We live in an increasingly competitive society. The pie is shrinking and there are too many consumers. But that doesn't stop us. What's more, it's not enough to be in the running to make it to the Olympics, the Miss Universe Pageant, or for us authors, the Pulitzer Prize, the Edgar Awards, the Booker Prize, the Giller Prize, the Arthur Ellis Awards or whatever award your heart desires. It's not enough to win the Bronze or even the Silver. And God forbid we should win Miss Congeniality. No it's Miss Universe or nothing. The Gold medal or nothing. The Pulitzer or nothing.
Lately I've been reading Arthur T. Vanderbilt's THE MAKING OF A BESTSELLER, about what authors have lowered themselves to doing to attract attention. To generate publicity for his book THIS SIDE OF PARADISE, bestselling author F. Scott Fitzgerald stood on his hands in the lobby of the Biltmore hotel. The phrase "Sheila Levine is Dead and Living in New York" was scrawled on sidewalks all over New York city when Gail Parent's novel of the same name was released. Did it become a bestseller? You bet it did. Stephen King says, "Talk shows, TV and radio don't really want writers to discuss anything. They want you to entertain. You've got to get out there and tap dance your balls off."
Isn't it time we did some things just for fun? To appreciate a story just because we like it? One of the most meaningful events in my writing career was when my mother told me that my nephew borrowed the manuscript I had given her years ago before my novel THE RAVEN'S POOL was published. She said, he must have really liked it because he hasn't given it back.
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