When I decided to put my multi-award
winning novella, Dearest Darling, on sale, it struck me that one way to garner
interest is to mention the awards it has won.
Ah, but would it? This opened a
whole can of worms in my mind: what,
exactly, are the benefits of book
awards? There are few authors around who
don’t bother to go after at least one, yet the actual value of saying
‘Award-winning Author’ in—not a sea -- a veritable tidal wave of award-winning
authors is questionable.
In the August RWR, Neal Thompson,
director of Author and Publishing Relations at Amazon is quoted in an article
titled ‘Making Amazon Work for You’ as saying, “The number one thing authors
should concentrate on is writing the best book possible.” Nowhere in this article does he even mention
awards. Now, you may say that having an
award says you’ve written the best
book possible, but that’s not why authors go after awards. One author wrote to me, “I worked with a
marketing company for a time, buying their services at a Brenda Novak auction.
They told me a vital step was to submit my books to places where I
could ‘win’ awards…and to highlight those awards in my
publicity.” Another author with whom I spoke said she went after
awards because of “prestige of contest, opportunities offered,
and/or contacts or for personal reasons.”
Yet another author told me, “As a reader, I notice awards books
have won…..I'll take a second look at a book from an unknown author that's won
awards because I feel someone must have found merit in the book…it depends on
who sponsored the contest.” A fourth said, “As an unknown
getting an award seemed to be one way I could possibly garner some attention
for my work.” And that seemed to be the prevalent view: if you are unknown, saying your book won an
award is one way of drawing attention to it.
While most authors feel it validates their
writing, the possibility that awards actually help sales seems to be a very
grey area. The authors I contacted
didn’t feel it was a huge boost. One wrote,
“I have my doubts if (awards) help sales.
However, it does seem to help you get on paid promotion places. LOL” Another person told me, “…people are more likely to take a
chance on an ‘award-winning’ author.” But does “more likely” increase
sales? Yet another said she wasn’t sure,
while others agreed with Thompson that it was writing the best book possible
that eventually gained sales.
So what does generate sales,
assuming you have written that ‘best book.’? “THE NUMBER OF REVIEWS I HAVE!” “…Contest wins do NOT,
IMHO, help as much as a bunch of good reviews….word of mouth.” “Marketing, promotion, repetition of
book title and/or author name. And writing quality stories that a majority of
readers like and recommend to others. There is nothing like word of mouth kudos
to move books.” That seemed to be the
consensus of opinion—it all came down to writing the best possible book and
getting reviews or word of mouth. Is
there a feel-good factor to winning an award?
Yes, of course; it validates what the author has just spent several
months doing. But do you sleep better at night having won? No, not really. And if it came down to
winning an award or being on a best-seller list, what do you think the answer
was?
So, here I am with my multi-award
winning book, Dearest Darling, on sale through Sept. 9 for 99c. It has won a lovely marble plaque for Best
Novella from The Golden Quill, a handsome token from the Maple Leaf Awards for
Favorite Hero, along
with Honorable Mention as Favorite Heroine, Favorite Short Story and Favorite
Novel; and placed Third in Historical
Short at the International Digital Awards. It was also a 5* Reader’s
Choice. But did I write the best book
possible?
You tell me.
Coffee Time Romance is currently featuring a contest with 3 winners in which Dearest Darling is part of 2 of the prizes. head to http://www.coffeetimeromance.com/ContestPage.html#.V8hEgCMrKRs to take part.
The story: Stuck in a life
of servitude to her penny-pinching brother, Emily Darling longs for a more
exciting existence. When a packet with travel tickets, meant for one Ethel
Darton, accidentally lands on her doormat, Emily sees a chance for escape.
Having turned down the dreary suitors that have come her way, is it possible a
new existence also offers a different kind of man?
Daniel Saunders has carved out a
life for himself in Wyoming—a life missing one thing: a wife. Having scrimped
and saved to bring his mail-order bride from New York, he is outraged to find
in her stead a runaway fraud. Even worse, the impostor is the sister of his old
enemy.
But people are not
always as they seem, and sometimes the heart knows more than the head.
Emily
liked the sound of his voice, low but not husky, a slight twang he had
cultivated, but not pretentiously so. When he spoke, she envisaged melting
caramel, something delicious, the way it could be so appealing as she stirred,
with a shine and slow drip from the spoon, before it gradually solidified.
Soothing. A liquid velvet.
But
he hadn’t spoken today. Not since first thing when he’d told her to get ready.
Not through breakfast, or as he helped clear dishes, or gave her a hand up into
the wagon.
“You
haven’t seen her. You didn’t see her picture, did you?” The questions came
sudden, yet without malice.
Emily
straightened, alert. “No. No, I didn’t.” Would I understand better? Is that
what he meant?
“I
keep it with me.” Daniel began to fish in his pocket. “Would you like to see
it?”
“No.
No, you keep it, please. It won’t change anything.” Emily panicked. She would
be beautiful, the other, that would be the answer. So stunningly beautiful that
just her photograph had enthralled him, mesmerized him into loving her. Emily
couldn’t bear to look, didn’t want to know the answer. Didn’t wish to torture
herself further. “And I’m sorry. I’m sorry for reading the letters.” A rush of
words, they flowed out of her. “I should never have done that. It’s not like
me. But you...well, you understand it seems—”
“You’re
probably wondering what I see in her. Or what she sees in me. As for that, what
she sees in me, I have no idea. Maybe, like you, she wishes to get away.”
Emily
studied his profile, the planes and contours of his face, the eyes set straight
ahead, the slouch hat low on his brow. He gave nothing away, was a man in
control of his emotions, thinking, maybe still wondering how he had won that
woman. Or maybe set on keeping the answer to himself.
Overhead,
clouds scudded, scoured the sky, leached the blue, threatened.
“Did
you ever ask her? Why you?”
“I
did. She never answered. I’m thinking what she sees in me is husband material.
I guess. She tells me about her day, the people she knows, what she does. As
you read.”
“She
just seems so...so outgoing, so...so very social to ever want this life. I
found it difficult to believe.” She jutted her chin out, then turned to him,
waiting.
He
gave the reins a sharp shake. “I don’t know. I never asked if she knew what she
was getting into. I described it. I assumed if she wanted to stop the
correspondence there, she would have. I was pretty damn amazed and happy she’d
wanted to come, written back even though I described the cabin to her, the
isolation.” His gaze slid toward her.
“And
you think she’ll make you a perfect wife, do you? Be happy living here? Cook
your meals, mend your clothes, keep your cabin, have your babies?” Exasperated,
she tried to make him think, think of what he was letting himself in for, how
long a marriage like that could go on, how it could end up being even lonelier
than he was now. Emily would seem to him to be trying to win him over rather
than making him see the truth, but push him she must, save him, stop him. She
knew those sorts of women, the debutantes, the socialites. Not a one would last
out here, not for a single day.
His
head snapped around to stare at her. “She’s been writing. She hasn’t stopped.”
Ibooks: https://itunes.apple.com/us/artist/andrea-downing/id547850055?mt=11
