Author of Breasts Don't Lie

Posts tagged ‘marketing’

Marketing Scheimpflug’s Lust

Whitneyblog

The first part of our first photo shoot along with my first set of stories is finished. That’s a lot of firsts. AG shot images that are beautiful and disturbing. My stories are lush and arousing – I hope. Exactly what we were going for. We are excited. But now we need to market them, stir some excitement, get some buzz going, ____ (add the appropriate phrase here).

So I gathered notes about the usual forms of getting the word OUT THERE – and immediately thought, What’s up with the multiple layers of social media marketing brouhaha? I mean – Google +, LinkedIn, Twitter, FaceBook, and Tumblr.

Does anyone really understand what Google+ accomplishes that is different from anything else out there? Most writers are clueless about how to promote themselves and their work using this site.

“It seems like a cross between FaceBook and LinkedIn,” I said.

AG said, “So you’re on Google+?”

I said, “Yep, not sure what it does but hey, seems easy enough to use … “

So things, images, blog posts, and other doodads will go up there.

LinkedIn doesn’t seem like a good place to examine lust even using the Scheimpflug Principle – our project’s nudity and passion would be fighting other users’ glossy business pictures.

AG said, “So you’re not using LinkedIn?”

I said, “Nah, I’ve been thrown out of two discussion groups already. Seems like a wash for my type of writing.”

(Yes, I have been politely asked to stop responding to discussion groups run by a moron from Australia. She proposes women do not like sex. Maybe women don’t like sex in Australia but the women I know in the US like sex. I digress with crankiness.)

FaceBook is a possibility. I have personal and book pages – is that the correct word?

“We should make a new FB page,” said AG.

“Yep but both of us should have the password so both of us can post,” I said.

“Can you do that on FB?” AG asked.

So another task to add to my burgeoning To-Do list along with checking on FB’s guidelines for nudity, lust, and general issues with sexuality.

Then there is Twitter. I need a remedial course in Twitter. I have an account and followers who I am sure are breathlessly waiting for me to do something, post something, hashtag something. Good bloody grief. WTF?

“Can you tweet?” I asked.

Silence and perplexed looks followed from AG as he looked around for birds. I asked a tech savvy friend. He sent a one-page email. I printed it out, looked at it, and then took myself to lunch, with wine. Couldn’t make any sense out of it.

So tweeting is out.

Tumblr followed. Okay, back to Wiki How. Seems easy enough. Confusingly, I have an account already. Well okay then. What’s my Tumblr name? I don’t remember and can’t find where it’s recorded. What’s my password? Who knows. Two days later, both were residing in my little black book of IDs and passwords. Does anyone else keep a book of passwords? I lose the book and I am so screwed. (In the good old days, little black books were so much more fun.)

I said, “I think we should do a Tumblr page, post, whatever.”

“Sure,” said AG. “How do we do that?”

“I am not sure but I’ll dig into it. Only thing I am sure of is we need to have a whole lot of stuff to go on it. Like two weeks worth of daily doodads before we sign up. Do we have two weeks worth?”

“I’ll start cropping photos,” AG said.

So we are in the social media-marketing conundrum. This is a full time job. Who does this?

I have hired three marketing people who have disappeared. I figure I get two weeks of work out of them, pay them and they flake off. It is disheartening. Expensive.

What happens if we develop a beautiful exhibit around lust with stories in words and pictures and no one comes? Because they don’t know about it —

I Write Therefore I Am … Not

cartoon

A friend called to say, “I had a marketing person check out your website. Is that okay?”
“Sure. I guess,” I said.
“She’ll just poke around and send some recommendations.”
“The website’s already up.”
“Maybe it could be better. It’s free,” she said.
“Okay fine.”

A day passed then came the email. It said, “Well, I guess it is functional. You need to rearrange some things and your photos. We need to talk about your photos.”

My photos?
Immediately I called her. Mild, so mild you could miss them, pleasantries were exchanged.

“Who took the photos?” asked the marketing person.
“Lots of people,” I said.
“You need professional head shots.”
“Really?”
“Of course. What were you thinking putting up those amateurish photographs?”
“I’m a writer not a model,” I said.
“You’re neither with those shots. You squint,” she said.
“The sun was in my eyes.”
“Not in every shot. And you look morose.”

(Uncommon word, now I knew she had literary pretensions.)

“I spend lots of time in front of the computer. Anyway writers have angst, anxiety, addictions,” I said.
“Do you have any of those? It might make you more interesting,” she said.
“Now I need to be Didion or Hemingway. Couldn’t I just be Jennifer Weiner?”
“Think big. Get Botox. And your hair. Grow out your hair.”
“I like my hair short.”
“You look androgynous. And where are the breasts?”
“I have breasts.”
“Yes but you wrote a book about breasts. We need to see them.”
“Do you think I need implants?” I asked.
“Let me do some research.”
“Shouldn’t I be marketing a normal body image and body?”
The phone line went dead.

A day passed. Then she called.
“You can get by without implants but you need to show a modest cleavage. Not as much as that one picture where you look sad.”
“My breasts look sad?”
“No but in that photo you look like a tramp with a migraine.”
“Oh for fuck’s sake, I’ll get a photo taken with a suggestion of cleavage and a smile,” I said.
“Smile but don’t squint, get some Botox, keep your mouth closed – too many teeth, maybe get them bleached.”
“Did you pimp out models before this?” I asked thinking of my first husband the art director.
“What are you talking about? I’m trying to help you. Publishing has changed. Marketing has changed. You need to do more, be more, put more out there – but not that much. You must present an image of competence,” she said.
“And competence is beauty and cleavage?”
“Sex still sells.”
“Good bloody grief. I’m a writer. I want to look profound, witty, not Bambi the ‘uber happy, trying too hard, D cup, overage model.’”

I sent an email to the friend who started this brouhaha. It said, “I’m a writer dammit. I don’t model. Most days I squint into the computer screen. Some days I even suffer for my art. On those days, I don’t smile. I smile with my mouth open – you can see my teeth. I like my short hair – my femaleness is not dependent on long hair. My breasts sometimes show and sometimes they don’t. Fuck the Botox.
Tell your marketing person to back off or I’ll review her on Angie’s List.”

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