Help Selling More Books – To Con or Not To Con? Part 2 – Fandom Cons

Help Selling More Books – To Con or Not To Con? Part 2 – Fandom Cons

Last time I talked about Industry Cons, like World Fantasy Con, World Horror Con, RWA Nationals, and other pro-centric cons. The greatest benefit of these cons is often the networking, as they are light on fan attendees and heavy on pros. They can be a great place to make or renew relationships, to meet people who can have a real impact on your career long-term, but you should never go into a conversation with someone just thinking about what they can do for you. That’s not networking, that’s being an asshole. Real networking, the kind that will actually do something for you, is relationship-building, making friends, being genuinely interested in what people are saying and doing, because people are generally pretty interesting. You will get more out of the favor you do for someone else than you ever will from asking for a favor. So just go hang out with people, meet them, and be nice. That will come back to you in spades over the long haul.

But this isn’t a blog post about networking, it’s a blog post about fandom cons. What I refer to as fandom cons are the heart and soul of science fiction and fantasy cons all over the US and the world. These are the small to mid=size cons that aren’t run by some giant media or entertainment company. They are cons with anywhere from 200 to 5,000 people in attendance, and they are generally non-profit organizations run by volunteers, or sometimes a very tiny paid staff. Usually people are paid in badges, hugs, and pizza.

These are honestly my favorite type of convention to attend, because they press a lot of buttons for me as far as things I enjoy doing. Fandom cons usually have a fair amount of programming, from panels and games to discussions and workshops. Being a pompous ass that I am, I love being on panels. When I’m feeling gracious about myself, which is most of the time, I tell myself and the world that I enjoy panels because it gives me the opportunity to pontificate and scratches the itch that I had when I used to want to be a teacher.

Don’t worry, I got over that one when I realized that my reflexive response to stupid statements by people in authority is to say “Go Fuck Yourself” loudly and often. I decided that reflex wasn’t conducive to a long teaching career, so I should either learn to shut my cake hole or look for a new career path. I chose to not shut my cake hole. Pretty much ever.

But anyway, fandom cons. They have a bunch of panels, and usually a dealer room or author’s alley, or some other opportunity for me to set up a table and sell books. So I get to sit on panels with people who are much smarter than me, make a few dick jokes, and then sell books after. Or maybe I get on a panel with people where I make valid points about the at hand and participate in a lively discussion. Or dick jokes. Either way.

Why do you want to be on panels? Shouldn’t you just rent a table in the dealer hall and sell books all day, every day? Well…remember Uncle John’s First Rule of Sales? Of course you don’t, because I almost never refer to myself as Uncle John (although I am an uncle, have been for 40 years at this point, and I have a lot of grey in my beard, so I may just begin referring to myself as such) and I’ve never codified this idea into a “rule,” at least not in writing.

Uncle John’s First Rule of Sales – People buy shit from people they like. 

I know. Rocket science, right? Well, that’s why this is all free, and real sales courses cost a fuckton of money. I just realized that I swear more in blogs that I write while listening to Jason Isbell. He’s a goddamn genius, and frequently Wendig-level profane.

But the point of this is – if you’re on panels, you get to show off your sparkling personality o everyone in the room, and you get to show off what a smart writerly motherfucker you are. Don’t spend too much time talking about your book, though. That looks dickish, and like you’re just there to sell shit. You kinda are, but you are also there to answer the questions the moderator and audience bring to you. So unless your book really relates to the question, don’t mention it.

So yes, you want to get on panels. You want to get on panels, and be witty, or funny, or brilliant, or charming, or dazzling, or professional, or whatever pieces of all of those that make up your shtick. Then at the end of the panel, remind the audience that you have a table in the dealer room, or you have books in your briefcase, or you’re doing the Broad Universe reading at 7PM, or whatever. Give them a reminder to come see you, and to bring money when they do.

Fandom cons are also great places to make solid connections with people way up the food chain from you. Typically a small (500-3,000 attendees) will have 1-2 “name” guests, who get their hotel and travel paid for. These folks are usually award winners, best sellers, legends in the field, or all of the above. I’ve done very small conventions with Guests of Honor such as Rachel Caine, Joe Haldeman, Timothy Zahn, Ben Bova, Patrick Rothfuss, and many more. The size of the event and the fact that you’re there as a guest as well gives you a level of access that may be greater than most folk. And some folks just like hanging out. I sat in the bar listening to Joe Haldeman tell stories for several hours one night. I’d never met him before, and I was just an attendee at the con. I bought my badge just like every one else. George R.R. Martin is well-known as a lover of room parties, and a few years ago at ConCarolinas GRRM was in one room talking to fans at a room party, and in the room next door David Weber was chatting with fans at a different room party!

This does not happen as often at huge cons. It’s just harder to find folks. But that, as well as the ability to hang out with people in the bar or restaurant and get to know them, can create long-lasting friendships. There’s a group of 40 or so writers that endured what we often refer to as SweatFest, the year the FandomFest AC broke in Louisville, Kentucky in July. It was godawful. It was the hottest thing I think I’ve ever put up with. But I met some people that I have done business with ever since, and some of them are my dearest friends. Those kind of stories are why we do the fandom cons. They become a badge of honor, and a shorthand that people use to refer to events, and the relationships forged while sitting at a table next to someone in a deserted dealer room may not pay your hotel bill for the weekend, but you can certainly make some lifelong friends.

Just a few people that I met for the first time at Fandom cons –

Faith Hunter, Misty Massey, Emily Lavin Leverett, Sarah Joy Adams, Gail Z. Martin, David B. Coe, A.G. Carpenter, Nicole Givens Kurtz, Allan Gilbreath, Andrea Judy, Bobby Nash, Edmund Schubert, Natania Barron, Michael G. Williams, Tally Johnson, S.H. Roddey, Alexandra Christian, Kalayna Price, Rachel Caine, Laura Anne Gilman, Seanan McGuire, Brandon Sanderson, Patrick Rothfuss, Mike Stackpole, Eric Flint, Dr. Jerry Pournelle, Larry Niven, Timothy Zahn, Barbara Hambly, john Scalzi, Robin Hobb, Ernie Cline, Jim C. Hines, Cat Rambo, Kimberly Richardson, and the list goes on for hours. Some of these people I’ve hung out with, some I’ve published, some have edited with me, some have edited me, some have bought my books, some have sold me books, but every one of them I first met at a little fandom con.

That’s why I go to fandom cons. Because I meet amazing people.

Angel in the Dust Chapter 1

Angel in the Dust Chapter 1

Here’s the next chapter of that serialized thing I’m working on. Let me know what you think. 

Chapter 1

She jerked awake, sitting bolt upright with her mouth wide open. Silent at first, she drew a breath to scream, but he was there with his hand pressed tight to her lips.

“That would be very bad,” he whispered. “There are things out there in the dark that I cannot save you from, cannot save myself from, either. So in order to keep us both alive long enough for me to answer your questions, you must be very quiet. Can you do that?”

She nodded. He took his hand from her mouth and moved a few feet away, far enough to let her feel less threatened but not so far away that she had room to escape, should that be on her mind. She looked around, at the rough campsite that was nothing more than his bedroll, the spare blankets and clothing he had scrabbled together for her, a small cookfire surrounded by rocks, banked to glowing embers and dug deep enough into the sand as to be invisible from more than a few feet away, and a metal pole jammed into the ground with a ring atop it. His horse was tied to the ring and stood staring at her, as if waiting to see if she was going to be interesting, or edible, or both.

Other than the three of them and his meager belongings, there was nothing to see but the night sky. The moon had set, or perhaps had yet to rise, and stars dotted the dark like some demented toddler had thrown a bucket of glitter into the blackness, with little clumps and streaks of shininess blinking overhead. The moon was down, but one of the blinking Voltarr motherships hung huge in the sky, too small to be a moon, but obviously too large and close to be a star. It could only be one of the orbiting homes of the invaders. Turning her head past each shoulder, the girl saw no lights in the distance to indicate the presence of a town or city, or even fires to show some sign that they weren’t the only people in the world.

She looked at him, sitting cross-legged by the fire. His wide-brimmed leather hat lay on the ground beside him, and he watched her with a steady gaze. His eyes, reflected flickering crimson in the dancing light of the cinders, tracked her every move like a wolf staring down a rabbit. His face was narrow, with chiseled jaw and cheekbones covered in greying stubble, and the creases in the corners of his eyes seemed like they came more from squinting against the sun that any tendency to smile.

“Wh-whe-“ she tried to speak, but couldn’t force the words out through sun-scorched and desert-parched throat. He tossed her a battered metal canteen, and she looked at it for a moment like she’d never seen such a thing, then twisted the cap off and took a sip. Clear water flowed over her teeth, quenching her mouth and throat. She gulped, raising the bottle higher and letting the glorious liquid dribble from the corners of her mouth and down her chin. She lowered the bottle from her lips and took a breath, then raised it again.

“Careful,” his whispered voice sliced the night like a razor, and she stopped, hand halfway to her lips, and stared at him.

“You’re dehydrated,” he said. “If you drink too much at one go you’ll throw up. Then you’ll be even more dehydrated, and I’ll be out a half day’s worth of water. I don’t think that’s something either of us wants.”

She looked back at the canteen in her hands, longing writ large on her face, but she screwed the cap back on and extended it to him.

“Keep it. You need to drink, just don’t drink the whole thing at once.”

She nodded and set the round canteen upright in the sand beside her, leaning it against her leg so it didn’t fall over.

“Where am I?” She asked.

He chuckled, an unexpected sound that rolled across her in the darkness and warmed her fingers and toes. “That’s an interesting question, miss. How do you want me to answer that? Do you need your location, because you were set upon by bandits, or reavers, or sand dogs and don’t remember how far you ran? Do you think you are dead, and this is Hell? Because you surely wouldn’t be the first to think that, although I must unfortunately notify you that we are most definitely alive, and this is no more Hell than a piece of Oklexas dirt can be, which I will acknowledge might be closer to Hell than I care to admit. Are you a Traveller? Which I doubt given that I found you with no tech and practically no clothes, much less anything to indicate you are from anywhere other than Earth. Or are you purely a creature of philosophy, and my correct answer would be ‘here?’”

The girl stared at him for a moment, then took another small drink of water. “Could we start with the first one, please?”

The man laughed an almost silent laugh, then said “We are currently four days’ ride west of Amarillo on the edge of northern Oklexas. I was planning on crossing into Nueva España tomorrow morning and heading to Albuquerque from there, but you might be throwing a little wrench into that plan.”

“I’m sorry,” the girl said, and he realized for the first time that she was very young, or at least very innocent. He struck a few options off his mental list of things that may have brought the young woman out into the wilderness on her own, and this raised even more questions.

He stared at her across the fire, his one spare shirt swallowing her gaunt form. The rag she wore as a shift fell almost to dust when he picked her up and tossed her across Mazy’s back to carry her to camp, so when he found a spot he thought looked defensible enough to make camp for the night, he dressed the scratches on her back and stomach, put aloe cream all over her face and arms, and wrapped her in his spare shirt. Now he could see how small she was, how slim her figure, stirring emotions in him he thought were long dead. Not lust, no, she was too young for him that way. Just…feelings.

“Where are you going?” She asked.

“I might ask you the same thing,” he replied. “But let’s start with the less important things. What’s your name, child? I’m Brother Wayland.”

“Are you some kind of priest?”

“Some kind,” he chuckled. “I’m a Brother of the Gun.”

She looked blank. “I don’t know what that means, I’m sorry. I don’t…I don’t really seem to know anything.” Her brow knit and she closed her eyes. “I don’t know where I am, I don’t know what a Brother of the Gun is, I don’t even know my name. I don’t know anything!” Her voice climbed in pitch and volume as she spoke, so Wayland moved to her side.

He put an arm around her, and she clutched at him, trembling. Way felt her ribs through the shirt, reached inside his pocket for a handkerchief, and passed it to the girl. She took it, dabbed at her eyes, then wiped her nose and held it out to him.

“Keep it,” he said, hiding his smile in the darkness. “If you really can’t remember who you are, it might not be the last time you find yourself in need.”

“What is a Brother of the Gun?” she asked again when she had herself more composed.

Wayland fixed her in place with his steady gaze. His eyes were cold, light grey like sun-bleached steel, and spoke of long days in the saddle. “We help people. We deliver justice in places where there often is none, and we offer protection to those who would otherwise be defenseless.” The words sounded old, like something memorized long ago, but also heartfelt. Brother Wayland meant what he said.

The girl sat, pulling her knees up to her chest and wrapping her arms around them. She looked across the fire at Wayland. “So who am I?” Her voice trembled a little, but she didn’t cry. The bulging muscles along her jaw told of the effort that required, but she held her emotions more tightly than she clutched her knees against the cool desert air.

“I have no idea.”

“Why am I here?”

“This is as far as I could carry you from where I found you.”

“Carry me?”

“You were laying out there in the desert, half-covered up in sand and scorched from being out there for at least a couple days. I found you, and brought you here. I thought to put you on Mazy and take you on to Nueva España with me, but you ain’t got the strength to ride yet. So here we are.”

She looked at him, fire kissing his jawline and painting him orange and yellow. He had a strong jaw, a narrow face, and a short beard. Mostly brown, but with a few touches of grey popping through to catch the firelight different. “I…thank you,” she said.

“Don’t thank me yet, little one. It won’t take much time in the sun for you to realize I didn’t do you any favors keeping you alive, and if some of the predators in the night get ahold of you, well…then I reckon I’ll have done us both a disservice.” He scooted away from her, creating space between her bare leg and his denim-clad one.

The girl picked up her canteen and looked across the top of it at Wayland. “You said I…threw a wrench in your plan. What does that mean?”

Way looked at the girl, her wide eyes, dirt-crusted hair and sunburned face. There was no hint of irony or guile in her. She honestly didn’t have any idea what he meant by the common expression. “Well, I reckon I meant that since you can’t ride yet, or couldn’t at least, that I probably won’t get to Albuquerque in three days like I expected to. That, coupled with the fact that I only carried water for one, means that I’m going to have to some refiguring of my plans to keep us both alive long enough to get anywhere that’s anywhere. As opposed to here,” he said, gesturing to the wide expanse of empty desert. “Which is about as close to nowhere as anything I can imagine.”

“I’m sorry,” the girl said. Her voice was thready, weak, as if she could barely move enough air to cause a sound. Way couldn’t tell if she was trying to keep quiet, or was just that broken down by whatever left her lying under the sand.

“Don’t be. I couldn’t just leave you there to die. Nobody would do that.” He didn’t bother to tell the child that a fair number of somebodies had obviously done just that. The road between Amarillo and Albuquerque wasn’t heavily traveled, but Way had met at least a half dozen riders or wagons since he’d left the last outpost in Oklexas. At least some of them had to have ridden right by the child lying by the roadside, slowly being bleached to bone in the scorching sun.

“Then thank you,” she said, stronger this time. “I…I think I need to pee.”

Wayland waved his hand off to the right. “It’s pretty safe as long as you stay within sight of the fire. I have no interest in watching you relieve yourself, so you don’t have to fear me peeking.”

She stood, legs wobbly, and Wayland scrambled to his feet to help her stay upright. After a minute, she took a tenuous step forward, holding her arms out to the side for balance. Way held her elbow to steady her, and after a few more shaky steps, she shook him off. “I think I’m fine now.”

“I think you’re a long way from fine, child, but I reckon as how you can manage to go to the bathroom by yourself. Call out if you fall or need help.”

“I thought you said things out there would hear me?”

“They might, but that’s a sight better than something finding you out there helpless. And I don’t have a light, so I won’t be able to find you without some kind of help.” He watched as she walked out of the circle of firelight, wobbly at first, but gaining confidence with each step. Way went over to his pack and pulled out a few strips of jerky, tearing a hunk off one and chewing it as he stared out into the night.

Who was this child?

What was this child?

What did it mean, finding her out here like this? It all means something, it always did,

What kind of Hell was he calling down upon his head, helping her?

We interrupt our regularly scheduled broadcast…

We interrupt our regularly scheduled broadcast…

I know, it’s Wednesday. I know, this is when I’m supposed to do a How to Sell More Books Blog Post.

We’ll get back to that next week. This is more important. One of my best friends had a kid, and he’s got some health issues. This is your chance to get rewarded for helping somebody out.

 

Wesley’s Story

See that cute little bastard in the photo? That’s my little buddy Wesley. He’s my friends Rich and Kat’s kid, and he need a new liver. Now, I know, a lot of us need new livers, but that’s because of our poor life decisions. Wesley hasn’t had time to make any shitty life choices yet, so he needs a hand. If you could find it in yourself to donate something to Wesley’s transplant fund, I’d really appreciate it.

I’ll even sweeten the pot.

Donate $5 – I’ll send you an ebook of Redemption Song, my Quincy Harker Short Story

Donate $10 – I’ll send you an ebook of Amazing Grace, my new novel release.

Donate $20 – I’ll send you your choice of collected Harker or Bubba ebook (Year 1, Year 2, Year 3, you get the idea).

Donate $50 – I’ll name a faerie after you in the Bubba book I’m working on right now. Plus choose an ebook reward from a lower tier.

Donate $100 – I’ll name the big monster of this Bubba book after you. Plus choose an ebook reward from a lower tier.

Donate $250 – I’ll send you, anywhere in the world, a signed hardback first edition (you can tell it’s a first edition because there’s a typo on the back cover! There were only two of these ever printed) of Harker Year One. This is a limited offer of ONE. UPDATE – This reward is already gone, because people are AWESOME! But don’t let that stop you from giving. I’ll come up with something excellent for you, I promise!

You can also just donate without asking for anything in return. Tell me about it when I see you, and I’ll give you a big-ass hug.

If you choose to donate, please email your receipt to me – john AT johnhartness.com, so I know you did a cool thing.

Thanks, and feel free to share. We’ll get back to our regularly scheduled pimping and promotion soon, but for now, I wanted to try and help a Junior Adventurer.

Angel in the Dust Chapter 1

New Serial – Angel in the Dust

I’ve had an idea kicking around for a while to write a weird western, so I’m going to give it a shot. Posting chapters here kept me honest on Amazing Grace, so maybe it’ll keep me motivated on this project, too. It’s called Angel in the Dust (for now), and it’s a near-future or alternate reality western set in a world where the United States is very different, and angels walk among us. Much to our chagrin. I’ll try to post a chapter every Monday, like I did with Grace. Hopefully, this will be as good. 

Prologue

The sun beat down like a hammer, cracking the hard dirt and sending jagged lines off in every direction to the horizon, where wavy lines of heat spun up off the red dirt to twist and dance along the edges of the purple sky. The man rode, head down, his bandanna shielding what parts of his neck his hat didn’t shade. He looked neither right nor left, just down and straight ahead, riding as if asleep through the blazing afternoon sun. Every so often, once every mile or two, he reached down to his hip and drew a flask to his lips. A short sip of water, just enough to wash the dust from his lips and cut the muck that filled his throat.

If she hadn’t been lying so close to what passed for a road in this blazing hellhole he never would have seen her. If his horse hadn’t tweaked a shoe when it shied away from a rattlesnake he never would have stopped there. If he hadn’t been unusually clumsy and dropped the hoof pick he never would have heard her. If his batteries weren’t dead, he would have been listening to music on his headphones, the one luxury he permitted himself, and he wouldn’t have noticed her lying there covered in sand.

But she was there, right beside the road where his horse pulled up with the beginnings of a limp, just a mile past where his batteries died, and he did drop the hoof pick on the tarmac, and it bounced onto her back, and when he picked it up, she moved.

It was more of a weak twitch than any conscious movement; she was too far gone for that. But when her body convulsed ever so slightly at his touch, just enough wind-blown sand fell off her to reveal that she was, in fact, a person.

And that’s where all his trouble started.

Help Selling More Books – To Con or Not To Con? Part 2 – Fandom Cons

Help Selling More Books – To Con or Not To Con? Part 1 – Industry Conventions

So y’all might have heard that I was in St. Louis last weekend, hitting up both Penned Con 2017 and Archon 41. My conversations with several people at both cons raised the question – Is it worth it?

It’s a valid question, and one I ask myself often when I go to conventions. Last week I drove over 1500 miles round trip. I was away from home for six days. I spent five nights in a hotel, and ate out every meal for six days. That’s not an insignificant investment in time, effort, and money, and that’s before we go into the inventory involved with me taking over 120 paperbacks and hardbacks across five states!

So when I evaluate a convention’s worth, I look first at what kind of convention it is. There are several major types of convention that I attend, some more frequently than others, and I expect different things from all of them. Today, we’ll take a look at what cons fit into what type, and what I’m looking for at each one.

Let’s start with the ones that are frequently the most expensive, and have the lowest opportunity for immediate return on investment, but may have the greatest long term ROI – industry cons. In the writing business there are several different types of industry con, and they are usually the ones that have the highest cost to attend. When I talk about industry cons, I mean World Fantasy Con, World Horror Con, RWA Nationals, and ThrillerFest. Regional writer festivals like the NC Writers’ Network Fall Gathering also fall into this category.

Industry cons often cost everyone but the volunteers and Guests of Honor to attend. Unlike comic cons or fandom cons, even the vendors at some professional cons still have to buy their badge on top of their table fee. And if you don’t have a table, even if you’ve been a pro in the field for decades, you may still have to spring for a badge. That’s not a knock on the convention, it’s just the way they are structured. The target audience of the con is the pros, so they aren’t using your work on panels to draw in the Muggles, they are putting you on maybe one or two panels to speak to your peers.So at these cons you pay for your badge. And they ain’t cheap. Some of these cons will cost several hundred dollars to attend, and it’s less likely that you’ll have an opportunity to make that cost back by selling books, as the number of fans in attendance is far lower than the number of pros. You may find yourself laying out $300 for a badge, then $150-250 per night for a hotel, plus travel. These cons can easily set you back a grand or more, with little to no opportunity to recoup that money quickly.

So why go? Because it’s a long game, remember? I had a great meeting at Dragon Con with an editor that I’m working on a proposal for. If it goes through, it’ll take most of 2018 before I see a dime off that meeting, and I’ve been building a relationship with that editor since 2014 at Dragon. It’s the long game. He’s not going to leave the business. I’m not going to leave the business. If it takes us four to six years to make any money off being friends, so be it. If we never make any money off being friends, so be it. But the connections you make at industry cons have so many more ancillary benefits over dollars and cents and immediate sales. Maybe a drink in the Westin bar turns into a cover blurb given or received. Maybe a panel on the Urban Fantasy track results in contracts for eight novellas (See: Mason Dixon, Monster Hunter). Maybe you meet somebody that you can give advice to, or somebody that you can learn from. Industry cons are great for that kind of networking, that kind of relationship building. I didn’t sell a single book at World Horror Con, but spending the weekend hanging out with Alethea Kontis, Jake Bible, Chris Golden, Charles Rutledge, James Tuck, and other friends was well worth the expense of the con.

That’s not to say that you should jump in on every industry con that’s within driving distance. I’ve never done the RWA national conference. I write very little romance, and most of what I publish can only be called romance in the very loosest of terms. So I don’t go to those cons. I don’t go to the NC Writers’ Network Gathering except when it’s in Charlotte. It’s mainly a literary fiction, historical fiction, and poetry conference, without a ton of genre fiction writers or readers. So while I really like the organization and support their programming, I can’t justify it as an every-year con. I’ll be there in 2018 when they’re in Charlotte, though. That’s for damn sure. So you do have to balance potential return on investment with your attendance, but you don’t have to look at it as a black and white set of numbers on a balance sheet. I plan to attend World Fantasy Con next year in Baltimore because it’s drivable, and I can sell some books, raise the overall profile of Falstaff Books, and maybe sign up some more writers to our stable. It’ll take years to see if that investment will pay off.

Long. Game.

Next week we’ll talk about fandom cons, and maybe move into pop culture cons or comic cons/vendor hall cons. Later on we’ll look at what I call Starfucker cons, then we’ll talk about what you’re trying to get out of a con, how many you should do in a year, and when is it too much of a good thing?

Until then, I had a new book come out yesterday, so I’d love it if you’d go buy Amazing Grace. If you scroll back through the archives, you can hear me read the prologue. If you’ve already bought it, and enjoyed it, leave a review! They really matter.