3 Suggestions for Solving the Problem of Discoverability

Ask any writer (with the possible exception of Stephen King or Jonathan Franzen) what the single biggest hurdle in their career is, and chances are you'll hear the same answer over and over again:

So many pretty distractions...

"Discoverability."

Discoverability is not a new word, though Blogger underlines it in red in a vain attempt to convince me otherwise.

A hundred years ago, Websters defined the word as "the quality of being discoverable." Duh. A hundred years before that, Scottish sociologist Thomas Carlyle used it in reference to the Buddhist belief that once every generation is born "a Greatest Man; that he is discoverable; that, once discovered, we ought to treat him with an obedience which knows no bounds. This is the truth of Grand Lamaism; the 'discoverability' is the only error here."

Today, the thorny problem of discoverability has less to do with locating the perfect human than with helping the perfect reader locate your book.

So many pretty distractions clamor for attention that one can hardly blame readers for buzzing like starving bees only around the pollen of titles penned by tried-and-true authors. It doesn't matter that others might create something they would enjoy as much as -- if not more so -- than the writers they know. They don't have unlimited time to waste searching for something to satisfy their literary cravings. So they will continue to read the authors they know... even long after those authors have ceased to surprise or inspire them.

Now, if someone they know, someone they trust, someone who is familiar with their tastes and preferences recommends a title, chances are they'll embrace the opportunity to add to their stable of "approved" authors. The problem isn't that readers are averse to reading an author they've never tried before; it's just that too many don't have the time, inclination, or sheer dogged determination to plow through the tens of thousands of titles looking for something that strikes their fancy.

Discoverability, it would seem, drops the problem of the infamous slush pile of unsolicited submissions at the reader's feet. "You have a computer? Here's access to every book on the planet!!!" ~maniacal laughter rings~

So the readers do what most people do when confronted with too many choices and too little direction: they sidestep the problem entirely and stick with same-old, same-old. (It is this trait, fer instance, that keep me ordering the same thing every time I visit Starbucks.)

How to find the right one?

The plague of Discoverability is something publishing --  both traditional and indie -- has known about for years.

It's the reason non-fiction writers need a solid platform before they can sell a book project. ("Built-in audience and awareness! Score!")

It's the reason self-published titles need to have sold several thousand copies in a relatively short time span before a publisher will make an offer for acquisition. ("People already know about it! W00t!")

Trouble is, no one really knows how to combat it. Which is not to say that people aren't trying. Many writers -- and publishers, too, for that matter -- clog up their Twitter streams with 140-character tweets of desperation that implore people to give their books a chance. Facebook pages flog books and articles. And don't forget the book trailers on YouTube and elsewhere. One of the more ingenious, though misguided, attempts I've seen at making a book discoverable involved a 5 minute advertisement that ran before the featured film at our local theatre.

The Perseus Books' Group, in an effort to address the problem, is hosting a 36-hour Publishing Hackathon this weekend, hoping that getting a bunch of bright bulbs together to "develop new approaches to digital book discovery" will create the right marketing juju. This is a Big Deal. How big? The winners get $10,000 cash and the opportunity to pitch their idea to Ari Emanuel, Co-CEO of William Morris Endeavor.

That big.

I'm no marketing guru, but I have some thoughts on cracking the code of discoverability, in the (admittedly selfish) hopes that someone will employ one or more of them and introduce me to more writers whose works I fall in love with.

Idea I: Steal a Page from Hollywood

One of my favorite parts of going to the movies and renting videos is the previews. While growing up, one could always tell the caliber of movie playing in my hometown theatre by the number of previews before it. For some reason, the more previews, the better the film. Now, I'm not suggesting that we put book trailers up on the big screen (see my previous note of disdain re: the 5-minute self-pubbed ad), but I AM wondering what would happen if publishers would routinely include the opening chapter, say, of two or three soon-to-be-released-titles in each book.

I know; often I'll get a teaser chapter from the author's next book. But it's as if each author is a closed shop -- I rarely see the writing of other writers within those sacred covers.

Here's the thing: movie previews don't just showcase a single director, actor, or writer. They show what's up and coming that should appeal in some way to the feature film's core demographic. Previews exist to expose an already committed audience to new material. Publishers could learn from this.

Idea II: Revamp Publishing Pros' Websites for Reader-Friendliness

It never ceases to amaze me how off-putting many publishing pros' websites can be. Both big and small presses have sites that lean more toward hard-sell storefront than enticing entertainment.

If the first thing site visitors see about a title is its hardcover price, with no blurb regarding content, how does that encourage them to dip into the book?

Some sites waste valuable homepage real estate on things like outdated news in miniscule fonts. Others make you jump through hoops just to find out what titles are available. Most front load their sites with their bestsellers, but don't capitalize on the bestsellers to drive readers to new authors. And practically all cram so much content on the page that it's rendered a meaningless jumble of visual noise.

Most publisher's sites are guilty of the writer's deadly sin: telling instead of showing. They tell people about their books, but show little of each one. If you already know what you want to buy, a publisher's site is fairly easy to negotiate (but Amazon is usually cheaper).  If, however, you love one author and want to see what similar books the publisher has available, publishers could learn a lot from emulating Amazon's "Customers who bought _____ also bought _____" tactic.

Idea III: Take Safety in Numbers

I don't know why, in the world of publishing, every author is an island, trying to make it on his or her own. It would make so much sense for publishers to consider the advantages of fielding "teams" -- especially of debut and midlist authors.

We're stronger & last longer when we stick together!

In much the same way that a studio promotes a new film by sending multiple cast members, as well as the director, out as ambassadors, a publisher could send multiple authors within a genre out to promote not just one book, but several.

In the same way that film buffs go to more than one movie a year, or TV aficionados watch more than one show, readers are willing to shell out hard earned cash for more than one book. They just need to know what's out there. See, each author is not in competition with every other author. Rather, each author is competing against the sheer overwhelming odds of getting noticed.

Sending a debut author out to a booksigning is generally regarded as a boneheaded financial decision because said writer does not yet have the clout or the cache to draw big crowds: the very definition of lack of discoverability. But why not throw a genre-specific team of rookies together with someone launching their sophomore title and package it as an event? Live or online, such things make sense, bringing a cadre of new authors to the attention of readers hungry for more of a particular genre, helping to raise the visibility of several of the publisher's newbies, rather than casting them adrift into the vast sea of titles to see who can swim.

I'm not certain any of my ideas would solve all discoverability issues. But I do think they'd be a start.

What about you? What's your solution? Here's hoping that someone somewhere cracks the discoverability code... and soon.

Speakeasy Tales: Takeaways From the Writer's Retreat in Paradise

The inaugural Speakeasy Writer's Retreat is history. I realize I risk sounding like a sycophant, but can't keep from raving about the wonderful group of writers and editors (and the venue -- what's not to love about the Stanford Sierra Conference Center near Lake Tahoe?) who made this weekend so wonderful.

Fallen Leaf Lake: The view from my window. ::sigh::

The faculty included editors chosen for their engaging personalities as much as for their impressive expertise in the world of children's publishing. They hung out with the writers attending, encouraging conversation and questions.

I learned a lot in the past few days. For what it's worth, here are some of my takeaways:

*  Even the publishing pros don't agree on exactly what constitutes the dividing line between Middle Grade and Young Adult. But they all agree that the writer shouldn't sweat over making the distinction. The writer's job is to write the best story possible, with the most authentic voice. Market definitions come later.

*  The jury is still out on whether New Adult merits its own genre.

*  Sometimes, showing an editor an unpolished work in rough form is the fastest way to get the most helpful advice.

*  Nothing compares to having an editor ask cogent, informed questions about one of your pet projects, especially when those questions are followed by, "That sounds great! I love those kinds of books." Yay, validation!

*  After forty-odd years on the planet, I am still powerless to exercise any form of self-control when faced with a buffet.

*  Several editors regularly reread favorite books to remind themselves of "what good writing is."

*  No one is more underpaid than authors, except maybe editors, a fact that doesn't keep either party from thoroughly enjoying their work.

*  Publishing is a difficult industry. It's not fair. It's not predictable. Success is often as reliant on luck as it is on talent.
*  Many editors admire writers for their bravery, their stick-to-itive-ness, and their perseverance. At no time during the entire retreat did I hear an editor talk about an author with anything but the greatest respect.

*  It IS possible to survive without cell phone reception.

*  In the same way that those who are married are not necessarily more loveable or loving than those who are single, writers with agents are not necessarily more talented than those who are still unagented. It's just a matter of persevering until a writer finds an agent and an editor who are a good match.

*  Never underestimate the value of taking some time away from your regularly scheduled life to interact with and support people who share your dreams.

A heartfelt thank-you to everyone involved in making this year's retreat a reality. I know I am not the only one who is leaving recharged and re-inspired!

"I Love Your Story Anyway!" -- Tales From the Unintended Audience

"I know I may not be the intended audience... and I love your story anyway!"

This tweet from accomplished improv musician Stan Stewart (@muz4now), a faithful reader of "Dear Alderone," got me thinking. Since September, I've been serializing "Dear Alderone" online. It's a middle-grade novel, which means that its target audience is tweens. It features two 14-year old female protagonists bonded by blood, separated by several decades,  connected by crisis.

I wrote a story I wanted to tell: a story that I would have liked reading when I was 14. But you know what? I'm not picky at all about who reads or -- perhaps more importantly -- who likes it.

The wonderful thing about words on a page (or screen) is that they are equal-opportunity communicators, readily conveying their information to anyone willing to decipher them.

Skippyjon stays!

I know what it's like to devour a book, getting caught up in the story, all the while cognizant of the fact that the author did not have me in mind while writing. I like Eoin Colfer's Artemis Fowl series, though I have nothing in common with an uber-rich, genius boy intent on world domination. And I flat-out love Judy Schachner's Skippyjon Jones books -- so much so that I  was crushed when my cat-crazy 10 year old daughter announced that I could give them away because she was "too old" for them.

"Noooooo!" I wanted to yell as the books came off of my daughter's bookshelf--

...to be instantly rehomed in mine. Skippyjon stays.

Here's a little-known writer's secret:
Anyone who loves what I write is my intended audience.

Here's another one:
Nothing makes a writer's day like hearing from someone who appreciates a good story.

If you are a rabid reader of an author's work, it doesn't matter whether or not you are in the publisher's target market. Want to really make a writer's day? Some simple ways to spread the love:

*  Tweet 'em up. Whether or not the writer is on Twitter, compose a tweet personally recommending your favorite read to your followers. For the cherry on top, add the #amreading hashtag. 

*  Blog About It. If you have a blog, dedicate a post to a book, series, or writer you like. Google loves that kind of stuff almost as much as authors do.

*  Keep the Comments Coming. If the writer has a blog, drop a short comment stating how much you enjoyed a particular book / story / article. It's not that we're pathetic or emotionally needy. (Ok: Some of us are.) It's just that most writers get more than enough negative feedback. For some reason, the people who *don't* like what we do have no problem telling us. I mean: name one other business that names the vast majority of its missives "rejections." You have no idea what a supportive comment praising one's work can do to boost the creative muse.

*  Read. Review. Repeat. Reviews -- especially good reviews -- are like reserves of gold in a wildly fluctuating economy. If you really want to keep your favorite writers producing more stuff for you to read (instead of, say, trading in their mad typing skills for a hairnet and practicing their delivery of the catch phrase "would you like fries with that?") write a well-thought out, reasoned review and post it in appropriate online, visible places. Amazon is one such place, to be sure, but don't neglect other online booksellers who cater to people who might not want to enrich the all-powerful 'Zon.

*  Share and Enjoy. Like a book? Talk it up. Then lend it to a friend, so that person can help you spread the word. In fact, you could start a kickass trend by purchasing a physical copy of your favorite paperback, inscribing something like "I liked this book so much I wanted to share it with the world. Read it. Enjoy it. Then, when you're done, leave it in a public place for someone else to discover!" and leaving it behind in a coffeeshop, or a bus stop, or a train station, or a doctor's office, or... You get the picture. 

So here's to all the dedicated readers out there. It doesn't matter whether or not you are in the segment of the population to whom a book is marketed. It's not about the marketing; it's about the reading!  

Privacy Fencing

I don't know about you, but I find the "My Lowe's" commercials downright creepy. In this one, they know what color I've painted my living room -- and want me to think that's a good thing:

Here, they've gone into the bowels of my basement, noted, recorded, and stored what kind of air filters my furnace uses -- and act as if they deserve a cookie for keeping track of my stuff:

Lowe's isn't the only big business that makes me cringe. It's just that its commercials are so prevalent, and it's so in-your-face about invading my privacy and mining the data that is me that it seems less like a hardware store that serves me and more like a giant Borg box that wants me to be part of its collective consciousness.

And though I feel increasingly in the minority, I am not OK with this.

I fear that mine is the last generation to have any privacy whatsoever.

Accessing what's in our heads is big business. We've moved beyond deliberately sharing our personal information via social media sites. (Don't believe me? Believe the analysts who have concluded that because the under-20 crowd is eschewing Facebook, the tell-the-world-what-you're-thinking site that now wants to track your movements and know where you are at all times because you leave your phone with the app running at all times is passé.) With modern technology, the human interface is rapidly becoming superfluous.

Take, for instance, the brain-scanning headphones that save you the trouble of making your own personal play list. No -- these puppies, which feature their very own EEG sensor, will determine your mood based on your brain waves, and play an appropriate song to match. (No mention is made of what might happen should these bad boys fall into the wrong hands of someone who would then make them play Barry Manilow alternating with RATT until your EEG showed signs of psychopathy.)

We live in an age when our memories are not our own. Just ask neuroethicist S. Matthew Liao who is studying the ethical questions associated with, say, giving soldiers memory-erasing drugs which would, conceivably, eliminate PTSD. Doing so could also create a situation in which morality of any kind becomes as irrelevant to society as knowing how to cure deerskin. 

If we are capable of telling a human to do a thing, and then equally capable of erasing any knowledge of that action, what, exactly, have we become?

In a very real way, mankind may be one of the most endangered animals on the planet. Oh, sure, we're reproducing like crazy. But if the data crunchers have their way, we'll soon be relegated to nothing more than a lengthy series of numbers and preferences. Our data, not our DNA, defines us.

Right now, scientists are in the process of being able to visualize a person's dreams. See, here's the thing: my dreams are mine, dammit. They are not home movies that need to go viral and either provide entertainment or cause undue concern, based on the vagaries of my subconscious on any given night.

We teeter on the verge of Total Demystification. If we continue down this path, wonder, self-expression, and personal discovery may soon be relics from the past. Every thought we think -- from "I hate this television show" to "Yowza! I wonder what those abs feel like" will be mind-mapped, databased, and deconstructed before we've had time to react to it. In this brave, new world, will "individuality" and "privacy" become taboo?

"It's for your own good," we're told. One of the worst party lines is, "If you're not doing anything wrong, you won't care who knows about it. Only terrorists / serial killers / sex offenders / shoplifters / drug lords / paranoiacs / conspiracy theorists are worried about privacy." (This kind of statement lends itself to a brilliant leap of inductive reasoning. ::evil eye:: "Saaaayyy -- Maybe YOU're a terrorist / serial killer / etc.")

This stuff makes me shudder. Seriously. When did we become a population that embraced Big Brother? At some tipping point in recent memory, we went from being private citizens, each with his or her own thoughts, desires, and secrets, to being "privacy fences," willing to tell all to anyone who wanted to know.

I don't know about you (and frankly, I don't care what color you've painted your house), but the thought of my life being relegated to nothing more than a mass of data makes for very disturbing dreams. They're disturbing, but they're mine...

For now.

The Dog Ate My Homecoming

This is a true story. I swear. I know the people it happened to.

It has nothing to do with writing, but everything to do with how truth trumps fiction every time.

Plus, it makes me laugh.

::ahem::

A few years ago, my BFF's husband was stationed in Iraq with a guy whose wife, back home in Michigan, became good friends with my BFF.

When the other woman's husband was scheduled to come home on leave, she wanted to do something "special" for her man. So she decided to go to -- you know -- an "adult" store and get something to make his homecoming... memorable. She, however, wasn't the sort who frequents stores like that and didn't want to go by herself. (Incidentally, neither BFF nor I are Adult Store denizens either. In case you were wondering...)

Anyway --

BFF said she'd accompany the woman on her shopping trip, lending support, though perhaps not of the moral variety.

Once in the doors, the woman had great fun buying... stuff.

Condoms and flavored oils and edible underwear and... stuff.

She brought all her new purchases home and put them in a brown paper bag in her bedroom to keep them away from the prying eyes of her kid.

I ate what?!

...

Where her dog discovered it and thought the canine equivalent of: YAY! COOL NEW FLAVORS AND SMELLS I'VE NEVER SMELLED! 

And promptly ate *everything.*

Upon discovery of the doggy snacker, the woman called BFF freaking out, wondering if Mr. Dogness could be in any danger from what he ate because there was No. Way. In. Hell she was going to call the vet and tell him what the dog had ingested. 

I laughed so hard I hurt myself.

In Praise of the Unmediated, Unscripted Life

This weekend, one of my best friends and I attended a Bon Jovi concert, which was (of course) extravagantly fantastic.

On what do I base this pronouncement, you may ask? Consider:

It's one thing to be a hot 20-something band playing to a crowd of hot 20-something fans, getting them fired up, calling out, and caught up in the music. I mean, honestly -- when I was 20, I'd endanger my car speakers if a song played on the radio that I *sort of* liked.

It's another thing entirely to be a hot 50-year old (if only all men aged half so well...) headlining a band of your contemporaries (good LORD, Tico Torres turns 60 this year! Drumming does a body good!) playing to a crowd, many, if not most, of whom remember when MTV banned the music video for "Living in Sin" because it was too racy.

The original high school and college-aged fans have grown up. They now have kids of their own. Grandkids. Mortgages. Medical issues. Responsibilities. Bed times. It can take a Herculean effort to get them off the couch and out of the house. Imagine trying to get them out of their seats and on their feet for almost three hours!

Yet that's exactly what Jon and the band did. From eight o'clock till eleven, they had me and 20,000 of my closest friends standing, rocking along with them while they performed songs from the past 30 years right up through the present, from "Runaway" to "Amen." It was a testament to how the band, like a fine wine, has only improved with time.

It was also a study in How Times Have Changed and a rather sad testimony to how we have allowed technology to rob us of yet another Great Experience.

I, in center floor seats, saw this:

But, in a living example of what the University of Iowa's professor Brooks Landon terms "our increasingly mediated society," the vast majority of the concertgoers experienced the entire live event vicariously through the lens of a 4" screen. Most of the people around me saw something more like this:

We're trading experience for pixels, distancing ourselves from what we're trying to embrace. Perhaps even more distressing, in doing so, our attempt to capture something cripples our ability to live in the moment and fully experience it.

We aren't the only ones to pay the price when we choose to fill memory cards rather than our actual memories.  A friend with different musical tastes than I recently attended a Clint Black concert with her husband. Several times during the course of the event, Clint stopped the concert and kindly asked the audience members to put their cell phones on "airplane" mode, because the electronic feedback was killing his ears.

So it has come to this. We literally script our lives, preferring to upload them in bite-sized set pieces online in order to pander to the random viewer and furiously thumb-texting people who are not present, rather than commit to the moment and engage with those who share it.

Experiencing a live event through the screen of a phone is as satisfying as licking an ice-cream cone with a sock on your tongue.

Two hours and forty-five minutes into last night's concert, in the early notes of the final song, the phone battery of the woman standing next to me died. She was terribly upset, briefly grumbling to her friend (who continued recording), before putting her phone away and resigning herself to finishing out the night phone-free. Soon, however, she was singing and dancing along with the rest of us who were unencumbered by recording devices -- the first time all evening she connected with the band instead of with the gadget in her hand.

In 1989, Jon Bon Jovi and Richie Sambora distanced themselves from amplified, production-heavy sound and played an all-acoustic set for the MTV Video Music Awards. Six months later, MTV unveiled their award-winning "MTV Unplugged" show, which has remained popular ever since.

Why not do the same?

Unplug yourself. Turn your phone off. For a few blissful hours, take a technology sabbatical. Dare to not record a thing. Revel in your freedom from Facebook, Twitter, and texting. Cut the power cord.  Remind yourself that this moment -- THIS moment -- will never come again. Take a break from mediating, editing, and uploading. Stop scripting your life and just *live* it. Then, get ready to rock!

When Chickens Fly

Or: "Can You See the Chicken In This Picture?"

On several recent occasions, I've had the opportunity to get involved with people who, for one reason or another, didn't think very highly of their writing abilities.

Some were motivated to improve their writing. Others were more fatalistic about the merits of their words.

I believe that everyone has something to say. I enjoy working with writers of all skill levels, helping them to see beyond their (often self-imposed) limitations.

I wish every writer who bemoaned his or her ability could meet one of my chickens...



One day, with great fanfare and fluttering of wings, a hen flew up to the top of the laying house. A little while later, she set her sights higher and made it to the top of the chicken house.

She looked down on the lesser poultry beneath her, and contemplated re-joining them for some time. Then, she looked up.

The tree branch above her head must have looked inviting. It took some doing (and no small amount of cackling theatrics), but she finally made it.

Then, she headed even higher.

The first day she made her foray above the ground, she strutted back and forth for over an hour before flying back to the chicken run.

Now, chickens aren't known for their flying abilities. In the same vein, some people believe that getting their thoughts down on paper is an impossible dream. I disagree. I believe that if you can speak -- or even think coherently -- about a thing, you can write about it. Sometimes the best prescription for doing a thing is not knowing that it's beyond you.

Some might point out that my chicken never progressed from where she started. But that argument misses the point entirely. She chose to return. She came down from the tree in her own time, on her own terms. But she now knows that, if she wants to, she can fly.