Not Ready? Jump Anyway!

When I was many heads shorter than I am now, I took my first swimming lesson. Some twenty skinny kids lined up at the swimming pool, all of us with various mixtures of excitement and fear. The teacher asked, “Who can swim?”

My hand goes up, just like the hands of another three or four kids. We shuffle to the edge of the pool, where the deep end is.

I know she asked, "Who can swim?" just as I know that I can not. But, I thought, it's only logical that I have to jump into the water to learn swimming.

Bony as I was, there was little that provided buoyancy except the air trapped between my scalp and the ugly green rubber bathing cap.

But then, I wasn’t thinking about any such insignificancies. I jumped.

In seconds that ugly bathing cap abandoned me and I sank like a rock.

They pulled me out and emptied all that water that got in the wrong tube and I learned a lesson:

I still do this. I jump long before I’m ready. That is probably the main reason why I published independently. And just now, I did another such jump. It began with Facebook.

One day, I found a post about the indie publishing sessions at the Frankfurt Book Fair, the largest of its kind on this funny planet. So I send an email to my publisher (KiWi), saying, “Hey! There is an indie publishing thingy at the book fair, shouldn’t I go check it out?”

The executive editor Lutz Dursthoff answers, “Hell yes, what a funny coincidence! I was just asked to be part of a panel on traditional vs indie publishing. Want to be part of it?”

A few days later, I noticed that Hugh Howey, Indie and NY Times Bestselling author, would be at the book fair to give a talk. So the next logical thing is to ask him if he’d like to check out the indie publishing sessions that will run the whole day.

Not that I know the man. It’s just that he is on Facebook too, so it’s a piece of cake to ask him right there and then.

“I’d love to,” he says but isn’t sure about all his scheduled talks and meetings at the fair.

OK. Cool. I asked the organizers whether they’d like to interview Hugh Howey, should he be able to come to the indie session. Oh, and he’ll need a translator because the session is in German.

I’m not sure they know who Hugh Howey is, but after a few emails, the issue is cleared up. Should he come, he’ll get a translator.

Brilliant! I think.

A few days later, they ask me if I’d like to interview Hugh, all with a camera team and mics and shit. That is when I realize that the jumping-when-not-ready thing got a little too far. I know where my area of expertise is and interviewing is far far from it.

I suggest they get professionals for the interview. And yes, a few days later, all is set, translator, camera team, reporters, and waiting for a definitive yes from Hugh.

The day before my panel the fact sinks in. I can talk in front of hundreds of scientists. But in front of publishers, authors, agents, book nerds, and whatnot? Who am I, really? Some idiot who wrote a book and clicked the “publish” button. The adrenalin shower hits hard. I post my thoughts (fears) on Facebook. Then Hugh comments, “Am I supposed to be there?”

OK, not all is as clear as I thought it was. But only minutes later, Hugh knows where and when to show up, I know that Hugh knows, and the book fair organizers know that I know and Hugh knows.

Next day I take the train to Frankfurt. The train is a little late, tons of people on the sidewalk, running would mean bumping into everyone. I make it in time (sort of) and promptly run into Hugh. But no translator, no camera team, no reporters in sight. I call the organizer who doesn’t pick up the phone.

We chatter away nonetheless, and my awkward attempts at translating what’s happening on stage tell me that I shouldn’t pursue this kind of occupation.

Hugh is a cool guy; he bears all this plus jetlag without a twitch of his brow.

Then begins my panel. And I’m nervous like shit. I can’t recall what I said during this one hour, but at some point, we called Hugh on stage and I began to translate his English into my English. The crowd looks confused. I slap my head. English to German, that's what I'm supposed to do. Yes.

I’m happy the people love him, they applaud like crazy and I’m so relieved they know him - because by now, I’m convinced neither the moderator nor the organizers know who he is because FECK the promised reporters are still not here! Hence, my most stupid final sentence “Look! They applaud you!”

All I can think of is to run away. But the panel discussion goes on. No clue what I said. All I can remember is that idiotic “Look! They applaud you!”

Right after this mishap, Lutz and I run into a tall man. Lutz introduces him as John Sargent, we shake hands, and Lutz looks at me expectantly. I pull a blank. While we walk outside to have a smoke, Lutz tells me that John is the boss of Holtzbrinck. I say “uhum” as though I knew what he was talking about. Lutz rolls his eyes and slaps a few more company names at me, all supposed to tell me anything. Only the word “McMillan” rings a bell.

So I say, “Hey John, I always wondered why publishers never take all these freely available sales data from all these indies and traditionally published authors, and run statistics over them to arrive at a prediction model for profitable marketing strategies.”

I end up chatting about book market analyses with the CEO of McMillan. In the end, Lutz wakes from his statistics-talk-induced hibernation and informs John that I wrote a book. Luckily, I manage to pull the topic towards the history of microbiology and heroin consumption during the Victorian era. I don't get to the topic of flogging machines, because Lutz mentions my book again, and John says, “Send it to me, I want to read it,” then he dashes off to some meeting.

Oohhkay, I think. One veggie wrap and one science slam later, a friend and I slurp free Caipirinha, talking science (at a book fair). Then, I have to check in at my hostel, because there’s a party with KiWi later on.

My dorm is cool. One Korean Manga girl, one Japanese bookstore owner, one French publisher. No wonder we end up talking books.

One taxi ride later, I’m at the party. The KiWi crowd is so much fun. They are a bunch of crazy creatives that welcome me like a family member. I haven’t eaten much all day and the red wine takes effect after two sips. We have tons of brilliant ideas, and forget them all. Well, maybe that gender-switching cuckoo clock is worth a thought??? More people join the party – some of them famous authors or filmmakers and I have NO clue who they are. No disrespect meant. I just don’t have a TV. I rather write or read books. And quite obviously, I haven’t read them all.

Sometime around midnight, we stand outside, wine glass in one hand, cigarette in the other, and a man with a beautiful red mane smiles at me and pushes his hand under my poncho. I get my knee ready to insert it in his testicles. But then, he says, “Urks. I’m so drunk. I have to call my mom to pick me up.”

“Yeah, call your mommy,” I answer, and look at Lutz, who seems ready to punch this guy. Redhead gets away, unharmed. And soon thereafter, I lay in my dormitory, happy and snoring.