Q. As debut authors, we often have preconceived ideas of what the publishing process will be like. What did you expect being a published author would be like?
A. The entire process went so quickly for me that I honestly didn’t spend much time in the pondering stage. I was thrilled to sign on with Defiance, and the long chats with Mark Pruitt before and after reading through the transparent contract made it crystal clear what being an author would be like.
Q. Was it what you expected? Please explain why or why not?
A. Mark was sure to tell me that the hard work was yet to come. The publishing process and the marketing thereafter could become a job in and of itself. I wasn’t quite certain what the process would entail, but I jumped in with both feet. I love learning new skills and challenging myself in new ways. With that being said, it was what I expected because I believed Mark. He was right! I could spend all day marketing the book in different ways!
Q. If you could help an aspiring author set realistic expectations of the process of getting published, what would you tell them?
A. I think hybrid publishing is the way of the literary future. I believe that the traditional publishers, through their agents, have not only marginalized enormous numbers of voices, but they’ve pigeon-holed the genres and topics thereof to the point that many of the “big league” books are starting to sound the same. On the other end of the spectrum is self-publishing, which has many pros and cons as all things do, but the cost of doing so – and without the support and expertise – isn’t worth it, in my opinion. Lisa is such an incredible support and a wealth of knowledge. To be able to reach out to her at any time is truly invaluable.
Q. Did you start promoting your book before or after your book release?
A. I had zero social media until I connected with Defiance. Once I signed the contract and was given direction by the team, I started my accounts and began promoting. It was hugely beneficial! For the 8 months before the release, I learned the ways of social media and posted sneak peeks, chapter readings, etc. to build anticipation with followers. When the time came for the release, my base hugely supported me and I will be forever grateful for that.
Q. Would you do it differently next time?
A. Absolutely. As Lisa says, “The best time to plant a tree is twenty years ago.” If I had started my social media accounts earlier, especially Instagram, I would have had a bigger following with a greater sense of shared anticipation for the release. I didn’t know anything about ARC readers, potential reviewers, or street team members! Now that I’ve expanded my account, I see the process that potential debut authors are going through, and a part of me wishes I took the opportunity to share in the preliminary excitement and decision-making with others.
Q. What are some of the things you’ve done to promote your book in real life?
A. I created bookmarks and flyers for local marketing, and I also sent the promotional materials to friends in different areas as well. I’ve scheduled book signings, podcasts, and school visits. I continually reach out to book reviewers and book influencers, and I’ve worked hard on establishing a presence on social media and getting my book into libraries. I try to improve my website with new ideas, including the bimonthly blog. There are plenty more things but these are the biggies!
Q. What methods do you recommend new authors use to start promoting their books?
A. Instagram. Find your community of readers/writers, take notes on what grabs you, maintain a list of ideas, create a calendar for content, put yourself out there, and engage.
Q. What was your experience like going through book production with Defiance Press & Publishing?
A. There were moments of frustration, mostly stemming from my impatience, but when I reminded myself that all was on God’s timing, I was able to relax and pivot my attention to the things I could be doing in the meantime. The Defiance team was helpful, patient, and supportive, and I wouldn’t be here without their guidance!
Q. What made you choose a hybrid publisher like Defiance rather than self-publishing?
A. Honestly, I stumbled into this new author role. I had no clue what I was doing or what to do next. I knew I was in way over my head and I needed the wisdom and experience of others to guide me.
Q. Are you a member of any writers’ groups? If so, what are they and are they helpful
A. Not quite yet!
Q. What advice do you have for first time authors who are just starting their journey with Defiance Press & Publishing?
A. Listen to Lisa. Create an organized binder of her resources, and use it like a timeline of checklists. It’s truly that simple.
Q. What is your website address and the best way for fans to contact you?
A. My website, www.ericasherlock.com, is the best place to start! It has everything from email submission forms to social media links on there.
An Excerpt from Through Quick and Quinn
Quick:
A Cynic Was Born
Life during junior high was a blur. I was going through the motions. I got through my classes okay, I continued to tolerate (and at times even appreciate) my eager friend, and I enjoyed my spot under the radar.Well, I didn’t “enjoy” it. I just preferred being invisible to the alternative.
At home, I let my parents think I was doing better. I felt like I needed to do that for them. They were already in so much pain, I didn’t want their concern for me to make it worse. So I smiled more. Slept less. It seemed to work during the seventh grade.
Around eighth grade, things started to shift a bit. Perhaps because they were less worried about me, my folks had more time to focus on themselves. My mom self-medicated, not nearly as slyly as she thought she did. And my dad worked. Worked and worked. We barely saw him, which probably didn’t help my mom’s situation much. As for me? I read.
Not casual reading. Not chilling in the hammock for some light reading. I binged, obsessively reading for hours upon hours on end. No breaks either. I’d fall so deep into the words that I would forget to eat, drink, pee.
I was sure my parents thought that my reading was a distraction. A way to avoid the real world. An escape. A way for me to temporarily forget the fact that I was suddenly an “only” child with an addict and an absentee for parents. And maybe that would have been a valid opinion if I was reading fiction. Or fantasy. Something like that.
But I wasn’t.
I was digging. Not in dirt, although I did feel like my fingers at the computer keyboard worked together as a metaphorical shovel of sorts. Without even realizing it until it was much too late, I robbed myself of even more of my childhood by opening my eyes to the truths of the world. To the evils. I ripped off my own rose-colored glasses and became a cynic when I was barely a teenager. I researched everything from clones and aliens to fluoride and sunscreen, and almost everything in between. While kids my age were counting down the hours until their next chance to hang out at the mall where they could practice the art of flirting, I was doodling 5G towers in my notebook and brainstorming questions for my next dig.
I loved it. I came alive in front of that computer screen, typing in new search keywords, comparing information, questioning the sources. It invigorated me, and in some ways, it helped me deal with our reality. Maybe because time did that naturally and this was my favorite way to pass that time. All I knew was that I couldn’t wait for my next session, and I reveled in the fact that I could do it alone. I treasured my solitude, especially since the one person I wanted to spend time with was gone. Those digs were for me and for me alone.
I never would have guessed that I would want to give up the shovel. More than once.
I never would have guessed that I would share my digs. And want to, nonetheless.
I certainly never would have guessed that I would research the one thing I swore I never would.
Biggest shock though? I definitely did not see it coming, that second shovel.
Quinn:
Hard-Pressed
My detailed memory of that pivotal day remained completely intact for many moons.
The smell of the resilient celery wafted with the breeze. It was growing in our amateur garden, determined to push through the low odds of surviving in desert heat and being grown from random food scraps that we decided to toss into the dirt on a whim. Even with its increasingly full leaves, the celery was being overshadowed by an excessive forest of long stalks of green onion, also grown from food scraps, that we always forgot to harvest. The stalks had become so long that some had fallen over, almost as if defeated, and those small cracks in the onions released their own aroma as well. For years, if I smelled hints of celery or green onion, my eyes would well up with tears instantaneously, with no warning and certainly without permission.
It was two weeks after my eighth birthday, and my dad and I were outside in our small but deliberate backyard. We called it our oasis, and there was simply no denying that it was my favorite place in the world. Next to the homemade garden boxes that housed a variety of foods ranging from dead and rotting to surprisingly green was my childhood sandbox. I would spend hours upon hours in the land of sandy imagination, playing with large blocks as a toddler all the way through to my elementary years, pretending my dolls were at the beach being rescued by princes from faraway lands. On warm days, of which there were plenty, Dad and I would splash around in the pool until I was so tired that I would practically fall asleep on the raft, floating about and already recognizing in my youth how truly happy I was. I would look across the yard to the grassy patch where the timeworn swing set and the cherished, perpetually utilized playhouse were and think about how lucky I was that my backyard happened to be the best place on earth.
It was a Saturday afternoon and we were covered in the dust of my new sidewalk chalk, a birthday gift that Dad somehow sensed I needed without me even knowing it. After eating lunch that day, we headed to the oasis to put the chalk to good use, creating flowers and sun rays of every shade. Before I knew it, we were tracing our hands and our feet, doubled over in giggles at the nonsense we were drawing.
“Your mom is going to have a conniption fit,” he laughed. “Look at your pants.”
I was covered, my white shorts a canvas of dusty colors. “Hurry! To the grass!”
We scooted and rolled, patted and shook, but we erupted in laughter when we quickly realized that our clothing would not survive unscathed, especially now that we had added grass stains to the mix. The giggles finally came to a simmer, and I just laid there on the grass with a grin that felt larger than my face. So happy, so content. The sun wrapped me in a blanket of warmth, and I closed my eyes to take in all of the senses of the oasis: the smells I had come to love, the feel of the damp grass on my skin, the sound of the pool filter creating a magical melody with the soft snores of my dad relaxing nearby.
A majestic blue dragonfly whirred by, so close to my face that it startled me. I allowed my attention to follow it, watching the way it danced about, zooming around invisible corners and unexpectedly stopping to hover. At one point, it landed on a blade of grass directly in front of me, almost as though it was greeting me. Time stood still for the dragonfly and me as though we were the only beings on the planet, simply taking each other in and—at least on my part—appreciating the presence of the other. I was afraid to move, afraid to break the connection with my new, sublime friend. I was as still as an eight-year-old could be, that is, until the link was shattered by something completely unexpected.
It was the sudden shrill of horrific screams coming from inside the house.
For some strange reason, I felt that if I ever had the courage to go back out to the oasis, my dragonfly would be there waiting for me: An impossibility that I chose to believe throughout the rest of my time in that home. I later learned that dragonflies symbolize change and the ability to adapt to it, a significance that was not at all lost on me. Over the years, I saw my majestic blue dragonfly countless times but only in my mind’s eye. I somehow inherently recognized that he was with me that day, and at that exact moment for a reason, and I was hard-pressed to believe otherwise. It was a bizarre comfort I depended on from that point forward, without fully understanding it.
I was also hard-pressed to understand what happened that day. Or why.
The piercing sound of agony was coming from the fathomless depths of my mom, holding the lifeless body of my three-month-old brother.
