Tag Archives: Déjà Vu

Kindle Select Tips

It was late after­noon yes­ter­day when I remembered that I’d signed up Déjà Vu for a one-day stint as a free­bie. This is pos­sible as part of Amazon’s Kindle Select pro­gramme. There isn’t a huge amount of data avail­able on this, so here are mine.

For the last three months or so, sales of Déjà Vu had been slow­ing (oh so tra­gic­ally, but you’ll hear no com­plaints from me about how well the book has done). In the UK, it’s March-May sales were 426, 124, and 96. For the US, those fig­ures are much smal­ler: 45, 21, and 26. The over­all sales stand at 9000 UK, 1487 US, totalling 10, 505 (the extra 18 come from Germany).

I’ve inter­preted these sales as show­ing suc­cess in the UK and, well, show­ing a lack of it in the US. One of the nice things is that 50% of the people who read Déjà Vu want to buy Flashback, even though it’s £1.20 more expensive.

By the time I remembered about the one-day free­bie, yes­ter­day, Déjà Vu had been ‘selling’ for a few hours in the US. At that point, 576 cop­ies had been moved in the US and only 126 in the UK. This puzzles me a little. Whereas the book doesn’t really sell in the US, there are more people ready to grab it for free. Perhaps, then, it is reas­on­ably attract­ive to the American con­sumer but not so attract­ive that they’re keen to pur­chase in large number.

When I went to bed that even­ing, 2854 had moved in the US and 288 in the UK. This morn­ing, tot­ting up the final fig­ures, the US total was 5713 and the UK total 358. Déjà Vu reached at least num­ber four in both (free) sci­ence fic­tion charts each side of the Atlantic. With caveats, that sug­gests the US Kindle mar­ket is around ten times the size of the UK market.

Overall, then, I’d call it a suc­cess­ful pro­mo­tion. It’s worth bear­ing in mind that not many of those read­ers will read the book. Fewer still, maybe none, will post a review. The last pro­mo­tion I did was for Proper Job, my first — and per­haps last — com­edy novel. That shif­ted many free cop­ies but got no reviews.

How has the Déjà Vu pro­mo­tion impacted on sales? There’s a small effect. It might last a day or two.

I’ve sold 20 cop­ies in the US so far this month, and that com­pares with 26 cop­ies for all of May. Oh, and I see one refund! Flashback sales are up a bit to 5 cop­ies this month; last month it was 15.

In the UK, I’ve sold 25 cop­ies of Déjà Vu in June (cf. 95 last month) and 13 cop­ies of Flashback (cf. 73 last month).

For rank­ings, Déjà Vu is now at 1,997 in the UK, whereas pre­vi­ously it was float­ing around 10,000. It’s at 7,564 in the US, and has been hov­er­ing at 35,000 or so.

There are some stats I could prob­ably com­pute for the effect of the Kindle Select pro­mo­tion, but that would be overkill. Right now, I’d say it’s worth it, and the Kindle Select pro­gramme remains a great tool for authors pub­lish­ing on Amazon.

In terms of max­im­ising the bene­fit of the pro­mo­tion, you should — obvi­ously — try to get the word out on your social net­works without being too much of a tit about it. I try not to be a tit but my Twitter fol­low­ers could prob­ably tell you whether or not I’m suc­ceed­ing. Yesterday, I was lucky that SF Signal retweeted a mes­sage about the pro­mo­tion to almost 7000 fol­low­ers, and I’d be will­ing to bet that con­trib­uted a great deal to the final US fig­ure of 5713.

I guess this is mar­ket­ing, but I prefer to think of it as let­ting people know about a book they might like. A Tweet is a tran­si­ent thing. I’m no fan of spam, and I don’t do newsletters.

Well, peeps, there’re the data. Not sure whether they gen­er­al­ise, but there they are.

Déjà Vu: The Next Generation

No, it’s not a mash-up where Whorf mar­ries Saskia Brandt and Data downs­izes to a com­puter the size of a credit card. This post com­prises a thought or two on the pro­cess behind what falls under the label ‘Coming to America’ — or, more accur­ately, work­ing with my American agent on the edi­tion of Déjà Vu that we’ll sub­mit to pub­lish­ers over the next few months.

Non-writers — and a few writers at the begin­ning of their career — tend to feel that their work is in final draft early on. Most exper­i­enced writers will agree that the edit­ing pro­cess rep­res­ents as much work, if not more, as those early drafts that seemed fin­ished. The pro­cess is a enjoy­able one because the changes take the book, inch by inch, towards the best it can be.

So, des­pite the flat­ter­ing Amazon reviews, I’m keen to take another look at Déjà Vu and tweak it inline with the com­ments given to me by my agent, Katherine.

I often think of the writ­ing pro­cess as being like pro­du­cing a film, which is odd given that I have no exper­i­ence of film pro­duc­tion. But the first draft is like a rough cut: the mater­ial exists in ugly, clumsy but sub­stant­ive form. Later drafts are like film edits: boil­ing down the bulk, com­press­ing and adding mean­ing. The com­ments of the agent are akin to those of a pro­du­cer — ‘Should this dis­solve be a jump cut?’ — and intel­li­gib­il­ity — ‘Why not insert a brief scene where Bob reveals a per­sonal secret to Jane?’

As you might expect, Katherine made clear that I’m free to ignore all her com­ments, but I haven’t because they are good ones. In this new draft, I’ve made Saskia’s hybrid mind clearer to the reader; filled in some plot blanks that read­ers often don’t under­stand on their own; and, with min­imal touches, I’ve tried to stop the reader boun­cing out of the story on account of unne­ces­sary com­plex­ity or unex­plained happenings.

The trick, of course, is to leave the good stuff untouched and improve the bits that are just about working.

Here’s one example. In the cur­rent draft, Saskia’s phys­ical appear­ance is not described expli­citly. Katherine thought that a phys­ical descrip­tion early on in the book was needed. Why didn’t I include one? Well, I hate authory bits where the reader is told about a char­ac­ter. I want these descrip­tions to serve the story too.

Excerpt from the cur­rent edi­tion of Déjà Vu:

Ghost-touched by the air con­di­tion­ing, her sweat dried cold. She entered the lift, which rose on a pis­ton and opened high in the build­ing. Her office was one among dozens on the floor. Its plaque read: Frau Kommissarin Brandt. She licked her thumb and squeaked away a plastic shav­ing from the newly carved B.

Excerpt from the unpub­lished, newer draft:

…She licked her thumb and squeaked away a plastic shav­ing from the newly carved B. There was a pic­ture along­side the name. It showed a ser­i­ous, beau­ti­ful woman in her late twen­ties. No make-up. No ear­ring in the exposed, left ear. Many pho­to­graphs had been taken and Saskia liked this one the least. As always, she scowled at her­self before open­ing the door.

I’m fairly happy with this descrip­tion. It is plaus­ible that Saskia would see this pic­ture; it’s still vague, but gives enough for the reader to ima­gine her appear­ance; and it con­tains her reac­tion to it, which tells the reader some­thing about her char­ac­ter. With luck, I’ve avoided this kind of thing [from Dan Brown’s angels and Demons]:

Although not overly hand­some in a clas­sical sense, the forty-five-year-old Langdon had what his female referred to as an ‘eru­dite’ appeal …Langdon still had the body o a swim­mer, a toned, six-foot physique that he vigil­antly main­tained with fifty laps a day in the uni­ver­sity pool.

If I ever write like this, shoot me. Shoot me vigilantly.

The New Statesman on Déjà Vu Sales

A heads-up from Ben Johncock tells me that no less than Nicholas Clee has been writ­ing in the New Statesman about the trans­ition from tan­gible to elec­tronic books. (I’ve been strug­gling to find an offi­cial link to the piece; here’s an unofficial-looking one.)

It’s fair to say that Nicholas Clee is tra­di­tional in his perspective.

Ebooks are des­troy­ing this eco­nomic model. …Will 99P become the optimum price for an ebook? If so, who is going to make any money out of pub­lish­ing or writ­ing books for such a market?

I agree with the first point here. The ebook is a dis­rupt­ive entity. But any­body who has been around since the early 1990s has seen, in the music industry, an example of elec­tronic mer­chand­ise des­troy­ing an eco­nomic model based on the phys­ical. Perhaps ‘des­troyed’ is the wrong term to use in this con­text. The mar­ket is still there. But how much growth does the CD mar­ket have? How much in the hard­back market?

The second point speaks to a fun­da­mental issue of busi­ness. One should not ask ‘How are all the employ­ees of the leg­acy pub­lish­ing industry — from recep­tion­ists to the CEO — going to main­tain their income?’ because this leads to the prob­lem that afflicts all pub­lish­ers: they decide as a group, impli­citly or expli­citly, to act as a car­tel. Prices are kept high. This cre­ates situ­ations where the elec­tronic ver­sion of a book costs the same as or more than the tan­gible. Try explain­ing this to a con­sumer. It’s hard. ‘We need these prices because of the way our busi­ness was set up’ makes for poor advert­ising copy.

Now for the part that men­tions your humble correspondent:

As for the fin­an­cial implic­a­tions — on the Me and My Big Mouth blog, the nov­el­ist Ian Hocking … has con­fided his sales fig­ures and rev­en­ues from self-publishing ebooks with Amazon. Two of them have sold more than 8,000 cop­ies. This is a fig­ure that many con­ven­tion­ally pub­lished nov­el­ists would envy. But Hocking’s profit to date is only just over £300 (his rev­enue is just over £2,000).

Had Hocking chosen a con­ven­tional pub­lisher, he might well have sold fewer cop­ies, but he would have earned more, thanks to the publisher’s advance.

Yes, my profit is just over £300, but this fig­ure is essen­tially mean­ing­less (the rev­enue is more inform­at­ive) as a proxy for suc­cess. First, I’ve ploughed vir­tu­ally all the money from the first book into the second, and so on. ‘Profit’, then, in this con­text, rep­res­ents the amount that I’ve decided not to spend. I might have adjus­ted that up or down arbit­rar­ily. Second, my sci­ence fic­tion nov­els con­tinue to sell in greater num­ber each month, and unless I can find other book-related expendit­ure, this ‘profit’ fig­ure will rise sharply. Overall, I believe it was more sens­ible for me (as a writer nobody has heard of) to price low and sell in quant­ity than opt for the pre­ferred option of a leg­acy pub­lisher, which, per­haps, is to price high and sell few.

The ques­tion of the pub­lisher advance is an inter­est­ing one. It would cer­tainly be in my short term interest to land a large advance, which I may not earn out. But, if I may say, the industry-wide beha­viour of dol­ing out these advances is one of the reas­ons the busi­ness model is unsupportable.

To return to this ques­tion: Is 99p too cheap for a book? I really don’t know. If you’re employed by a busi­ness that requires the new Ken Follett book to be £16 or more, you’ll prob­ably think it’s too cheap and con­sider me an upstart who is under­cut­ting you. If you’re an indi­vidual, cre­at­ive per­son who is put­ting out a product and is in con­trol of the con­sumer exper­i­ence, you will think care­fully about the impact that your price will have on the per­cep­tion of the product. I think 99p for Déjà Vu rep­res­ents good value. After all, you can get it from a lib­rary for free, and that doesn’t lessen its worth. Neither does pick­ing up a second-hand copy from the church bazar.

Last word from Mr Clee, which requires no com­ment bey­ond a brief nod to its past tense:

An industry that paid unre­cov­er­able advances for books, and then pub­lished them in formats that the pub­lic thought too expens­ive, had its eccentricities.

Déjà Vu 5-Star Review on Red Adept

This is, I think, the first non-customer review of Déjà Vu for its cur­rent edi­tion. Red Adept is a site where authors can sub­mit their works for review. The admin­is­trat­ors make clear that reviews are non-debatable, and always pub­lish them to the book’s Amazon page after one month. I like the break­down into ‘plot’, ‘char­ac­ter devel­op­ment’, ‘writ­ing style’ and ‘editing’.

I wanted to share this excerpt:

Saskia enjoys a met­ric ton (or rather, tonne, as Mr. Hocking is British) of char­ac­ter devel­op­ment dur­ing the course of the story, since she begins from a point that’s worse off than a blank slate: the little she knows about her cur­rent life is a lie. As the plot pro­gresses, she wor­ries who she truly is, and if she’ll be lost to the resur­fa­cing of her body’s viol­ent per­son­al­ity. By the end, she’s far out­stripped every­one else in com­plex­ity and sheer awesomeness.

Did you know that Déjà Vu’s price has been slashed by 16% to make it 72p? That’s 72p British pence, people.

Twittering through Time

What is Twitter?

Twitter is a free social net­work­ing and micro-blogging ser­vice that allows users to send “updates” (or “tweets”; text-based posts, up to 140 char­ac­ters long) to the Twitter web­site, via short mes­sage ser­vice (e.g. on a cell phone), instant mes­saging, or a third-party applic­a­tion such as Twitterrific or Facebook.

You’ll have noticed that I include my Twitter feed in the footer text of this web­site. So, when I’m drink­ing a cof­fee and feel that the world needs to know; or I’m stuck on a train out­side Basingstoke; or I’m watch­ing Dr Who…then I can tweet.

Twitter is one of those tech­no­lo­gies that gives Web 2.0 a bad name. That is, whenever I explain it to people who don’t use social net­work­ing thingies, they look at me like I’m a com­plete idiot.

Just like you’re look­ing at your web browser right now, very probably.

For a long while, I’ve been inter­ested in some­how cap­tur­ing — live — the pro­cess of cre­at­ing a novel. I’d like to put together a form of par­al­lel art that mir­rors the inser­tion, dele­tion and move­ment of words around the manu­script, and per­haps make a time-lapse film of it. I’m still a long way from being able to do this. Some spe­cies of screen cap­ture tech­no­logy poin­ted at my word pro­cessor might do the trick, but the band­width implic­a­tion makes me dizzy.

So, as part of this exper­i­ment­a­tion with reflect­ing the ongo­ing devel­op­ment of a novel, I have cre­ated a Twitter account for my heroine, Saskia Brandt. The cur­rent novel (my third in this series; the first was pub­lished as Déjà Vu) is set in 1907. That’s where my time trav­el­ler has wound up.

Who is Saskia Brandt? (If you haven’t read Déjà Vu and think you might, look away now.) Saskia is phys­ic­ally fit, about 30 years old — nobody is quite sure of her age — and a former detect­ive with the European Föderatives Investigationsbüro, a spe­cial­ist organ­isa­tion set up in 2019 to address EU-wide com­puter crime. She was for­cibly put through an exper­i­mental pro­ced­ure that left her with a small, glass-covered chip at the back of her brain. It con­tains a digital copy of a murdered woman’s mind. It con­tains what is, essen­tially, Saskia’s per­son­al­ity. The ori­ginal per­son­al­ity of her phys­ical brain is sup­pressed; though it can usurp con­trol in her dreams and moments of stress. Various skills were flashed onto the chip before inser­tion, includ­ing weapons hand­ling, lan­guage com­pet­ency (she under­stands more than 6000 lan­guages), and spe­cial pro­grams that post-process sens­ory inform­a­tion. In 2023, she trav­elled back­wards in time and is cur­rently being hunted by her former employ­ers. Now she’s in St Petersburg in 1907.

Saskia Brandt is going to tweet her ‘status’ as the cur­rent novel is being writ­ten. You’re very wel­come to add Saskia to your Twitter friends, if you have an account. She’ll add you straight back. Her Twitter address is: http://twitter.com/saskiabrandt You don’t, by the way, need an account to fol­low her. Her status updates are now included in the page footer, and you can visit the above address manually.

Here are some rules:

  • She will update her status about once a day; her time frame is ‘live’ in the sense that she will tweet about things hap­pen­ing to her in that day’s writ­ing session
  • Her statuses will con­tain teas­ers, not spoilers
  • Though she is updat­ing her status as though she had a mobile phone in 1907, the char­ac­ter in the final novel will not be stop­ping every few pages to send a tweet
  • Saskia will reply to your ques­tions if you ask them, but will not spoil the story

Interested? Then make Saskia a Twitter friend. I’m cur­rently 4400 words into the manu­script (which will total around 100,000), so Saskia will be tweet­ing for the next few months. Here’s the latest tweet. For her, it’s November 1907 and she’s trav­el­ling into St Petersburg on behalf of a crim­inal organ­isa­tion which (I think) she’s just betrayed.

Pull!

Michael Stephen Fuchs — whose rather good nov­els I have reviewed for Pulp.net and on this blog — has writ­ten an art­icle for the manfully-named www.shotsmag.co.uk. He writes about the dif­fer­ence between British and American authors in their treat­ment of guns. In sum­mary, the Brits are less expert.

I’ve made my own, mod­est con­tri­bu­tion to this trend by bungling a descrip­tion of fire­arms not once but sev­eral times in the ori­ginal pub­lic­a­tion of Déjà vu. I described the cyl­in­der of a revolver as the bar­rel (hey, it’s some­what barrel-like!) and was very loose in my treat­ment of the term ‘fir­ing pin’. Fortunately, an American reader poin­ted this out — in a genu­inely kind man­ner — and I’ve put it straight for sub­sequent ver­sions of the book.

Says Michael:

This cul­tural dif­fer­ence also res­ults in some very palp­able dif­fer­ences between writ­ing about guns and gun­play by British authors versus American authors. With American crime and action writers – if you know what to listen for, at any rate – it’s easy to get a sense that they are writ­ing from first-hand exper­i­ence. With Brits, it’s equi­val­ently easy to get a sense they are writ­ing straight from research. This is because, gen­er­ally, at some point in the book, the British writer will let slip one small but enorm­ously glar­ing boner about the makeup or oper­a­tions of fire­arms. When this hap­pens, it’s like get­ting a brief glimpse around the edge of the card­board build­ing facade in a Hollywood set: noth­ing else has changed, all the other details are still right. But, sud­denly, the whole thing just looks irre­triev­ably fake.

I’ll get m’coat.

Hell, I am bust­ing to fire a pro­jectile weapon. I want to know how much it stings one’s palm; what it smells like; how loud it is; does it make that PEEEEOW(OW)(ow) sound lib­er­ally employed on the foley track for The Professionals? I also wouldn’t mind hit­ting some­thing, as long as it’s made of clay.

I won­der if Michael has any in his cupboard.