Publishing Path: Finding Meaning

And learning how to talk about it.

Like many authors, I’m having to figure out for myself how to market my forthcoming book, Helium. My publisher, Atmosphere Press, is providing some help, but not much. In their defense, they made it clear from the beginning that their contribution would be minimal—unless, of course, I was willing to pay a little more out of pocket, which I wasn’t. So, here I am, flailing around, trying to line up early reviews, publicizing whatever good news trickles in (Hey, look—five-stars! ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️), and pitching podcasts. I have no idea whether anything I’m doing will make any difference when Helium finally sheds its “Pre-Order” label and becomes available for real in September. Even then, I won’t really have any way of knowing for sure. In the meantime, all I can do is hope I’m not totally wasting my time.

One good thing that has come out of this whole marketing mambo, though: I’m having to figure out how to explain what my book is about.

To which you might well exclaim: “What an idiot!”

And yes, I understand why you might assume that I’d already be intimately familiar with my book’s meaning. I wrote it, after all. If I don’t know what it’s about, who does? But when I say I’m having to learn how to explain my book, I’m not suggesting that it has no meaning. Far from it. I’m just saying that its meaning revealed itself as I wrote, and only now am I learning how to articulate what that is.

You see, I did not set out to deliver some deep message when I started writing Helium. I just wanted to tell a good story. But like many developing stories, mine insisted on saying something, despite my original lack of intention. It revealed its message at its own, meandering pace, chapter by chapter, revision by revision. But even as it dawned on me what was happening, I made no effort to put it into words beyond the ones contained within the story. I didn’t need to. No one cared but me.

But that’s not the case anymore. Helium will be published in September, and it turns out some people actually want to know what it’s about. I’ve gotten pretty good at describing the basics—its characters, setting, the bare bones of its plot—but I realize now that that’s not enough. Every so often these days, the demands of marketing force me to think, to describe that deeper meaning that bubbled up in my story as I wrote it. It all came to a head recently when one of my reviewers asked me a follow-up question:

“What do you hope readers are still thinking about after they finish Helium?”

Granted, the reviewer didn’t flat out ask me what Helium is about, but she might as well have. Her question called for an answer that reflected the gratitude and respect I have for anyone who chooses to read and finish my work. It required me to think seriously about what I had written, and that meant casting aside the elevator pitch and returning to meaning. This is the answer I came up with:

While writing Helium, I took unexpected comfort in exploring the intersections of hope and uncertainty. I like to think that at least some of my readers will come away feeling something similar. Helium takes place during a historical period when it seemed like everyone was seeing impossible things in the sky. I’m not sure the things they saw were extraterrestrial, but what if they were? If the impossible is possible, if mystery can exist alongside certainty, then maybe we have the excuse we need to stop doom-saying and doom-scrolling. Maybe there are answers we’re still unable or unwilling to see. I hope that when readers put down Helium, they will at least be more willing to entertain those possibilities.

Is that an adequate answer? Probably not. But that’s okay. I’ve only just begun to try to find the right words. My book doesn’t come out for a couple months. I think I still have time to figure it out.