Five of the Dumbest Things I've Done as an Author

I’ve done some dumb things in my writing career. Even dumber than choosing writing as a career. I'm not proud of my mistakes, but they say admitting to them is a sign of integrity and humility. Or in my case, a sign that I’ve been drinking.

So, before I go pour my third bourbon of the morning and continue working on my next novel, here are five of the dumbest things I’ve done as an author: 

5) I wrote my first novel for myself rather than for the reader. A teacher once told me writing is about self-expression and creativity, not about having lots of people read what you’ve written. And I was stupid enough to believe him.

This helps to explain why I opted to write my first novel (Notes on an Orange Burial) about an unpublished poet. It’s also why 99.99 percent of you have never heard of it. (Still, it was a big hit with some people—namely my parents, and three librarians in England.) It’s quirky and literary and has some funny scenes derived from experiences I had in my twenties, so I wouldn’t necessarily say it’s a bad book.

But you would.

4) I didn’t focus on the marketing-side of publishing until my third novel. This may seem the same as #5 above, but it’s not. It’s worse. After all, when you write a bad book and fail to market it properly, you’re doing yourself and the world a favor. But when you write a good book and fail to market it properly, you miss big opportunities to attract readers and meet Oprah.

Today, many consider my second novel—The Exit Man—my best (or at least my most enjoyable) book to date. However, it didn’t make much of a splash when it first came out because I hadn’t taken the time to learn the ins and outs of publicity, promotion and platform-building. It wasn’t until a TV producer tripped over a copy (while looking at bigger and better-promoted books) months later that The Exit Man started to pick up a little steam, and even then I failed to do a lot of what I should have done from a marketing standpoint.

Which leads directly to my next big mistake. …

3) I assumed getting optioned by HBO meant I’d hit the big-time. See that guy over there, the one strutting around like he owns the place? That’s me at the 2015 Writers’ League of Texas conference in Austin. The Exit Man had recently been optioned by HBO for development into a TV series, but I went to the conference anyway despite having nothing left to prove or to learn as an author. [Feel free to pause here and gag. I just did.] I skipped most of the sessions at the conference but spent plenty of time at the cocktail reception, where I mentioned my option deal to all the other attendees and held my hand out for them to kiss. (I'm exaggerating of course—both of my hands had drinks in them and thus weren't available to be kissed.) 

And see that guy over there, the one lounging poolside at the trendy Mondrian hotel on Sunset Boulevard reading a copy of his own novel? That’s me the day after flying out to LA to take the producer (who got me the HBO option) out for dinner to show my appreciation—but really just to show off.  

Oh, and see this guy over here, the one muttering curse words while cancelling his HBO Now subscription out of spite? That’s me in 2016 after hearing HBO decided not to renew its option of The Exit Man.

2) I waited too long to start forming alliances with other authors. No man is an island, but I used to think good authors were. I had it that, to be successful, I needed to spend as much time as possible holed up in a small, quiet room and just let my imagination and words run wild. I stayed away from writing workshops and critique groups. (“I had enough of that in college,” I’d tell myself.) I wasn’t active in writing organizations or communities. And, worst of all, I viewed other authors in my genre as the competition rather than as brothers and sisters with whom I shared a rare and wondrous disease. 

It wasn’t until relatively recently that I realized isolation, while good for writing, is awful for a writing career. For the latter, you need to connect with and share ideas with like-minded—and even unlike-minded—authors. Doing so not only keeps you almost sane in a maddening field, but also provides you with invaluable feedback and advice to better your craft. And, if you join forces with “the competition,” it can open the door to a whole new world of readers who might have otherwise never heard of you or your disease. (NOTE: I recently teamed up with author RD Ronald to create a unique new website for readers and fellow writers of transgressive fiction. If you like novels and short stories about good people doing bad things—or bad people doing good things—you’re going to LOVE the site. I’ll be announcing its official launch via my blog soon. Stay tuned!)         

And now, for the absolute dumbest thing I've done as an author ...

1) I put my characters ahead of my family and friends. I’ve touched on this in previous posts, mostly in a joking manner to downplay my fiction addiction and lessen my shame. But the truth is, I have put my characters ahead of my family and friends in the past.

Actually, the real truth is … I still do.  

That “disease” I hinted at in #2 above, it’s not always fun. For anyone. And particularly not for my wife Miranda and my daughter Leah, whom I’ve shooed away from my writing space countless times in order to give all my care and attention to imaginary people instead. In fact, I’ve gotten so good at shooing, I rarely even have to anymore. Miranda and Leah have learned to keep their distance whenever my office door’s closed. Come to think of it, they’ve started doing so even when the door’s open and the writing day’s done. Go figure.

I’ve apologized multiple times to them, as well as to my parents and brother and the small handful of friends I somehow still have. I’ve promised each that I’d make more time for them and be more attentive and present whenever we’re together. They can tell by the look in my eyes and the sound of my voice that these apologies and promises are sincere. And they all want to believe me, but deep down they suspect something.

That maybe it’s all just fiction.