The Real Reason I Self-Published: A Horror Story

When I was a kid, I played a strange mental game. Several days before a trip away, I would imagine that a monster was out there in the darkness, stalking me.

 Each night he would grow closer and closer and closer until finally… he would arrive at my house to find I had left. Howling in frustration, the vile creature would then sniff the air and begin the long journey to wherever I was visiting. But just as he was about to arrive there… surprise! I’d be gone again, usually back home.

I’m not sure what started the game or how I could overlook the glaring logical fallacy that was part of it. Why didn’t he just wait in my room until I got back? Was he on a deadline or something?

The funny thing is: I barely remembered this game until I started thinking about this column. I couldn’t figure out why it even came up in my memory—and then it all clicked.

I get asked a lot why I self-published my novel or whether I’m actively seeking a traditional publisher (I’m not). I can offer you plenty of logical reasons: the indie label has become more acceptable, the agent querying process was taking too long and the economics of delivering a self-published work have dramatically changed with the development of the ebook. All of these are good, true answers.

But they aren’t the main one—at least not for me.

The truth is I’m running out of time.

Writing novels was something I always wanted to do. In many ways, I feel it is the thing I was born to do. Like many other writers, I am sometimes only 50% engaged in actual real life—there are always stories playing out in my head and they can be rather distracting. Yet for something I genuinely enjoy and view as my destiny, I have wasted a tremendous amount of time NOT doing it.

We can partly blame the traditional publishing houses for this. I finished the first draft of A Soul to Steal in 2001, and had reworked it substantially by 2004. But when it came time to try to publish it, I realized I was up against a vast black wall that was so dark I couldn’t see through it, and so high and wide that I never saw the end of it. It wasn’t that publishers were rejecting the novel—I never even got to that stage of the process. I couldn’t even get agents to read it. It was so disheartening that when my life got busy—kids, more challenging job—I just directed my focus elsewhere.

But it would be a mistake to blame this mostly on the Big Six publishers. I think we all know who the real person to blame is—and I see him in the mirror every day.

It’s true I couldn’t see a way to publish A Soul to Steal. I invested a lot of blood, sweat and tears in that book, and it was going nowhere. But rather than persisting in writing, I gave up. Some of my distractions were legitimate, like my family. Some were definitely not, like trying to reach 100% completion in the single-player mode of Red Dead Redemption.

Two things woke me up from my stupor. The first was reading about Amanda Hocking’s success in publishing her books on Kindle. The second was watching my dad’s progressive deterioration from Alzheimer’s.

I don’t want this to become another post about this, but my dad was diagnosed when he was 63. At the time, he could blog and still carry on a conversation, but writing was difficult. Fast forward six years, and even talking coherently is a challenge for him. It’s been incredibly hard on my mother, my sister and myself, but it has also unfortunately represented something else: my future.

My dad’s mother had Alzheimer’s. Of her sisters who lived long enough, they all succumbed to the disease. The odds that I will eventually get Alzheimer’s are extraordinarily high. When I see what my father has become, I weep for him, but I am also terrified for myself. His mother was diagnosed at 74. He was diagnosed at 63. For some reason doctors can’t explain, people are getting the disease younger and younger.

So if this is my fate—if I’m even fortunate enough to avoid all the other things before then that could kill me, like cancer or a runaway lumber truck on a highway—it’s possible, even likely, that I will be diagnosed even earlier than my father.

Which leaves me wondering: how much time do I have? I’m 37. Can I make it another 26 years until my dad’s age? Or will it be more like 20? 15? 10?

So the decision to self-publish was ultimately an easy one.

I could sit on the sidelines and wait, hoping that somehow I would break through that huge barrier in front of me and score a traditional book contract. But would that ever happen? And how old would I be if it did?

Or I could publish my book, roll the dice that readers would find it and enjoy it, and try to make my dream come true. I looked at the number of years I might have left and decided to focus on doing what I believe I was meant to do.

I read somewhere once that there comes a time when you realize the distance between who you are and who you want to be becomes an insurmountable gulf. I wanted to leap that chasm before it became too wide.

I decided to self-publish because I understand now that the monster I pretended was hunting me when I was a kid wasn’t made up. It’s real and it has a name. It’s called mortality. And it has teeth.

A Soul to Steal Now Topping the Fantasy Charts: The Benefits of Genre Hopping

I’ve written before about the difficulty of deciding what genre A Soul to Steal belongs in. It’s a mystery that turns into a thriller that then turns into an urban fantasy. Along the way, it contains elements of action adventure and romance to boot.

            For the most part, readers have been excited about the blend of genres, although I’ve also made a few angry in the process. Why? Some were excited about the mystery part of the book but didn’t enjoy it when supernatural elements entered into the plot line. This is a legitimate complaint as far as I’m concerned. If you don’t like the supernatural, the book probably isn’t for you.  

I thought putting the Headless Horseman on the cover was a sign that paranormal elements were included—and I’ve made sure to mention those parts of the book in the description on Amazon—but clearly some didn’t get the message.

            But there are also benefits to genre hopping as well. I originally slotted the novel into Horror/Ghost and Horror/Occult, although I never really felt comfortable about the latter as a category. When I re-launched the book with a new cover in February, I also decided to take it out of Occult and move it to Mystery/Thriller/Suspense. As I detailed here, Amazon doesn’t make it easy to find Horror books in less you specifically go looking for them. Mystery and Thriller, in contrast, is the easiest genre to find.

            But after some of the issues raised in reviews, I started to wonder if Suspense was the best space for the book. Yes, it’s a mystery and a thriller, but it’s also what’s defined as “urban fantasy,” mostly because of the paranormal parts of the novel (which become more significant as the book nears its climax).

            At this stage, I’m also worrying about the two sequels to A Soul to Steal. The second book in The Sanheim Chronicles is in its draft stage—and it fits much easier into urban fantasy than it does mystery. I think fans of the first book will definitely enjoy it—but I also would like all the novels in the series to be sitting in the same place.

            So I decided to try something new during my latest free day promotion on Amazon. I took the novel out of Suspense and moved it to Contemporary Fantasy, hoping to find fans that might not have seen it when it was slotted elsewhere.

            I’m happy to say that so far, at least, it’s paying off. Currently, the book is #1 among FREE fantasy books on Amazon. It’s also #1 in Contemporary Fantasy (Amazon’s description for urban fantasy). I admit it is a thrill to see the novel alongside George R.R. Martin’s Game of Thrones.

            I don’t know, of course, what the result of this experiment will be. Will readers be angry to find a mystery in their urban fantasy novel? I hope not, but you never really know.  But seeing other books in the category, it’s feeling like A Soul to Steal may finally have found its perfect spot.

            Want to find out yourself? The novel is FREE today, May 17, so feel free to download it. If you missed out and are reading this post later, never fear – the novel only costs $2.99, so it’s cheaper than a trip to Starbucks. 

My Novel is Being Featured on USA Today! “An edge-of-your-seat thriller!”

Wanted to share the fantastic news. Over the weekend, USA Today Books featured a terrific review for my novel, A Soul to Steal. Calling it an “edge-of-your-seat thriller,” reviewer Keri English says the novel will keep “you up into the wee hours” and touts its “nice surprise ending.”

“Rob Blackwell introduces the reader to fear in an innovative way: right from the start. A Soul to Steal is simply scary. With the combination of an ancient Celtic myth and the legend of the Headless Horseman, Blackwell's story is a leave-the-light-on kind of page turner….If you like suspenseful thrillers, check out A Soul to Steal.”

Read the rest of the extensive review here: http://usat.ly/KnkqxX

Buy the book here: http://amzn.to/asoul2steal

A Letter to My 16-Year-Old Self -- Advice I Wish I Could Give Myself on Love, Writing, and Growing Up

A college friend of mine, Betsy, asked a few people she knew to write a letter to their 16-year-old selves. Here's what I came up with:

Hey.

I have a few things I need to tell you. Some will be really awesome (your wife is hot) and some will be hard (your dad is going to get Alzheimer’s much sooner than you, he, or anyone, is expecting), but these are things I think you would want to know:

1. Stop Chasing that Girl

You know who I’m talking about and it’s totally cool. There is absolutely nothing to be embarrassed about. You are giving it your best shot, but it isn’t going to work out. Ironically, the strategy you are pursuing is a great one. You are trapped in the “friend” zone. This is a terrible place to be in high school. It is, however, exactly where you want to be later in life. The problem isn’t your approach; it’s just not the right time or person. So don’t be discouraged and don’t worry so much about it.

2. Buy a Tape Recorder

You don’t know this now, but you are a pretty good reporter. I know, right? You aren’t even interested in journalism and the idea of calling people you don’t know makes you sweat. It’s okay. You are actually surprisingly good at asking the right questions to the right people.

By the time you figure this out, though, you will have lost the chance to interview some crucial sources. You need to buy a tape recorder and interview your grandparents extensively on your next visit to them. You want to learn as much as they can tell you about their lives. This is important for learning who they are, but also for understanding more about where you and your parents came from.

3. Spend More Time With Your Parents

Your dad is going to be diagnosed with Alzheimer’s in about 15 years. The incredibly intelligent and gregarious guy you see right now? Enjoy him while you can, because he will disappear bit by bit until you have trouble remembering him. I’m sorry, but there isn’t a damn thing you can do about this. What you can do is set aside more time to hang out with him—and your mom. This is going to take a toll on her, too. This is a great time to be around both of them, so please enjoy it.

4. Stop Listening to Aerosmith

Right now. Later, you will refuse to throw out the 3-CD box set of “Pandora’s Box” because your dad gave it to you as a surprise gift, NOT because you ever want to listen to it.

5. Apply Early-Admission to William and Mary

I don’t know why you didn’t, but honestly, you never wanted to go anywhere else. Going here is a great choice—might as well lock it in right now.

6. Dream Bigger

You have a lot of hopes and dreams, but you have a tendency to worry about what’s “realistic.” Please stop. I know people think you want to be an actor—even you may think this—but you don’t. You do, however, want to write, and you’re largely afraid to admit this. You’ve been writing stories since the sixth grade and tucking them away, never showing them to anyone. You spend 50 percent of your time living in your imagination, thinking about novels you never even plan on writing. You have this strange idea that someone will come up to you and offer you a writing contract. I’ve got news for you: you are going to have to do this on your own. Don’t be too worried, though: it’s going to be fine. But you need to stop being intimidated about writing a book. Stephen King started when he was 17 years old. You should get a jump on him. Oh, and don’t worry about getting it published. Technology and a company named after a river in South America are going to solve that problem for you. Just focus on writing.

7. You Already Know Who You Are

If you ignore everything else in this message, I want you to know this: You are just fine as you are. I know you think you’re a nerd. But believe it or not, nerds are cool now. The last Star Trek movie was a huge hit, people love Lord of the Rings and there is a popular TV show about dorks. Weird, I know. It doesn’t matter anyway. You like to pretend that you don’t care what people think of you. It’s time to stop pretending. You will be much happier.

Sincerely,

Your 37-Year-Old Self 

That's my letter. For Betsy's, check out her blog here: http://youaskalotofquestions.com/ What would you write to yourself if you had the chance? 

G is for Genre #AtoZChallenge

This is a guest post on The Masquerade Crew: 


Aside from a book’s title and cover, its genre is the most important factor in how it is marketed to and discovered by readers. 

Of course I never considered this when I wrote my novel. When I started A Soul to Steal, I thought I was writing a horror novel. That’s about as much thought as I put into it. I never considered that horror meant different things to different people. I was quite comfortable being in the same category as Stephen King, my literary hero, and that’s all there was to it. 

This was a mistake, one I didn’t realize until I had actually published the book. 

Looking back, I had unnecessarily pigeon-holed my book, sticking it in a category that it belonged in, but also limiting its reach and marketability at the same time. Here’s why: 


To read more of this post, please go to the Masquerade Crew here: http://masqueradecrew.blogspot.com/2012/04/g-is-for-genre-atozchallenge.html

Loudoun County and my Southern Identity Crisis

When I heard about the chance to be part of a “Southern Book Tour,” I jumped at the chance. After all, I was raised in Virginia, my novel is set in the state, and I have always considered myself a Southerner.

And yet…

The place I write about—Loudoun County, Va.—and I both have a bit of an identity crisis when it comes to being part of the South.

While outwardly I qualify, I’ve never really been sure if I’m part of the club or not. On the one hand, my credentials are strong. For starters, there’s my name: Robert E. Blackwell—or R.E.B. With initials like that, my parents were definitely trying to send a signal. 

To read more, hop on over to the Bound and Determined Book Blog, which is on a Southern Book Tour -- and also enter for your chance to win A Soul to Steal... 

Here's the link: http://tinyurl.com/7n6xrbg

Dreaming of Death—A Mysterious Building, An Elevator, and a Prophetic Nightmare

Since I published my novel seven months ago, I’ve had my fair share of questions. Since it’s a book with a large paranormal element to it, I’m most often asked if I believe in ghosts or if I’ve ever had an encounter with one.

Although I’ve interviewed people who have seen ghosts, I can’t claim to have ever seen one myself. But I must have some kind of personal paranormal story, right? Something weird? Something that made me suspect that the world isn’t exactly as it seems?

Like most of us, I have a few. I can tell you about the time I performed a Tarot card reading—and was far more accurate than I wanted to be. Or the time I refused to go into a friend’s basement for reasons I couldn’t explain, only to find out much later it had been the scene of a grisly murder.

But I think I’d rather tell you about one of the times that I dreamed of my own death.

I was in the 7^th Grade when we visited Blackstone, Va., with my church youth group as part of a large retreat. Though I had often been away from home as part of the Boy Scouts, the trip was exciting for two reasons: 1) there would be indoor plumbing as well as easy access to Mountain Dew, and 2) there would be girls with us.

Here’s the strange part of the story. From the moment I walked into the place where the retreat was held—and I had never stepped foot in there before—I knew exactly what the layout would be. I knew where the stairs were, the rooms were, what the décor would be like, and basically how to find my way around.

It was very odd. When I walked inside, the entire place felt familiar. Like I had not only been there before, but spent significant time exploring every nook and cranny. This wasn’t something I kept to myself. As soon as we walked inside, I told my friends I had—somehow—seen this place before. I had a friend walk ahead of me, with me telling him what he would find around every corner (before I could see it). Everything was exactly where I said it would be. 

It was only then that I remembered the dream. As is often the case with me, I don’t remember my dreams in the morning: something has to trigger the recollection for me. When I was younger, this was really easy—I’m sad to say it’s much harder now.

Walking around the building and giving my friends an advance guided tour triggered the memory of the dream. In the dream, I had been walking around the inside of a strange place. It was big, empty and spooky. I wandered all around until I came to a hallway off to the left. When I turned the corner, I saw a large trash bin on the right side and a white elevator at the end of the hall. I waited there a moment, not sure what to do, but with a growing sense of dread.

In the dream, the elevator suddenly “dinged” open and when it did, a gust of wind swept down the hallway. The trash bin immediately was pulled into the elevator, which was now a giant, gaping hole. I grabbed the corner of the wall, but everything else was being pulled into the elevator—the pictures on the walls, the carpeting on the floor, everything. Finally, after holding fast for what felt like several minutes, I couldn’t hold on any longer. I was sucked into the elevator too—my last thought before plunging into the darkness was that this would kill me.

Back in real life, I stood there on the first floor of the building and recounted the dream to my friends. Some thought I was lying, others thought that perhaps I had visited the building before (I hadn’t). But one friend agreed to go exploring with me. I had to know: was the elevator in here? And what would happen if I found it?

When we got to the second floor, we crept cautiously through the halls. I knew just where to go, just where the elevator would be. Sure enough, we came to a hallway on the left. We rounded the corner. There on the right side of the hall was the trash bin, just as it had been in my dream. At the end of the hall was the white elevator.

The thing that scared me the most wasn’t that everything in my dream existed in the real world. What was most frightening to me was that there was no one else in that hallway, but the elevator call button—the one you press to make the elevator come to you—was lit up. Just as I registered what it was, I heard the “ding” and the elevator door slid open.

I’m not ashamed to admit it: I ran. I ran like hell, with my friend close behind me. Once safely back to the group, we told them everything. Even though a few made fun of me, I noticed everyone studiously avoided the elevator from that time on, convinced it was a dangerous trap. During that retreat, I never set foot in the elevator—nor, for that matter, got anywhere near the hallway.

So what did it all mean? If I had stepped into the elevator, would something have happened? Did I somehow pick up on some terrible history of the place?

If this were a novel, I could tell you. I’d tell you the secret hidden past of the elevator and how a boy 20 years earlier had vanished near that very spot. I’d tell you how many kids who come to that place have the same terrible nightmare, and how a few even hear the voice of a young boy calling to them as they walk near the hallway.

But truthfully, I don’t know the answers. How could I dream of a place where I had never been? And why did I dream about an elevator that, as far as I know, was perfectly normal? Two years later, when my group returned to that retreat, I took a dare and rode the elevator. I’m still here.

But I will tell you this. When the door shut on me and I was alone in the elevator, I was never more afraid in my life. And I’ve honestly never felt the same about any elevator ride since.

So that’s my real-life paranormal story. What about you? Have any insights into my dream? Have you had any dreams that came true? Leave a comment below!