On a lazy Sunday afternoon, there’s not much better than hearing your five-year-old spontaneously tell you that she loves you. Of course, it could have been buying her an ice cream cone that prompted it, but I’ll take what I can get. It’s not buying someone’s affection if you didn’t plan on it, is it?

If a writer gives you a story and asks for your honest opinion, he doesn’t really want your honest opinion. Actually, he does want your honest opinion, but only if it begins with the words, “This is the best story I’ve read in my life . . .” Or, slightly more risky, the opinion could be modified with “one of the best stories,” which while not preferred is at least acceptable. Otherwise, no, he doesn’t want your honest opinion. If you have to lie, that’s all right. We lie to children about Santa Claus. Telling writers what you think of their work is sort of in the same category. You should be spreading hope and good cheer. You don’t want to take Santa Claus away from a writer, do you? That’s a very crummy thing to do.

My five-year-old can’t tie her shoes.  This didn’t bother me until she informed me that all of her friends can tie her shoes.  Then I spent most of the morning worrying that I’ve failed her as a father because she can’t tie her shoes.  She’s going be thirty years old and on her way to accept a Pulitzer Prize but then her shoe laces will come undone and she won’t be able to do anything about it, so she’ll sit down on the curb and sob about her lack of good parenting, which will make her miss out on a Pulizter Prize.  These things matter.

I had to explain to Kat, my five-year-old, that “I know” is not the best response to a compliment.  But that got me thinking.  Wouldn’t it be nice if you could say “I know” when someone complimented you without looking like a jackass?  I mean, if you feel proud of something, why do you have to show all this false humility?  The things you can get away with in kindergarten . . .

If you haven’t been reading Seth Godin’s blog, you really should.  He’s got some great thoughts on marketing, and in particular I like his idea that the only real marketing you need in the modern world is to find ten people who love your product.  Ten people, who tell ten other people, who tell . . . well, you get the idea.

It’s also a topic that’s come up a lot among writers I know lately, mostly focusing on digital forms of self-promotion.  Should I be blogging?  Should I be Facebooking?  Is Twittering useful or just a waste of time?

Here’s the thing, and it’s just my opinion:  The key to any self-promotion is making it work for you.  Some of the most successful writers don’t do any self-promotion at all.  Audrey Niffenegger just got a five million dollar advance for her second book, and her website hasn’t been updated since 2004.  I think a lot of people make a lot about very little, honestly.  I’m not saying blogging, Facebooking, Twittering, etc. can’t be useful to a writer, but it’s only as useful as the writer makes it.  Most people don’t make it that useful.  Most people just waste a lot of time blogging, Facebooking, and Twittering about trivial things.  Hey, I waste a lot of time, too.  I’m not saying you shouldn’t waste time.  If it’s an enjoyable waste of time, then it’s not a waste at all.  There’s lots of benefits to trivial things.  

But don’t work yourself into a lather because you’re not Twittering if it’s only to help your career.   If you’re just doing it because everyone else is doing it, then it won’t matter at all.  Find a way to self-promote that works for you, and if you don’t like self-promotion, then focus on writing more and writing better.  Do a blog now and then if you like it, but don’t stress if you don’t.  If you’re good enough, other people will promote for you.  And if you don’t believe me, just think of Audrey Niffenegger’s last advance.

In the end, quality wins out.  As Seth Godin says, all you need is ten people.  The nice thing is, even if you’re not blogging, Facebooking, and Twittering, it’s a good bet that some of those ten people are — and if they like your book, they’ll tell their friends.

With the release date of The Last Great Getaway of the Water Balloon Boys now, as of this week, a year away, I thought I’d post some things from time to time related to the book or my experience writing it.  First up, the day I got THE CALL. 

What’s THE CALL? 

Among writers, the day you get a call from an editor (or, by proxy, your agent) saying there’s an offer on the table to buy your first book is one of those near-religious moments that most writers never forget.  I know exactly where I was.  I was here: 

It’s a study carrel at the local small town library.  Most weekdays, I spend my lunch hour in this spot, squeezing out a couple pages in the middle of the day.  I didn’t used to do this, preferring to spend my lunch hour doing, oh, other things, but after my second child was born and the free time in the evenings became harder to come by, I needed to squeeze in writing wherever I could manage it.  It often seems silly to go from working in front of a computer at my day job to just setting up another computer at the library, but the nature of my day job requires me to be available for interruptions at any moment, so even if I’m eating lunch at my desk, it’s a tough place to write.  The sojourn to the local public library guarantees that I get at least a few moments of uninterrupted writing time.  It’s not enough by itself, but it helps.  Instead of turning on my computer a nine o’clock, kids finally in bed, staving off exhaustion for another hour if possible, knowing I’ve got four pages to write, maybe I only have two.  That helps.  Because, you know, some days the writing pulls you along for the ride, but other days you have to push it. 

Back to the moment.  So I’m sitting there, typing away, and my agent calls on the cell phone.  “Simon and Schuster Children’s,” she said, “has made an offer for your book.” 

An exhilarating moment, right?  Yep, it was.  However, I was in a library, so no whooping or hollering for fear the dreaded librarians would shush me into submission. Plus we knew S&S was interested in the book for six weeks, but as is the nature of publishing, the book had to make its way through the various committees before the offer was eventually made.  So we knew it was likely coming.  Not definitely coming, but likely, so my excitement (and nerves) was spread out over six weeks rather than concentrated in one supernova of a moment. 

I don’t remember if I went back to writing.  I do remember that when I was in the car, I called the wife.  Called the parents.  Called a couple close friends.    Lots of congratulations.  But as is my nature, I was pretty even keel about it.  I was so even keel about it that Heidi wondered why I wasn’t more excited.  In fact, you could say I was a lot more excited about my first couple short story sales than selling a novel.  You might also say the primary emotion I felt wasn’t excitement so much as . . . relief. 

It may seem strange, but I think it’s because after selling a couple dozen short stories to highly competitive, professional markets, stories that were different in style and genre, I knew I could write a sell-able novel.  I didn’t know when I might do it — it might take me four or five of them, maybe more (it turned out to be three) – but I didn’t doubt I would sell one.  It was just a matter of trying different things, just as I had with my short stories.  

So when it finally happened, I felt mostly relief, relief that I’d crossed that milestone, but also tempered with the knowledge that I had a long way to go still.  I guess it’s because my goal has never been to sell a novel.  Or a story.  Or win an award.  Or make a million dollars.  It’s none of those things.  It’s becoming a master storyteller.  Those other things are milestones along the path, but the road to mastery is long.  In fact, it’s a road that never ends.  That’s the only reason I do it, actually.  If I knew it ended, I might stop.

Random musing: I was thinking of starting a new company. Fritter.com. Everybody would post to it whenever they ate an apple fritter. I haven’t figured out a way to make money off it yet, but that’s okay, either has Twitter.

Useful advice:  When requesting to delay your jury duty to a later date, it’s usually not a good idea to wait until AFTER you were supposed to show up in the first place.  Not that I’m speaking from experience or anything.

Yesterday, when I picked up Calvin from preschool, I talked to him for a while, asked him if he was ready to go, and then . . . realized it wasn’t Calvin but a near doppleganger. What does it say about me that my first thought upon realizing this was, “Why does Calvin’s face look different?”