Book signings have a romantic appeal for authors. It’s the closest we’ll ever get to a packed arena chanting our names. You breeze into the venue, get ushered to a table where a stack of your books waits, and scribble your name away for your adoring fans.

Yeah, I’ve never had one of those.

I’m a self-published writer, so I usually have what I call “the working man’s book signing.” That’s where you truck in a box of your own books, get shoved into a corner somewhere, and desperately spend the next three hours trying to make eye contact with your fellow human beings. If you’re lucky, you get to handle the sales yourself. If not, you have to settle up with the house at the end of the event, which is a whole level of awkwardness unto itself.

Oh well. It’s a living, right?

Except, no, it’s really not. You’re usually lucky to make enough to pay for your gas getting there. But as an unknown author, it’s a necessary evil, one of the few ways to get out in front of readers and sell some books.

In the past decade, I’ve had a ton of signings. I’ve had the “cattle-call,” where you’re in a room with far more authors than readers. I’ve had the “out-of-place,” where you’re set up in a store that doesn’t even sell books, so the customers don’t read and they’re all very annoyed by your pitch. But luckily, since I started winning some awards over the last few years, I’ve had far more good signings than bad, where people actually come to check out the books and are quick to buy.

Then, I found out the true definition of a bad signing.

A few months ago, one of my contacts came to me with an opportunity. I could have a solo reading/signing at a couple of locations in a not-to-be-named chain of discount book stores. Of course, I jumped at the chance. Readings are absolutely the best; I know if I can actually expose a potential reader to my work, they’ll buy. The only thing that made me hesitate is that the stores wanted a 40% cut of all sales.

To be fair, 40% is a pretty standard retail discount in the publishing world. Most retail outlets insist on it before they’ll even consider carrying your book. But, since retail outlets never carry my books anyway, I opt for a much lower cover price to entice more buyers. At a 60% cut, technically, I’m losing money on every sale.

But I figured, what the hell. Maybe I can do a markup for the event and just see how it goes. So I set up two events on back-to-back Saturdays at two different locations, and contacted the only manager whose name I was given. She gave me more details, including paperwork they needed filled out.

Oy vey, the paperwork this place required! Again, in ten years of doing this, I’ve never seen anything like it. My tax return was shorter than what they needed, which included an entire sheet filled out—by hand—for every title, and for each event.  I was bringing seven titles. Not only that, but I noticed they also retained the option to pay the writer by check 6-8 weeks after the event. This was another first for me.

But, after being treated for carpal tunnel, I went to the first signing.

It went pretty well, mostly thanks to a couple of my good friends from the DFW Writers’ Workshop. There was no reading offered, but the store didn’t really have the traffic for that anyway. I did sell out of one title almost before I could get set up, and a few more sales trickled in after that sage poet Del Cain went around the store and talked me up to people. At the end of the day, the store totaled up my cut, which matched exactly what I had figured, and even paid me right out of the register.

Before I left, I got a contact name at the store I was supposed to be at the following week, and emailed when I got home to check up on the event.

They had no idea I was coming. Which meant no promotion of any sort had been done. Maybe that should have been a red flag, but I shrugged it off.

I was still flying high the following week, when I set out for the second signing. It was a much longer drive and it was also raining, which is never fun when you’re trying to transport a cardboard box full of books from a block away. But I got inside, introduced myself, and got set up.

A few minutes later, the manager came over with my tome of paperwork to tell me that I had filled it out wrong. The store was supposed to get 60% of sales, the author 40%.

I stared at him, flabbergasted. I told him that last week, the other store in their chain had given me 60%. He said that wasn’t right. I told him that 40% was pretty standard for the store, especially for an author who was actually bringing in the product and assuming all the risk. He insisted it had always been 60% for the store. I pulled up the email on my phone and showed him that. He said he would ‘honor the original arrangement,’ but would call to find out for sure. I told him if need be, I could just pack up and go.

He called his corporate office. I heard him go in the back and talk, then, after they assumingly let him know that I was right, he came out and told me stiffly that everything was good.

The victory was hollow. I didn’t want to sit here for the next three hours in awkward silence with this man.

As luck would have it, his shift was over, and he left me in the care of a much nicer employee. But we still sat in awkward silence, because the store was located in an outdoor shopping mall, and nobody goes to an outdoor shopping mall in the rain. That day, I just got one sale, and that was only because the employee talked me up to one of the few customers that came in.

Afterward, I went up to thank him. It’s nice when a store tells customers you’re there, and it always results in more sales. He said no problem, that they had another author in the previous week that didn’t sell anything, and he felt sorry for her sitting there all alone. I started to laugh, to tell him I knew what he meant, but a stray thought stopped me.

Wait, did…did he feel sorry for me? Was that a pity sale? No, that couldn’t be right, I wasn’t someone to be pitied, I was following my dreams, I was the up-and-coming underdog, I—

I looked around the empty store, and was struck by one of those moments. The ones where you wonder what you’ve done with your life. Let’s face it, I’m no Stephen King. No adoring fans will ever scream my name as I walk into a book store. I’m a writer who’s been rejected by enough agents and publishers to fill an arena, a self-published author who’s been pounding the pavement for ten years to sell just a few more books. I made my peace with those things a long time ago, but that day, they came crashing back.

Because that’s what a bad book signing can do to you, if you let it. Make you feel unappreciated. Make you feel like the years you spent writing that book were a waste.

I slunk back to my table and waited out the rest of the signing.

At the end of the day, the employee tallied up my percentage, which he figured at $1.64. On a $15 sale, that’s not 60%, that’s not even 40%, but I was too tired to argue. I waited for him to reach into the register and pay me my pittance, but he just smiled and told me good day.

Which is when I realized that this store was going to make me wait 6-8 weeks for a $1.64 check.

On the drive home, I thought—not for the first time—that maybe I needed to find something else to do with my free time.

I won’t, of course.  I’ve been writing long before that experience, and I’ll be writing long after. Because writing isn’t about the money, and it’s certainly not about the book signings. Stephen King said that you should never write a word for anyone but yourself. I believe that. I write the kind of stories that I want to read, create characters that I identify with. Most of you probably do, too.

After all, if you’re only trying to entertain yourself, then you already have all the adoring fans you could ever want.

I'm pretty sure every person who has ever seen more than one children's picture book has thought, “I could write something better than this garbage,” because a lot of picture books are awful.

And it might be true. But it's probably not as easy as you think.

Since I've sold some picture books, lots of people think I'm an expert. I'm really not, but I know a little bit. And today, I'll share almost all of it with you.

First, picture books are fairly easy to write. My first sold manuscript was less than 400 words. The next one was about 600. None of the agents or editors I've ever spoken to wanted anything over 1,000 words.

In terms of raw word count, this blog is going to take more effort than most picture books.

The plotting is really simple. You only have a few hundred words. There's not much to keep track of. There aren't many characters to flesh out. There aren't many plot threads to track.

The writing is also really simple. You're literally writing for people who read on a first-grade level. If you can handle that, you can probably write a picture book as bad as all the garbage that inspired you to write.

Second, picture books are kind of hard. All the stuff I just told you constrains your writing. You can't just throw more words at a story problem.

If you want to write a good picture book, every sentence has to earn its keep. Every paragraph has to do multiple jobs. You need to flesh out several characters enough to make them compelling. You need a plot deep enough to be interesting — more than just a string of funny scenes.

You need to make it accessible to a child. You'll get bonus points if you also make it interesting to adults.

Third (and this is something I'm still working on), you're not alone. You have an illustrator. Unless you're one of those disgustingly talented people who writes AND illustrates really well. But even you over-gifted people need to pay attention.

A lot of those picture books you thought were lame had the same problem — the illustrations just illustrated what the narration described. They were boring.

A good picture book has layers. The writing tells part of the story, and the pictures tell part. In the best books, they add up to more than the sum of their parts.

On the writer's side of the equation, that means learning what you need to say to move the story forward and what can leave to the illustrator. It's not just scene descriptions. A good illustrator will flesh out your story and paint in the fine details of character and plot that you don’t have time for in your paltry 1000 words.

But you have to make your writing evoke the rest of the story in the illustrator's mind.

I liken it a little bit to poetry, where the language also conjures up images and associations without explicitly naming them.

Fourth, I only barely understood any of this when I started, but I'd had the fortune of taking a class on Children's Literature since it filled an empty slot in my college schedule. My professor taught me the basics of what will appeal to kids. If you've got this down, you have a head start on everybody else.

• Children like to read about characters their own age or a little older.
• Young children like repetition because it gives them a sense of security and control. That's why if you have kids, they want to hear the same story over and over again.
• The best writers don't talk down to kids or avoid difficult topics. They do the extra work to figure out how to talk about sad or scary stuff compassionately and accessibly.
• Children (being normal humans) don't like it when you preach to them. Really good children's writing can carry moral lessons, but it isn't didactic.

So there you have it. Of course, there's still a lot more to learn, but that's about what I knew when I got started. The main thing is to love what you're doing. Write picture books because you want to tell stories to children.

We authors are some of the most arrogant people in the world. We tell you what we’re thinking without being asked by scrawling our thoughts onto paper and publishing them. Then we sit back and wait on your approval. And if that approval doesn’t shine like the Egyptian Sun God’s golden disk during a summer solstice, we hide in a closet all weekend drawing pictures on the walls with our box of broken crayons

Then we do it all again.

Approvals of our work usually manifest as Book Reviews. Authors not only covet Book Reviews, we live for them. We all want Five-Star reviews but will grudgingly settle for Three-Stars. Anything lower than that, see my comment on crayons, above. Bad Reviews are important, too, though, just as long as they contain useful information. Simply writing, “My dog won’t even pee on this book,” is not helpful. You need to explain why your dog won’t pee on it, thankyouverymuch.

The only thing worse than bad reviews, though, is not getting reviews at all. It took me years to figure out why family members and friends wouldn’t review my books. “Tom, your book was awesome!” they’d say over dinner. “When’s the next one coming out?”

“Well,” I’d drawl, “as soon as you review the last one.”

Crickets.

For months.

Why? There are two main reasons people don’t write reviews:

1. Readers are shy. The vast majority of people in the world keep their opinions to themselves. Remember, we’re the arrogant ones.
2. Readers don’t know how to write reviews. Remember, we’re the writers.

It is my firm belief that if we can resolve Item 2, Item 1 will take of itself. In fact, I am going to fill your toolbox with a reviewing tool that is so simple, you are going to want to review everything you read from now on.

To start with, immediately jot down your ideas after reading a book. Strong emotions always accompany that last page and range anywhere from “Thank God this is over” to “My firstborn shall henceforth be known throughout the four lands as Tom Bont!” But a review should contain more than how you feel about it; it should also contain a logical description of your thoughts.

Once my opinions have percolated for a day or two, I use my jotted-down notes to compose the review. If there was a particular item I liked or disliked, I’ll talk about it. I might even include a short plot summary. Some authors don’t mind plot summaries. Some hate them. However, beggars can’t be choosers. If I do include a plot summary, I’m kind; I put Spoiler Warning at the top.

Next, I summarize the entire book into three categories:

1. Writing: Spelling, ease of reading, plot creation; did you get lost when you read the book, and if so, how many times? Did the author take the time to hold your hand and lead you along your journey? Did the language make you wish that you talked that way or did it remind you of a bully from high school? Is the writing style formal, informal, or conversational?
2. Background Information: This is more objective than subjective. Does the setting seem real? Do the secondary and tertiary characters react in a realistic manner. Is California still located on the left coast? The world must make sense! An example for me is a Peter F. Hamilton book. I tend to look up after an hour or so of reading and wonder where I am. I get lost in his world building.
3. Character Development: Are the main characters real to you? Did you fall in love with one? Hate another? Note that some characters you are meant to hate.

I give each of these categories a Poor, Average, or Good rating. You may choose something more cinematic such as Sucky, Adequate, and Bloody Awesome if you wish.

Most authors would be tickled to get a review that covered these areas. If you want to put more into it, visit the following website: http://www.writing-world.com/freelance/asenjo.shtml

Here’s an example of an Amazon Review I did.

“Age of Heroes” by James Lovegrove

I’m not even sure where to begin with describing this book. The Greek demigods are alive and well and running around Earth? And now someone is killing them off? Hell, that’s a 5-star rating just on the idea.

And the book itself lived up to the hype.

Read this book.

Ratings: (poor, average, or good):

Writing was good.

Background information was good.

Character Development was good.

Five out of five stars.

Note the last sentence. Yes, you have to come up with a star rating.

At this point, the review is complete. But if you’re an over-achiever, you might write:

Craftsmanship was good. The book was of standard design, 6”x9”. I carried it around Scotland while on vacation, and I subjected it to rough carry-on bag usage. It held up great.

Eye Candy was good: The cover was exiting—a Greek god fighting a man with two machine guns. That’s what drew me to the book to start with.

Organization was average: There weren’t any indexes or dictionaries in the book. It would have been nice to have a listing of the pantheon of the gods in question.

Genre matching was average: I’m not sure what genre this book truly fits in. It spans from fantasy, to mystery, to science fiction. I would put this under Science-Fantasy. Amazon lists it as Military/Science Fiction.

Point of View was good: The points of view shifted from character to character, but the main protagonist, Theseus, is the main point of view. It was easy to follow what was happening.

Writing Style was good: The author’s writing style shifted from stilted conversation to informal description. In spite of that, I was able to follow along without any problems.

Wrap Up was good: This author closed all the threads. The book does beg for a sequel.

Thanks for reading this! I hope this article gives you the incentive to write those reviews. And remember, there is no perfect way to write a review. Use all of my suggestions, or just keep some of them. Either way, Write On!

Writing is my life. I don’t mean I sit at my computer all day and come up with blogs or bang out best-selling novels (don’t I wish). No. I mean, I live, breath, and think writing... and it’s all my husband’s fault.

I’m married to a professional writer. My husband, Alex, has eleven traditionally-published novels to his name, plus a handful of self-published books. You may have heard of him, the illustrious A. Lee Martinez.

Oh, you haven’t? Well, unfortunately, that’s what being a writer is all about. Writing is often a labor of love in obscurity. Ideally, for money.

As such, writers get really comfortable with talking about the craft of writing. I don’t mean to sound obnoxious using the word “craft.” But seven years being married to a writer has taught me that storytelling is so much more than putting words on a page.

Alex and I talk about writing. All. The. Time. We talk about storytelling the same way other families talk about politics. I must confess, before I decided to try my hand at writing a novel, it irritated me a little bit to have Alex pick apart movies I enjoyed. Nothing was sacred. He critiqued the Lion King.

Fast forward through nine years of the DFW Writers Workshop's weekly read-and-critiques. I’m telling Alex about a bizarre episode of a show I’m watching. This show is usually pretty good but this particular episode is so bad it's breaking my brain. As I’m describing the issues I have with the clearly first-draft nature of the story, Alex just pats me on the back and says, “Babe, it’s because you are a writer.”

I’ve had other moments where my new-found ability to analyze storytelling has led to some uncomfortable truths. I loved a certain superhero movie... while I was watching it. But on the drive home, my brain decided to dissect it, even without Alex in the car. "I gotta say, if you peel away the bright colors, rock anthems, and fan-favorite characters, it’s just an okay movie. Fun? Yes. Thoughtful? Not really."

Does every movie have to be thoughtful? I think so if they want to be remembered twenty years from now. But stories that stand the test of time don’t finance the next big blockbuster. Good enough is good enough, but that’s not good enough. (English is weird.)

We deserve good stories! And I’ve found them in the most innocuous of places. Take the movie "Happy Death Day." On the surface, it looked like a by-the-numbers Groundhog Day rip-off with a serial-killer twist. Except it wasn’t. Sure, the main character got murdered over and over again, often in creative and grizzly ways. But her arc as a human being was fascinating. She really used the opportunity to hold a mirror up to herself and to make some changes in her life. Plus, I didn’t see the ending coming. The movie is brilliant. It had its cake and ate it too! Serial killers AND self-actualization!

I guess what I’m trying to say is that living with a writer is dangerous. Good stories are no longer good. Bad stories are suddenly great. As it turns out, writing is contagious.

Unlike most people who join a writer’s group to perfect their craft, connect with beta-readers, or simply commiserate about their latest rejection over pancakes and coffee, I was essentially voluntold (and yes that’s a made-up word) by my therapist to join the DFW Writer’s Workshop. As part of my exposure therapy for social anxiety, I had to join a group. Not only did I have to become a nametag wearing member of the DFWWW, I had to show up and participate in their activities. And if you’ve ever been to our weekly meeting, you know that there are two main activities — reading and critiquing. 

The first time I read my work in front of my peers, my voice shook, my face turned fifty shades of red and sweat dribbled down the inside of my shirt as if I were soaking in a sauna. Even worse, I felt as if my rapidly beating heart was about to shoot up and out of my throat as I struggled towards my last sentence. I wanted nothing more than to slide under the plastic table and die. And that was while I was still reading. I hadn’t even gotten to the worst part, the critique, or the soul crushing evisceration of what I’d just read in front of real live human beings. That first read, I can’t even remember what people had to say about my pages. At the time, it didn’t matter. I was silently congratulating myself for surviving. I’d read my words aloud in front of people I didn’t know and I didn’t collapse and die, even though I felt like it was a very real possibility.

Each week it became easier. After each reading, I proved to myself that the fear I felt in my body wasn’t a real fight-or-flight situation. I could relax. More importantly, I could also listen and learn which has been the greatest gift of the workshop. I have learned more from hearing other people read their work and the resulting critiques on a weekly basis than I did in my MFA program. I’ve learned what works and what doesn’t work and more importantly — why. Even when I think I’ve nailed a passage and I look forward to sharing it, the simple act of reading it out loud at the group magnifies the stilted dialogue, the awkward sentence, or the lengthy exposition. It’s a wonderful, insightful exercise that I would recommend to anyone who wants to become a better writer.