The Siren Call of Hysterical Self-Promotion

I sold my first novel back in 1998 (though this historical romance came out in May of '99), and at the time, I was eager -- make that obsessed -- with doing everything within my power to make certain it succeeded. Part of this was due to the fact that I had some time on my hands. Though I was working what would become my second book, the long lead times and the infusion of energy from *finally* getting The Call, along with my introduction to a fresh-faced and equally manic number of other young writers, combined to convince me that self-promotion was the key.

I pulled out all the stops and threw myself into a phase I've come to call "Hysterical Self-Promotion." I built my own website, spoke every place that would have me, lined up signings out the wazoo, penned articles, dredged up enough cash to place an ad in Romantic Times, and forced myself (not easy, since I'd mostly been in the closet about writing) to tell as many people as I could about my impending *authordom*.

I hope this fervor was regarded with the fond smiles of forbearance one would reserve for a large and overly-enthusiastic puppy. That's the way I look at it when I see other new authors succumbing to the same siren song. And to be fair, all this gushing excitement is WAY more attractive than those cynical and jaded hacks who rain all over everyone's parade with their torrents of bitter disappointment. (Note to self: Quit the business before crushing hopes and dreams of starry-eyed newcomers.)

A dozen sales later, I still do some self-promotion. In the competitive world of writing single-title, mass market paperback romantic suspense, I feel the pressure to do something to help get my name out to both readers and others working in the industry. Such activities have their place, but that place, IMHO, needs to be the back seat to the continued production of damned good stories.

Over time, I've developed a few rules to help guide my efforts:

Never again will I blow my entire advance (and then some, in one particularly dim-witted case) on more self-promo than I can afford. These days I set a strict budget, which amounts to no more than 10% of my advance. Less, when I feel I can get away with it.

Never again will I do stuff I sincerely hate doing. (Namely, in my case, aggressively "pushing" my books on the profoundly-disinterested. I'd never make a decent living in used car sales either.) If you're so shy, you stink at booksignings, don't do them. The results will be painful for everyone involved. If you despise public speaking, you probably won't be good at it. (As a former teacher, I love teaching, so I don't mind at all speaking to groups of writers. But even so, I have to honestly ask myself what's in it for me each time I'm invited.)

Never again will I dis-count my own time as part of the cost factor. This is the one that still gives me the most trouble. I frequently forget that my time on this planet is not an endlessly-refilling well. Time spent on self-promotion activities takes time from my writing (which had better be a priority), my family (which really is a priority), my other obligations (my next life needs to come with a staff), and my chance for rest and relaxation. If I cut short any one of these at the expense of self-promotion, my quality of life -- as well as my work -- suffers.

So how much self-promotion is too much? Are you finding yourself feeling pressured to spend hours "friending" folks on MySpace or spend your hard-earned earnings on schemes of questionable value? Where do you draw the line on the pressure to package not only your work but yourself for the consumer? And do you ever long -- as Dean Koontz's wonderful character Odd Thomas puts it -- for a simple life selling tires to folks who need them?