But Am I Newsworthy?

newsletter subscribe buttonI love getting newsletters from writers.

Why? I’m not absolutely sure. Maybe it’s because newsletters give, instead of asking or taking: they come with content just for me (well, not just for me, but for the mailing list members), and I’m not expected to share or retweet or comment or vote or click “like” — these social media engagements aren’t bad things, of course, but there’s an expectation of visible support, and it’s obvious when not given. While I like to show as much enthusiastic public support as I can to authors I admire, there’s something nice and pressure-free about just opening an email and reading it without having to respond. Yes, a newsletter is technically a marketing tool, but it’s also a gift from author to readers, and the best ones don’t feel like self-promotion.

I’ve been thinking for a while that I’d like to have a newsletter of my own; however, one big thing was holding me back. I kept asking myself, “But am I newsworthy?”

candy heartHere I am, thinking that I would like to give the gift of a private, special newsletter to anyone who is interested in my stories — and I’m wondering whether I’m good enough to do that.

Since when did giving a gift depend on the giver being worthy?

I woke up to this thought at the beginning of the week, and realized that now is the time to go ahead and create a mailing list, with a goal of sending out a monthly newsletter. We hear all the time that smart writers establish mailing lists well in advance of any book release; there’s no way to do that and also achieve some kind of invisible goal of becoming Important Enough For A Newsletter before starting one.

No one is being forced to sign up. If I end up sending out, say, a flash fiction story or an excerpt from something I’m working on, and it only goes to a handful of people, so what? Those people get something no one else does. No one is imposed on by the mere existence of a newsletter, right? I keep telling myself this.

candy heartBut this is exciting: I’ve realized I can do something with a newsletter that I can’t do on a blog or Facebook page or anywhere else — I can customize it to the preferences of those who sign up. One of the questions on my sign-up form is about comfort level: Sweet (prefer no explicit sex or swearing) or candy heartTart (okay with sexy description and gritty language)? That way, I can send my Sweets an excerpt that won’t make them blush, and my Tarts can get something a little dirtier.

I still feel strangely guilty, greedy, and not newsworthy enough to have my own newsletter. But it’s time to stop validating those feelings and go forward.

Be a Sweetheart; sign up!
(But only if you want to. No pressure.)

Writers, have you hesitated to start a newsletter because of doubts about being worthy? Did you end up doing it?

And readers, what do you love best about newsletters? What makes the great ones so awesome?

When You’re Someone Else’s Job

As an author, at some point (unless you do absolutely everything yourself) you’ll be someone else’s job. At least, your manuscript, or your cover, or your e-book formatting, or your marketing plan, or… something of yours will be on someone else’s desk and part of their work day.

Now, most people in the book industry (whether they are traditional publishers or micro/indie/small-press publishers or service providers who work with self-publishers) do it because they love books. And really, their reputations are stacked on making your book the best it can be, right? So it’s safe to assume that they want to do the best possible job they can with your stuff… isn’t it?


Just for a moment, let go of the fantasy that your book is the only (and/or most important) one on other people’s desks. Most book industry professionals can’t afford to take on just one assignment at a time, and many have personal creative endeavours to pursue as well. They know we love/need/want to feel as though our particular projects are everyone’s all-encompassing priority, so maybe they let us feel that way because it keeps us happy, and that leads to warm fuzzies all around, but really?

When you’re someone else’s job, it’s work for them. If they’re professional and good at what they do, it will be done competently and (barring unforeseen circumstances) on time, regardless of whether you’re a jerk or an angel. Do you want competent, though, or do you want best effort? Do you want just good enough for your book, or above-and-beyond-the-call-of-duty, labour-of-love, best-it-can-possibly-be?

Think about it… Are you always a rock star and superhero at your day job, or only when you feel appreciated and personally invested in the outcome?

So really, isn’t it in our best interests to make sure the people who work on our books feel that way — appreciated and personally invested, sharing our hopes and anxieties because it’s their project too?


I will not treat professionals as service providers,
even when that’s what they are. I will treat them as equals and partners in the project we’re working on, or maybe even employers/senior ranks/mentors (depending on the circumstances). I will remember that if I treat them as servants or subordinates, it will likely result in subordinate-quality care from them and a lower place on their personal priority lists. I will avoid behaving like a boss or client (even though I may sometimes feel like I should be the boss or client) because it will not advance my relationship or priority with them and will not elicit their best work.

I will not forget that they have other projects on their desks
apart from mine. I will not assume that they can or will drop everything to tend to my project. I will not impose an artificial urgency based on a timeline of my wants rather than needs, not least because people tend to see through that pretty quickly. I will remember that if I behave as the squeaky wheel, I may well get (metaphorically) oiled first, but I won’t get oiled well — I don’t want a quick job done so they can get me out of the way.

I will not assume that they’re as obsessed with my book as I am,
that because I’m willing to work on it day and night, weekends and holidays and through my lunch hour and even if I’m sick, everyone else must be too. I won’t expect an instant response to an email sent Saturday night, or assume my publishing professionals will be at their desks on statutory holidays. If I do get a response outside of regular working hours, I will take it as a reminder that they’re super busy, and not as an indication it’s a good time for regular communication. I will remember that publishing professionals have a right to take sick days and go on vacation, and that even joking about it being a problem might drop my book from “current favourite project” to “chore I really don’t feel like facing today”.

I will not confuse or conflate business and friendship.
I will not allow the blurred lines of social media and online friendship to obscure the fact that my book is my publishing professionals’ job. Even though I may be friends or sort-of-friends with the people I work with, I will not use that friendly relationship/access to impose on them with regard to my book and/or their skills. I will respect their right to be compensated for their skilled labour and/or consulting time. I will recognize that being on Facebook at 3 AM does not necessarily constitute a desire to talk about work projects, and that social media chat is probably not the best avenue for business communication. I will bear in mind that straining this boundary will likely sour the friendship and result in their fervent desire to never work with me again.

NOTE: I’m not always perfect at this. I’ve made all four of these mistakes on occasion. In at least one case, it was bad enough that I’m still embarrassed about it — but grateful that I woke up to the wrong moves I was making before worse damage was done.