An Author's Guide to Turning Tricks

Many writer dreams of making it big. We fantasize about winning awards, signing million dollar contracts and landing that sweet agent who'll turn out movie deals like a Sin City hooker turning tricks on  Saturday night.

But wait. Why is the term, "starving artist" still in our vocabulary? If the publishing world is changing so rapidly in favor of the indie author, why aren't we all talking about how rich we're getting?

Okay, I take that back, some authors are talking about their money, but they have all been guests on J.A. Konrath's blog, A Newbies Guide to Publishing. The rest of us just read about them and inhale another hit of hope with each new post, promising ourselves that we'll get another book on Amazon's shelf as soon as we find the cash; you know, to pay the editor, cover designer and professional formating.

Listen, I don't mean to be a party pooper here, but the truth is, and I have to thank my buddy Scott Nicholson for pointing this out in a previous post; this business will not always work as planned. Sometimes, the success of an indie author is pure luck. Sometimes an author can snag a gazillion 5-star reviews and still hang out in the 100,000 zone, which sells what, maybe a few books a month? And some books in the top 100 are holding down 5 well deserved 3.1-star reviews.

Not fair is it?

I don't think any author, indie or otherwise dreams of selling a few books a month when they hit the publish button. No. We dream of bestseller status. We dream of selling books by the thousands.

The truth is, indie fame and fortune, as in any source of fame and fortune is fleeting and rare.

In case you're wondering, this blog post was not written for the seasoned author with 20 bestselling titles. This post was written for the rookie author and the midstream author with one or three titles struggling to stay under six digits.

If I've learned anything in the last few years, I've learned that nothing is guaranteed in publishing. I've learned that I need to get a serious grip on my expectations and as William Esmont, one of my good writer friends has said more than once, "Just enjoy the ride,"when things go well.

And when they don't, keep typing.

As the maker of The Kindle Book Review, I see many wonderful books out there with dazzling reviews that can't seem to make it out of the six digit range. It's quite a conundrum indeed, leaving many first time and midlist authors scratching their heads.

If I'm hitting a nerve, I have a message for you. ~~>Don't give up. Keep writing. Keep marketing.

This industry is based on luck, timing and a wink from the gods, so don't let your current level of success make or break you. This is not a get-rich-quick business. This is a keep writing because you love it business and maybe, just maybe, the stars will align one of these nights and your novel and marketing efforts will start a chain reaction that propels you into stardom.

Ask Stephen King how many words he typed before he sold Carrie. Ask Dean Koontz how many times he was rejected. What makes us any different? This is tough stuff. Expect hardships.

Writing is not for the faint of heart. It's a choice - a choice to persevere through storms, droughts, wind and rain. Writing comes from the heart, not from a bank account, and it will never satisfy or bring an ounce of fulfillment if you do it for money or fame, although we all would like a little change at the end of the day - I get that.

Authors certainly have more choices today than we did two years ago, and it's obvious that indies are gaining credibility and selling more books. But if you're in a rut, if you're having lack luster sales, and if your reviews are crappy, take heart. You're next book will be better. You'll learn from your mistakes. You'll find a better way to market your work. You'll meet a more talented cover artist. You'll read a few more books on writing, and you'll make a few more connections.

Keep your eyes on the keyboard, my friend, but always look forward. Turning tricks isn't about one hot night on the town. It's about standing on the street corner night after night, taking your blows (I didn't mean it like that) and putting in your time.

Nothing good rarely happens overnight. The road to publishing success, no matter which road you choose, no matter how much hype that's out there, will take years of hard work, studying, reading, thick skin, and connections, all while sliding down a never ending learning curve.

But you can do it. Be patient. Keep writing. And keep sticking your leg out. You're bound to turn a trick one of these days.

Oh, and please, share this post, and for God's sake sign up for my blog via email and get my weekly posts delivered right to your inbox - You won't regret it!

Jeff Bennington
@TweetTheBook
Author of Reunion and other thrillers.

Federal Underground

I don't do this very often, but here's a sneak peak at Federal Underground, my current work in progress. Not much to say except that I hope you like it. I'm sure you'll understand that I cannot reveal the synopsis at this time. As always, comments are appreciated.

Federal Underground

By Jeff Bennington

Chapter 1

My legs strained to climb the dark and musty mineshaft as I ran from the depths of the federal underground. My hands scraped the edges of the rocky wall, caking my fingernails with dirt and decades of filth. Every step I took injected a cold burn into my lungs, every breath thrust me beyond the point of exhaustion. My red jump suit smelled of the underworld and clung to my skin, wet and ragged. I stopped running for a moment and rested my body on the earthen wall.

I could barely stand.

My body trembled with terror.

I remember thinking that my legs felt like liquid tissue, jellifying beneath my skin. When I put my hands to my chest, I could feel my heart pumping to the rhythm of my fears, thumping, thumping, thumping anxiety through my veins. The running, my memories and the book had taken me to Hell and back. The climb through the abandoned mineshaft had become my last hope. I knew I was close. I knew the tunnel would get me outside; my friend, Seven, had told me so and I believed him.

 Sweat flowed down the lines of my face like a river. I wiped lakes of perspiration from my eyes, but more followed. The resting eased the pain in my lungs and stiffened my leg muscles. I didn’t think I could continue. I felt so dizzy. Just breathe, I thought. Keep breathing…keep moving.

I looked back. They’ll kill me if I don’t get out of here. The thought was enough to push me forward. With my hands guiding my withering frame through the cave and a headlamp lighting my way, I lifted my eyes, inhaled the smell of dusty death and noticed a faint luminescence further down the passageway. The light invigorated my spirit and the rush of the whistling wind ahead strengthened my resolve.

Air. Real air. I had forgotten what it tasted like, what it smelled like.

I ran my hand across my hairless scalp and felt the heat—I was so hot—I took a energizing breath, pumping strength into my lungs. When I looked back into the darkness my eyes wrinkled and my throat filled with a fearful lump as I remembered the last forty-eight hours—two days that would forever change my life.

I stepped forward, climbed over a pile of fallen timbers and quickened my pace. The light drew near, shimmering through what looked to be a tiny crevice in the distance. The air felt thinner, smelled fresher, tasted cleaner. Tiny rocks and rubble shifted beneath my feet, but I kept my balance by pressing my hands against the narrow walls. The light grew brighter and I could hear the wind blowing, watch the dust stirring. I began to wonder what I’d see at the mouth of the cave: a mountain range? a river? I distinctly remember thinking I don’t care! Anywhere is better than here.

The path continued to rise and the burn returned to my legs. I squinted and covered my eyes with my hand, guided by the sunshine that streamed between my fingers. I could taste my freedom. My feet pounded faster and faster, dragging slightly from fatigue, fleeing the Hell that I had discovered below the crust of the earth. My mind felt as if it were a storm of trauma imploding my understanding of the universe. I staggered to the top of the mineshaft and my filthy body burst out of the mouth of the tunnel into a blinding bath of light, like a jet blasting through billowing clouds at thirty thousand feet.

I stopped, closed my eyes, swallowed the fresh air with my hands behind my head and fell to my knees. Blood rushed to my head and I was overcome with nausea and dizziness. I could feel tears escaping and a swell of stress rumble out of that hidden place where fear takes cover until it can safely escape. In that moment, I felt liberated and cleansed, but the joy of my deliverance was cut off by the sound of a click. I suddenly felt as if I were being watched. Although I knew my brain couldn’t handle the brilliance of the sun without disorienting my equilibrium, I opened my eyes, squinted into a blur of light and shadows. A gust of wind blew into my ears followed by an angry chorus of voices.

“Federal Agents! Get on the ground!”

I peered at the blurry figures, lost in the daylight and the openness of the vast blue sky. Queasiness filled my throat and chest, and my head began to spin as I feared it would. There must have been ten shadows surrounding me, clicking and shouting. “Get on the ground! Get on the ground! Now!”

Their bodies came into focus in that fraction of a second. They were human. They had guns. Their faces looked jumbled, but the desert like mountains, pines and shale cliffs in the distance began to take form. It was Dulce—Dulce, New Mexico. I knew where I was even though I had never been there.

Before I could fully lift my eyelids, a brief sense of gladness rose within me. I felt like weeping. I felt like laughing. And then I felt my face slam into the rocky ground with a thud.

One by one the men backed away, whispering as their feet shuffled over the ground. All I could see were the mountains far off in the distance, a sharp drop off and dozens of shoes, some military boots and some dress shoes.

I spit out a clump of dirt from my mouth and forced my head upward, hoping to catch a glimpse of my captors. The dark figures that stood around me huddled in groups of three or four, snapping pictures and taking notes on their hand held devices. One of the suits, looked familiar. When my eyes connected with hers, she took a step forward, bent down and stared directly at me. I knew her face, but I couldn’t speak her name. I couldn’t remember.

I watched her lips move. “Penn?”

Her voice seemed to blow with the mountain breeze. “Pennnn?”

The mountains, her face and the sounds coming from her mouth began to fade. “Pennnnn Miiiitcheeeellle?”

Her shadowy figure stooped closer to me. I blacked out.  

A True Ghost Story from 2010

In the fall of 2010, my wife and I went on a weekend getaway with some friends of ours. We rented a really cool cabin in Nashville, Indiana equipped with hot tub, gas grill and pool table. Nestled in a cozy hillside, the joint had a beautiful wraparound porch and an exquisite view of the southern Indiana countryside. The sun shone through the tree and the air felt crisp and cool.

I was in Heaven.

We unpacked, started the gas log and settled into our perfect retreat. We had a fun evening planned of shopping, cards and watching horror flicks.

After we settled in, we decided to head into town to walk through the many shops and galleries. The storefronts were lined with pumpkins and hay bales, making hot-apple cider a perfect refreshment. The evening went as planned and we returned to our cabin ready to warm our bones and watch House on Haunted Hill.

Before I knew it, the other three started getting sleepy and we decided to hit the sack.

A couple hours later, around 2:00 a.m., I woke up dripping with sweat. The upper loft had very little airflow. I felt so flipping hot I couldn’t stand it. My wife slept like a baby, but I had to get out of there!

I lumbered down the steps and listened to the creaks and cracks in the rafters caused by the whistling wind. Believe it or not, I enjoyed the sounds coming from the rustic structure. I peered at the leather couch; it looked so cool and inviting. For a moment I imagined sprawling out into its cushiony spread, but I heard a strange noise coming from the kitchen and my skin melted off my face.

I looked around and didn’t see anything unusual. The open concept left nothing to hide. The stairs opened to the living room, dining room and kitchen. Our friend’s bedroom and bath were the only other rooms on the first floor and they too were within eyeshot. After giving the cabin a final inspection from where I stood, I lay down on the couch, snuggled into my bed sheet and closed my eyes.

The noises continued.

I listened like a cat, but the little squeaks and groans seemed to be coming from every direction. No big deal, I thought. It’s just a cabin. Get over it and fall asleep. 

Then, something curious happened. The creaking floorboards began to move closer to me. One at a time I’d hear what sounded like footsteps rolling across the wood floor, carefully pressing down, trying not to be heard. My heart, as you can imagine hammered in my chest, nearly bursting through my ribcage. I looked through the TV screen to see if there was anyone walking behind me, but I didn’t see anything. Then when this thing, whatever it was, pressed into the floor right next to the couch, I couldn’t take it, I sat up, turned my head toward the open space and heard a voice forcefully whisper, “Hello!”

This wasn’t a quiet, don’t let them hear you whisper. Oh, no! This was a, I’m not presently living in your dimension, so I’m screaming at you type of whisper.

I panicked, jumping straight up like the cat that I was, nearly falling off the couch. 

As I turned I saw a dark silhouette, adding to my near death experience. Seconds later, I realized that the shape beside me was only a floor lamp, but that didn’t make me feel any better. My heart continued pounding like a jackhammer.

For no less than thirty minutes, I felt an electric energy buzzing through my body. I felt as if something hovered over me, almost nose-to-nose, staring at me. I peered through the corner of my eye but couldn’t see anything—nothing physical anyway. But I knew in the deepest part of my soul that something was there. I lay frozen in place, like an icy Neanderthal in the Tibetan icecaps.

My eyes searched for movement, but found nothing. I did see, however, a showy figure moving side to side in the reflection of the microwave door. It was the strangest thing. There were no ceiling fans spinning or curtains waving. Everything stood still—everything except the dancing shadow. At that point, I couldn’t take it anymore. I ran back up the stairs to my personal boiler room and slid under the covers with my wife.

Still, the energy followed me.

After several minutes of fighting my fears, I finally fell asleep.

The next morning, I woke to the smell of biscuits and gravy and the sound of coffee percolating in the kitchen. My wife and friends, like myself, were shuffling their feet like the undead, trying their best to navigate with squinted, puffy eyes. We eventually sat down to eat.

In a moment of silence, Sarah, my friend’s wife asked if anyone heard anything in the night. I looked at her curiously and asked why. She said, “Because someone was tugging at our doorknob, off and on, for about an hour sometime around three in the morning.” She thought we had mistaken her room for the bathroom, but she was too tired to get out of bed. She also said that at one point in the night she felt like someone was standing beside her, but she was too scared to look.

After she told her story, I shared my experience. I affirmed that I never left the living room until I ran upstairs, and that I never walked toward their bedroom.

We all sort of let our suspicions cool for a while. But then my buddy opened up the guest logbook; the kind where each visitor can leave a message to the cabin owners about their experience. And wouldn’t you know it; the book was filled with story after story about a spirit that inhabited the structure. 

They call him Earl.

Some of the visitors claimed that he was a gentle ghost, mostly curious, and only somewhat troublesome. Others rebuked the owners for not disclosing the fact that malevolent spirits had haunted the cabin. Me? I don’t know what that thing was, but it scared the hell out of me.

The upside to coming face to face with Earl is when I write supernatural thrillers, I can honestly communicate what it feels like to be petrified by something that you can’t explain. I know what it sounds like when a spirit is moving. I know that electrifying sensation when a ghost is standing beside me. I know that there are things out there—things we can’t see. But I also know that where there is darkness, there is also light, and that is all I need to know to keep my sanity.


Jeff Bennington
Author of Reunion, a supernatural suspense.

Feel free to read my excerpts, grab a short story, or support my writing addiction by buying a book.

Everything you do Matters

You may not know it, but everything you do matters.

Every mistake.

Every victory.

Every word.

Everything you do matters because choices have consequences; some make life better and some make it worse. And with our busy lifestyles today, I think we forget how important we are to others. I think we lose track of the power of our words, our actions, and at times, our inaction. 

Recently, my nine-year old daughter sent a letter to Bethany Hamilton, the young lady who lost her arm in a surfing accident in 2003. My daughter was so inspired by the movie, Soul Surfer, that all she could talk about this summer was surfing, the ocean, and Bethany Hamilton. Then when she discovered that she could join Bethany's fan club, oh my gosh, you would've thought she won the lottery. 

A couple weeks later, my precious little nine-year old gets a letter in the mail with a return address from Hawaii. To our surprise, Bethany sent posters, post cards of Hawaii, and even wrote a personalized response to my daughter's letter that included a prayer regarding questions she asked about surfing. My little girl was ecstatic and I was floored.

I had to watch the movie and find out what this surfer chick was all about. 

Of course, I cried. 

The movie was great, but the message is what really stuck with me. 

The message: We might experience the greatest moments imaginable, but we could also be dealt a devastating blow when we least expect it. How we respond to those moments matters. And Bethany responded beautifully. At her lowest point she was ready to give in, to quit surfing, and drop out of life all together, but she didn't. When she read through the fan mail and letters of support that came in by the truck loads, she realized that she had a unique opportunity to influence and inspire. 

The point I want to make is that everyone of us has a unique opportunity to influence and inspire. If you work and live with people, every word you say has the power to encourage or beat down. Your words matter. 

If you're a coach, you can inspire greatness or generate defeat. Your methods matter. 

If you're a parent, you can communicate love and acceptance. Your parenting style matters. 

If you're a writer, you can stir imaginations and inspire thinking. Your prose matters.

Teens, the way you treat others can change the world, because one kind word can stop a suicide. 

Everything you do matters, today, every minute, every second. 

We often rush through the day without thinking about our potential to influence the world around us. When we forget, we stop living with purpose and we start living within ourselves, a place that usually impacts others in a negative way. So take a minute before you say or do anything else and focus on the people around you. Then, make a conscious effort to  inspire and encourage, smile, give a hug, don't complain, work harder, plan better - live intentionally.

You may not have a million fans, but if you live your life like it matters, you'll have more than you thought possible. Just ask Bethany.  

Jeff Bennington

Author of Reunion & other thrillers

The Story Behind the Teen Killer

I remember watching the news on April 20, 1999 and the days and weeks that followed, disturbed and shell-shocked at what had happened in Littleton, Colorado. 

I stared at my television, absolutely distraught, watching helicopters flying overhead and the terrorized faces of the students as they wandered outside seeking and offering comfort. Do you remember that? Do you remember how you felt?

Do you remember that cold, heavy feeling that fell from your chest, into your gut, weighing you down like you were carrying the universe on your shoulders?

I do.

I felt sick.

And that’s where the idea of my latest novel, Reunion, came to life. I started to think about the survivors and what their lives would be like ten or twenty years later. I wondered what the long-term consequences would be. I wondered if they’d be able to cope, to live normal lives, to have normal relationships. I often thought about the immediate break, for lack of a better word, that they must have experienced as their lives, young and forward looking, changed in an instant—literally in a flash.

Those wonderings haunted me for years, reminding me again and again, after the other shootings that followed, including those in my home states of Indiana and Ohio. Columbine wasn’t the first and there have been over a hundred since then, in the United States alone. Still, I don’t think we’ve grown numb to these atrocities and I hope we never do.

Fast forward to 2007.
The Virginia Tech shooting reminded me of that dark feeling once again, nurturing my questions, feeding my muse. Then in 2009, my questions finally began to take root. David Ray, the killer and troubled teen in Reunion started to develop in my mind. From there, the story began to unfold and the other characters took on their own personalities.

My wonderings started to stir the character stew boiling inside my head. Who were David’s victims? Why did he do it? What was his state of mind? Was he bullied? Who bullied him? What were the students doing the morning of the shooting? What were they thinking the day their lives turned upside down? How did their futures deviate from that moment forward? 

Jared Cano, Teen arrested for suspected bomb threat.

Just this week, Tampa police arrested expelled student, Jared Cano, for threatening to detonate an explosive devise at Freedom High School. Can you imagine the horrific nightmare that would've played out if Jared had succeeded?

Thank God he didn't!
Thank God he's locked up and facing many, many years in prison.

Jared is unfathomably similar to David Ray, the young killer in Reunion, and I can't imagine the damage someone like David could do in real life.

After learning about Jared's plot, I've returned to my wonderings and I'm convinced more than ever that  the topic of school shootings, bullying and school violence in general must be addressed not only in our daily lives but in literature as well.

But creating a realistic and powerful novel that addresses so many issues isn't easy.

I researched PTSD (post-traumatic stress disorder) and the public lives of some of the survivors so I could understand, as best I could, how they've suffered. I filled my black book with notes and names and timelines and general goals for each chapter, but then I let the twists and turns happen in their own way as the characters lived out the tale according to their design and the complexities that are inherent with PTSD.

Reunion is not only a novel about the dark, supernatural side of humanity; it’s a story about finding hope in horrific circumstances that appear hopeless. It's a story about retracing your life when it veers off course. Reunion is my second born as far as novels go. I would practically die for her. She’s tender. She’s dark. She’s horrific. She's romantic. She’s full of hope and beauty, and frightening at the same time.

And isn't that what life is like? Thank God it's not always tragic and that some nightmares never come to fruition.

If you read Reunion and recover from the triumphantly chilling experience, I hope you walk away with more than a good read. I didn't write it simply to entertain. I wrote Reunion to create a better understanding of school violence and bullying and to offer hope—hope that this life is not all there is, and to leave you grateful for the precious few moments we are given.

Thanks for reading.

Why not get your copy of Reunion at Amazon, Barnes & Noble or anywhere books are sold online? 

- Jeff Bennington

Building Bare-Naked Suspense

Think about your favorite thriller. 

What was it that made you catch your breath? What was it that kept you awake at night, nervously peeking over your pillow at the slightest creak in the floorboards? Was it a monster, a ghost, a serial killer? Or was it the writing style?

I’d like to think that one could create a suspenseful situation without a dark entity or supernatural element.

But what fun would that be? We like being scared because it gets our heart rate up, saving us from sweaty, labor-intensive exercise; a completely unnecessary activity for one who keeps a titillating, suspense-filled book handy at all times. Besides, ghosts have always done a great job of stimulating our fears because you never really know if there’s one residing in your house, roaming the halls late at night.

But you know, if we grew dependent on ghosts, specters, phantoms and evil spirits, we’d miss out on the pure, literary art in creating suspense out of thin air; what I call, bare-naked suspense.

Therefore, out of respect for the many ways one can scare, frighten, petrify, terrorize and otherwise put the fear of God into one’s heart, I would like to invite you to join me in the process of titillation, by creating a brief moment of suspense in this snippet of flash fiction.

I wrote this for you; a bare-naked suspense. I hope you enjoy it…

Murdoch’s Eyes

Sand filtered through Gina’s toes as she sprinted across the powdery granules. Her dress danced across her thighs and her heart beat rapidly. The crash of the waves, the tidal winds and salty air confused her mind. These were supposed to be the sounds of relaxation, not distress.

Murdoch had acted rather awkward, she thought. No, freaky was a better word. She had to get out of there. He went to the kitchen to get her a drink and she didn’t waste a minute. Gina darted out of the condo, leaving the party without saying a word to anyone. She slipped out the back door, onto the deck and down the spiral staircase.

When her heels hit the sand, she pulled her shoes off and started running. She could feel his anger brewing, burning like red-hot coals. He’d sensed her rejection and she knew it.

When he returned, she was gone. He sat Gina’s sex-on-the-beach on the coffee table and began searching through the crowd of partiers.

Gina could feel Murdoch’s eyes seeking her, heating up, fists clenching. 

She could see her car through the beach grass, parked on the side of the road. Her legs strained up the sandy hill. Her breath grew heavy, her hair disheveled, curls straightening.

She gripped the handle. Pull. Locked. “No!”

“The damn thing’s locked-not now-not today!”

Mudoch’s eyes burned into her brain-green maniacal things staring into her subconscious, transcendentally finding her with his metaphysical GPS system. He squinted, working his thoughts into hers, breathing methodically like an artificial respirator. He blocked out the music and voices and clanging glasses, focusing only on Gina-his Gina.

Panic filled every cell of her body.

Laughter shot from his brain to hers.

She knew he had found her; the shiver down her spine had told her so. Sweat beaded on her forehead. A blonde strand of hair stuck to her lips. She called out, hands trembling, whispering her fears to no one but herself.

“My God, who is this guy? What’s he doing to me?”

She could see him staring. She could hear him breathing.

“My keys!”

 She dug through her purse. Nothing. She dumped the contents on the side of the road, rummaging through receipts and lipsticks, but the keys were not there. Did I leave them at the house, she wondered? Her shoulders sank as a feeling of hopelessness fell heavy upon her. 

Murdoch reached into his pants pocket, grabbed her keychain and began twirling it between his fingers. He watched the keys dance, delighted, smirking as the green windows to his soul led Gina back.

The End

 Jeff Bennington

Author of Reunion

Please subscribe by email and then go to My “Free Stuff” page and get a free copy of The Rumblin’, my short suspense!

5 Reasons Why Indie Authors Are Succeeding

Welcome to The Writing Bomb.

I've been consulting with two publishers recently and I've discovered five golden nuggets of information. One of these two publishers is a high end, high-quality vanity press; the other is an up and coming, recently restructured, shared-publishing press. They are digitally behind the times and still operating as if digital publishing is irrelevant to their authors.

They have a bitter sweet taste in their mouths because, I think, they have been taken off guard. It was only two or three years ago that vanity presses were booming and desperate authors were dishing out thousands to get their words in print.

I've talked directly with the editors of these publishing houses, listened to their questions and vision, and I've been introduced to their processes. In doing so, I've discovered something quite interesting: Indie authors know the state of publishing and without a shadow of doubt have a leg up on the latest ebook and publishing trends.

Does that surprise you?

Indie authors are gaining ground not only in popularity and credibility, but we are the force behind the changes in this exciting new industry. From what I've seen, some publishers are beginning to need us more than we need them. Here are five reasons why Indie authors are succeeding!

5 Reasons Why Indie Authors are Succeeding

• Indie authors are in the trenches. We are battle hardened warriors who have had to endure the scars of rejection, ascending the depths of failure over and over again, fighting our way to publication tooth and dirt-filled nail. As a result, we've read every book on style, marketing, html, advanced blogging and "how-to" on social media. We've paid to self-publish, discovered the faults of vanity presses and have mastered the art of publishing ebooks and print with the business finesse of Jack Welch. We are starting our own publishing companies and living our dream without the help of the big six (Examples: HauntedComputer.com and Imajinbooks.com). 

• Indies are technically savvy. In general, a growing number of Indie authors know how to effectively publish our books to every major online retailer for next to nothing. We know how to format our ebooks properly. We know how to make effective covers ourselves. We know how to add links to our ebooks and get blurbs. We've had to learn these skills because the very act of keeping us out of the publishing arena has driven us underground where we have mastered the latest technologies.

• We know how to promote our work for next to nothing. Indie authors talk. We tweet. We email. We share information and the latest trends at a rate that would leave Google's mainframe in the dust. We've been building online relationships in our underground world and lo and behold, we've developed our platforms and relationships with book bloggers and reviewers. We've created a community that supports and publicizes each other's work...for FREE! In the process, we've gained readers on our own, not by might, but through our determination and the quality of our work.

• Indie authors have zero overhead. We work out of our garages and bedrooms and home offices.  Our greatest expense is our computer, a cheap tool that we already own. We list our books for .99¢ and grow our readership by offering great deals, without imposing ridiculous prices on the very people who support our efforts. John Locke is the obvious example of how Indies can flourish with rock bottom price points. 

• Indie authors are strategically positioned for succeess in the ebook market. After taking a brutal beating from indie haters, and amazon discussion forums we've learned (or at least most of us have learned) to focus on quality (editing, cover, layout). For the most part, we've matched our quality with traditional publishers and we are improving exponentially. Indie authors are winning awards, getting rave reviews (see The Kindle Book Review), selling by the tens of thousands and making a serious dent into the digital market share. Just look at the Amazon bestseller list; you'd be shocked at how many are independent authors. From a business stand point, we are in a prime position. We have a lean business model. We are the experts in our filed. And we are highly motivated!

Disclaimer: I don't mean to knock traditionally published authors. They have earned their success with equal effort and in many cases, greater skill. Kudos.

If you're an indie author, I commend you for your efforts, self-discipline and perseverance. You came to the publishing party with your pen and paper and desire to share your stories. Little did you know that you'd stumbled into a world of digital publishing that is actually working in your favor. Throw your shackles off, write free little birdies and publish your own destiny! 

If you're a reader, I hope you join the revolution. In the end, you are the ultimate beneficiary because when you buy a .99¢ - $2.99 ebook, you save as much as $13 per book where the author is only making 35¢ or maybe a couple of bucks at most. 

But just so you know, each 35¢ tastes as sweet as a drop of honey.

Jeff Bennington
Author of Reunion, Killing the Giants & The Rumblin


Be sure to follow by email at the top right!

When Dreams Are Lost

The grill billowed with smoke. Your stomach growled. Children frolicked in the yard and your mouth watered as you savored the flavors of life. You could practically taste the grizzle and ketchup and hot dog bun in your mouth. Your mom threw in some chips and soda and you were in heaven.

As usual, you played until the street lights came on and when you laid in your bed at the end of the day you dreamed of who you'd become.

You were young. You were fresh. You were exactly who you were supposed to be and your dreams were bigger than life.

If you were like me, you wanted to be a stunt man and jump the Snake River like Evel Knievel, soaring by the power of your will. Or maybe you wanted to be a dancer, a drummer, or a writer.

Then life happened.

You got pregnant. You went to college. You started a career, working long hours, hoping to get ahead while you paid your bills. Sometimes, you thought about your secret dreams when no one was looking. Of course they were there, hiding, waiting, still electrified with that youthful energy you once had. But you pushed them aside.

You gave your time to your children. You gave your time to your wife or husband. You gave your time to remodeling that house and it drained the life out of you, but you wouldn't change a thing. Your family has made you who you are, loving you through the highs and lows of life.

And yet through it all, you never forgot your dreams. Thoughts of leaping the Grand Canyon and writing your magnum opus have faithfully remained at your side, calling, whispering to you, hoping that you'd drag them from your memories, and realize them for what they are.

Let me ask you a question; do you hear your dreams calling, or are you blocking out the noise with the business of life?

I hope you're listening, because your dreams will never stop calling you. They're a part of the child that still exists inside of you. Your dreams are who you're meant to be. And if you have a dream, there's no reason why it shouldn't, at the very least, be your hobby.

Of course, you've made choices and you've learned to accept them. Good for you. You did the hard thing, the important things.

But listen...for just a moment...and remember who you are. You are what you dream.

You can dream big, or you can dream small, but dreams unrealized are nothing at all.

Jeff Bennington
Author of Reunion at age 40.

The End of Our Innocence

The early morning couldn't have been any colder. The stars hid behind clouds that hammered me with icy bullets and I peddled as fast as I could. My shiny BMX bike was my partner, my chrome stallion, carrying me through storm, sun and snow. I shivered. I dripped. But the rain in my eyes and the water on my lips was beautiful, a fresh taste of innocence.

I had wrapped sixty-seven copies of The Cleveland Plain Dealer with care. I bound them with Kmart-issued rubber bands, slipped plastic covers over each one and then tossed them with squinted-eye accuracy.

No one knew how hard I worked except me.

On Fridays I'd come to collect. I'd walk through the front doors of pleasant grandmothers, carrying my ring of collection cards, dreaming of how I'd spend my profits. Mrs. Willis and a few of my favorite clients tipped me with cookies and a smile and watched as I rode off into the sunset. Some of my customers, however, were scary and smelled bad, likely pedophiles hoping I'd stay for candy and a movie.

I never stayed. I had plans. I was hungry for an Orange Crush and Doritos and I wasn't about to let a round-belly pervert, or rainy day, or snowdrift stop me from getting what I wanted.

I was a paperboy dagnabit!

The year was 1980 and I was ten-years old in a world that seemed to be glowing, bursting with dreams and thick with possibilities. The music was awesome and if you had a boombox on your shoulder and a bandanna wrapped around your ankle you were well on your way to stardom.

Looking back on those days I wonder how I made it unscathed and unmolested! Just two weeks ago a nine year-old girl was abducted from her bicycle not ten miles away from my home in broad daylight. They found her but she's traumatized as you can imagine. Unfortunately, her story is all too common today. Yet in 1980 I could go anywhere on my bike, wild, free and unafraid. All I needed was 50¢ for a pop and candy bar to satisfy my sugar addiction.

A lot has changed since then, don't you think? We grew up. We graduated from paperboy, to husband, to parent and landed in a world filled with busyness, stress, iPhones, iPads and everything except simplicity.

Have you noticed that people smile less and neighbors act like strangers?

We've shut ourselves in, less impressed with the wild world around us and more dazzled by larger than life personalities like Charlie Sheen and the winners on America Idol.

If we could only see life with the same eyes that witnessed 1980 from our BMX bikes, maybe we'd smile a little more and regain some of that innocence. My kids have it. I see it in their eyes. They spy a planet full of fun and freedom and summer dreams. And all I can do is worry that someone will invite them in for candy and a movie?

You know, I think its time I go for a bike ride through town with nothing more than a couple bucks to get a coke and a snickers and sit on the curb with a few buddies. The end of our innocence has come with a price, but I think we can recoup it for less than we think.

Life's too short to forget how sweet the taste of rain is on our lips.

Jeff Bennington
Author of Reunion

Letter to the Beginning Indie Author

Dear Indie Author,

Over the last two years, I’ve learned so much about publishing and marketing, but more importantly, I’ve learned that I’ve had expectations of an industry that does not bend to my wishes. Without boring you with the usual “get edited and a good book cover” redundancy, I’d like to share 5-Fascinating Facts I’ve learned that might help you with your book launch, and prepare you for an industry that’s filled with vipers and wild stallions.

1.     A Crash is Coming! If you’re a new or newer author without a platform, be prepared for a sales crash soon after your release. No matter how hard you market your book before you let that baby fly, you will only be able to reach so many people. Think about your family, friends, twitterverse, and facebook cult members. You may have hundreds or even thousands of peeps cheering for you, but they will only take your sales so far. A couple hundred sales on day one are great, but they will not keep your sales rolling. The rest is up to you. The days or weeks after a book launch to a newer author can feel like you’re the Grand Marshall of a parade who walked ten miles into an uninhabited desert, only to discover that you’re waving and smiling at no one. 

I don’t mean to discourage or scare you away from publishing your work. I do, however, want to prepare you for the rocky road ahead. Just be tough, and wait. There are a few affordable and effective marketing tools, but that’s another post all together.

2.     Dig Deep. If you’re an indie author or published with a small press, remember that you will be responsible for almost all of your marketing. There will be no paid book tours, no TV ads, and little to no internet marketing other than your publishers web page, mostly viewed by other authors looking to publish their book.  Dig your heels in deep, and plan to work hard, filling every extra minute of your time doing something to promote your novel while simultaneously writing your next book.

3.     Grow Gator Skin. No matter what your expectations are, be prepared for a let down. Grrrr. I hate to say that, especially because I’m usually very positive, but I have to be honest about this. I can’t be sure, but I’d bet that most authors have dreams and fantasies about the sales of their book and how much everyone is going to love it. But when the reviews and sales trickle in slower and less enthusiastic than expected, we can hit a wall…a very hard and dark wall, bringing some to the point of depression.

My point is this: Adjust your expectations and remember that you’re one of thousands of authors who picked that special day to publish and you will be competing against all of them, like a single droplet of water floating amidst Niagara Falls. Don’t take it personal. That’s just the way it is. Most writers begin to grow a hardened layer of skin at this point, an undesirable yet necessary part of authorship.

4.     More is Merrier. Prepare for the long haul. As you may have read, J.A. Konrath, Scott Nicholson and other successful indie authors agree that the key to indie success is having a damn good book, and having lots of them. As a newer author you generally have two choices: market yourself into a bestseller (i.e. going broke on an ad campaign), or prepare for the long haul. Many of these bestselling indie authors did not enjoy their successes until they had several books out. This is the “Getting more shelf space” concept, which means the more books you have on the digital bookshelf, the more visible you will become. Again, that will take time. Plan on this when you begin publishing that first or second novel. It will save you a lot of pain and Prozac.

5.     Build a Scaffold. Remember that your first book is an opportunity to build your platform, a scaffold to reach your dreams, not necessarily a shortcut to fortune and fame. Just because Joanna Penn wrote a top rated fiction on her first try, doesn’t mean you will, even if your book is head and shoulders better than Pentecost.

Joanna has put in her time blogging, guest blogging, videoing, writing non-fiction and developing literary relationships for years. Respect that. And know that if you are just joining the battle against the gatekeepers of the publishing world, you will have to put in your time, build an audience and continue to master the craft of writing. I am of the opinion that guest blogging is a great tool to accomplish this (I’ll address this later at my post-blog tour guest spots). For now, plan to schedule a blog tour, blog blitz, or guest blog anywhere you can to share your experiences and talk about your book.

This won’t be the last time you hear me say this, but I think writing is one of the most demanding professions around.  Writing and publishing is tough and it will test your character. As I stated in an article I wrote for The Best Damn Creative Writing Blog, Many great books have risen to the top and then sank to the bottom of the literary ocean, rusting and watching the crabs walk over their pages.

All I’m saying is… it’s best to prepare yourself for the ups and downs of the publishing experience before you come buzzing into an empty circus arena. And it is a circus. There are wonderful people who will help you along your journey, but also a few mean spirited folks as well. So wrap yourself with a breathable coat of thick skin and get that book published! But don’t stop there; write the next one and the next one and the next one until publishing becomes more about your full line of books than your breakout novel.

Of course there’s always room for a literary anomaly, and I hope you are that author. For the rest of us, as in the hundreds of thousands of the rest of us, we must ride our books like wild stallions, not knowing which way they may go, but carefully plotting the course for the long ride ahead. BOOM!

-Jeff Bennington

Author of REUNION 

Creator of The Kindle Book Review