Creative Ways to Promote Your Book – Part One

Chris Hall2 Comments

Marketing is the most difficult step, but Nicole has some novel (no pun intended) ideas. Have a read!

Nicole Melanson's avatarWordMothers - for women writers & women’s writing

Nicole Melanson ~

Promotion logo

Once upon a time, I was a college student in New York City. Like every other English major on the planet, I thought it would be great to intern as an editor. Unfortunately, I missed out on a publishing gig and landed on the Promotions & Merchandising team at Interview magazine instead. My plan was to move across to Editorial as soon as there was an opening but that never happened because I LOVED working in Promotions. Here are some tips I’ve picked up about promoting people and products over the years:

Add value

People access media for two key reasons: to be entertained or to be informed. Most book marketing takes the informative angle. This book is about… This book is on sale… The problem with this approach is that you’re offering information you want to provide, not that readers want to acquire.

Think about how…

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Little Malice 2

Chris Hall9 Comments
Little Malice 2 lunasonline credit Art Wolfe-Science Source
Source: Art Wolfe/Science Source

She’d taken a dislike to me, made that doll-thing with the pins stuck in it. I stole it from her house while she was out, but she saw me on the way back. She knew.

I tried to make one of her, as a precaution; sure she’d make another one of me. But I couldn’t get the likeness. She didn’t though. Those pains never returned; the ones from the pins. Just that sick feeling whenever something reminded me of it.

Folk in the village cottoned on; others had suffered too. I never said much; smiled, nodded and moved on.

The following spring, I was visited by a crow. He sat on my washing line and looked at me, his head on one side. He came every day. I fed him titbits; told him my troubles.

Other people had crows visit too; the ones who’d fallen out with her.

One spring day more arrived. First a couple; one alighted on the church spire, the other on the maypole – mine, I thought. More came, settling on her roof, on window ledges and door frames, covering the house in a black shroud.

Folk gathered on the village green. Windows cracked, wood splintered. No-one went to her aid. We drifted back to our houses.

Night fell.

In the morning, they’d gone. The little house had been stripped bare. The small, stooped skeleton pecked clean inside.

Some called it a murder of crows. I called it revenge.

©2018 Chris Hall

 

 

 

Colin Watts; The Weight of Dunlins

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A delightful story from Colin Watts, who was the first person to really encourage me to write through his Creative Writing class. He told me to take writing seriously, like a job…and now I am. Thanks, Colin!

rosesthingamajig's avatarTales From The Forest

The Weight of Dunlins                                                      

I was on North Uist, walking the machair, that thin strip of fertile land between beach and peat bog that graces a few of our remote north-western shores. I didn’t really know why I was there. Just to get away, I suppose, though I wasn’t sure what I was getting away from.

On the ferry over, a local man had told me how the sea ground down shells over centuries to form the beach. How westerly winds spread sand over the peat. How calcium in the sand reacted with acid in the bog to form the machair: Gaelic for “the fertile land behind the dunes”. ‘Treat it gently,’ he’d said, ‘it’s a precious gift.’

It was one of those days…

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Is Twitter a Good Tool for Authors?

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I feel I ought to have a Twitter account and so I have! Some useful advice here on how to use effectively as a writer.

Little Malice

Chris Hall5 Comments

Little Malice lunasonline

I’d been watching her secretly for quite a while. I knew that she routinely went out at this time and would be gone for a while; that she kept a spare key under the flower pot by her back door.

I crept into the house and listened. But where to look? Where would she keep such a thing?

It was a small house: kitchen, sitting room, an alcove for a bedroom. There it was. I picked it up and examined it: a kind of doll crudely made from sail cloth. Wool defined the features; brown for the eyes, black for the hair. Just like mine.

Two thick pins stuck out of the knees. Gently I pulled one out. My right knee relaxed. Then the left; my pain had gone.

There was a pin cushion on the shelf as well. I knew exactly where those pins had been. I saw the pin holes in the soles of its feet; a nick in the fabric of its dress over the stomach. And there was a burn mark on its left arm. Like the one on mine.

I put it in my pinafore pocket; left the house, locking the back door and replacing the key.

Then I saw her; coming towards me across the village green. Walking it that quick, determined way she had. ‘I know you took it,’ she said, as she drew level with me. Her eyes flashed. ‘I can easily make another.”

So can I, I thought, so can I.

©2018 Chris Hall

The Thin Places – Dark Tales short story competition success

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Make sure you click through to read Louise’s story! Of course Bold Street and St Luke’s (the bombed out church) feature in ‘You’ll Never Walk Alone”.

Louise Taylor's avatarNo Frigate like a book

For a while now I’ve been fascinated by the idea of time slips: those places where, some say, it is possible to step from one time or plane of existence, to another. It’s not so much that I believe it really happens (although, to be fair, I won’t completely discount anything science hasn’t yet disproved) but more the possibility, the what ifs of the idea.

There’s a street in Liverpool city centre, Bold Street, which has long been associated with time slips. Most of them concern contemporary individuals who reportedly found themselves whisked back to the 1960s. I’ve spent a lot of time on Bold Street over the years but, sadly, have no tale of my own to tell. Nevertheless, I’ve searched out all the accounts I can find to read and reread. I also found one about a policeman, in New Brighton, on the other side of the Mersey…

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Editing Tip: Common Consistency Errors You Might Be Making

Chris Hall1 Comment

Some useful tips here! I found the differences between UK and US English an interesting challenge when doing a spot of proof-reading for a friend who writes in US English when I am very much a UK English speaker (‘Paul’s English’…you know who you are!)

theryanlanz's avatarRyan Lanz

by Emily Nemchick

When you check your own manuscript for errors, you are probably looking for misspelled words, dodgy grammar, and the inevitable typos. Those are all things you need to correct—but you should also be aware of pesky consistency errors that are commonplace in poorly edited manuscripts.

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Carter and K12…A very short story about cats and women

Chris Hall2 Comments

Couldn’t resist this little tale (or should that be tail?).

hitandrun1964's avatarRethinking Life

Photo:  Pixabay

Carter crash landed on K12, which is a planet, filled with women and cats.  The cats on K12 were said to be rather large and so were the women.  He couldn’t believe his bird fell out of the sky above this planet, of all places.

“Well, Carter,” he said, out loud.  “Don’t just stand here, get moving.”

He dug the lantern out of his downed ship and started waking.  It wasn’t long before he saw the first cat.  His grip on the club in his right hand tightened.

“I’ve been in fights before, so come on Big Kitty, show me whatcha got,” he said, softly.

“Mew,” said the cat, sitting in front of him.

“Afraid, are you?” he snickered.

“Mew.”

“Are we going to fight, or what?”

“Meow,” said the cat behind him.

“Two of you?  No problem,” he shouted, brandishing his club.

The cats looked at each…

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The Chosen One

Chris Hall1 Comment

The Chosen One lunasonline

From my Flash Fiction collection

Moonlight shimmers on Jenny’s dress. It is the winter solstice and the night is clear, the bright white moon surrounded by velvet blackness.  Jenny is the Chosen One. Her long golden hair crowned with a mistletoe and ivy garland cascades over her shoulders. Tall and slim, she holds the silver chalice aloft

She must be so cold, Cal thinks.

The villagers stand in a circle holding blazing torches, their faces reflected oddly in the flickering flames. The priest throws back his head and starts to chant. The gathering echoes his words of power. The spell reaches a climax and suddenly there is silence. Jenny puts the chalice to her lips and drinks. It falls to the floor and rolls away as the trance takes hold of her.

The chalice stops at the edge of the circle by Cal’s feet. He picks it up feeling the warmth where his sister had held it.

The priest lifts Jenny onto the stone table. A woman comes forward and takes the garland from her hair, replacing it with a delicate silver circlet. The priest starts to chant again and the woman returns to the circle. The transformation is about to begin.

As the villagers depart, Cal slips away and hides behind the old oak tree. He watches as the priest raises his arms and performs a final incantation before following the line of villagers back down to the valley.

Jenny is alone on the hilltop now. Cal shivers although he is dressed in his warmest clothes.  How can Jenny stand this?

Something rustles in the undergrowth beside him. Cal looks down. A small furry creature looks up at him with bright black eyes. More rustling: a rabbit, now a fox and a fawn.  Forest animals gather around the stone table. The smallest ones climb up and nuzzle up to Jenny. Soon she is covered by a living blanket of fur.

Out of nowhere, thunder; sounding like galloping horses. The noise reverberates around the hilltop. Clouds cover the moon. Cal cowers.

Then a column of the brightest light that Cal has ever seen strikes the hilltop. The creatures scatter leaving Jenny exposed on the stone table. The beam glows and throbs, alive with energy. Cal watches open-mouthed as Jenny’s body is lifted up.

The transformation, Cal thinks. No one has ever witnessed this.

*          *           *

The following morning the priest walks up the hill to bring back the Chosen One. As he looks around to check he is alone he notices something at the foot of the old oak tree. He hurries over. It is the boy, Cal, who picked up the chalice last night. The chalice is still clutched in his hand, but the body is lifeless. The priest shakes his head.

He walks over to the table. The girl is sleeping peacefully, covered in a shiny silver blanket. As he removes the strange material, she stirs and opens her eyes. Bright turquoise: the transformation is complete.  She is truly the Chosen One.

©2018 Chris Hall