You'd think I would know the difference between marketing and publicity after all these years writing books. This is probably why I've never excelled at marketing, something I'm going to correct with The Long Run. My publisher's marketing team has already put together some great images to promote the book. I'll be putting them up on my socials and in this space very soon so you can have a look.
But what else must be done? Specifically, what can I do to become a better marketeer?
I left the meet at 11 p.m. Long, solitary walk to the farthest realm of the parking lot. Footsore from 17,000 steps. Hungry. Thirsty. Satisfied.
Woodbridge is the biggest high school cross country meet in the country — some 16,000 runners strong. Fifty-two races spread over two nights. The best runners in America. Flood lights, drum lines loud as beating hearts, pure unmitigated speed. Food trucks, hundred thousand spectators, subdivision of team canopies lining the course. Woodbridge is Disneyland, the happiest place on earth for runners who've trained in solitude through a long hot summer….
Just booked my Lambeau Field Legendary Stadium Tour. I'm adding Hall of Fame entry for afterward. It's all part of an upcoming college reunion next month. It was my years in Michigan's Upper Peninsula that made me a Packer fan. It was easy to abandon the Rams and make the switch after my childhood team moved to St. Louis. I've never been to Lambeau but I once finished third in a college cross country meet in Green Bay. Fine memories. It will be nice to not only tour the stadium but attend the Packers-Bengals game a few days later.
The chemo ward is open on Labor Day, which is probably a good thing for my cross country teams. I might have said some things I regretted, were I with them at this morning's practice. Instead, I'm here with Callie while they go through an early morning workout on our league course. It's going to be hot today so it's important to get it done early. That, and the fact that Central Park in Huntington Beach will soon be overrun by all manner of picnickers, including a volleyball league fond of setting up their nets right in the middle of our course.
The late playwright Sam Shepherd once wrote that the go/no go point in some new project came after writing fifteen pages. I remember reading that back in the 1980s and thinking that fifteen pages was a hell of a lot of writing before making up your mind. His quote is one of those things that finds traction in your brain pan, though for no particular reason. I mention all this because I'm fifteen pages into the new historical fiction piece and I'm having a blast. Turns out I can write fiction. Let's do fifteen more.
"I read your blog," Calene told me the other day. This is news. Callie doesn't read my books and doesn't always venture into this space. It goes with the territory. Jerry Seinfeld says his wife doesn't think he's funny. Author's wives don't need to read our stuff because we (at least me) download about it verbally all the time.
"What'd you think?"
"It sounded scattered. Like the way you've been acting lately."
I've got a Twitter account. I still can't call it X with a straight face. Ideally, if I'm trying to sell a book or build a following, it seems there should be a singular theme to what I post. Look at Three Year Letterman's satire or Amy Lofgren's ongoing crusade. But my feed is a random emotional purge, sometimes happy and sometimes funny and very often angry when I mean to be funny.
Cleaned the condo last night. Woke up at 5, cold shower (that icy water comes straight off the mountain), took out the trash, Stellar Brew for coffee and a blueberry muffin, then down 395 as the sun limned the White Mountains. I took a picture.
I had the road to myself. Resisted the urge to go full gas, holding 65 miles an hour all the way down the mountain to Bishop. Kept the window rolled down to smell the crisp air. Some guy came out of nowhere to pass me. I just let him go.
