The Roller Coaster Experience of Publishing My First Book

There were long odds against my success as a first-time, self-published author. I decided that I wouldn’t let any of it stop me.

While waiting for the light to turn green at a busy intersection and innocently wondering what movies were playing at the Cineplex across the street, three little words suddenly fell like creative pixie dust in my imagination. In that split second, I decided to write my first book.

Before I stopped at that red light, I was happily juggling motherhood and freelance writing. No book ideas swirled around in my head. But the phrase carpool tunnel syndrome had already become a force to be reckoned with. By the time the light turned green and I hit the gas, ideas for funny stories about motherhood and family life tumbled over one another. How could I not write the book? A clever title is a terrible thing to waste.

Borrowing Bette Davis’ famous adage about old age, I already knew that book publishing was no place for sissies. I followed book publishing industry trends, voraciously read book reviews, and knew several book authors. I would love writing the book, though it would demand dedicated time and focused energy. That would be the easy part.

Writing a book is one thing; working to earn good reviews, publicity, book signing events, sales, and momentum can be a much longer battle

As someone with minimal name recognition, I wasn’t going to even bother trying to get an agent for a book that would sell very modestly–if I were lucky. I needed to hunt for a small publisher that accepted unagented material, earn endorsements and positive reviews, gin up publicity, and pray for sales totaling more than, say, forty-three. I asked myself if I was prepared to work so very, very hard to promote this little book, especially in the months before publication. Aside from bestsellers, most books sell virtually all of what they will ever sell during the first year after publication.

There were long odds against my success, and I decided that I wouldn’t let any of it stop me. I was raring to write, jazzed by my ideas, and wanted to share the gift of laughter–something everybody needs–especially parents raising kids who claim they cannot go to school because of ailments such as “itchy right eyebrow” and “fat hair.” My kids, ranging in age from six to twelve, were bountiful founts of comedic material.

It was tragic how much hilarity was playing out in front of my eyes that I couldn’t exploit due to family privacy issues. I socked each episode away in a cerebral file drawer. When the time was right, one day I would shine daylight on them–though probably in a novel.

Chapters started writing themselves right away. “Tanks but No Tanks” chronicled our disastrous experiment in the maintenance of “free” goldfish in a costly tank that required all sorts of atmospheric necessities such as colorful gravel, water conditioner, plants for ambiance, and a fish-equivalent of Prozac to keep the fish calm. “Why Guar Gum Is Really a Vegetable” confessed the kind of dog-and-pony show I produced each night at dinner, trying to provide a balanced diet for children who would only eat foods that started with the letter P. Writing “The 700 Habits of Highly Defective Parents” probably saved me thousands in therapy dollars. It was cathartic to share all the parenting gimmicks that experts promised would work beautifully but were epic fails in real life. When I tried the scheme of “reflecting my children’s feelings back to them,” instead of falling into line behaviorally like they did in the book, they just looked at me funny and asked, “You feeling okay, Mom?” and then resumed fighting.

Oh yes. I would do this. I set a goal to publish it within the year, when I would turn forty.

Erma Bombeck had been my writing heroine and mentor. Beginning at the age of eight I had snapped open the newspaper three times a week to delight in her hilarious columns. I read them again and again for sheer pleasure but began to absorb lessons in the art of humor writing at the same time. Everybody loved Erma’s self-deprecating tone, which worked because her inner confidence also shone through. She could be edgy without ever crossing the line to cynicism or bitterness. Her sly, wry, perspective on modern suburban marriage and motherhood was relatable and often side-splittingly funny. At the peak of her success she was syndicated in more than 700 newspapers while also writing books, too, such as If Life Is a Bowl of Cherries, What Am I Doing in the Pits? I had wanted to be like Erma Bombeck when I grew up, only Jewish. When she died in 1996 from complications after a kidney transplant, I mourned her loss. I sensed that from her abode in the A-list comedy section of Heaven she would cheer me on.

Self-published books were sneered at by virtually everybody associated with the traditional pubishing field, even with new, reputable players elevating industry standards

My family had grown accustomed to my stories about our family life appearing in print. The children were still young enough and their problems all still manageable enough that I could knead their antics, arguments, and absurdities into funny stories without damaging anyone’s emotional stability. (I hoped.) Sometimes, though, it was tragic how much hilarity was playing out in front of my eyes that I could in no way exploit due to family privacy issues. I socked each episode away in a cerebral file drawer. When the time was right, one day I would shine daylight on them–though probably in a novel.

Self-publishing was a fast-growing trend, but self-published books were sneered at by virtually everybody associated with the traditional publishing field. They were not eligible for reviews in important book industry journals, and faced long odds of getting distributed through Ingram, the powerhouse book distribution channel for bookstores and some libraries. If a book wasn’t in Ingram’s system, almost no bookstores would ever know about it or order it. Till that time, in 2001, most self-published books were produced by “vanity” presses that did no vetting of the material. Any junk slapped between two book covers could get published. Even with scores of reputable self-publishing companies and indie publishers elevating the industry by having a manuscript review process, most people considered any self-published book a vanity project that all but screamed, “I COULDN’T GET A REAL PUBLISHER!”

I tenderly swaddled my typed, bound manuscript in a secure box and said a little prayer as I handed it over to the clerk at FedEx, where it began its journey.

The growing world of self-publishing opened up my options considerably, and I comforted myself with the long list of well-known authors who also failed to entice a traditional publisher and self-published: St. Louis homemaker Irma S. Rombauer privately printed three thousand copies of The Joy of Cooking before it got picked up by Bobbs-Merrill Company and went on to sell more than eighteen million copies. Marcel Proust paid to publish one thousand copies of Swann’s Way, the first volume of his seven-volume novel series, Remembrance of Things Past. Beatrix Potter self-published 250 copies of The Tale of Peter Rabbit after she tired of collecting rejection notices. Within a year, one of the publishers who had refused it picked it up and sold twenty thousand copies right away. Over two million Beatrix Potter books are sold each year. Poet E.E. cummings published a collection of poetry called No Thanks, the title a cheeky nod to the fourteen publishing houses that had refused the collection; W.W. Norton and Company eventually published it. Modern-day examples include Dr. Wayne Dyer’s Your Erroneous Zones; Richard N. Bolles’ What Color Is Your Parachute?; Christopher Paolini’s Eragon fantasy series for young adults; and Margaret Atwood’s poetry collection, Double Peresphone (yes, this was before she wrote her blockbuster novel The Handmaid’s Tale).

I submitted Carpool Tunnel Syndrome: Motherhood as Shuttle Diplomacy to a publisher in Northern California who had encouraged me to send it her way. I tenderly swaddled my typed, bound manuscript in a secure box and said a little prayer as I handed it over to the clerk at FedEx, who put it into the mysterious back room where FedEx packages begin their journeys. A few weeks later, she sent me a gracious note complimenting my writing but rejecting the submission as not a good fit for her list. Given the long odds, I was not surprised, though I felt sorely disappointed.

Despite an inner warning system of trouble ahead, I rolled the dice and signed with a new, inexperienced publisher

With trepidation, I agreed to have my book published by a graphic designer who was establishing her own publishing company and already producing her first book for another author. We had worked together in the past, which made me wary. Though extremely talented, smart, and organized, she could also be very headstrong, even difficult. However, I was certain that my book would not look “self-published” and I could get it in production quickly. It was a calculated risk, but I rolled the dice and we moved forward.

I felt totally vindicated in my decision to self-publish—it had not hurt me yet. Seeing my excerpt in Woman’s Day was thrilling, but no panic buying of my book ensued. No sales boost was even detectable.

My first book signing, at Brentano’s at the Beverly Center, with my son Ben on my lap. May 29, 2001. I was thrilled when they let me strongarm them into giving me the opportunity.

“Lisa” did a fantastic job designing the book. She offered sound editing advice and succeeded at getting both of her first releases into the Ingram system–a huge relief. I hired cartoonist John Caldwell, whose work I had long admired, to draw the cover image. I hustled for endorsements and had eleven of them on the inside front pages of the book. I got them from parenting and book review sites as well as bigger catches, such as L.A. Times columnist Chris Erskine, and Bil Keane, creator of The Family Circus and contributor of cartoons to several of Erma Bombeck’s books. Keane’s generous quote proudly went on the cover: “While my cartoons are a quick take on typical family life, Judy Gruen picks up where I left off. I thank the Good Lord she’s not drawing a newspaper comic. Get into this carpool. You’ll enjoy the ride.”

I had read the tea leaves correctly. Writing my book was easier by far than the roller coaster experience of publishing and promotion. I devoured newsletters and books on book promotion and targeted juicy prospects. A pitch letter to Scholastic Book Fairs led to their buying fifteen hundred copies to sell at book fairs across the country. I was elated, until I learned that instead of shipping entire cases to a central location I had to send them in dribs and drabs to well over one hundred addresses: four to a school in Podunk, Kansas; twelve to Smackover, Arkansas; eighteen to Sandwich, Illinois; thirty-two to Amityville, New York; and so on. I hired a high school kid to help me pack, address and ship the books. We worked all day to get it done. Still, scoring a bulk sale was a proud victory.

When I sold an excerpt to Woman’s Day magazine, whose circulation was 6.2 million at the time, I shouted with glee. This was fabulous exposure that would boost sales beyond my wildest dreams! I got book signings at major bookstores including Barnes & Noble and Brentano’s. So far, I felt totally vindicated in my decision to self-publish—it had not hurt me yet. In fact, all by myself I was racking up fairly respectable achievements. Seeing my excerpt in Woman’s Day was thrilling, but no panic buying of my book ensued. No sales boost was even detectable.

Under angry, gray skies I shlepped four cases of books to my table and placed several copies in clear lucite book stands. The clouds burst open and it started pouring.

A syndicated radio host with more than 10 million listeners also promoted my book on her show, offering a free copy to the first three listeners who called into Lisa’s 800 number. Lisa and I were so excited for the show to begin the next day, ready to pick up that phone and ship books to the lucky winners. But Lisa’s phone began ringing at six in the morning and rang incessantly throughout the day. The producer had not told us that the show was broadcast in many different time zones all across the country. We had to offer dozens of apologies and were pretty ticked off.

I bought a table at an outdoor fair in April to sell my book. The agreement stated NO REFUNDS, EVEN IF IT RAINS. I laughed. Rain? In June? In Southern California? I mailed in my check. Under angry, gray skies I shlepped four cases to my table and placed several copies in clear lucite book stands. The clouds burst open and it started pouring. I raced back to my car with case after case of books. However, other vendors were sticking around, the rain eased, and to pass the time I visited another vendor and bought a wildly impractical yet beautiful beaded evening bag. After six miserable hours, the vendors began packing up. I had not sold a single book and felt humiliated. But then, a vision! I saw a man I had known years before through a camp where we both had worked.

“Phil? Is that you?” I rushed the guy and shamelessly, piteously begged him to buy a book. To stop my groveling, he did.

On the long drive home it rained again. My six-year-old daughter called to ask how many books I had sold. Stupidly, I told her the truth.

“That’s ALL?” she screamed. “Only ONE? MOMMY ONLY SOLD ONE BOOK AT THE FAIR!” she shouted to her brothers and father. Jeff performed an intervention and grabbed the phone. He did a wonderful job of trying to comfort me in my soggy misery.

I still had other irons in the fire. Coming up in early fall would be my first speaking event at the Jewish Federation Council in Los Angeles. After considering and rejecting several dates for the event, we settled on one that seemed to be perfect for everyone. They placed ads in the Jewish Journal, where I had some name recognition. I couldn’t wait for this opportunity—my first book event at a significant venue.

I marked my calendar for the special night: September 11, 2001.