Being an Author is being a Small Business Owner?

First off some defintions:
Writer: unpublished in serious terms. Not making a dime, just getting your stuff out there.
Author: You made at least $.01 from something you wrote that you can say was deposited into your bank account.
I am now an author.
Officially.
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Start Blog:
Now that I am a published writer, making money I've had some comments by people that I can be an ass about constantly promoting the book.
My response:
1. Why haven't you bought the book of someone you know? How many people do you know is a published author? Just buy it, don't care if you don't read it. Treat it like the 5lbs of lemons you bought...you may read a few pages but the 2.99 you spend is less of a throw-away then the lemons. Not to mention its cheaper than a gallon of gas and will take you on a further trip!

2. How is me shoving my wares down your throat any different than a small business trying to advertise their business in all the free formats that they can find?!

3. Being an AUTHOR is like being a reality star nowadays, sadly. I have to promote myself as much as the book. I have to know who I am as an artist as much as the pride I have for the current "episode" ... current book/work.

4. My next question to people that say they haven't bought it is why? They say they are traditionalist and only read books they can hold. Which I can honestly accept, sincerely. I don't like feeling a book myself. But my response is again: how many published AUTHORS do you PERSONALLY know?!

5. Many book publishers try to design their authors books so uniquely that they can't transfer to eBooks...take for example Pop-up books, those can't be read on a Kindle for obvious reasons, BUT...that doesn't mean an author can't be so ingenious that they can't write a book that is best read on as an eBook...which I infact am developing.

Writing, or authoring, isn't so different than opening a small business. Its success relies solely on you and the people you connect yourself with. Whether or not its social networking, word of mouth, agent(s) [I mean how many indie authors correspond with multiple authors?!]
We must sell the business through ourselves and if I have to sell myself for the bes/t-ter of the biz than so be it. It really makes me no different than big businesses, politicians and movie producers with their infamous "casting couch."

With that said does that mean indie authors are sluts or man-whores for their craft? No. But we will sell ourselves within whatever stringent moral and ethical code we have.

Nor am I opposed to begging people to buy a novel. Them telling me "no" is no different than them proposing a yes and leaving me at the altar without a sale [because I can in fact check my sales for the day through KDP and PubIt...] so dare I say: I'm an author, I'm not an idiot...

The Nidus Series: The Stair (Book 3 or 4) - Excerpt

Authors Note: First off, by Book 3 or 4, I mean in the series, I am not putting them out in order for a specific reason.
The following excerpt is from the current book THE STAIR.
With that said you must be advised:
Paul is an architect that renovated a house in Ava, MO in a mysterious fashion. No one knew him or what his story was. Celeste, the mayors Secretary, and later Pauls "victim" is the only one that manages to make it inside to see what all the commotion is about. This excerpt is Paul Thomas Dial finally making a statement to the public and formally "opening" the house.
**E-mail him if you dare**
If you do not understand what THE NIDUS Series is please comment or PM I'll be more than happy to explain, but I'm pretty sure I've explained it earlier. If you missed them let me know! THE NIDUS Series will be my next 6-7 books.

EXCERPT:

At eleven that morning, media and nearly every Avian stood in the street outside his home waiting for Paul to walk out. A small podium with microphones and recorders were already set up. He walked out, wearing a white v-neck T-shirt, blue jeans and no shoes. He wore what appeared to be a blue rubber cancer bracelet on his left wrist. He balding but the blonde hair was trimmed nearly bald, leaving just stubble.
He walked up to the podium with his hands holding the top corners as bulbs flashed, taking his photo. People yelled out questions. But as Celeste watched him from a couple rows back, she noticed his facial hair, it was blonde and trimmed close to his face. He never looked up, he kept his eyes down to the grass in front of him. As he started to open his mouth everyone went silent, which he instantly put his hand up and reached into his back jean pocket and pulled out what appeared to be an iPhone.
Placing it on the top of the podium he walked back to the house. For a moment or two no one said or did anything when finally a man ran up to the podium, “It’s a voice recorder.” He replied, as if he didn’t know what to do.
He pushed play and this was the message that played into the microphone, local news stations and quoted in all of the local papers:
My name is Paul Dial. I bought and renovated this house, which was designed by my late brother. It was his last project before he died. I would appreciate you respect my desire to stay private. His work speaks for the both of us. If you have any questions you can direct them to my e-mail: In_Memoriam_4@yahoo.com and will attempt to answer as best as I can. Thank you.

Primetime - A Novel

Primetime: A Novel explores the idea of celebrity through the viewpoint of a grocery manager in a small Midwestern town. Sam must deal with newfound celebrity after he is the lone survivor of a rare drive by shooting in little Waukaponeda, Michigan. He describes employees, customers, conversations and his own dealings with survivor’s guilt, to come to an understanding and an acceptance of what celebrity and fame really means, especially in small town, America.

Sam’s struggles with customers nearly daily who scam, threaten, are mentally unstable, drunk, illiterate and simply stinky, as well as employee’s harassment and unprofessionalism. Primetime also gives an insider’s view of aspects of the grocery business that shoppers do not know, realize or may appreciate. Even his love life are victims of the shooting and Sam must come to terms with previous relationships.

Just like working in retail, the novel is at times funny, heart-warming, romantic, offensive, but you always leave with a smile.

And yes, Primetimeis inspired by true events and actual people.

It can be found on Kindle Books at: http://www.amazon.com/Primetime-A-Novel-ebook/dp/B007UA0IB4/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1334496195&sr=1-1

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About the Author:

I have worked 10 years as a grocery clerk working nearly every position at one time or another. My time in retail and working halfway through mu Graduate Degree inspired me to explore writing and was where I wrote the first novel to be accepted as a Graduate Thesis paper at Andrews University. There is no topic that I won’t explore except wizards, as that ship has sailed but I do enjoy taking a topic and looking at it from a new angle and blurring the lines between fact and what is fiction. My passion for listening to people and watching their body language has been an influential aspect in my writing, whether or not it was passion, taught from my police officer father or done out of survival, hard to say.

You can follow him:

on Twitter: @Brian_AHarrison

on Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/PrimetimeTheNovel

PRIMETIME Update

PRIMETIME-A Novel inspired by  true events about what its like to work at a grocery store in a small town has an update:

Have you ever wondered what its like to BE a grocery clerk or cashier at a grocery store?
Constantly scanning groceries?
Well now you can experience first hand!!!
Scan this QR code to uncover those secrets:

Don't forget to share and tell your friends to visit. If nothing else just tell your friends to scan this QR code with their phone/barcode reader and do what it says! Thanks! ;)

Progeny Sequel Excerpt

At eleven that morning, the media and nearly every Avian [people from Ava, Missouri] stood in the street outside his home waiting for him to walk out. A small podium with microphones and recorders were already set up [as he had scheduled a press conference]. He walked out, wearing a white v-neck tshirt, blue jeans and no shoes. He wore what appeared to be a blue rubber cancer bracelet on his left wrist.

He walked up to the podium with his hands holding the top corners as flashes took his photo. People yelled out questions. But as Celeste watched him from a couple rows back, she noticed his facial hair, it was blonde and trimmed close to his face. He never looked up, he kept his eyes down to the grass in front of him. As he started to open his mouth everyone went silent, which he instantly put his hand up and reached into his back jean pocket and pulled out what appeared to be an iPod.

Placing it on the top of the podium he walked back to the house. For a moment or two no one said or did anything when one man ran up to the podium, “It’s a voice recorder.” He replied.

He pushed play and this was the message that played:
My name is Paul Dial. I am the renovator of this house, which was designed by my late brother, it was his last project before he died. I would appreciate you respect my desire to stay private. His work speaks for the both of us. If you have any questions you can direct them to my e-mail: In_Memoriam_4@yahoo.com and will attempt to answer as best as we can. Thank you.

[Paul was sent to a facility shortly after, the time in between he had sent an away message, to test the away message, send to the above e-mail address, if he receives, currently he will respond with any questions you may have. IE, Paul Thomas Dial will respond until the novel is published. ]

Between Your Sheets (A Poem)

I don't write poems very often but figured I'd make an attempt this weekend and share with you.

Between Your Sheets – December 18, 2011

As you lie on your back,

And look into the skies,

With your fingers in the clouds

With full care you take

The light into your heart

And beams off your smile.

Is when you fall between the leaves

Is when I snuck between your sheets.

The warmth of your touch

And the touch of your soul

Guides the weight of your heart

Back to the heart of your life

And while you are searching

For that one rock of sand

The time passed along

The riverbed of life

Back to the place

Where stars streaked

Backwards across the street

Under the lamplight of

Lightning flies and

Twinkling skies.

Falling into your satin bed

The flowers petals under your head

Our fingers weave like rose vines

The sun sits on your curving spine

As you kiss my cheek

Discovering me between your sheets.

Progeny and Excerpt

I have just finished the first draft of my next novel: PROGENY.
It is the story of when 5 serial killers/murderers come together in group therapy in an asylumn for the criminally insane.
Here is the cover for the first time:

The opening of PROGENY:

“The fear entered my room at a quarter passed one that morning, the door creaked open, rusty from the years of continued overuse. He stood silhouetted from the hallway light. I knew what was beneath his robe, but he didn’t know what was beneath my pillow. “As usual, say anything and I’ll kill you, understand?” But the question itself implied I could only shake my head. He began to disrobe but not letting go of the whiskey bottle, as I undressed my own innocence, the shirt with a BMX biker and the tighty-whities. He undid his belt like so many times before, the light from my night light glistened with a smirk of betrayal. “Come here,” he waved over. I took a step, he put his hand on top of the back of my head, pulling me down. He unloaded his gun into my mouth as I had cocked my own behind. The tears that rained down my face tasted like the bitterness left in my mouth. Fear that night entered the gunman and I pulled the trigger.”



Here's an excerpt from later on:

            “How is everyone doing today?” Pine asked as a hyperactive little mouse of a man-child exclaimed nearly jumping out of his skin with caffeine-filled eurphoria was ushered in by two nurses. It was Frank, in a straight-jacket.

            “Great fine, superb! How are you Doctor P?” He replied, sitting down. “My name is Lester Frank but you can call me Les, I’m 32, I like the color green did you know my eyes are green? That’s why my favorite color is green.”

            “Nice to meet you Les, do you know why you are here?” Pine asked.

            “Of course.”

            “We are all friends here, nothing leaves this room. Do you want to tell us?”

            “Yeah sure.” He then sat calmly in his chair, moved his tongue around as if moving the gum from his mouth, cleared his throat, “I killed my family.”

            “Why’d you do that Lester?”

            “Because.”

            “Because why?” Dr. Pine asked pointedly, knowing the script for the conversation.

            He looked confused. “I need a reason?”

            “Yes.”

            “That’s what you’re supposed to do.”

            “How did you do it?”

            “With a shovel of course. Kind of brilliant really because then I could just use the shovel to shovel the parts I cut up into the bonfire. That was a beautiful fire. The way the flame danced on their toes and played the ivories of their fingers like Mozart, Van Gogh would have been impressed.”

            “Thank you Lester for sharing your story.” He wrote down something and came to the next person. A older woman in her late 40s, brown hair wiry with strings of gray lace. Skin soft, the weight of one and a half full-grown German Sheppard Dogs, the same that it took to get her off the policeman she was trying to claw the face off of.

            “Miss Maguire is your name correct?” Pine asked her.

            “Yes.”

            “Why are you with us today?”

            “Because I attacked someone as well.”

            “Why?”

            “Because he arrested me.”

            “For what?”

            “Murder.”

            “Of who?”

            “No one. I didn’t kill anyone.”

            “So you didn’t go to the police saying you drowned your children?”

            “No.”

            “Then why did they find them where you said they were?”

            “I don’t know.”

            “Thank you for sharing Miss Maguire.”

            At least I had a reason for killing someone. What was wrong with these people?