I’m trying to find an alternative way to sell my books. It’s not easy being an independent author; as a kid I used to dream of this, of controlling my own destiny. I went to one of the finest art schools in the country and was kicked out for conduct unbecoming. It was a teacher of mine who’d got her degree from RISD and wouldn’t shut up about it. She looked like Mare Winningham and spoke with a vocal fry and painted these abstract expressionist paintings that looked like armadillo guts. I told her as much and that was my final mistake. She had a lot of pull at the school and had me removed. I was in my early twenties. Shortly after that I took my first job at the local community college lecturing on Asian Philosophy.
Anyway, I got sidetracked. About selling my books.
I’ve done my research. There is no way I can get into Barnes and Noble. Not a chance.
There are a few bookstores here and there in the Los Angeles area. I’m in a couple of them. I’ve seen my stuff move. I don’t make a lot of money. Occasionally someone contacts me with some outlandish advertising proposition.
I’ve been doing some other research.
Porn and sex toy shops.
That’s where my shit belongs. I need to sell to the old and the degenerate.
First of all, who actually visits porn shops? Creepy guys over the age of 50.
Perfect. My prime demographic. Who the hell is else is going to buy a 200 page novel about a secret society of men obsessed with asscrack?
So I’ve got a map and I’ve put pins all over it. Each one represents a porn shop. The ones that are left are in places like Pacoima and Rialto and Lancaster. Shit towns where old, wasted degenerates live.
Perfect. As soon as I can muster up the motivation to leave my mountain cabin in the foothills–and as soon as it stops goddamned raining–I’m gonna make my move.
I might even design a Fooz Pinkley sex toy to promote my next novel.