Fool Proof Marketing Strategy

I'm a first time author so I'm learning a lot of new stuff about the publishing world. I always thought the order of events went something like-- book deal, writing, editing, marketing, sales. Turns out that's just not how it's done.

The real order is writing, rewriting, marketing, editing, book deal, sales. Well, maybe book deal and sales.

Okay, I'm new at this so I'm playing along.

Having completed three drafts, I am now embarking on the design of a marketing strategy. I know, I have no experience in the field but somehow this doesn't seem like enough to rule me out. A publishing house, I'm discovering, needs to be told by someone as ignorant as me how they, the acknowledged experts with gobs of experience, might best sell a book.

It's one crazy world I'm telling you.

Remember when full service was the only choice at a gas station? I'm thinking it's something like that.

Seems to me selling a book ought to be pretty much like selling anything else. You gotta catch their eye and offer them what it is they're looking for.

I haven't settled on any one idea yet but I'm thinking "bacon" should be in the title.


Rub Of The Green by Brock Walsh will, with a little luck, appear in bookstores soon.
Contact brockwalsh@gmail.com

Personal Appearance

I am now ready to begin my prepared remarks. As previously announced, I will not be taking any questions.

As I stand here before my handpicked audience, I'd first like to say I am so sorry about the muzzles. But please understand, I couldn't take the chance that the air would be fouled with the sound of anyone else's voice, so beautiful and contrite is mine. And per the agreement you've all signed, please avert your eyes should my doleful gaze fall upon you as I deliver my amazing speech. When I look away, feel free to again stare at my awesome visage. I mean, who could blame you?

I would like to finally give my side of the story regarding the events of November 25, 2009. While it is true that I was admitted to the hospital that evening with a turkey leg in my ass, it is absolutely untrue that said entree was put there intentionally or otherwise by any member of my family. The media has had an absolute field day coming up with scenarios beginning with Thanksgiving dinner and ending with a turkey leg in my ass and I have only this to say. Leave my family alone.

What actually transpired was this. As my eldest son gave the blessing over the perfect feast prepared by my beautiful, faithful, and loving wife, a man appeared at our dining room window. The window was partially open to allow for ventilation. The man, a stranger, was holding a photograph of his ailing daughter, who happens to think I am just about the coolest thing on the planet.

"Please sign this for my stricken girl!' the shoddily dressed intruder said.

I leapt to the side door to satisfy the poor man's request, tripped on the Bible, accidently hit the button that releases the hounds, lost my grip on the turkey leg in question (that I had intended to give the malnourished fellow), tore my trouser bottoms, spun head over heels, and unluckily was impaled on old Tom's gam.

This hereby ends my remarks. I thank you for your attention and remind you that no good deed goes unpunished.

Rub Of The Green by Brock Walsh will, with a little luck, appear in bookstores soon.

Contact brockwalsh@gmail.com

Unfair Vanity

Some people holler incessantly and can't get noticed, others hide like fugitives and can't disappear.

Tiger's been gone for months but remains the number one hot topic of sites and blogs that cater to golf junkies. Television ratings have plummeted, and it's everything commentators can do to keep the analysis focused on who's playing rather than one golfer who might have been but isn't.

Tiger's talent explains some of our fascination. He has wowed us so many times we get hungry for another fix. We like to be reminded of what true excellence looks like.

But he demands attention by his absence almost as much as his participation. We feel like we know him. We thought we did. And until his prodigious appetites became public, we were able to assume they were . . . what? More like ours? And what exactly is that?

We're a horny unfaithful lot if you believe the polls. Why would we assume he be less so?

I think we, the public, are waiting to hear his voice-- to hear the sound of reckoning, humility, honesty, and embarrassment. Because while we're listening to him, we'll be hearing ourselves.

Rub Of The Green by Brock Walsh will, with a little luck, appear in bookstores soon.

Contact brockwalsh@gmail.com

Two Kinds of People

You'd like to think people are basically all the same, that whole love-your-brother thing, but really? There are truly only 2 kinds of people, people who prefer the stupid animal with the empty eyes and the idiot stare, and those who go for the dog.

Some causes are too important not to participate in.

Please visit:

http://www.facebook.com/pages/Can-this-poodle-wearing-a-tinfoil-hat-get-more-fans-than-Glenn-Beck/334162806080?ref=nf

Rub Of The Green by Brock Walsh will, with a little luck, appear in bookstores soon.

Contact brockwalsh@gmail.com 

The Golf Trip

Every April for the past 20 or so years, I've headed for Kiawah Island, South Carolina for that last great bastion of male camaraderie, the golf trip. Same guys, same courses, nothing much changed from year to year.

Perfect doesn't much call for alterations.

Well, chalk up another victim of the great recession. I had to do something prudent and surrender my place.

Here's a brief excerpt from the book:

We head out in two vans and immediately fall into the comfortable and well-worn routines guaranteed to wind each other up and get the taunts flying. Roger’s quite sure I’ve neglected to procure a wide enough variety of non-alcoholic beverages—he has amassed seven years of sobriety and can somehow maintain it around us during this week of nearly indiscriminant consumption. I play the indignant and unappreciated martyr. Gary goes as the pious reformed one as he outlines the dietary restrictions brought on by—count ‘em--five coronary vessels having been rootered and rerouted just three months prior. Kevin, too good-natured to take an unprovoked swing, says laughing, “Golf trip.”

Each day passes in a blissful blur. We wake up at 7, pull out at 8, tee up at 9, lunch at 1, watch The Masters until 6, dine at 8, and call it a night by 11. Gone is any evidence of the outrageous behavior that once threatened life and limb, frightening woman and children---condo wars with rooftop maneuvers by commandos armed with quart-sized water balloons, one a.m. golf missions that left a tee box badly disfigured, indoor freestyle climbing of walls, fireplaces, ledges et al, and Guts games where small fortunes changed hands. John Madden faithfully brings the cards and chips each year but I’ll be surprised if they even make it out of the case. 

I won't be there to see if they do or not. We're having a west coast, tee-it-up-at-Rancho golf trip this year.

Rub Of The Green by Brock Walsh will, with a little luck, appear in bookstores soon.

Contact brockwalsh@gmail.com 

What's Your Quest?

Every golfer has a goal. Breaking 100 is a fairly common place to start. With a little persistence, most of us get there. But as soon as you do, ninety raises its head and whistles. Hey, you! You want a piece of me?

With every golf goal met another is born.

What is it about golf that keeps urging us to improve? People who play pickup basketball don't towel off and start figuring their field goal percentage. They have a beer and agree to meet same time next week. 

Before you even make your way to the first tee, you reach into that wooden box and----

Today, just as I have for years, I’ll take a fresh scorecard, carefully fold and crease it, pencil my initials and enter my scores. I’ll circle the pars and, if I’m lucky, etch a neat tiny triangle around the birdies. When the last putt rolls in, I’ll sum up and write down a total. And like always, perched in the upper right hand corner will be that number that seems forever out of reach. You know the one I mean--even when you’re not looking at it directly you see it out of the corner of your eye . . . like Venus.  

Par? In 43 years of playing golf, I’ve never done it.

That's right, 90 fell and 80 beckoned. And when 80 finally toppled over, par was waiting, smirking and too smug to waste its breath on a whistle.

So what's your goal? Have you already crashed through or are you stuck in a rut? I'd love to hear your story.

From Rub Of The Green by Brock Walsh which will, with a little luck, appear in bookstores soon.

Contact brockwalsh@gmail.com 

Secret of Vaudeville

My dad fancied himself a bit of a song-and-dance man. He'd do Jolson or Durante, occasionally ending with a brief soft shoe and a "Good night, Mrs. Calabash". And then he'd offer this advice, which at the time seemed too corny to be worth heeding. "The secret of Vaudeville-- tell 'em what you're gonna tell 'em, tell 'em, then tell 'em what you told 'em." Hokey? And then some.

It is shocking how often those words have rung true over a thirty year  writing career. And that is precisely what I didn't do in this third draft. I got the first two right but assumed I didn't need the third, alas.

In a song, the verse announces what's coming, the chorus states the theme, and the all important bridge provides that vital reiteration that feels so good and makes the last chorus feel complete.

In a movie's final scenes, the hero states, sometimes so blatantly it makes your skin crawl, exactly what he/she's been up to for the last 90 minutes-- even though we've been watching their every move. It's just the nature of story telling and the odd wiring of the human brain.

You gotta tell 'em what you told 'em.

Rub Of The Green by Brock Walsh will, with a little luck, appear in bookstores soon.

Contact brockwalsh@gmail.com or
Beverley Slopen slopenagency@gmail.com