9 May 2013
I’m not sure I should continue writing a blog that provides ebook publishing advice because I’m fairly certain I don’t meet the basic criteria for being an authority of any sort. I say this because I really don’t care about many things and I especially don’t care about the things most indies authors seem to discuss ad nasueum, such as the Amazon ranking algorithm and the best price for an ebook. (We all know the sad truth is most indie’s sell the same amount of ebooks, whether they’re priced at $0.99 or $1,000,000.00. Zippo.) I guess what I’m saying is, I’m not good at nuance. I like the direct approach in resolving all matters. So, to increase ebook sales my sole advice is to write a better book. Obviously, this is incredibly poor advice for we all know, via Walmart, that quality no longer has anything to do with sales. I’m sorry. I admit it. I’m a terrible ebook publishing blogger for writing a better book is the only advice I can offer.
Further proof of my lack of qualification in providing any form of quality advice became abundantly clear to me last week when my son approached me for guidance.
“Dad,” he said. “This kid at school keeps kicking me.”
Not being a complete idiot, although close, I asked for details.
“This kid kicks me as hard as he can every day before I enter home room,” my boy says. He then shows me a bruise on his shin.
A thinking Dad would have said, “I’m sorry, son. Let me call the principal, we’ll get this kid in a room with his parents and sort this thing out. Don’t worry, son. Your Dad will take care of this…”
To be truthful this thought never entered my vacuous head. My guess is I subconsciously hate attending a love-in to resolve conflict.
“Boys will be boys,” the principal would inevitably say. The parents of the bully would then attribute their son’s bad behavior to the recent death of his hamster, gluten, seasonal allergies or sleep depravation due to a Sponge Bob Marathon. We’d then laugh about the stupid shit we did when we were kids, shake hands, and then drive home singing our favorite Beach Boys tunes, near delirious due to our parental excellence.
Unfortunately, I could not muster any thinking appropriate for our times, so instead I said, doing my best Sean Connery imitation, “The next time this kid kicks you. Kick him back harder.” For the record, I did not say “kick the little bastard until he bleeds.”
It’s was about 2 o’clock the same day when I got the call from the school. I was informed my immediate presence was necessary and not optional. “It was something about my son…”
I drove to the school. Confident my son was alive, I kept the Beach Boys playing.
When I arrived I was told to enter the conference room. Inside was the school principal, my son, and the town’s police chief.
“Howdy Chief,” I said. “If this is about the fund raiser, I’m sorry. I promise to give next year.”
The Chief did not laugh.
“My son,” I was told had been involved in an assault.
“Really,” I said. “Not possible.”
The discussion then got into who kicked who first. My son won the argument. Shit, the kid is incredible and fearless when it comes to holding his ground.
After lots of talk the room fell silent. Everyone was waiting for me to comment.
“Listen Chief,” I said. “I told my son if this kid kicks you again, kick him back. I did not tell him to break his jaw and then stuff him into a recycling container…”