As you may know, I live out in the Boondocks, the sticks, Woop Woop (or pick your own quaint phrase meaning “the middle of nowhere”). The main industries here are fruit growing and wine making.  They play country and western musak in the local supermarket and the churches outnumber the pubs about twenty to one. In this week’s local free rag – which is actually a half-way decent local paper if you can stand the unrelenting right-wing political bias – the front page story (and when I say front page, I mean it fills the whole front page, including a half-page photo) is about a local writer who has had a book published. The story wasn’t just that, of course, although the very existence of a local writer would have been newsworthy enough, it focused on the scale of the bloke’s success. His book has been published internationally, you see. Not only that but he has never had a rejection letter. The first publisher he approached snapped it up.

Of course, I was amazed, not to say a little miffed, that my own publishing success has gone completely unremarked in the local press. I read the article again, thinking I might find out who the bloke is and maybe look him up some time. It would be nice to have another writer to talk to whom I could meet in the flesh from time to time. It was then that a comment near the end of the piece caught my eye. The journo referred not to the man’s publisher but to his “investor”. In a trice I was onto the Web. The publisher of the book turned out to be a vanity press. Judging from what was said in the article, the author had bought their deluxe package at about $2,000 – no doubt this also included a carefully-worded press release to send to the local paper. And that, of course, explained why this writer had not received any rejection letters. (How would a rejection letter from a vanity press look? “Dear Mr. X, Thank you for letting us see your manuscript. We receive thousands of excellent manuscripts each year and, unfortunately, we are not able to take your $2,000 at this time. We wish you more success with giving your money to another publisher.”)

Still, I do know a few people who have used vanity publishing services over the years and in at least one case, their books are as good as any you might find from a major publisher. In fact, better than the bulk of them. And the article had said how amazingly well this particular book was doing. So I went to Amazon, to see what the fuss was about. There was no opportunity to read a sample, unfortunately, but I did notice that it had been out for six months but had only one customer review (albeit five stars) and its sales rank was around three million. (In case you’re new to the mysteries of Amazon, a sales rank of 1 is good. A sales rank of 3,000,000 means nobody is buying. I have no idea what any other number means.) So not really the success the article was making it out to be. In fact (and I have no idea whether the work deserves it, but) it seems to be languishing in obscurity. Perhaps the article in the local paper will improve its fortunes.

A number of thoughts occur to me about all this.

The first is that the journalist and editor who put this on the front page didn’t do even some minimal fact checking. This seems to be par for the course with journalists these days – even on newspapers you have to pay for. If they had checked the facts, they might not have printed such a breathless accolade, or described anything as surprising as a first time author who hasn’t had a rejection letter. On the other hand, the bloke might just be a relative of the paper’s owners or editor. Nearly everybody around here is related to everybody else.

The second is that the journalist, the editor, and perhaps even the author himself, simply do not understand the difference between a publisher and a vanity press. Maybe it is only people in the business who have learned to make this distinction. Maybe the rest of the world hasn’t cottoned on yet. The thing is, paying someone to publish your book is not the same as someone paying you to publish your book. Honestly, I don’t mean to be snobbish about this. I have self-published a few books (although I have not used a vanity press). Self-publishing and even vanity publishing are not bad things – as long as it is clear to the reader what they are getting. Like it or not, being published by a “traditional” commercial publisher (large or small) is the reader’s implied guarantee of a minimum level of quality. Self-publishing and vanity publishing mean there is no implied promise of a minimum quality level and the reader must take pot luck (or insist on reading a free sample before purchase).

The third is that I really ought to be more aggressive and mendacious about marketing my stuff.

Lately, four of the self-published authors I follow (on their blogs and Twitter) have said that they are giving up. Some are giving up writing altogether, some are giving up their attempts to be successful. Four is quite a rash and I wonder if it is a sign of things to come. The three that gave reasons, said it was because they are tired of putting their books out there and working so hard at marketing their work, only to be ignored by the buying public. They weren’t actually “tired” you understand, they were heartsick, they were miserable, they were defeated and broken.

Those of us who write and submit our manuscripts to the judgement of agents and publishers know the pain of rejection. Some wear the terrible number of rejections they have accumulated as a badge of pride (although that happens mostly after they’ve been published). It is gruelling and it is soul-destroying. Most writers hate it and wish it could stop. Some writers make it stop by taking their hats out of the ring.

In recent times, self-publishing has been seen as a way around the dreadful and often arbitrary judgement of the “gatekeepers”. Why should a writer go on suffering the rejection of publishers and agents, they reason, when they can simply and cheaply publish their own work and “get it out there”? While some see subjecting themselves to the judgement of the gatekeepers as “paying their dues”, others see it as an artificial barrier, erected by an old and crumbling system that no longer has the respect of the people of whom it sits in judgement.

But when you self-publish, you offer yourself to the judgement of a higher court: The Market. And don’t think for a moment that The Market is the court of public opinion. It is not. The Market is a whore, a gigolo. It has favours to offer, but only at a price. And the price is this: you must woo it, thrill it, entertain it, seduce it, plead with it, and subjugate yourself to it. If you don’t catch its fickle eye, its gaze will pass over you and find another, more willing to please it.

There are many panders who will offer the self-published author advice on how to succeed in The Market, but most of them are charlatans or fools. And, besides, so few writers are prepared to make the deals that really work, the ones that are made over buried bones at a crossroads. So the average self-published author sells a book or two a month on Amazon and keeps on writing and hoping – because the panders say you need lots of “inventory”.

But for some the awful truth hits them; The Market is ignoring them. And then they know a pain worse than rejection. A pain that squeezes at their hearts every day of their lives, for every book they publish, twenty-four seven. The Amazon KDP report mocks them. The Smashwords dashboard laughs in their pathetic faces. Self-publishing, for so many, becomes a nightmare of disillusionment and self-torment. The world just isn’t interested. They’re not being rejected because nobody even knows they’re there. They’re being ignored. Their life’s work, their hopes and dreams, they themselves, are beneath notice.

Beneath notice.

How long before this trickle of surrenders becomes a stream? How long before the stream becomes a torrent? I don’t know, but I do know I will continue to face rejection until I can face it no more. The alternative may be far worse.

That's me, near the middle, waving.

Sunshine is inimical to writing. The grass grows and has to be cut. The weeds grow and have to be killed. The fruit grows and has to be coddled like a baby. The dog staggers to the shadows, and drops. That seat among the tress beckons like a favourite vice. You take your laptop but the flashing rosellas and the spiralling eagles, the fidgeting thornbirds and flitting fairy wrens, the tumbling butterflies and swooping dragonflies, all take their toll. The horseflies and mud wasps zip around your head and snatch ideas as they struggle to find their way down to the screen. Like the lizards and the red-bellied blacks, your proper place is lying prone, letting sunlight seep through you. Like the wild orchids and the granite bluebells, your proper job is to nod in appreciation. This is why you came. This is why you found this place in the forest. Writing must wait for the rain.

A profound change has come upon me. No, it’s not the male menopause, although I’m long overdue for a red sports car and a dab of Rogaine. No, this change is based on the realisation that from this week onward, whatever I’m doing, wherever I am, I will never be without a book to read.

What happened to me is this: I bought a smartphone.

I got the phone about a week ago. It took me a few days to footle around with it, setting settings and playing with its various bells and whistles. Then, while I was in a vet’s waiting room, waiting, I downloaded the Kindle app and fired it up. If you don’t know how the Kindle works, let me explain. There is a central repository “in the cloud” where books that you buy from Amazon are held – they call it the Archive. You can download books from your archive into your device and then read them. You can also download books from other sources into your device, but they don’t end up in the archive. So, when I looked at my new Kindle app, there was every book I had ever bought from Amazon, just waiting for me. I picked “Welcome to the Monkey House” by Kurt Vonnegut – something my wife had bought recently, meaning to re-read, and I started re-reading it myself.

The display on my new phone is small (about 10 cm – that’s 4 inches in old money) but the text is clear and steady and I was quite pleased with the readability. The touch screen makes turning the page simple – a single touch with the finger (or thumb) to left or right turns the page that way (you can “swipe” to turn pages too if you’re feeling flamboyant). After ten minutes or so, the vet called us in and I popped the phone in my pocket and thought nothing more about it.

Until today.

I was in a coffee shop. I ordered my usual large cappuccino to go and settled in for the usual fifteen minute wait. To while away the time, I took out my new phone – and remembered I had a book I was reading. So I clicked through to the app and carried on with it. The coffee came. I put the phone away. A couple of hours later, I was waiting again – this time while my wife went to the library (oh, irony). So I whipped out my phone and started reading again.

And that’s when it struck me. I carry my phone with me whenever I go out. Even as I write, it is within hand’s reach of me. And now my phone is an ereader, connected to the largest online bookshop in the world. I will never, ever, have to spend another idle moment without a book to read. Old favourites, new adventures, are just a couple of clicks away. A collection far larger than my local library’s is there in my pocket whenever I want to dip into it.

I find this idea profoundly moving. It is a quantum leap improvement in my quality of life. I still can’t get my head around how significant this is.

I’ve been reading ebooks for years. I have a Kindle which is in constant use around the house, or in hotels on overnight trips. I’ve had a smartphone for years too – just not one with a large enough screen to make reading feasible. But, somehow, the combination of big screen phone and Kindle app has given me access to a capability far more significant than the sum of its parts.

Just for the record, I still prefer reading on the Kindle to on the phone (a Samsung Galaxy S, by the way, running Android). The Kindle was literally made for reading books. When I have them side by side, I will always pick up the Kindle. However, the awesomeness of having a not-quite-Kindle there in my pocket, wherever I go, has changed everything. I no longer go to where the books are, or where my ereader is; now the books come to me.

I’ve been looking forward to this launch, partly because the book contains some of my favourite Australian SFF writers, partly because the whole point of the book is to raise awareness of suicide, and partly because it contains the first story of mine ever to be published that features one of my favourite creations, Broome.

Broome is a robot that will be assembled some three hundred years from now. It will appear in two space opera trilogies of mine (only two and a half volumes of which have been written so far). At the time of the story in Hope (called The God on the Mountain), Broome is 11,000 years old and many light years from Earth. It’s had various names during that long time, but it chose the current one because of the old joke about the broom that’s lasted for years, and has only had three new heads and two new handles.

You can join in the launch on Facebook, if you’re quick, and you can find details of the book on the Kayelle Press website. Whatever you do, please buy the book. It’s got terrific stories and useful information about suicide but, more than that, it’s in a good cause and the people who put this together have all given their time and energy to try to help. And pass on the message to everyone you know. Someone in your circle of family and friends may be glad that you did.

Here is a summary and something about the stories:

It is a sad and terrible indictment of the society in which we live that a woman like Yasmin McKillop might die because she can’t afford the surgery that could save her life. Yasmin is a young woman, a nurse who cares for old people at my local hospital. She’s one of those lovely people you take to immediately. She is married to my friend James, who is blind, and they have two young boys. And now, Yasmin has a brain tumour. The prognosis from surgeons at the public hospitals here is very poor, but there is a surgeon in Sydney who believes he can save her, if she can find sixty thousand dollars for the operation.

On a nurse’s wage and James’ invalidity benefits, Yasmin has no house to sell, no savings to draw on. Her family are just ordinary, working people. That kind of money is so far beyond the reach of normal people that it must seem completely hopeless to her family and friends.

In desperation, her sister, Mia, has launched an appeal. Mia is not a media-savvy campaigner with far-reaching networks into the circles where money like this is easily found. She’s just a young woman who lives and works in a small, country town who loves her sister and is doing all she can for her. She has put up a Facebook page. She is talking to local people and local businesses – in Stanthorpe, one of the poorest towns in the whole of Australia. That’s why we need to do something to help Mia raise that money and save her sister.

I know most of the people who read my blog are writers and working people too. I doubt we could raise that much money between us, but we can raise some, and there are plenty of other ways we can help. This is what I would like each of you to do.

1. Visit Mia’s Facebook page and donate something to the appeal – even if it is only $5 – the price of a cup of coffee. The link is also at the bottom of this post.

2. Use the +1 and the Retweet buttons at the top of this post to spread the word to your social networks. You can also Digg the post, or use StumbleUpon or any other sharing tools you like. Do whatever you can to help Mia get the message out to the world that Yasmin needs help.

3. Mention the appeal on Facebook, LinkedIn, Google+, MySpace, Twitter, and anywhere else you have an audience.

4. Write a blog post on your own blog – even if it is just one sentence with a link to Mia’s appeal page, it might just help.

5. If you know a journalist, mention Yasmin’s plight to them. A ‘human interest’ story like this might just be something they, or a colleague, are looking for. If the story made it into a State or national newspaper, or was mentioned on a popular radio or TV show, it would take the appeal to a level where anything is possible. Even if you don’t live in Australia, mention it anyway. Generosity doesn’t stop at national borders.

6. Write a letter and send it to your local newspaper, your local radio station, your local Rotary Club, anywhere you can think of where people might be willing to help.

I’m sorry to ask. I’m sorry to live in a society where I have to ask. Please help Yasmin and her family. Please do whatever you can.

The link to the appeal is http://www.facebook.com/Yasmin.Aid?sk=info