Everybody’s free (to feel good)

Now that I have completed the Sam Plank series, and now that I have stopped the day job and am reconfiguring how I spend my time, I decided that I needed to do something significant to mark these events and to signal my intent to be a more professional author.  I considered a tattoo (no, not really) and commissioning my likeness in dark chocolate (yes, really), but in the end I have plumped for this: a permafree series opener.

For those of you (I hope all of you – it’s a horrid word) shuddering at the term “permafree”, I should explain that it means free forever.  In other words, I am making the e-book of “Fatal Forgery” free forever on all the sales platforms I can find.  My reasons are these:

• Several successful indie authors of series have already done it and highly recommend it
• A free book entices readers to take a punt on an unknown author – and once they’ve had a taste of Sam and Martha and the gang, I’m sure they won’t be able to resist buying the next six books in the series, for themselves and all their friends and every member of their extended family
• It’s scary and exciting – and at my stage in life, something scary and exciting is good.

Of course, it’s not that simple to make something permafree, unless you do it right from the start.  All of the Sam e-books were enrolled (there, you see: I’m putting it in the passive to deny responsibility, but it’s entirely my fault) in the KDP Select programme.  This means that they can only be sold on Amazon, and in exchange for this exclusivity I get a higher royalty rate (70% as opposed to 35% for e-books that are published “wide” – i.e. other places as well as Amazon).  And Amazon does not – for obvious reasons – allow you to price a book at free.  So I needed to get the books off KDP Select, and there is a three-month notice period.  That expired last week, and I had a giddy couple of days publishing the e-books to other platforms such as Google Play, Kobo and Barnes & Noble (formerly Nook).  They do allow you to price books at free, which I did for “Fatal Forgery”.  And once you have a book priced at free on a couple of reputable competitor sites, you can request Amazon to price match to zero on their site – which they have done (it’s not a given, and there’s no guarantee they’ll keep the price at zero, but we can try).  It’s as simple as that…

I have plans for world domination with permafree Forgery, and – again on the recommendation of much more successful indie authors – I have booked a series promo on Freebooksy.  This site promotes free books to its “over 150,000 voracious readers”, and with a series promo they highlight the free opener and show the rest of the series.  That’s booked in for 30 June, at a cost of US$95 – about £78.  Given that I get about £1.40 royalty per e-book sold (nothing for “Fatal Forgery”, of course – I mean the other six), I have to hope that the promo will result in at least fifty-six additional sales.  The true value of a series promo, I am told, is its “long tail” of sales, which will be hard to monitor, but I feel excited that I am trying something new.

And here’s something interesting…  Since “Fatal Forgery” went permafree a couple of days ago, I have told my friends on Facebook, and Sam’s audience of 23 on Facebook, and his 17 followers on Twitter.  (I know, I know: I really need to get a grip on his social media presence – or, more truthfully, his absence).  So not many people have been told.  And yet the word is out somehow: since yesterday, there have been 322 downloads of “Fatal Forgery”, pushing it to sales rank 54 in the historical fiction e-books category on Amazon.  And sales rank really matters on Amazon: if you rank high, they jump in with their own promotion and then, well, watch out Tanya Anne Crosby (current holder of position one in the historical fiction e-books category)!

Please send cake

It’s time for the annual totting-up, as I prepare my self-assessment tax return and work out whether being an author makes me any money at all, or whether I am in fact paying for the privilege.  (Incidentally, my top tip for filling in tax returns – and indeed any complex form – is this: if you don’t understand the question, the answer is no.)

First, some stats for you:

• I have self-published 21 non-fiction books (all about anti-money laundering, all in paperback only), five Sam Plank novels (all in paperback and various e-formats, and the first two as audiobooks as well), one collection of articles that I wrote for the local newspaper (paperback only) and one box-set of the first three Sam Plank novels (e-format only)
• I have also self-published a guide to the Sam Plank series, with the first chapter of each novel and a glossary of Regency terms, but that’s free and so it brings in no royalties
• In June 2015 my tax return revealed that I had made just under £1,500 from the writing side of my professional life
• In 2016 that disappeared into a net loss of £44.87
• In 2017 I increased my net loss to £288.71 – obviously too much spending and not enough writing
• In 2018 I bucked the trend and went into the black, making a net profit of £1,338

So what can I report this year – up or down?  Profit or loss?  In the period 6 April 2018 to 5 April 2019 (that’s the crazy English tax year for you), I made a net profit from my authorliness of £1,294.31.  In essence, that’s royalties and sales minus cover designs, promo materials and membership of the Society of Authors.  It works out at £24.89 per week.  At this rate, I’ll be lucky to afford even a modest garret.

Don’t forget to vote for the title of “Plank 6” – for £24.89 a week, I’m certainly not choosing my own titles.

(And in case you’re wondering, the blog title is from a letter my father sent to his mum from university in the 1950s, which we still have in the family archive and which reads, in its entirety: “Dear mum, Washing enclosed.  Please send cake. Pete.”)

A right royalty rumpus

Part of being a self-published author is dealing with the money side of things.  I am extremely lucky in that, for me, writing is a hobby and so I do not count on it for my income.  (Just as well, considering it makes me £25 per week.)  I do hope that one day I will be able to rely on it a little more, but for the moment, it’s an enjoyable side-line.  And this is why I have never bothered getting to grips with the royalty situation.  (Isn’t that a marvellous word for something rather ordinary?  Here’s the explanation from etymologyonline, one of my most-used websites: “c. 1400, ‘office or position of a sovereign’, also ‘magnificence’, from or modelled on Old French roialte [12c., Modern French royauté], from Vulgar Latin regalitatem, from Latin regalis.  Sense of ‘prerogatives or rights granted by a sovereign to an individual or corporation’ is from late 15c.  From that evolved more general senses, such as ‘payment to a landowner for use of a mine’ [1839], and ultimately ‘payment to an author, composer, etc.’ for sale or use of his or her work [1857].”)

Don’t get me wrong: I have a fair grasp of how much I make from each copy sold.  (It’s a bit approximate, because it does vary according to country of sale, exchange rates, etc., but it’s about £1.10 per paperback copy sold on Amazon, and £1.10 per Kindle book.)  But what mystifies me is that every month I get five royalty payments.  Yes, five.  Three of them come accompanied by statements, while the other two sneak in alone.  The three statements cover purchases made in pounds, US dollars and euros.  But I have no idea what the other two payments are for.  On my bank statement all five payments say simply that they have come from “Amazon Media”.  And so I tot them up and bung them on the tax return.

But now change is a-foot.  I have received an email from CreateSpace (the print-on-demand company that I use, which is – like almost every business under the sun – owned by Amazon) announcing that “CreateSpace and Kindle Direct Publishing will become one service”.  KDP is the service I use to sell my Kindle books, and CreateSpace authors seem to have little choice in the matter (pick your battles, as my grandma used to advise), so I have pressed the button to migrate my CreateSpace titles to my KDP account.  On the surface, this seems like a good development: I can now go to one dashboard to see all my sales – POD paperbacks and Kindle books.  But I can’t help thinking that things might not be that simple…  For a start, I’m going to have to wait longer for my £25: “CreateSpace pays monthly royalties 30 days after the end of the month in which they were earned while KDP pays monthly royalties approximately 60 days after the end of the month in which they were earned.”  And those royalties might well shrink a little, as they are calculated after the cost of production is deducted, and “some low-page count books will see an increase in printing fees when they are printed in the UK and EU”.  It remains to be seen how low is low when it comes to page count…

Penny-pinching Planks

After all the excesses and jollity of Christmas it’s back to the cold, hard reality of work.  And as this is supposed to be a warts-and-all blog about self-publishing, that work includes totting up my Plank sales for 2017 and trying to work out how much I have made and whether I can yet afford that elegant villa in Ischia.  (Spoiler alert: I can’t.)  Calculating royalties is rather a dark art, as Amazon seems to pay an ever-changing percentage and I have negotiated different deals with different bookshops (for whom I have to order and then deliver copies, so have to take that cost off before I begin), but I’ve had a go.

• “Fatal Forgery”: 20 paperback copies at an average of £1.10 royalty each; 27 Kindle copies at £2.09 each; 9 audiobooks at £1.50 each
• “The Man in the Canary Waistcoat”: 6 paperback copies at £1.10 royalty each; 13 Kindle copies at £2.09 each; 10 audiobooks at £1.50 each
• “Worm in the Blossom”: 4 paperback copies at £1.10 royalty each; 15 Kindle copies at £2.09 each
• “Portraits of Pretence”: 8 paperback copies at £1.25 royalty each; 20 Kindle copies at £2.79 each

That makes a grand total of £242.25 for the year.  Out of this will come tax, and then of course I have paid for cover design, promotional materials (such as bookmarks) and the big unknown: my writing time.  Ah well: it might just pay for a nice pair of sandals for that Ischian idyll.

The man from WH Smith, he say…

…no.  As you may remember, I took my latest book – “Susan in the City: The Cambridge News Years” – into our local branch of WH Smith.  They weren’t keen on considering the Plank books when I took those in, but I thought that a book by a local author, a collection of columns that had appeared in the local paper, might have local appeal.  I had visions of a lovely yellow display alongside the newspaper…  The manager said that he would put the proposal to head office, and perhaps then I should have heard the distant knell of doom.

Anyway, I called in today and was told that, in the “current challenging book market”, WH Smith does not want to take on any new books until the start of their new financial year, in September.  I nodded politely, but inside I was saying, “Whaaaaaaat?”.  As everyone in the book world knows, physical books – as opposed to e-books – have made a strong recovery in recent months: indeed, sales through bricks-and-mortar shops rose by 7% in 2016.  And as for the idea that WH Smith is not going to put out any new titles on their shelves until September – I suspect that this is piffle.  If that’s really the case, they’re going to kick themselves for missing out on the new Ian Rankin paperback (due out on 15 June) and the new Jamie Oliver hardback cookbook (due out on 24 August).

Mind you, I can see how taking on my title in one branch might be too great a risk for head office.  I was offering them five copies, with them keeping 35% of the cover price, on a sale or return basis.  So if their copies did not sell, they could return them to me in any condition and not pay my invoice for £25.97.  Thank goodness they spotted that threat to their commercial survival – and handed any sales to the other two local bookshops that are stocking it, and to the online retailer they really dread.  Harrumph.

(And in case you think this is simply an enormous bunch of sour grapes, it’s not the refusal that has annoyed me: it’s the dissembling.  It’s the same as the email I received earlier this year from a small airline that I use regularly, informing me that, “in order to improve the customer experience”, they will no longer be offering free drinks on their flights.  We all know they’re doing it to reduce costs and increase profits – and why not? they’re a commercial airline, not a charity – so why the mealy-mouthed not-justification?)

Every bookshop in the land

I can imagine that you think I am just sitting around, gazing out of the window and eating bonbons.  Far from it.  My latest project – apart from “Plank 5”, of course – is to figure out how to get the Sam Plank books into more bookshops.  My ploy thus far has been to woo individual booksellers with silver-tongued emails and then go in person with a delivery of books.  This is (a) time-consuming, and (b) not practical on a country-wide basis, much as I would love (now here’s a retirement project) to visit every independent bookshop in the UK.  And so I have gone the traditional route.

As I understand it, the majority of booksellers – from the small to the large – buy their stock from book distributors.  King among the UK book distributors is Nielsen.  They get their stock, for selling on to the bookshops, direct from publishers.  And, through a combination of dogged determination, charm, begging and a gradual sea-change in the attitudes to indie publishing, I have managed to persuade Nielsen to recognise me as a publisher.  I have a login and everything.  And associated with me as a publisher are the four Sam Plank novels.

In theory, therefore, a book buyer can go into any bookshop in the land and, when they ask for a Sam Plank novel and find the shelves bare (apart from in Heffers and Davids in Cambridge, Toppings in Ely and Daunts in Cheapside, of course), demand that the bookseller order one for them.  Said bookseller then logs into his Nielsen account, looks up Sam Plank and voilà! there he is.  Order is placed, book arrives and reader is satisfied.

What I am a little hazy on is what precisely happens in between.  I know that when Nielsen receives an order for Sam Plank they will forward it to me – his publisher – for fulfilment.  And I know that I am responsible for pronto delivery to the bookshop that has ordered him.  However, I do not know who has to pay for postage; I am assuming that I do.  And, more critically, I do not know what royalty I get from Nielsen-generated orders.  This is uncharacteristically lax of me, I know, as I am usually pretty hot on royalty levels and all that.  But in all honesty the Nielsen website is so (whisper it) unfriendly that I simply couldn’t find definitive answers to my questions, and so I have decided to wing it: I’ll wait for my first statement from them and work it out from that.

Of course, to get a statement I will need to have an order or two.  And so far: zilch.  I am torn between wanting at least one order so that I can see how the system works, and terror that I might get dozens of orders for multiple copies that I am entirely unequipped to fulfil.  After all, in order to supply copies I need to order them from America (we’ve been through this before), and I keep only limited copies in readiness.  As ever, I’ll keep you posted.

Pondering on price

“Portraits of Pretence” is gradually creeping out there…  I have now received my personal order of fifty copies, and have sent out three for review.  I have also, just now, delivered twelve to my local bookshop, as I thought it would be nice to give them a head-start before I publish on Amazon.

On their advice – the bookshop’s – I have increased the cover price of this book to £8.99.  The other three remain at £7.99, but I had noticed that the price of other paperbacks has risen, and £8.99 is now very much the norm – with some fatties and large format paperbacks going for as much as £12.99.  As part of the self-publishing plan is to look as normal as possible, I thought I should keep up with the pricing trend.

For those of you interested in the financial side of things, this extra pound makes quite a difference to me.  If Amazon sells one of my paperbacks with a cover price of £7.99 (regardless of how much Amazon actually charges – the discounting is their business), I eventually receive a royalty of 61p – i.e. 7.6%.  But if I stipulate a cover price of £8.99, my royalty jumps to £1.21, or 13.4%.  Heavens, why haven’t I done this sooner?  I’m not sure about going back and increasing the cover price of the first three, as when they were published – or certainly the first one at least – the standard cover price was £7.99.  I wonder what publishing houses do about this.