I’m trying the Kindle Scout route and I’m running a campaign for nominations that will end on November 4. After that campaign, Amazon will take a couple of weeks or so to decide if their imprint Kindle Press will publish it or not. If the book and its appeal to readers succeed in convincing the Kindle Press Team to take it on, I get a $1500 advance and 50% royalties on the book.
But it’s neither the advance nor the royalties (I get 70% if I self-pub) that induced me to go this route. Rather, it’s because Amazon will also promote the book. In addition, the book is seen by a lot of readers.
My book was “Hot and Trending” on the first nine days of its 30-day campaign run. But will that be enough? Some have apparently been on this list for the length of the campaign. I’m running some ads but have yet to assess their impact.
I will self-publish if Amazon decides my book isn’t fit for their criteria, which I’m sure includes projected sales. Amazon is, after all, like any other publisher.
Below is the prologue of this novel. You think it might intrigue you enough to nominate it?
I’m alive. I’m dead. I’m in-between. In that limbo where my vital signs hover just above death. I rise above my body and look down on it, lying on a gurney. Hospital staff are rushing me along the brightly-lit hallway to the operating room. One of them holds an oxygen mask on my face. Another, a bag of intravenous fluid connected to my veins by a tube.
I’m not ready to die yet. These good people anxious to rescue me don’t know that my resolve is the only thing that is keeping me alive. No, I’m not ready to die—I’ve only just begun to live. I have yet to prove to myself, to the world, that I have what it takes to prevail.
My family—now on their way to the hospital—doesn’t know yet exactly what happened to me. And except for one detective, neither do the police. I see him now by the foot of the gurney, keeping pace with the nurses. He’s scowling, his lips pressed into a grim line.
A tall, taut, and solitary man, he has deep-set gray eyes clouded by too many images of violent death and a lower lip that hangs perpetually open in disgust or despair. So much darkness he has already seen in his thirty odd years in this world. He needs to piece together the facts that constitute the attempt on my life, events that may have led to it, and various fragments of my life to understand what brought me to this point.
The first time I met him, I fell in love with him. There was something primal about him, some paternal, animalistic instinct to save hurt or fallen victims. Like me, maybe. It gave him power and it made him irresistible to me.
But fate is fickle. It teases. It entices. One day, something quite ordinary happens to you. Yet, you sense that that ordinary something can change your life. Not necessarily for something better, but for something new. Fate is dangling before you the promise of a world that, before then, was totally out of your reach. How can you not seize it?
Now, of course, I see the end of that promise. And it’s not where I want to be.
It’s tragic, don’t you think, that the end of that promise should be right here on a gurney, with me fighting for my life? It certainly is not what I hoped for.
How could it end this way? I embraced life, took chances, but half-dead on this gurney, I wonder: Am I paying with my life? But, like I said. I’m not ready to die yet.