term. And as for the map, well—it’s useful to understanding the book, which means it improves my product. (Yes, my book is a personal work of art but in business terms it is a product.)

So there you go: publishing—even done with saviness and some compromises—isn’t a cheap proposition. To really sell books self-pubbing, you will probably need to pay something in the order of £2500+ for this. If you want to make mega-bucks, well: Little Brown and co. spent about £150,000 marketing Elizabeth Kostova’s the Historian—which went on to sell two million copies.

(Quickly opens up Wikipedia... we can’t be wrong on this Alex... these readers of yours are too clever for their own good...)

And apologies for not posting in so long. I have been busy getting a bank account to fund my endeavour, and still need a UK bank account in addition to an NI number, US tax number, and possibly a pair of ISBNs (I can get them free from Romania’s ISBN office).

I have also received my GCSE exam results. They’re good, but can be better. (I do have a lot of them, and I did move in the middle of year 10 and had to catch up on half a year of Drama.) That said: I will probably request a remark for two of them—one is close to a grade boundary, the other looks suspiciously low—and may resit one RE exam in order to get a top grade.

Enough about that, though. I have started to see a terrible vacuousness in all of these mark scoring and results grabbing that I do. Frankly, if I don’t go to Oxford (or Cambridge, but they’re not as bothered about GCSEs) I will probably be in a better financial situation because I’d be studying abroad and won’t be paying £9000 a year. I’ll be paying anything from £2500 (inclusive of health insurance) to £0.

And yes: lots of Oxbridge alumni don’t make that much more than other Russel Group guys or even less prestigious universities. Frankly, going to Oxford is a matter of pride.

And really, I want to succeed writing books. Books bring me a personal satisfaction unmatched by anything else; and financially they can put me in a far better situation than even newly minted bankers. Which brings me on to part 2.

Following my Dreams

When I say ‘and the true cost of self-publishing’ I am in actuality referring to the emotional cost. Self-publishing is like trying to go through a very thick, very hard wall. For that matter, traditional publishing is like trying to get a very fearful, very covetous individual to believe in something he sees as little more than a product.

And book-selling? It’s like trying to shine in a sea of fake jewels. (Or not-so-fake crap.)

But let’s leave all these metaphors behind. The basic idea is: publishing a book is hard whichever way you take. And indeed self-publishing has that extra difficulty of marketing and outsourcing to design professionals and editors... but trad publishers don’t do a whole lot of marketing for most authors these days, and the latter is merely a question of logistics, money, and a little patience.

(Patience, as you can guess, is a virtue every writer comes to possess.)

No: what I am trying to say is that my dreams are no longer that of great university prestige or being some CEO of something or other. Granted, I still dream of that quintessential erudite writer, with charms and a lot of money. But really, it’s the pleasure of being an artist that is my greatest dream.

I do not proclaim to say this book is the culmination of this dream because, frankly, it isn’t. It’s a beginning. It’s a way to earn some money, inspire some trust in those who would fund me, and ideally provide a comfortable budget for the next book.

I am learning how to publish, and will soon learn how to market. I am learning monetisation. Even if this book doesn’t succeed, I will have gained valuable skills (and indeed already have)—skills that can be put to good use in my next books—for there will be more, a great deal more—or, if need be, in earning some cash freelancing.

If this book does gain some success, it won’t be the money that’ll be the biggest pay off. I do not crave wealth, and neither do I want to spend this money on anything constituting a ‘luxury’, or a frivolity. I see money has far better uses than in buying jewellery or designer clothing.

Honestly, the biggest use I’d have for the money is in buying a house. The only houses that are mine are in Romania—a country which no longer interests me, if ever it did.

But even better than a house would be the feeling of knowing I succeeded. It would be... the euphoria, the taste of future possibility. For what greater a quest is there than to live your life the way you want to live it?

‘Alex: what if it bombs?’

This is a question I have thought over carefully; it is, after all, why I am not spending large amounts of money.

But it doesn’t worry me. My writing is getting better and better; my stories are getting greater, more powerful... more defined. If this one don’t succeed, I’ll write another! And it will be so much better. And I hope—perhaps a little naively—that, through indefatigable effort and determination, somebody would believe it in like I do.

The most difficult part is over. I wrote the book, and improved my writing skills until I could turn it into something worthy of attention. I got over my self-doubt and fears. I learned the important skills that any writer must have these days—perspicacity, professionalism, research skills, marketing—and with that the rest will be a matter of continued determination, belief in myself, and lots of hard work.

The wall is in front of me now. But it is a wall that can be broken through so much more easily than the one I couldn’t see.

All I need to do is to continue believing, and to continue hoping.

Why Modern Poetry... Sucks

A contentious title, is it not? But unfortunately, I believe it a true one. Don’t get me wrong: I have nothing against modern poets (I mean, I technically am one) and indeed some—like Carol Ann Duffy, to name my favourite—produce some excellent works.

And yet I cannot deny the fact that, reading most of today’s poetry—be it online, in a few books, or in literary journals—I have the powerful impression that there really aren’t many real poets out there. What gets classed as ‘poetry’ today possesses a certain… vacuousness, that would make poets—even those of a few decades ago—turn in their graves.

I’m not trying to be hyperbolic. Allow me to elaborate…

A Look Into Today’s Poetry

I shall not be naming and shaming; I don’t consider that kosher. Mostly, I shall be using examples created by myself. Take this one:

In my house
The song of radiators
Echoes into television dreams.

Actually, that’s a little too good for what I’m referring to. Let’s try again, this time with a poem by Anonymous:

So I want
To leave
A deep scratch
Of my mind
On the screen
Of the world
And walk along
With all bards
After my death
Hundreds of years
On soiled paths
And metal streets
Without my limbs
Blood and flesh
In haunting houses
And Joyous classes,
Make them feel
My hovering spirit
In emotional moments
In acts and deeds
Soothing souls
And agitated minds.

This actually isn’t bad, in the general standard of things. It’s biggest mistake is in being too long, having overly short lines, and overly bulky stanzas. (Let me paraphrase: it’s god awful hard to read.)

Closer examination, however, reveals a deeper problem. It’s meaningless. It has neither rhyme nor reason; and with that it no longer becomes a work of art—an expression of emotion, a creation of inherent desire—and instead becomes a vapid caricature.

Let’s delve into some specifics:

On soiled paths
And metal streets
Without my limbs
Blood and flesh
In haunting houses
And Joyous classes,

Does the adjective ‘soiled’ have any impact whatsoever on the meaning of the poem? Does it even create imagery? As far as I can see, it doesn’t. Nor, for that matter, does ‘metal’ in streets; for there are no such things, and neither is it metaphorical or used to evoke imagery.

‘Blood and flesh’ literally has no meaning whatsoever. You could remove it, and nothing would change. ‘Haunting houses’? Really? I know alliteration is effective, but this really is very forced. As for ‘Joyous classes’—why the capitalisation, what exactly is ‘Joyous’ supposed to mean in this context, and what type of ‘classes’ are we referring to exactly?

Perhaps Anon is referring to school classrooms? In which case, he is being: a) terribly vague; b) unrealistic; and c) not evoking of the image.

Basically, six entire lines are devoted to nothing at all.

Harsh? Yes: But Not Without Reason

You may think I am being harsh on the author. And indeed, I am: the idea of leaving an indelible mark upon society through art is certainly an interesting and powerful idea.

Trouble is, modern poets seem—on the whole—obsessed with joining words together instead of writing meaningful prose. Turgour is even worse of a problem than it was in the eighteenth century; for now that turgour is devoid of meaning.

And remember: this is actually pretty good for the ones I’ve seen. Most seem to have little relation to anything at all.

The Poet has Killed the Poem

That’s my final message, at the end of it all. There was a time when a poet could bring his work to the masses… and the masses could be expected to listen. They may not have understood everything; but still, the poem would have connected. They would have seen something of their lives, and of themselves. Perhaps they would enjoy life. Perhaps they would reform something of themselves.

At the least, they would feel something.

The killing began with pretentiousness. Poets began writing ever longer and more turgid works. The references to gods became too many and too obscure for the ordinary working class citizen to know or understand. And the structures! Complicated, twisting; difficult to read; harder still to speak.

At least poetry was still read (and enjoyed) by the academics and those of a literary disposition. Now, even writers pay them little attention; and poetry seems mainly to belong to a few niche circles.

This new fall came from the modern era. Poetry is no longer a an art form worth practising: it is now merely a way to express musings. Little snippets of words that just happened to be passing through your mind are now considered serious prose.

At first we stripped poetry of general appeal; then we stripped it of meaning; and now we condemn it to the work of the untalented and poor.

I am giving you two poems of mine to read. They both carry a message—one dramatic, the other subtle. I would submit them to literary magazines, but no one will read them even if they get published. (Which is easier said than done, considering hw pretentious and closed-minded they are.)

I would voice them; but who would listen? The organisations relevant—LGBT rights advocates, reason and science foundations—don’t do poetry. I wonder why. And good luck getting anyone on the street to listen.

Perhaps you, dear reader, are willing to give them look. And maybe you’ll take my message to heart. Don’t pretend they’re any good. Don’t pseudo-analyse and write praise that would seem fake even in an ad.

Repudiate. It’s bullshit, and you know it.

Read The Lover’s Curse—a dramatic fusion of rhyme and hexameter, on false social practice and oppression.

Read God the Sun: a subtle attack on the notion of an omni-benevolent god.