Meet Baz and Kev, Kev is an indie author facing the reality of trying to sell his books to a world that doesn’t care.
The pub was quiet, save for the hum of the fruit machine and the rain hitting the window like handfuls of gravel. Kev stared at his phone. His thumb hovered over the screen, twitching.
—Any joy? said Baz.
Kev didn’t look up.
—Two page reads, he said.
—Two?
—Two.
—That’s not even a whole chapter, is it? said Baz. That’s just the copyright bit and the dedication.
—It’s the prologue, Kev said. They got through the prologue and then they fucked off.
—Maybe they died, Baz said. Heart attack. Too much excitement.
—It’s a comedy novel, Baz. It’s not meant to kill ‘em, unless they die of laughing.
Kev took a long pull of his Stella. He looked tired. He had the look of a man who had spent six hours trying to make a JPEG of a bent knife look professional using a free version of Canva.
—I changed the categories, Kev said.
—The what?
—The categories. You have to tell the Algorithm what it is. I had it under ‘comedy’. Too big. Like a minnow in the Atlantic, innit? So I moved it.
—Where to?
—‘British and Irish Satire’ and ‘Adult Humour’.
Baz frowned.
—But there’s nobody Irish in it, Kev. And no one’s laughing. You said it was a grim life story. You said it was proper bleak. But also funny.
—It is bleak, said Kev. But there’s plenty of laughs in it. And they get proper in chapter four. That’s comedy, innit? I’m playing the system, Baz. I’m outsmarting the bots.
—Right, said Baz. And how’s the outsmarting going?
—I’m ranked four millionth in the world, Kev said. I’m just behind a book about how to knit your own yogurt.
He swiped the screen again. Refresh. The little circle spun. It was the only thing moving in Kev’s career.
—I did an ad, Kev said.
—A what?
—An Amazon Ad. You pay ‘em, right? Every time someone clicks the cover, Amazon takes thirty pence off me.
—That sounds like a mug’s game, said Baz.
—It’s ‘Exposure’, Kev said.
—Exposure’s what you die of on a mountain, Kev. How many clicks you had?
—Forty-two.
—And how many sales?
—None.
Baz did the math, his lips moving silently.
—So you’ve paid Amazon twelve quid for the privilege of forty-two people looking at your cover and going ‘Nah’?
—It’s a slow burner, Baz.
—It’s a bonfire, mate. And you’re the one throwing the fivers on it.
Kev sighed. He leaned back, the vinyl of the pub seat sticking to his shirt.
—The blurb’s the problem, he said. I need more ‘hooks’. The Americans love a hook. I need to say it’s ‘unputdownable’.
—But they are putting it down, Kev. They’re putting it down after two pages.
—Shut up, Baz.
—I’m just sayin’.
—I’m an Indie Author, Kev said, his voice rising a bit. It’s about the craft. It’s about taking the means of production into your own hands. No gatekeepers. No posh blokes in London telling me my commas are in the wrong place.
—Your commas are in the wrong place, Kev. I read that bit you sent me. It was like someone had sneezed on the page after eating a bowl of alphabet spaghetti.
—It’s stylistic, Kev snapped. It’s stream of consciousness.
—It’s a headache, Kev.
They sat in silence for a minute. Kev looked at his phone again. His face lit up. A soft, ghostly glow in the dim pub.
—Hold on, he whispered.
—What?
—A sale. A proper sale.
—No way.
—Yeah! Kev’s eyes were wide. Someone in Bristol just bought the paperback. Twelve ninety-nine.
—Bloody hell, Kev! Baz grinned. You’re a pro. You’re a proper writer. We should get another round. Celebrate.
Kev looked at the screen, his smile faltering. He started tapping.
—What? said Baz.
—After the printing costs, Kev said. And the Amazon cut. And the VAT.
—Yeah?
Kev looked up.
—I’ve made one pound forty.
Baz looked at Kev. Kev looked at his pint.
—Well, Baz said. It’s a start, innit?
—I spent three years on that book, Baz.
—Yeah, said Baz. But you’re an author now.
—I’m a charity, Kev said.
—Get the drinks in then, Author, Baz said. You’ve got a pound forty burning a hole in your pocket.
Kev looked at the phone one last time. He hit refresh.
—Four million and one, he muttered. The yogurt book’s overtaken me again.