FREE promotion & marketing

In this post I take a divergent path, away from my regular ramblings about writing, to speak of something which is usually just as close to any indies heart.

Promotion.

The reason is, no matter how good a writer you may be, how wonderful and eye catching you books cover is… if no one is ever going to see it, or hear about it, no one shall ever buy it, let alone read it.

Every indie I know who has written a book, even a short novelette, agrees the hard work starts once the book has been published.

An almost consecutive issue which is consistently raised, is the seemingly ongoing quest for the ultimate marketing tool. The ‘Eureka’ gift that will sell hundreds, if not thousands, of books each month with very little work or effort on the part of the author themselves.

Wake up, smell the coffee. There is no such thing.

Even should someone find an amazing algorithm, or system for doing just so, within moments the entire world will be climbing on the waggon, the uniqueness would dissolve in those few moments, to become nothing more than the norm.

The quest would then start over.

BUT… (there is always a but.)

There are a whole host of ‘Alternative’ marketing solutions. Or at least, people marketing a whole host, of supposed solutions.

Many asking for a substantial fee, without any guarantee of success.

HOWEVER… (there is always an however too.)

The world, (the cyberworld and the meat-space), is full of groups of writers and authors who work together, share knowledge, experience and aid one another to achieve the best.

I am a proudto be a founder member of one such group, the Authors Professional Co-Operative.

Another I belong to, The Awethors, have collectively produced four books. Not bad, for an association of people who live thousands of miles apart and in different countries.

Working closely and introducing new people to our communities, gives each of us a wider opportunity to help others. Some authors use their experience to professionally assist others in marketing, book cover design, formatting, publishing and so forth. Author Assist, Plaisted publishing house and Metamorph Publishing are just three to mention.

Others run newsletters, email campaigns, blogs, vlogs, webinar’s and radio shows. Each designed to help all who wish to partake.

GoIndieNow is one, The Ronnie Shaw Show another, then there is  all run by or for the indie community, as is CQ International Magazine.

 

Not surprisingly, it is this last one, CQ International Magazine, I want to talk about most, simply because this is my own publication!

CQ was never planned to be.

 

You see, it all started when I wrote a very posh looking newsletter, I called it ‘Rambling Away’, to keep a link to the blogs I ran at the time.

I designed my newsletter to look like a glossy magazine. The type of magazine I was involved with, when I worked in the publishing business in London.

That first, short (and honestly not too well constructed), newsletter eventually grew into CQ International Magazine, which has an established readership in 84 countries around the globe and, at the last count, is read by an excess of 50 thousand people.

Click image to read the current edition of CQ

CQ Magazine continues to promote and support indie writers, yet has expanded to include all forms of independent artists, from painters and illustrators, to musician and theatre, dance and performance arts, sculpture and digital creatives. If fact, anything independent, artistic, artisan or creative is welcome within the covers of CQ Magazine.

As part of our ongoing commitment to promote the indie world, CQ Magazine has recently created the C-club. This is where, for a single annual membership fee of £5(UK), indies from all walks of life, can take advantage by advertising in, or having features and promotions in, CQ International Magazine throughout the entire year, at not cost at all.

That’s right, FREE promotion and marketing to the whole world. Well, a big chunk of it anyway.

What’s more, by joining the C-club, you will be helping us to help others, by contributing to the ‘Inspiration & Encouragement fund’.

Full details about CQ International Magazine and how you can become a C-club member, can be found on CQ International’s blog, RIGHT HERE.

Go take a peek now.

I look forward to welcoming you aboard.

Paul.

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Watching the sun rise

As the sun rose and the darkness faded, the sky took on a burnished amber hue.

Birds started to welcome the dawn with the melody of their chorus.

I breathed in the sharp crispness of the morning air and looked up, a few wispy clouds hung motionless in the stratosphere.

It was such a fresh, bright morning. I predictably recalled the hymn ‘Morning has broken’; in this instance, my mind heard it being sung by Cat Stevens. I half-consciously found myself humming along, out of tune of course.

This was soon followed by the voice of Bob Marley and ‘Three little birds’. I smiled inwardly as I realised both these voices were inside my head.

However, the realisation itself began another thought process… I wondered why on earth we become so full of angst when someone admits to hearing voices in their own minds, or indeed fearful if they inhabit our own?

This morning, as the sun rose higher and the amber tones dissipated to reveal an azure blue sky, I found I was comforted by the voices in my head, the voices I heard singing to me.

Regardless of the scientific, cognitive or physiological explanations, of which I do not give one iota of ‘care’ for, I was quite amused by my own insight of this experience

 

As a writer, I constantly think of ‘Funny things that make me laugh’ (Re- ‘Arthur’ aka Dudley Moore’.) I hope you have seen that film?

Anyway, this was one of those times, when even lateral thinking was unable to keep up with the speed of the random leaping of my thoughts. I have coined a personal term for this, I refer to it as ‘Geometric Surging’.

I love it because this is where all the oddball, wild, whacky and seemingly unconnected notions, concepts, opinions and theories I have somehow find common ground, which allows them to become authentic and viable concepts.

This is one state of mind where many of my inspirational stimuli collected from far and wide, many over long periods of time, meld into solid ideas.

All I need is a moment of ambience, an atmosphere which can induce the right frame of mind.

Today, it was watching the sunrise.

 

Thanks for reading this Rambling

Paul.

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The Curse of the Muse

I first posted this about two years ago, but like many bits & bobs, it became lost in the never ending scroll of past posts. I guess that is a modern phenomenon we all have to come to terms with.

Anyway, on with the post…

 

Tonight, I walked home along the same route as always, habitual, predictive.

As I turned the corner onto Star Street, I noticed at the entrance to the multi-story car park, next to the twenty-four-hour parking sign, an illuminated soda machine. My stride faltered, I paused, standing looking with curiosity.

I passed this way a hundred times, a thousand times without noticing the machines existence. How could that be? How could I not notice such a prominent fixture, a glowing block of red and white? The machine was designed to scream out ‘look at me’.

Silhouetted against the glowing structure was a woman’s figure. She was standing still, totally immobile. The hair on each side of her head was like sharp shards radiating outwards. I wondered for a moment if she had been struck by lightning, or shocked by the machine.

I looked on, the woman remained immobile. It was then I noticed how quiet everything had become. Vaguely, in the background was the ever present rumble of city life, a cacophony of indistinguishable sounds, punctuated by the occasional siren.

But that was it.

Here, within the realms of my vision, all was still. No cars, no people, no movement. This is when my seventh sense kicked in, my writer’s sense. My mind started to ask me questions, sparks leapt from one neural pathway to another, reflection, consideration, conjecture meshed and melded into a fast flowing string.

Was this a frozen moment, a rift in the time-space continuum? What choices did I now have and what were the possible outcomes? Was I standing at an intersection of the multiverse? Was this the place where a thousand possibilities lay, invisible threads, a twisting mesh of crossing fortunes, a complex delta of potential and probability?

Would my next actions, or inactions, lay my out future, would they alter my destiny. Wealth, fortune, life, death. Choices. Or was all predestined? Was I merely following a predetermined path towards an inevitable future?

Did she, the silhouette, hold the key, the answers? Was the light surrounding her flooding from the soda fountain or emitting from her very being? Did she hold the secret?

My heart was pounding. I wanted to approach her, ask her. Yet something held me back. I do not think it was fear; apprehension maybe, or something undefinable, something there are no words to describe.

The woman moved. Walking forward towards the machine. I heard three coins drop. Saw a slender finger extended, pushing her selection. A rattle and thump as the can fell. Still not moving I watched as she stooped and retrieved the can.

A click, a hiss. The woman tilted her head back and drank thirstily. Gulping the contents. Lowering her head she drew a cuff across her mouth and casually tossed the empty can into a waste bin before turning and walking away.

Once she had been swallowed by the darkness. I found the ability to move. I sauntered over and looked into the bin. An excess of brown fluid was still dripping from a Dr Peppers can onto the waste below.

My imagination had not finished with me yet. Questions kept springing into my mind. Had she actually brought a can of Dr Peppers? Or did the fact I looked, that I observed, changed the very nature of this reality? Had my presence altered the state of things, transformed the material quality of being? After all, our actions, our existence is subject to the laws and principles of quantum physics, are they not?

A car wound its way down the ramp, headlights blazing as it exited the car park. A group of people wandered around the corner, talking, joking, and laughing. Their voices seemingly activating an ‘on’ switch. Suddenly the city sounds became loud and clear. No longer the muffled white background noise they were a moment ago.

That was it.

The quantum gate had closed. The rift sealed. My chance to alter my destiny whipped away by an ethereal wind, stolen by inexorable march of time. Yet my writers mind still wrestles with the possibilities.

Maybe my thoughts, at least some of them, will find their way into a story, or become the premise of a future novel. Or maybe they shall just haunt me forever more?

Such is the curse of the muse.

.

  © Paul White 2015

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