I was at the "Un-Named Bookstore" yesterday buying shelf space for my novel. This forward-thinking store allows indie writers to get their books seen in a brick and mortar establishment without being vetted by agent, publisher or editor. From there it goes downhill. The charming employee who took the 5 copies of my paperback with something less than disdain, something greater than apathy, said this: "Tell me your three-minute elevator speech; no, I don't have time for that, do it in less than a minute." I complied, trying to control a pesky facial twitch.
Then she inquired, "How are you marketing your book?" I replied with the usual, "I do nothing but market - website, blog, twitter, FB, email, phone; I hardly have time to work on the next novel."
She tapped her paperwork on the table surface to square all the corners and, in a tone of conspiratorial comradeship said, "Yes, even real writers have to do that now."
I loaded up my verbal 12-guage, my imitation of Captain Queeg now complete save for the metal balls (is that significant?), but in the end smiled as if she hadn't just slapped me hard across the kisser. After all, I didn't want her throwing my books into the incinerator after I left.
What's a poor indie author to do? Like another maligned Caesar and his followers, played to a fault by Andy Serkis, our day is coming. Ooh-ooh.