DRAMA NOVEL ONLINE The Christmas Box Miracle: Chapter 19
It is oftentimes a blessing to not know our limitations.
It’s the only way to accomplish the impossible.
RICHARD PAUL EVANS
IREALIZED THAT IFICOULD repeat the Salt Lake phenomenon on a national scale, my book would be the number-one-selling book in America. Maybe even the world. Again, my naïveté was a blessing. I did not understand how the national publishing machine operated—the power of chains, distributors and publishers and the deals that are made at New York publishing lunches. Salt Lake City was still sufficiently provincial that a small book could make it on its own merit. But competing with the “big boys,” the large publishers and authors, was an entirely different matter.
Fortunately I didn’t know this. The challenges I recognized already seemed insurmountable. Especially the marketing. My entire advertising budget was a meager seven thousand dollars. Senator Bob Bennett had just spent nearly 2 million dollars to sell himself just in Utah. Telling the entire country about my book with only a few thousand dollars of advertising would be like feeding thousands with one loaf of bread.
Of course, national media—a Today show or an Oprah appearance—would change everything, but the odds of being struck by lightning are greater than the odds of being on either show. Not having a publisher reduced my chances still more. Not even the local television stations were interested in my book. Being self-published, I learned, is like competing in the Olympics without a country—they make you run outside the stadium.
The hard truth was, I was an unknown with a little Christmas book. If this war could be won, it would have to be won in the trenches. I would have to visit as many bookstores and book trade shows as I physically could, hoping that word of mouth would quickly spread. It was like shooting flaming arrows into a dry field and hoping that a brushfire might start that would sweep the nation.
My biggest challenge was time. There’s not much interest-in Christmas books before Thanksgiving, and none after Christmas. That gave me a window of about five weeks to sell—not enough time for word of mouth to spread nationally. I needed to find a way to get the word out faster.
As I was contemplating this challenge, an idea came to me. I could give my books to radio stations as Christmas giveaways. I would give twenty-five books to each station, with the only requirement being that they give my book to listeners, with the tag line “If you read only one book this Christmas, it must be this one.” The idea had possibilities, if the stations would do it. They likely wouldn’t. No station wants to give away free airtime.
Still, I reasoned, there are more than seven thousand radio stations in the United States. I figured if I could get just a couple dozen of those stations to participate, it would be worth the attempt. I printed a postcard with the details of the offer and sent it out to every radio station in the country.
More than four hundred stations called back.
•
The book tour I created for myself included several book industry trade shows. It was my best chance to meet booksellers from across the nation. The first show was the ABA’s (American Booksellers Association) in Los Angeles, the mother of all book shows. I had no illusions. I was a small fish in a big pond. (Actually, a minnow in the ocean is a better metaphor.) Still, it was my best chance to get my book into booksellers’ hands.
Publishers Distribution Center and I shipped three thousand books to the event, which we stacked in a large wall of books. With the help of Mike Hurst, the distributor’s new sales manager, and the Beutlers, I worked the booth, handing free copies of my book to everyone who walked by. When not enough booksellers were coming by our booth, Keri and one of the other wives walked the floor of the conference hall handing out flyers until they were stopped by a security guard.
The show was memorable for several reasons. The first was meeting former first lady Barbara Bush. Mrs. Bush had come to promote her new book, Barbara Bush: A Memoir. I stood in line for about a half hour to meet her. I spoke with her for only a moment, just long enough to hand her a copy of my book, and was whisked away. (Years later she would invite me to speak at her literacy conference in Houston and I would spend several wonderful hours with her.)
That same day Mike pointed out a silver-haired man walking toward our booth. “That’s Jack Canfield.”
“Who’s Jack Canfield?” I asked.
“He wrote a book that booksellers are predicting is going to be a big bestseller. It’s called Chicken Soup for the Soul.”
Just then Jack walked up to me, followed by several others, who seemed to be in awe of the rising new author. Jack stopped and examined my stack of books. “May I have a copy?”
“Certainly.” I handed him a book.
“Will you sign it?”
“You want my autograph?” I asked.
“Yes.”
I took the book, signed it and handed it back to him.
“Thank you,” he said. Then, to my surprise, he leaned forward and hugged me. “Good luck,” he said.
The greatest shackles we bear in this life are those forged by our own fears.
THE LOOKING GLASS
A few months later I attended the Mountains and Plains Booksellers Association show in Denver, Colorado. At first things weren’t going quite as well as I had hoped. Even though there were a large number of booksellers in attendance, relatively few of them were in the exhibit hall, where we had rented a booth. Upon further investigation I learned why. The booksellers were either attending break-out sessions or were congregated in the outer hall where the author tables were set up.
It was a routine I would eventually become all too familiar with. Authors, sponsored by major publishers, came four or five at a time, flanked by their media escorts and book show personnel. They sat together at a long table and signed their books while booksellers by the score waited in line to receive not just free books but free autographed books.
Frustrated with the lack of interest in our booth, I had grabbed a stack of my books with the thought of handing them out to booksellers, but I lost my nerve when I saw the line. For several minutes I stood outside the velvet-roped stanchions enviously watching the authors greet the eager bookstore owners and workers.
Then I noticed a vacant chair between two of the authors. Why not just sit down? I thought. The idea was quickly extinguished by fear. Then, as I turned to walk away, I thought, How much do you care about this book? If you’re not willing to fight for it, who will?
I turned back and walked to the side of the authors’ table, then slid behind it. With a cursory nod to the authors at either side, I laid my books on the table in front of me and took a seat. To my horror, a member of the book show staff began walking toward me. Before she could speak, I looked up at her and said, “Sorry I’m late.”
A subtle smile crossed her lips. “May I get you some water?” she asked.
•
I returned to the same show the next year as an invited guest, and now the bestselling author at the table. The same woman was there from the year before. I said to her, “Do you remember me from last year?”
She nodded, with a wry smile.
“Thank you for not throwing me out.”
“I almost did,” she said, “then I thought, What’s it going to hurt?” Then she added, “May I get you some water?”