Have All Your Friends Disappeared From Your Twitter Timeline?

 

I've seen stacks of people complaining about this recently, and have found a sort-of solution.  It won't make them all come back again, but it's something I've found that works well for me now, and what I'll be using until the Twitterly algorithms sort themselves out (she says, optimistically).

I'm talking about Twitter Lists - I've never fully understood their usefulness before.  Now I do!  You can make a list of all your favourite profiles and use that as your timeline instead, if you wish.  Here's how:

(Please note: I only use a laptop, don't know how it all works on a phone.)

1. Go to the list on the left side of your page, and click 'More'.

2. You will then see this.  Click 'Lists'.

3. That takes you to this screen.  Click on the little rectangle with the two lines, top right (new list).

4. You will now see the screen below, where you can create your list.  Give it a name, a description if you wish, and make it private if that's what you want to do.  Click 'next' in the top right hand corner.

5. You are then given the option to add people to your list

6 ...you do so by using the search facility - click 'add' for everyone you would like to be on this list.

7. Keep adding, and you will now have your list of people whose tweets you don't want to miss.  Obviously you won't be able to think of all those random people you see and exchange the odd emoji with on a regular basis, but they'll pop up here and there, and then you can add them to your list by clicking on the three little dots on the profile page (top right, under the header photo) and choosing the 'Add/remove from lists'. 

 

Here is mine.  If you don't make it private, others can follow it too.

The link to it is HERE

8.  You can now follow the initial procedure to go to your list every day - there you will see all your friends' tweets and nothing else :) 

 

9. Now ... once you start using your list, you may find that you don't want to see stacks of retweets, from people (like me) who retweet a lot.  Might be too many book promos, or just stuff you don't want to see, generally.  In order to see your friend's personal tweets but not their retweets, go to their profile page and head for those three little dots at the top.  

10.  Click on the three dots and you will see this - the first option is to turn off retweets.  Click!

Hope that's easy to follow and is a help!  Do pass on to anyone else you think might find it useful :) 

New Writers: Is this what you're doing on Twitter? #MondayBlogs #WritingCommunity

I've been doing this self-publishing/Twitter stuff for ten years now.  I assume many new writers do as I did back in November 2011: sign up because they've just published their first book and someone told them, 'If you're a writer you need to be on Twitter'.  Then they plunge in without having a clue what they're doing.  Yes, me too.  Hence this post.

Every social media site has its own culture, and you don't understand it until you're in it.  It takes a while to learn - which is why I still see, every day, activity I've been reading about not doing since 2012.  You may be using Twitter purely to chat, discover and be entertained - the original use of social media! - but if you want to find readers for your book(s) and you're doing any of the following, you might need a re-think... 

🤔🤔🤔

1. Only following and interacting with other writers

It's lovely to meet other writers, especially if you don't know any in real life.  Your new virtual friends understand the highs, lows and angst of what you do, and are there to give advice and opinions, etc.  Several writers and bloggers I've met on Twitter have now become real life friends.  This is social media at its best: finding people who share your interests and who you would otherwise never have come to know.  People who do what you do.

But they're not the target market for your book.

Over time, some of them might love what you do and become your regular readers.  I can think of six writers I've met via Twitter whom I number amongst my favourite authors.  But that's over a period of a decade, and although you're so grateful for those publication day sales and early reviews that give each book a nice kick start, you won't reach the reading public (i.e., people you don't know) unless you broaden your horizons.

If you were a clothes designer, your first sales port of call would not be other designers, even though they wear clothes, too.  If you were a painter, you would not target other artists to buy your work.  Yet every day thousands of writers talk only to their fellow scribes on social media, spend time adding their links to #writerslifts and those #writer #indieauthor #shamelessselfpromo tweets, or those that say 'hey, add your links and I'll buy 3 books'.  And round and round it all goes as they promote their work to each other.

Step outside the #WritingCommunity.  Talk to people who share your other interests - and views.  Follow book bloggers, avid readers, the followers of well-known authors who write in your genre.  Who live in places in which your books are set.  In order to find your readers, you need to get out there.

2. Making your bio all about your books

Never mind book sales - which of these bios would make you want to investigate further?  Maybe take a look down their tweets and click the link provided to find out more about them and their work?

Anne Author @AuthorAnne

Author of The Book, The Other Book, The Third Book and The Short Story Collection.  Available on Amazon. #KindleUnlimited.' ⛔ DMs, Politics

Will Writer @WillWriter

Writer: 3 novels and blog.  Keen hiker. Trying to write 4th novel but, you know, Netflix and Assassin's Creed.  Cat lover.

Anne tells you nothing about herself except that she wants you to buy her books.  Which suggests she is only on Twitter to make this happen.  Will, on the other hand, has told you of five interests you might share, and indicated that he might be fun to know.  

A bio should be about you.  A link to your site or Amazon author page so that anyone who wishes to can look up your work, is all you need.  

3. Forgetting the link on promotional book tweets

I see this so often.  A short description of the book, the information that it's currently discounted at 99p or free, and the cover.  And that's all.  No link.  Yesterday I suggested to someone that she put the link on a tweet, and she said she didn't have the room.  Well, shorten the description!  Play around with those 280 characters!  Other times when I've made the suggestion, I've been told that the link is in their bio, or (worse) that it can be found on Amazon.

It's possible that some people, if particularly interested in the book description, will go to your bio, but significantly fewer will bother to bring up Amazon and put the name of the book into the search.  Attention spans are short, these days.  Twitter is a fast-moving, constantly changing site.  The majority want a link they can click, right there, or they'll simply move on to the next tweet.

4. Asking and answering those daft questions

The person who tweets 'If I was buying your MC a drink, what would it be?' does not give two hoots what your protagonist's favourite drink may be, or indeed what colour biro you use.  Most people who ask these questions do so to increase interaction on their profile, so that Twitter's algorithms will make them more visible (i.e., appear in more people's feed).  That's all.  If you like, you can ask some questions yourself.  268 people may reveal to you the flavour of their antagonist's favourite jam.  But bear in mind that as many will mute you as will answer the question - and being muted isn't like being blocked; you will never know.

Incidentally, I believe the same goes for the 'add your links and I'll buy three books' tweets.  Or 'I need new books to read - please answer with your recommendations'.  I reckon most of them are algorithm manipulators.  Not all, but most.  I daresay now and again these do result in sales, but not very often.

5. Spamming

This is a piece of advice that should be repeated in every single writer/social media advice post until everyone understands (unlikely, I know).  Here it is: do NOT send unsolicited DMs or tweets to new followers asking them to read/buy/review your book.  EVER.  Even those who are polite to you and show an interest would still rather you didn't.  A LOT of people immediately unfollow anyone who does this; others block, or report.

Similarly, if you see someone tweeting about their book, do not reply with a link to yours.  That's right, even if it's in the same genre.  Don't 'hashtag hijack' to promote your work - in other words, adding a vaguely relevant hashtag to your book tweet.  For instance, I'm in a group that started the hashtag #PostApocFriday.  Every week one of us decides on a theme relevant to a post-apocalyptic world (for instance 'silence' or 'education' or 'weapons'), and anyone who wants to can post an image, interpreting the theme as they wish.  Inevitably, the hashtag sometimes gets added to people's promotional tweets about their books.  That's hashtag hijacking.

6. Attempting stealth review swaps

This has happened to me a few times.  I've received a new review on one of my books and, because I recognise the name on the review, I've sent a DM to the person concerned to thank them.  We've had a couple of friendly exchanges about writing/books, and then the other person hits me with it: would I be interested in reviewing one of her books, too?

My reply is that I don't do review swaps, because this is what this is, albeit not directly.  Inevitably, once I say no, the writer in question will never read/review me again, despite having raved about the first one to an extent that made me blush. 

If someone has talked to you on Twitter they are probably already aware of what you write.  If they want to read your book, they will. 

(Also, if another writer follows you back, please don't introduce yourself by asking if they would like to do a review swap, as happened to me this morning - many of us are actively against them!)

7.  Forgetting the quotation marks

If you quote a review ('I was up all night reading this book' etc) on your book promotion tweet, and don't put quotation marks around it, you look as though you're saying 'A masterpiece of a story with wonderful characters' about your own book.  I thought this had been stamped out, but I've seen a resurgence of late!

8.  Calling yourself a best-selling or award-winning author...

....when you're not, or when you won an award that nobody has heard of apart from the 30 people who paid to enter it.  Or got an orange Amazon label because your book reached #1 for one week, in such an obscure genre that it didn't mean you sold a great deal anyway.

It's not a good look.  Just don't do it.  Actual award-winners and best sellers are usually quite low key on their bios.

Hope this has been helpful, and good luck!

~ What To Avoid In Social Conversation ~

I saw this delightful list from late Victorian/early Edwardian times, on @serialsemantic's Twitter page, and considered how it might be translated into these days of social media conversation.

As you will see, I think some should still apply to Twitterly interaction, though others should be disregarded entirely. 😉

If you click on the item below it will be big enough to read, but I've written out each one before my Twitterly translation.  Enjoy!

1.  Do not manifest impatience.
Building a Twitter profile takes time - do not manifest impatience about your lack of interactions and retweets, or certainly not via tweet.  If a new writer, do not publicly manifest impatience about your lack of book sales.  It takes time to build up a readership, too.  Also, it might make other people wonder why no one is buying it.

2.  Do not engage in argument.
Debating differing opinions is one of the joys of conversation, online and off, but do not call someone a self-absorbed c*** if their opinion differs from yours, as happened to me a short while back. Or say that they are 'sad' because they do not perceive a situation in the same way that you do.  If someone is not willing to reasonably accept a differing point of view, it is best to bow out gracefully. Then mute the dickhead.

3.  Do not interrupt another when speaking.
If you see a conversation between two or three strangers, and you have strongly negative feelings about the subject matter being discussed, do not butt in and tell them how offended you are by their conversation.  Unless you're the sort of person who goes on Twitter to seek arguments, of course.

4.  Do not find fault, although you may gently criticise.
When you get those DMs that we all hate, in which the person (inevitably a total stranger) asks you to download their music, subscribe to their Youtube channel, review their new book, etc, do not tear them off a strip.  They may simply be ignorant of the best way to use social media.  If you wish to comment, it is more productive to suggest that this may not be the best way to promote themselves, and let them know that such an activity is considered spam.

However, if they're rude back, or continue to send them, give 'em hell.

5.  Do not talk of your private, personal or family matters.
A couple of weeks back, I saw a tweet from a woman complaining that she was having 'a particularly heavy flow this month'.   
WHY?  Why would anyone tweet that?????  😖 😩

6.  Do not appear to notice inaccuracies of speech in others.
If they want to describe themselves as 'adverse' to something, or indicate their agreement by tweeting 'Here, here!', let them.  Unless it really, really irritates you.  Some inaccuracies, such as use of 'words' like 'irregardless' and 'deteriate' might cause you to spontaneously combust if not corrected.  In these cases, priority should be given to your own well-being.

7.  Do not allow yourself to lose temper or speak excitedly.
Do not call someone a self-absorbed c*** because their opinion, politely and amicably expressed, differs from yours.  If that insult is directed towards you, report and block.  But speaking excitedly?  What is life without joyful enthusiasm?  The floor is yours!

8.  Do not allude to unfortunate peculiarities of anyone present.
Unless they are Carol Vorderman, Bojo, the far-left über-woke, etc.  In these instances, fill yer boots.

9.  Do not always commence a conversation by alluding to the weather.
But be aware that if you tweet about it, you will get more interaction on that tweet than on any other one before or since.  Much of it from people who have never spoken to you before, but feel the need to tell you that it's raining where they are.

10. Do not, when narrating an incident, continually say 'you see' or 'you know', etc.
Or those 280 characters won't go very far!

11. Do not introduce professional or other topics in which the company generally cannot take an interest.
Nah.  Do not feel scared to talk about stuff that you're enthusiastic about.  That's how you find like-minded people.  You will never please everyone, and trying to tweet only 'items of general interest' makes your profile look somewhat 'vanilla', as if you have read a book on How To Engage With Your Twitter Followers.  Your profile is your own; if you want to tweet about the sex life of the koi carp, go right ahead. 

12. Do not talk very loud.  A firm, clear, distinct, yet mild, gentle and musical voice has great power.
Do not greet someone in your Twitter feed by saying 'MORNING, FATSO!  SOLD ANY BOOKS YET TODAY?'  On the other hand, do not say, 'in my humble opinion' (IMHO) before expressing yourself; we know it's your opinion because you're saying it, and if you consider your opinion humble, so will others.

On yet another hand, it might be better to say, 'I'm not sure I agree with that' than 'You're talking out of your arse, mate'.

13. Do not be absent-minded, requiring the speaker to repeat what he has said, that you might understand.
It's perfectly acceptable to ask someone for that useful link a second time.  We all forget and lose stuff on our cluttered desktops, etc.  However, asking for a third and fourth time might get you a 😬 followed by the gritted-teeth suggestion that you keep the link somewhere you can find it.
 
14. Do not try to force yourself into the confidence of others.  If they give their confidence, never betray it.
If someone tells you in a tweet that they know a writer who sends DMs to other writers asking them to do review swaps, you'll be dying to know who it is, won't you?  Go on, ask them to tell you in a DM.  Just once.  If they don't reply, don't ask again.

And if they tell YOU in a DM that they haven't sold a book in three months, do not report this to anyone else.   

15. Do not intersperse your language with foreign words and high-sounding terms.  It shows affectation and will draw ridicule on you.
Or, at the very least, will make people mentally label you as pretentious.  It actually shows insecurity, but does not impress, as hoped; it usually has the opposite effect.

16. Do not aspire to be a great storyteller; an inveterate teller of long stories becomes very tiresome.  To tell one or two witty, short, new stories, appropriate to the occasion, is about all that one person should inflict on the company.
Do not use Twitter to detail, in a thread of tweets, the injustices caused to you by an former romantic partner, unless you already have an audience of online friends who have previously expressed their interest and concern, and are waiting for details of the latest developments.  If not, it will make you look like a nutcase.

~ Do unto other Twitter users as you would have them do unto you ~

(ideally....)

😉 😉

A Few Dos and Don'ts for #Writers new to Twitter

If you've just started writing your first book, or if you've recently published and have heard that Twitter is a good place to spread the word, you're probably wondering how best to go about it.  I've seen lots of new users asking for advice lately, so I thought I'd compile a quick, easily accessible list.  Please note: it is mostly applicable to writers who have work published, but it's all worth bearing in mind!

There is so much conflicting advice, on blog posts and in 'how to' books; I've read some articles by social media 'experts', and wondered if they actually use the site at all.  One I read recently advised the busy writer to 'do' Twitter quickly each morning by going down their feed and 'liking' all the posts...  😬

I make no Twitter 'expert' claims, but I have over 90K followers, have run very successful promotions for my books and gained lots of readers via the site, for both my books and my blog.  I have also made good friends in the writer/blogger community, some of whom I have met in real life, too.  If all or some of this is what you are aiming for, I hope you find the following helpful - it's not much to take in all at once, just basic dos and don'ts in bullet points.

Do:

• Be friendly, and take an interest in others' work.  Be generous; share and retweet your followers' posts.
• Be genuine, and helpful.
• Tweet about stuff other than your book.  Places you've been, photos you've taken, TV shows and music you like, observations, a funny cartoon, a helpful or interesting article.
• Ask questions.  Most writers and bloggers are happy to share their knowledge/experience.  But not those 'What do you prefer, breathing or yawning' ones, unless you want to alienate anyone who has more than one brain cell.
• Follow, follow, follow ~ not just other writers, but book bloggers, avid readers, and those who share your interests outside the book and writing world.  If all your Twitter activity consists of cheerleading with other writers, you won't reach the reading public.
• Make your profile picture a photo of YOU, preferably smiling, or at least looking approachable (or cool, if you're very good looking!).  Not your dog, or your child - save those for Facebook.  Not your book cover, either - this gives the impression that you're only on the site to sell your book.
• Block anyone who is needlessly rude to you.  Don't engage, just block.
• Retweet, don't just 'like' ~ clue's in the logo and name; Twitter is all about spreading the word.  If you have found a tweet interesting/funny/useful, chances are your followers might like to see it, too.
• Understand that Twitter is not Facebook ~ it will not be possible to interact or keep up with everyone.  In a way, it's a numbers game; out of all those you follow and who follow you within a week, a few may become people you talk to regularly, while most won't.  But that doesn't mean they won't be interested in anything you tweet about, and vice versa.
• Take it slowly; at first, have a look at what other writers do.  Find them on hashtags like #WritersCommunity, #WritingCommunity, #Writers, #amwriting #writerslife - but, as mentioned previously, don't get too caught up in discussions about what your MC might like for breakfast, or those threads that ask you to post a gif expressing what your protagonist's third cousin might think about you getting a book published.  There's a whole world out there.
• Pin a post to the top of your page, by clicking the little arrow at the top right hand of the tweet.  Change it often, at least once a week.
• Add pictures to your tweets; you can add up to four, or one gif.
• Make sure, if promoting a published book, that your tweet contains links to where it can be looked at/bought.  Sounds obvious, but you'd be amazed how many Twitter newbies smother the book promo tweet with hashtags, but leave the link off.  No, people won't go to Amazon and look it up.  If there is no link to click, they'll move on to the next tweet. 
• Enjoy it.  If you don't, if it becomes a chore, it's possible that Twitter is the wrong site for you. That's okay; I've never been keen on Facebook, and this year I finally decided to close my account.  Different strokes, and all that.
• Retweet stuff that isn't about writing and books, too.  Beautiful scenery, interesting articles, funny one-liners, etc.
• Try not to do too many retweets all at once.  It can put off followers who don't want to see a hundred tweets by people they haven't chosen to follow.  Yes, I know, I do too many, sometimes; it's an easy practice to fall into.  Incidentally, if you want to follow someone but don't want to see all their RTs, click onto their page, then onto the three little dots by the 'follow' button.  This gives the option to turn off their retweets.
• Reply, if someone gives you a bit of advice you've been seeking.  Don't just 'like' the tweet; it only takes a couple of seconds to say thank you, and this will make all the difference to the person who tried to help; they may help you again, but are less likely to do so if all you could manage by way of thanks was a quick mouse click.

If you do all this, you will develop a following and, hopefully, find people who are interested in your work. 

Now, I'll balance this out with some advice about what not to do....

Don't:

• Expect to obtain lots of followers, book sales and reviews within a couple of months.  Building up your 'platform' on social media is a long game.
• Introduce yourself to people by providing your book links, either by tweets or DMs.
• Send auto DMs to new followers, with links to your book/blog/website/Youtube channel/Patreon/requests for votes in an online competition/offers of a free book if they sign up for a newsletter/anything else at all.  This is a huge Twitter no-no, and a large number of people unfollow those who do it.
• DM/tweet to new followers/strangers/random people asking them to read/review your book.  Everyone moans about this.  Yes, you may get the odd taker, but these will be far outweighed by the amount of people you piss off.  Seriously.  Just don't do it.
• Make your bio all about your book, and (even more don't!), never use the words 'check out book here', 'buy book here' or anything similar in it.  This is your bio, not a 'buy my book' desperation headline.  Also, don't write it in the 3rd person, as this gives the impression you have someone 'doing your social media' for you; at the very least, it looks a bit pretentious.
• Take notice of those who send those auto DMs - especially not dodgy looking profiles that try to sell you book promotion, claiming thousands of readers in your genre, or whatever.  Often, they just want you to pay for advertising space on their site, or tweets that you can do yourself.  Scammers of all types have been cashing in on the Kindle gold rush since it began just over 10 years ago - please don't get sucked in! (See item 2 of the article on this link for others to watch out for)
• Communicate mostly in the blurred gifs you get by clicking 'add a gif'.  Most are pretty lame, and Twitter is about words, first and foremost.
• Make it all about getting reviews.  Some people do general tweets offering a free copy of a book in exchange for an honest review.  It's up to you if you want to do this or not.  But it's a bad idea to ask for them in a promotional tweet.  Even if the book is free; never, ever tweet anything like 'please download and review'.  Wait until someone has read your book and told you that they've enjoyed it, of their own accord; then you can judge whether or not it's okay to ask them to review it.
• Call yourself a 'best selling author' if you're not.
• Hard sell.  If someone expresses interest in your book, just thank them and answer any questions.  If they want to buy it, they will.  If you hard sell (i.e, by telling them how much they'll love it, quoting from reviews, offering them free copies of other books if they buy it), it may put them off.  Most of all, don't ask them to review before they've even bought it.  They might not like it, or might not read it for six months, and it's too pushy, anyway.
• Engage in a gif game with one or two friends, while 48 other people are tagged in.  Nobody wants to log on to find themselves tagged in 30 blurry gifs of 1990s sitcom stars/yawning chimpanzees.  You want to play gifs - untag everyone else.  Yes, I know they can mute if they don't want to see (the mute option is in the little arrow, top right of a tweet), but it's nicer if you do the job for them.  If you're mentioned in an #FF (Follow Friday) tweet, untag everyone else before saying thank you.  All too often I log in to find myself with over 100 mentions, the majority of which are people I don't know talking to other people I don't know.  Lots of people moan about this - untag, untag, untag!  You do this by clicking on 'Replying to' and unticking the box 'Others in this tweet', and saving it at the bottom.
• Ask strangers for retweets.  You know, you follow someone back and within a couple of hours you get a DM saying 'Hi, thanks for following!  I'd be so grateful if you could retweet my pinned tweet.'  If you want retweets, do retweets.  With luck, others will reciprocate.  Oh, and please don't ask for them in your bio.  This is super-naff!
• Ask people to follow you back.  If they want to, they will.
• Overdo hashtags on your tweets.  I'd say two or three max for a book promotion tweet.  More if it's an advice post or one of general interest, because you want it to reach the right people, but don't go overboard. 
• Hashtag hijack - by which I mean checking out the trending hashtags, and adding them all to your tweets in the hope that this will improve your 'reach'.  Yes, more people will see you, but they will also wonder why this idiot is tweeting about his book on a hashtag that's for football fans, or whatever.
• Let your stream become nothing but endless streams of book promo retweets, with one pinned tweet about your own book at the top, without ever interacting.
• Forget the 'social' in social media!

For more advice for debut authors, here is a list I compiled of useful articles:
List of Useful Articles 

If you would like to read more about how to use social media, I particularly like this article by Emma Lombard, which gives practical, up-to-date advice on how to use Twitter. 

Three Mistakes New Writers Are Still Making

I've been doing this self-publishing thing for seven years now, and during that time I must have read, written, tweeted, retweeted and commented on hundreds of blog posts about the whole complex subject.  Sometimes, when writing a guest post, I think, 'does this really need saying yet again?'  But I forget; I may have been seeing all this stuff forever, but new writers are starting out every day, and won't have read seven years' worth of dire warnings about not getting scammed, not spamming people on social media, etc, etc.

Or maybe it's just that the people who need to read all those advice posts are clicking on the ones entitled 'Three Reasons Why Everyone Will Want To Read Your Novel', instead.  Anyway, a few recent conversations have made me think that these three old chestnuts could do with underlining again.  And again, and possibly again!  So here goes:

Mistake 1:  Skipping the proofreading step.  

Recently, I looked at a novel on Amazon because the (expensive-looking) cover interested me, but I rejected it as a possible buy because several reviews complained about the large amount of errors.  One demanded both an explanation (why would the author publish a novel without getting it proofread first?) and an apology for her wasted money.  The author had commented back that he was so sorry, but he couldn't afford 'expensive proofreading and editing' (although he clearly thought the 'packaging' was worth spending money on!) and he hoped readers would be patient with him while he realised his dream of becoming a published author.  Or something. 

Sad but true: Amazon is not a 'have-a-go' writers group.  The reading public are less interested in your personal dreams than in reading something with the commas in the right places and no spelling mistakes.  

Professional proofreading isn't cheap, but many proofreaders will take payment in instalments if money is a problem, and it really is essential if you want to avoid those bad reviews.  You can edit yourself (if you don't know the difference between editing and proofreading, please read this), but it takes time, patience, attention to detail (ie, considering every sentence), an understanding of pace and structure and, perhaps most importantly, the ability to see when a passage must be cut, no matter how dear it is to your heart.  A good piece of advice I read was to read the book as your enemies would read it, not your friends.

It's also worth bearing in mind that every time someone reads a self-pub novel that's full of typos and punctuation errors, it enforces the theory still held by some that all self-published material is substandard crap.  

Most important: when choosing a proofreader, don't necessarily go for the cheapest, or those who say they use 'proofreading software'.  You need the human eye.  Get recommendations from other authors. 

Mistake 2. Spamming on social media

By which I mean tweeting the book to strangers by tagging them in the tweet, in the hope that they will be interested in it.  Or doing auto DMs asking everyone who follows you to read and review your book.  If you want reviews, you need to look at book blogs individually, see what the blogger likes to read, study their submission guidelines.  If you really feel you must resort to the asking random strangers method, at least check out whether they read your genre, if they do actually review books, and enquire, first, if they might be interested in taking a look at yours.  But it's still best not to do it.

The best way to get people to know about your book is to be active on social media.  Share other people's stuff.  Talk to them.  I've written more about writers on Twitter on Swirl and Thread blog, here.

Mistake 3.  Not understanding the difference between Big 5 publishers, good independents, bad independents, and vanity presses.

... or researching the subject before signing a contract with a small independent publisher or a vanity (often called 'hybrid') press.  

If this is you, please read this article; it might save you much angst and frustration further down the line.

Research, research, research.  Talk to published writers.  Get recommendations.  Don't just google 'publishers'.  And good luck!

Good sites with writing/self-pub/book marketing info:

BadRedhead Media 
Anne R Allen's blog 

Aaron: #NewWorldProblems ~ a post apocalyptic short story #MondayBlogs

Aaron 
#NewWorldProblems

     That day in the pub with Nick and Greg was the last of the old world.  28th July, 2024, sat in Aaron's memory like the final day of a perfect holiday, a snapshot from childhood, a golden era when nothing was wrong in his life.  Of course, there was plenty wrong; he was bored rigid with being a financial whizz kid, and adjusting to life after Luisa was taking time—she'd wanted wedding bells and he wasn't ready to commit.  Sometimes he felt gloriously free, but other times bored and lonely, guilty about hurting her, and not sure how long he could go without a regular shag.  He had a brick wall of credit card debt, too, but such irritations were laughable now.

     He missed social media, a lot.   
     On Twitter and Private Life there was a popular hashtag: #FirstWorldProblems.

The Bluetooth in my car has stopped working so now I have to listen to the radio like a peasant. #FirstWorldProblems

 Best last minute holiday deal EVER and d-bag boss says she can't spare me!   #FirstWorldProblems

     If the internet still existed, Aaron would start a new hashtag. 

Sell-by date on this tin of sardines is four months ago.   

Should I live dangerously? #NewWorldProblems.

      

Back in the pub on 28th July 2024, they weren't taking bat fever seriously.  So there was an outbreak in some one-horse town in East Anglia, but quarantine conditions were in place, and all news reports were positive.  Holidaymakers were posting vids on YouTube saying 'Yay!' about getting an extra week off work.  Mind you, as Nick said, if you were sad enough to go on holiday to Shipden in the first place, it probably didn't take much to make you get the yays out.

     That was the last day when their world was normal.  On Monday evening, Nick's girlfriend, Evie, phoned to say that Nick was seriously ill, that she'd looked up his symptoms on the NHS website, and he appeared to have bat fever.

     By the next evening, Evie was in a similar state.  She'd dragged herself to the unit for her vaccination that morning, and was turned away.

     At gunpoint.

     The weird thing was that Nick had his vaccination early that Sunday morning, but he still died.  So he must have contracted it before he got the shot, but how?  Where from?  Wasn't the only case supposed to be in Shipden?

     A week later, nobody cared.

     Everyone was dying.

     Greg breathed his last breath the day after Nick, followed by almost all of Aaron's colleagues.  Everyone in his apartment block.  Except him.

     He couldn't work it out.

     Londoners were dropping like lemmings off a cliff.

     Each morning, he expected to face his final countdown.  But it didn't happen, and it kept on not happening.  On waking, he would do a quick check to make sure he didn't feel ill, then luxuriate in the fact that there was no work to go to and his landlord was probably too dead to notice that he wasn't paying the rent anymore.  He would make coffee and log onto Private Life and Twitter to see the latest, check in with his buddies to make sure their hearts were still beating—sometimes he got no answer—then flop in front of the TV and stick on YouTube to catch the newest batch of videos showing the downfall of civilised Britain.  UK news maintained that everything was peachy, so he'd seek out news sites from around the world to get the truth, only to find a strange silence.  Weird.

     Later, the BBC showed colour coded maps to indicate where in the UK the disease was at its most virulent.  Big mistake.  Everyone in the red areas jumped into their cars and headed for the pale pink.  Result: traffic at standstills, mile long queues at petrol stations, punch-ups at the pumps.  Further spread of disease as people in the traffic jams became ill.

     South London was one big glob of deepest crimson.

     His mother rang from Cornwall to say that Truro was in the pink zone, urging him to drive down, but he declined.  He hated driving at the best of times, and if he was going to die he'd rather do so in his own flat, not in his childhood bed with his mum faffing around, and her idiot husband vying for her attention.

     He knew he should contact Luisa.  It bugged him every day, but he just couldn't face it.  He remembered Nick saying he thought she'd had the vaccine, so Aaron told himself she must be okay.  He told himself this several times a day, then drove her from his mind with whichever bottle was at hand.

     Staying at home alone was the key to staying alive, he deduced, but during Week Two he ran out of food.  Headed out to Tesco Express to stock up, with a scarf over his face.  It was like a war zone down there.  Most of the shop windows were smashed, and half the streets were empty, others a battle between army and civilians.  Joyriding kids whooped as they screeched past burnt out cars.  Aaron didn't understand that.  Why did people burn cars, just because the world was going to hell?

     A burst of panic sent him dashing round to the car park at the back of his block.  No worries; his car was still there, with its full tank.

     Tesco Express was empty, but he found a tatty corner shop down a side street with plenty of tins and packets, filled a holdall and a backpack with all he could carry, and headed home.  He locked himself in and pulled down the blinds, drank more than was good for him, binge-watched all his favourite series and messaged with the friends that weren't dying (yet).   He slept a lot and read for hours at a time.

      Next time he went to check on his car, it was gone.  Which was inconvenient, but he was surprised to find that he didn't care.  Never been a car fiend, not like Nick and Greg.  Perhaps he could nick another one from somewhere.  A car showroom.  Wasn't sure what he'd do about fuel.  Maybe get a bicycle, instead.  Or a motorbike.  Yee-hah.

     Before the TV, phones and internet stopped working, he had a call from his mother to say that she was ill, along with her idiot husband.

     He spoke to her before she died, and offered, reluctantly, to find a way of getting down to Cornwall.

     "Don't come," she said.  "It's bad here now.  They're breaking into shops, turning those units over, raiding hospitals.  We're okay; we've got each other."

     By the time he ran out of food again, the electricity had fizzled its final spark.

     Tablet ran out of juice when I was half way through a ten book 

zombie apocalypse series.  Bummer.  #NewWorldProblems.

     Now, his biggest worry was boredom.  What were you supposed to do, when there was no power, and most of your friends had snuffed it?

     Luisa.

     Stop thinking about Luisa.

     After establishing that nobody was answering the doors of the other six flats in his block, he broke into the janitor's office to nick the keys.  Found bodies in two of them.  Gross as hell.  With scarves wrapped tightly around his nose and mouth and two pairs of rubber gloves, he dragged the bodies out into the car park and set fire to them.

     And still he didn't get ill.

     Now he had five more kitchens with food cupboards and alcohol.  He cleaned out the fridges and freezers, which was a pretty disgusting task, but it was something to do.

     Logic—and the first few chapters of the unfinished zombie apocalypse series—told him the water would go next, so he filled all the baths, every available vessel, with water. 

     Much of the time, he felt kind of okay.  He meandered between flats, helping himself to food, examining his dead neighbours' possessions, getting drunk and listening to music on an old Sony Discman.  Found one of those solar powered chargers for his tablet and stuck it on a window sill; he could finish that series after all. 

     He slept in beds that were more luxurious than his, and he bloomed with health.

     He hardly dared to hope, but he couldn't help wondering if nature had been kind enough to make him immune.

     On his birthday, in the middle of September, he helped himself to a bottle of champagne from flat number six, relaxed on the L-shaped sofa, and raised a glass to his mother, to Greg, and the rest of his friends who'd died.  Then he stuck two fingers up to Nick, who, to be honest, had always been a smug prick.  Always had to know about the latest whatever, and get it before anyone else.  Shagged the prettiest girls.  The bigheaded, handsome bastard.

     "And you're now a dead bigheaded, handsome bastard," he said, out loud.  "Who's the daddy now, eh, Nicky?" he said.   A moment later, out of nowhere, he plummeted.  He stood up, took his glass over to the window, looked out on the devastation in the streets below, and wondered what the hell he was supposed to do next.

*****

     Fast forward six months.

     Holed up with my ex, 'cause she's the only person I know 

who's still alive.   Sucks. #NewWorldProblems.

     For a while, Aaron didn't fancy his chances outside (too many lunatics around), but as the weather grew colder the streets cleared, leaving only a silence so complete it rang in his ears.  Even in London.  When he was down to his last bath tub of water, though, he knew it was time to go.  He shivered his way through a cold one, shaved, put on sensible clothes—the former resident of number two had been a keen hiker, and had some excellent walking boots—and filled a backpack with provisions and basic survival gear.

     Aaron was going out into the world, to see if anyone he knew, anywhere, was still alive.  If they weren't, he would find some other people.

     There were two cars left in the car park; one was trashed, the other out of fuel.

     Okay, so he'd walk.  He didn't mind; quite fancied it, actually.  Walking the streets of London was something you never did, normally.

     He tried flat after house after flat, and found no one.  Didn't want to kick any doors down in case he found bodies, like in his own block; they'd be in a pretty gruesome state by now.  Two friends who'd had the vaccine had left doors on the latch, and notes, saying where they'd gone.

     'Mum and Dad.  Meet us at Auntie Linda's.  Be safe x.'

     'Erin.  Heading for refugee camp in Richmond Park.  They got food & water.  C u there?'

     He left Luisa's place, in Cricklewood, until last.

     He wanted to know but he didn't, at the same time.  If there was no answer at her house he would have to break in, because he still cared for her.  Didn't love her anymore, just cared for her.  But the feeling ran deep enough for him to baulk at the thought of seeing her decomposing body.

     Luisa was alive, and hunkered down with Ginny, one of the friends with whom she shared her house; the other had died.  She'd given house room to two girls he didn't know, too.  One vaccinated, the other not.

     "You found me," she said, when he walked through the door, and the look on her face made him feel like her saviour.  "I knew if you were alive you'd get here, eventually."  She turned to Ginny, her eyes shining.  "Didn't I say he'd come and find me?"

     The once cute house was dark, cold, and smelled a bit rancid.  Luisa was thinner, her hair was dirty, and Aaron's eyes watered when she fell into his arms.

     "I'm so glad you're safe," he whispered, and he was, but when she took his hand and introduced him, proudly, to the strangers, he felt a tiny twinge of unease.  The memories crowded back into his brain.  How badly she'd taken the break-up.  She'd sobbed, begged, told him she felt like 'ending it all'.  For a while she phoned him on a daily basis, until, about a month before bat fever, he'd managed to make her understand that the relationship really was over.

     That, despite all they'd been to each other, he didn't see himself spending the rest of his life with her.

     "You said you'd die for me!" she'd cried, during that last conversation.  "Do you remember?  You said, I never want to be without you.  I'd do anything for you, I'd die for you.  Why would you say that if you didn't mean it?"

     Being reminded of such over-emotional sentiments embarrassed him.  Yes, he'd felt that way, meant every word, during their first few, passionate months, but times changed, and he hated that she couldn't see this.

     Now, Luisa boiled water on her aga, made him a welcome cup of coffee, fussed around him.  He had to admit it was rather nice.  He'd had no company of any sort for three months, let alone of the female variety, and he hadn't had sex since a few weeks before the outbreak, either.

     That night, he shared her bed.

     In the morning, in her chilly bedroom, she wound her cold, thin arms around his body and gazed into his eyes.

     "I knew you'd come back," she said, and gave a little giggle, the one he used to find so attractive.  "So it's taken the end of the world to bring us back together; I can deal with that!"

     And somehow he couldn't find the will to hurt her all over again.  Not now, when both of them had lost everyone.

     Soon afterwards, the non-vaccinated girl died, and her friend drifted away.

     Luisa thought Aaron's immunity was a sign that they were 'meant to be'.

     Aaron thought smiling and saying nothing was the best course of action.

     Tempers frayed between Luisa and Ginny.  Ginny said she was scavenging most of the food, but only eating a third of it.  Luisa was reluctant to go out onto the streets, where gangs roamed and you never knew who or what might be waiting for you round a corner, and she didn't like Aaron to go out, either, in case anything happened to him.

     In private, she told him she thought Ginny was jealous about his presence in the house.        

     "Three's a crowd, isn't it?"

     Aaron disagreed, in fact he wished there were more of them, there being greater safety in numbers, but they woke up one morning in January to find Ginny gone, along with Luisa's car and most of the supplies.

     The sight of her empty bedroom filled him with gloom.  He'd never meant to be with Luisa again, as a couple; he was not sure what his intention had been, but it wasn't this.

     The days moved slowly.  Aaron wanted to up sticks, find one of those refugee camps he'd heard about, but she wanted to stay put.

     "You and my house are the only stability I have left," she said, often.  "I hate the thought of someone breaking in, ransacking the place.  It's my home!"

     She seemed happy, muddling through their humdrum days, laying fires, boiling water and cooking, reading, listening to talking books and snuggling up to him.  She washed clothes, cleaned and tidied, even painted the spare bedroom.

     Aaron was less content.  Every few days he went out scavenging, and each time he was tempted to keep on walking.  Find a car somewhere, and just drive.

     Then she became ill.  They didn't know what it was; she had pains in her stomach and felt nauseous and thirsty all the time.

     She'd cling to him, and reminisce, obsessively, about the good times they'd shared.

     "Don't," he'd say to her.  "You're talking as if everything's over.  It's not.  You're just weak and ill, that's all."

     She retreated into the past.  When her pain receded, she would get out photos of the two of them in happier times, show him mementoes of random evenings of which he had little recollection.  A ticket from a gig, a napkin from a restaurant.

     And, over and over, she would remind him of the things he used to say.

     "You told me you'd love me forever.  Do you remember, that night in Barcelona, on the hotel balcony?"

     He didn't, but he stroked her hair and told her he did.

     "You never want to be without me, and you'd die for me," she said, often, with a dreamy smile on her face.  One day, when the stomach pains were particularly bad, she clung onto him, and asked him to say it again.

     "Tell me now," she said.  "Tell me that again.  Let me hear you say it, now."

     Aaron felt foolish, and didn't want to say it because he didn't mean it, didn't feel that way about her, was only with her because he felt sorry for her and there was nothing else.

     "Say it to me," she said.  "Make me happy."

     So he did.  "I never want to be without you," he lied.  "I'd die for you."

     They had so little in the house, and he told her he must go out and find food, and, most importantly, fresh drinking water.  Even when she couldn't eat, he knew she must drink.

     "I don't want you to go out," she said.  "Stay with me."

     He stroked her head, kissed her forehead.  "I have to.  I'm hungry, Lu.  And we've got to have water, haven't we?  If I let you dehydrate, you could get seriously ill."

     "We have lucozade!  That's better, because it's got glucose in it."

     "You know fizzy drinks give you guts ache."  The sight of her lying there, so frail, made him want to repeat the lies, just to make her happy.

     "Rainwater, then!"

     "No.  I don't want to risk it, not with your stomach.  Don't worry.  Suck some mints; they help, don't they?  I won't be long.  I'll go to a chemist, too, see if I can find something."

     When he closed the front door, the weight lifted from his shoulders.   Oh, to be alone, without her cloying attention; he remembered why he left her in the first place.  He zipped along the silent streets, kicking up the rubbish that lay across the pavements, the dirty, empty bottles.  The odd dead rodent.  He wondered what was the matter with her.  Gallstones, maybe.  His mother had them.  Painful, but easily dealt with in the old world.

     Not so much, now.

     Whaddya do 'bout gallstones?  Can you die from them if they're not treated?  #NewWorldProblems.

     He hoped it was nothing worse.  He should find a medical encyclopaedia.  If he could make her better, she might be persuaded to leave.  Being in that house, just the two of them, never seeing anyone else, made him feel as though he didn't exist.  He wanted air, movement, the sky, roads, space.  He longed for other people.  Just someone different to talk to.

     I never want to be without you.  I'd die for you.

     But he didn't want to die.  He wanted to live.  

     In a pharmacy he found a large, white bottle of chalky medicine that looked as though it might be good for stomachs.  He passed a corner shop.  Plenty of useless cordial, bottles of fizzy drinks, but no water.  He took four Dr Peppers for himself.  A Sainsbury's Local: no water.  A pub: no water.  A garage: no water.

     He walked.  Shop after shop, no water anywhere.   Other stuff, though.  One tin of chilli and three of potatoes, soup, yogurt covered flapjacks, toilet paper, biscuits, batteries, a carton of orange juice.  Sod it.  He'd just decided to go back, boil the rainwater and hope for the best, when he spied an small Indian supermarket that must have been on its knees even before the fall.

     Worth a try. 

     The door hung off its hinges and the windows were smashed, which was good, because it let a little light into the store, but he flicked on his torch as he walked slowly up and down the three dingy, narrow aisles.  Picked up the last packet of noodles as he aimed light onto the almost empty shelves—which was when he saw them.  Three of them.  Litre bottles of beautiful, perfect, crystal clear, still mineral water.

     The relief spread over his face in a bright smile, and it was an alien sensation.  He put his torch in his mouth, heaved his backpack from his shoulders and unzipped it, resting it on the empty shelf below the water.  As he did so, he was vaguely aware of a shuffling noise behind him, but he allowed it to pass into his subconscious.  Probably a cat, a dog or a rat; he'd seen nobody.  No worries.  He reached for the first bottle, and was just placing it in his pack when a thump on his back sent the torch flying out of his mouth, rolling down the aisle into the darkness.

     "Water's ours."

     There were two of them.  One grabbed him by the arms, the other, smaller, wrestled away his backpack.

     Aaron could scarcely see them, but he could smell them.  Unwashed bodies, cigarette smoke.  Youngsters, he thought. 

     "Fuck you!" he yelled, and kicked out at the one holding the pack.  He thrust his elbow into the lad behind him, heard him gasp as he staggered back, and wrenched the pack out of the other boy's hands, hurled it over his shoulder.  One bottle, that was all he'd managed to stow away; he reached for one off the shelf, and pushed at the smaller boy.   The bigger one grabbed at him, and Aaron flung his arm out, wildly, surging towards the daylight at the front of the shop, but somehow everything turned upside down, and the floor came up to meet his face.

     Thump!  As his forehead slammed onto the lino, he cried out; he couldn't move.

     Hands gripped his ankles.

     Aaron summoned all his strength, kicked, caught the ankle-holder in the face, heard him yell, kicked again, felt him lose his grip—but the other hands were grabbing at the strap of his pack, still hanging off his shoulder.

     "I said, the water's ours," said that voice again, the big boy, and his hands tightened around his ankles once more.

     "I need it," Aaron gasped, reaching out, blindly.  "My friend—she's ill, she needs water, she can't drink anything else, just let me take one bottle—"

     With a mighty effort he kicked out again, lurched up, swung round and punched the little 'un in the face, grabbed the straps from him, but as he did so he felt an acute pain in his side, so sharp, so intense that he shouted out, fell back, and somewhere in a blurry corner of the pain he was vaguely aware of the smaller boy regaining control of the backpack, reaching up for the last bottle.

     "No!"  He threw his arm out, knocking him to one side, but the pain was back, in a slightly different place this time, and suddenly he had no strength; he tried to reach out, to fight back, but his arms were like wads of wet cotton wool, and the pain came again, round the front this time, over and over.  He clutched at his side, at his stomach, and he knew he was bleeding.

     "You're alright, he's done," he heard the bigger one say, as Aaron's knees collapsed beneath him.  "Get the other bottle, then."

     "He got much else?" said the other.

     "Yeah.  Fair bit.  Whoa—chilli!  We're sorted for tonight, then.  Don't know what this is, though."

     Aaron was vaguely aware of the bottle of chalky medicine landing with a thump beside his head, so he knew he must be lying on the floor again, and the lads' feet were pattering away, their voices growing fainter and fainter until he could hear them no more, and it was just him, bleeding out all over the floor of a mucky little supermarket.

     Down there on the floor was a smell, a familiar smell that reminded him of something in the past, but he couldn't think what it was.

     He pulled himself up onto his hands and knees and crawled towards the light, because it was still the afternoon outside, and if he saw someone they might help him, but even if nobody came he badly didn't want the last thing he ever saw to be the inside of this shop.  He smelled the outside, the air, felt the cold pavement underneath his bleeding stomach, and he was glad that he had made it out of the shop that smelled of dust and cumin seeds.  Ah—that was what the smell was: cumin seeds.  Like in the restaurant where he and Luisa used to eat on Friday nights, long ago.

     I never want to be without you.  I'd die for you.

     He wondered, in a floaty, distant sort of way, what would happen to her, if she would think he had just gone away and left her, but part of him didn't care because if she hadn't made him say those words they might not have come true, he might have made her better, and they could have packed up and gone, found a camp, met other people, made some sort of life.

     Lying on a pavement bleeding to death after a fight over three 

litres of bottled water.   #NewWorldProblems.

This story can be found in my post apocalyptic short story collection, Patient Zero.  

All stories are completely stand alone, and feature side and back stories from the characters in The Project Renova series