The Tipping Point for Kiki Lowenstein

When I started my mystery series, an other author told me, "You won't know if it's a hit until book number five." That seemed odd to me, but she went on to explain that #5 is a sort of tipping point, to use Malcolm Gladwell's term. By #5, you have enough critical mass to really make a difference in the marketplace. Newcomers to your series can buy five books, not just one.

I understand that. While browsing in a bookstore, my eyes go to mystery series. I knew that if I liked one book in the series, I could settle in and enjoy a long reading experience of following characters.
My editor, Connie Hill, recently sent me the galleys of Ready, Scrap, Shoot. She also complimented me on the dramatic tensions. She told me that she had taken the manuscript home over the weekend--rather than leave it on her desk to work on it on a Monday--because she had to see how it ended.

I passed the galley to two beta readers, readers whose opinion I value. The first reported back and she loved it. She had a few questions that I hope to resolve with an edit or two. The second hasn't contacted me yet.

Meanwhile, my husband enjoyed a quick and informal reunion this weekend with his high school friends in Bloomington-Normal, Illinois. After a long day of golf on Saturday, one of them turned to David and asked, "Is your wife Joanna Slan? The mystery writer? We have three of her books at our house."

Wow. Maybe I have reached a tipping point. I sure hope so!

Here's the scoop on Ready, Scrap, Shoot--

You can pre-order it at Amazon.

http://www.amazon.com/Ready-Scrap-Lowenstein-Scrap-N-Craft-Mystery/dp/0738727474/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1317832835&sr=8-1

The Kindness of Strangers

Just break a bottle of champagne over my forehead, will you?

Tonight (Monday evening) is the “official” launch for Cut, Crop & Die, the second book in the Kiki Lowenstein Mystery Series. I’ll be giving a presentation at 7 p.m. at Left Bank Books, 399 N. Euclid, near downtown St. Louis. We’ll be signing books and serving wine and cheese.

I’m debating on whether to read something out of my book—which I’ll probably do—or do a Blanche DuBois imitation, because that’s a bit more honest. You see, lately, I’ve really been dependent on the kindness of strangers.

It began last Wednesday afternoon, when Joe Fox, the 20-year-old son of our dear friends in Charleston SC drove into town. “Joseph, do you have a place to stay?” I asked.

“No, ma’am. I thought I’d just find a hotel,” he said.

“Okay, come over to our house. David and Michael are on the East Coast. We’ve got plenty of room,” I said. “But I might disappear after dinner because I’m heading for Dallas the next morning.”

After Joe and I had fantastic steaks at Andria’s in Chesterfield, it occurred to me that I had no way to get to the airport without my husband or son being in town. So I asked Joe if he could drop me off. I held my breath because despite being incredibly polite, Joe is, after all, not much more than a teenager. They HATE mornings. But the next a.m., he was up with the birds, pulling my big suitcase to his car before I knew it.

At the airline gate, I noticed a friend of mine, Marilyn, who works for Build-a-Bear. We started chatting and walking onto the plane. But my paper boarding pass didn’t go through. The plane was headed for Seattle and I was bound for Dallas-Fort Worth. Oops. I stepped to one side. Then a pilot who watched this said, “Uh, your plane is boarding RIGHT NOW, next gate over.”

I got to my hotel in Arlington TX with only a slight detour. My driver was new to this country, and he got a bit lost.

I was staring at all the six boxes of books I’d sent ahead when couple of nice ladies noticed me in the foyer. “We’re going over to the scrapbook show. Want a ride?” These sweeties actually helped me load books and drove me over. When my bag of trail mix—my lunch, breakfast and dinner—burst open in their car, they were very nice. They helped me make sure I didn’t have a big raisin glued to my butt.

At the show, Sally Slack, the event goddess, allowed me the perfect spot to set up: Right in front of the ladies’ johns and the food court. My table neighbors—Susie Rushing and her daughter Rebekah of GloverStamp.com—loaned me a BIG cart when they heard my dilemma. The next morning, a wonderful taxi driver helped me haul five boxes of books (weighing 40 lb each) and my teaching kits (50 lbs) into the convention center. I have no idea how Arlington TX thinks a convention center works because there are lots of stairs and little/no helpers.

At 8 a.m. on Friday, I taught my first class. We had oodles of fun.

I went back to my table and opened the five boxes of books, 36 per box. My pal Terri Thayer counseled me that she usually sells about 200 books at a convention. I sold 108 in 3 hours, by myself, processing both cash and credit card payments. I use a crayon to rub over the numbers. (It’s low tech but it works!)

Over the weekend, I sold 216 books in total. That's a photo of me and Pat Coates, one of the lovely scrappers I met. I taught 2 classes of 20 people each. I revisited some “old” pals from the scrapbook industry. I met some new friends. Folks who read Paper, Scissors, Death dropped by expressly to buy Cut, Crop & Die. The scrapbookers who bought PSD on Thursday started raving in classes and to their roommates, which drove more traffic to my table. Scrapbookers shared meals with me, reminisced with me, gave me rides, encouraged me, and cheered me on. There are no kinder people on earth.

Monday I’ll celebrate with my book-loving friends and family and author pals here in St. Louis. But the glow I'll wear comes directly from my weekend in Dallas.

Being an Author

A few months ago I got into an Internet conversation about titling my books – I have a standard offer of a free book for anyone who can come up with a name for it. Someone suggested “Buttons and Bones.” What a great title! It went into my file, though I had no idea what kind of a plot it might cover.

Then I was handed story last week over at the Courage Center Pool, where I do water aerobics at the ungodly hour of six-thirty in the morning. I heard Rita say to Dave that she wanted to make one last trip up to her cabin in northern Minnesota. Just idly curious, I asked her where her cabin is. “It’s near Emily,” she said, “and Remer.” Seeing the blank look on my face, she added, “They are very small towns, about sixty miles north of Brainard. That would make the cabin about three hours from Minneapolis.” Gosh, I thought, that’s way, way up north. There’s probably snow up there by now – there was snow on the ground in Duluth the day before, which is straight across the state from where her cabin is, though we haven’t had anything but thin flurries down here in central Minnesota.

She told me the cabin is on a bluff overlooking a small lake. It is very isolated, set among huge old pines, with only one other cabin somewhat distant. Hers is small, a real log cabin, built over a hundred years ago from local trees. She’s spent a lot of time repairing it, as it sat empty for a few years after the last owner, a retired army colonel, died. She discovered a root cellar she didn’t know existed while working on the floor, and there’s a woodshed out back full of old logs and rubbish she intends to clean out one of these days. The well is a hundred and twenty-five feet deep.

There used to be a POW camp up the road where German soldiers were kept during World War II.

Anyone who can read the above and be flummoxed for a mystery story plot is no writer, especially given the title I have in storage. Thank you, Rita, and look for your copy of the novel in about three years – I have to finish Thai Die, then write Blackwork before starting Buttons and Bones.

The trip down to Mankato for the Deep Valley Book Festival was well worthwhile. This was only its fourth year, and it was extremely well organized. The booths were roomy, and there was electrical power available – and WiFi, so people like me could “stay in touch” via the Internet. The panels were interesting, and back in a far corner a series of musicians played (nothing loud or modern), including a two person jazz set that had the whole place bopping in time. In another corner was a children’s area, with face painting, stories, even a couple of pets to stroke. There was a very wide selection of authors. I had a great conversation with a man from Zambia, and wish now I’d bought one of his books. There was a silent auction (with a terrific selection), and prizes offered to people whose numbered tickets matched the numbers called from time to time. Food was for sale, soup and chicken salad croissants made fresh, and the prices weren’t enough to invoke the comparison to highway robbery that is common at this sort of thing. The building was just perfect, clean and attractive, not so big any individual author got lost, but big enough for plenty of authors. Many of the authors were privately published or even self-published, so you saw books you rarely saw elsewhere, impressively packaged. Small presses and self-publishing are getting better all the time. The one piece of advice I’d offer to authors going down: Step out and sell. The authors who did worst were those who sat shyly at the back of their booths. Once upon a time, publishers did the publicity. That is no longer the case. And when the author is also the publisher, it is imperative he or she do some marketing. We did well by simply greeting aloud anyone who ventured near, and having a short, snappy, humorous sales pitch ready. My fancy hat helped, and no one who came within range got away without a bookmark. It also helped that I brought someone with me, so we could switch off when one’s brain overheated.

I have a new book, Knitting Bones, whose pub date is December 4. It has a great cover; go take a look at it at Monica-Ferris.com. Here endeth the sales pitch, more deponent sayeth not.