Notes on a scam
When I launched this site my first contact was from a literary agent. I was impressed, especially since they extolled the virtues of my talent by meticulously dissecting one of my books. And they really seemed to know what they were talking about because they appeared to have read it and thought about it and found a niche where they claimed I had a bigger public than I do now.
I'm not usually this stupid and, yes, I know about ChatGPT. But making the site had been arduous. Even deciding to make the site was arduous. I call it a moment of weakness.
Promotionally, I'm pretty low-key. Or lazy or shy. I don't put myself out. I write. Isn't that enough? (short answer, no). As sales figures show, my first books were a secret. But reviews were good. A critical success, I told myself. I can live with that.
Suddenly, I couldn't. Now I was being sought after by an agent who, among the millions of books being left hung out to dry, had chosen mine.
Sure, I asked questions. Sure, I wanted proof. And presto! I got it. A link to a publisher's website with names and qualifications and lists of books by best-selling authors they claimed to have published. Only later, did I notice the lack of contact info or physical address. My only contact was that literary agent with a gmail email.
Of course, I should have known better. But that's the nature of flattery. Somewhere, deep down, I knew it was over the top. But I believed. Faith can be very seductive.
Then, as if on a clock, the subject of money came up. Mine. Not much, they said. Just enough to cover initial expenses. All it would take was my credit card and we were off to the races! Fame and fortune awaited! All I had to do was keep writing. They'd do the rest.
That's when I stopped responding. But each day they came back. So, I stuck their email in spam and moved on, wiser but embarrassed as hell. This wasn't a talent scout. This was a scam.
Then a couple of weeks later another literary agent contacted me. And about the same book. They were just as knowledgeable about the story and just as passionate about my future. I've admitted to being stupid, but clearly they thought I was stupider still.
Now, here's the clincher. The day before first contact, I came across a site offering a free database listing to indie authors. I won't name it here. Who knows? Maybe it's legit. Since it was free, I put one in. And it was the very book all the 'agents' had gone on and on about.
I'm not saying the site is anything other than it claims to be - a helping hand for independent writers - but the coincidence is striking. I enter a title in their database and the next day I'm scammed. Not scammed, actually. I didn't go all the way. But there was some heavy petting.
Indie authors are always sending off copies of their work, for promotion or as ARCs, to people we decide to trust. There's always a risk of theft. But credit cards? Woah.
If you're a writer, or if you know one, tell them to think before making new friends. Check that contact out. If they're real, they should be easy to find elsewhere online. And check out the books they claim to have published. Did they? And find a physical address for their office (PO boxes don't count). Writers are used to doing research. No need to stop now.
Thoughts on Reading and Writing
My gay uncle just died. I never got to know him really. As a kid, he’d been my mystery uncle. I knew he existed but never saw him and, having a secret of my own, knew not to ask. That’s not to say I knew he was gay, only that I knew the subject was forbidden - never outwardly but in the way families communicate through the absence of words.
One day on the lead-up to Christmas, my parents called me and my siblings into the living room - a forbidden place in itself - to announce that we’d be dropping by my uncle’s place for a holiday visit. This was unprecedented. Then they dropped the bomb. “Your uncle,” my father said, “Is a homosexual.” Even today I’m not sure why they did that. Perhaps they thought it was the Christian thing to do or perhaps to put us on our guard in case he made advances. Clearly, they had no idea who they were talking to.
A couple of weeks later, in making our Christmas day rounds, we dropped by my uncle’s. He was affable and welcoming, but I held back and soon found myself alone in his living room. I’d always read. Reading was my buoy in life. So I scanned his book collection, mostly paperbacks, old and well-used. And there it was. I’d never heard of Jean Genet, but the blurb caught my eye: “A shattering novel of human depravity.” I knew I had to have it and I knew I’d never have the chance again. So I stole it.
I must have read it three times in a row, not so much for the ‘depravity’, but because I didn’t understand much. I was maybe fourteen, had had no sexual adventures beyond my own hand, and had no idea what words like ‘cornholing’ meant.
But I swooned under the weight of the words. I knew they were homoerotic and that was enough. It was not a one-handed event. It was more of an out-of-body experience. And it changed me. Outside of funerals, I never saw my uncle again, but he'd opened a door that no one could close again.
The Book That Changed My Life
I finally got my act together and have this website where I hope to engage with friends and readers now that Goodreads has pulled the plug on direct messaging. It was a blow and made me realize how Goodreads-dependent I'd become. Great contacts. Great conversations. Finding readers. Getting feedback. And all for free. Couldn't last forever. I love writing, but promotion not so much. All that Hey! Look at me! makes me sqirm. So, here we are. I have a new book out soon and another's on sale. Hey! Look at me! 😀