Book Sales Plateau – 13 Tips What You Can Do!

A must read.

Savvy Writers & e-Books online



First-time writers are often puzzled when after a very successful book launch and many book sales, their ranking on Amazon drops and their sales numbers dwindle over time – which is a totally normal process, even for bestseller authors. So what can you do as a writer – besides writing your next manuscript:
Your book has been launched months ago or even last year and you had great sales numbers. NOW readers need to see something NEW from you. It doesn’t need to be a whole new book:
The three main assets you have already

  • your writing skills
  • the content you already wrote
  • the research you have done for your book(s) can be used to write at least 20 – 30 articles or blog posts – and if regularly posted on Google+ it is raising your Search Engine Ranking on Google tremendously.

1. Use the manuscript text…

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Fernando Pessoa “On Perfection & why we don’t love God.”

I weep over my imperfect pages, but if future
generations read them, they will be more touched by my
weeping than by any perfection I might have achieved,
since perfection would have kept me from weeping and,
therefore, from writing. Perfection never materializes.
The saint weeps, and is human. God is silent. That is
why we can love the saint but cannot love God.
I reread? A lie! I don’t dare reread. I can’t reread. What
good would it do me to reread? The person in the
writing is someone else. I no longer understand a thing…

“The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” by T. S. Eliot.

Let us go then, you and i,
when the evening is spread out against the sky
like a patient etherized upon a table;
let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
the muttering retreats
of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
and sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
streets that follow like a tedious argument
of insidious intent
to lead you to an overwhelming question…
oh, do not ask, “what is it?”
let us go and make our visit.

in the room the women come and go
talking of michelangelo.

the yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes
the yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
licked its tongue into the corners of the evening
lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
and seeing that it was a soft october night
curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

and indeed there will be time
for the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
there will be time, there will be time
to prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
there will be time to murder and create,
and time for all the works and days of hands
that lift and drop a question on your plate;
time for you and time for me,
and time yet for a hundred indecisions
and for a hundred visions and revisions
before the taking of a toast and tea.

in the room the women come and go
talking of michelangelo.

and indeed there will be time
to wonder, “do i dare?” and, “do i dare?”
time to turn back and descend the stair,
with a bald spot in the middle of my hair—
[they will say: “how his hair is growing thin!”]
my morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
my necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin—
[they will say: “but how his arms and legs are thin!”]
do i dare
disturb the universe?
in a minute there is time
for decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

for i have known them all already, known them all;
have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
i have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
i know the voices dying with a dying fall
beneath the music from a farther room.
so how should i presume?

and i have known the eyes already, known them all—
the eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
and when i am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
when i am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
then how should i begin
to spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
and how should i presume?

and i have known the arms already, known them all—
arms that are braceleted and white and bare
[but in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!]
is it perfume from a dress
that makes me so digress?
arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
and should i then presume?
and how should i begin?
. . . . .

shall i say, i have gone at dusk through narrow streets
and watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows? …

i should have been a pair of ragged claws
scuttling across the floors of silent seas.
. . . . .

and the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
smoothed by long fingers,
asleep … tired … or it malingers,
stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
should i, after tea and cakes and ices,
have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
but though i have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
though i have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in upon a platter,
i am no prophet–and here’s no great matter;
i have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
and i have seen the eternal footman hold my coat, and snicker,
and in short, i was afraid.

and would it have been worth it, after all,
after the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
would it have been worth while,
to have bitten off the matter with a smile,
to have squeezed the universe into a ball
to roll it toward some overwhelming question,
to say: “i am lazarus, come from the dead,
come back to tell you all, i shall tell you all”
if one, settling a pillow by her head,
should say, “that is not what i meant at all.
that is not it, at all.”

and would it have been worth it, after all,
would it have been worth while,
after the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
after the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—
and this, and so much more?—
it is impossible to say just what i mean!
but as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
would it have been worth while
if one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
and turning toward the window, should say:
“that is not it at all,
that is not what i meant, at all.”
. . . . .

no! i am not prince hamlet, nor was meant to be;
am an attendant lord, one that will do
to swell a progress, start a scene or two
advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
deferential, glad to be of use,
politic, cautious, and meticulous;
full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
at times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
almost, at times, the fool.

i grow old … i grow old …
i shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

shall i part my hair behind? do i dare to eat a peach?
i shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
i have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

i do not think they will sing to me.

i have seen them riding seaward on the waves
combing the white hair of the waves blown back
when the wind blows the water white and black.

we have lingered in the chambers of the sea
by sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
till human voices wake us, and we drown.

Fernando Pessoa on “Reading The Classics”

(there’s not a passage of Chateaubriand or a canto of Lamartine – passages that often seem to be the voice of my own
thoughts, cantos that often seem to have been written for me to know myself – that transports and uplifts me like a passage of Vieira’s prose,* or like certain odes by one of our few classical writers who truly followed Horace.)

I read and am liberated. I acquire objectivity. I cease being myself and so scattered. And what I read, instead of being like a nearly invisible suit that sometimes oppresses me, is the external world’s tremendous and
remarkable clarity, the sun that sees everyone, the moon that splotches the still earth with shadows, the wide
expanses that end in the sea, the blackly solid trees whose tops greenly wave, the steady peace of ponds on
farms, the terraced slopes with their paths overgrown by grape-vines.

I read as one who abdicates. And since the royal crown and robe are never as grand as when the departing king leaves them on the ground, I lay all my trophies of tedium and dreaming on the tiled floor of my
antechambers, then climb the staircase with no other nobility but that of seeing.

I read as one who’s passing through. And it’s in classical writers, in the calm-spirited, in those who if they suffer don’t mention it, that I feel like a holy transient, an anointed pilgrim, a contemplator for no reason of a world with no purpose, Prince of the Great Exile, who as he was leaving gave the last beggar the ultimate alms of his desolation.

FERNANDO PESSOA: A Banner Of Victory

May I at least carry, to the boundless possibility contained in the abyss of everything, the glory of my disillusion like that of a great dream, and the splendour of not believing like a banner of defeat: a banner in feeble hands, but still and all a banner, dragged through mud and the blood of the weak but raised high for who knows what reason – whether in defiance, or as a challenge, or in mere desperation – as we vanish into quicksand. No one knows for what reason, because no one knows anything, and the sand swallows those with banners as it swallows those without. And the sand covers everything: my life, my prose, my eternity.

I carry my awareness of defeat like a banner of victory.

POEM: No Time To Grieve

I feel the rumble of the clouds—
they jar like the recoil of a whip;
They crack the frame along the path
which the lightening fragments its own motion.
I see the light, forming like the stir
of raucous rivers mirroring the swift
vibration of stars jangling
in their haloed coronas,
somehow the sun still comes out and
draws in on this ceaseless lament;
And it’s rays rush down like little child soldiers,
errant and petty—
the world seems to be unbecoming
from Generations to Revelations in seconds,
And then, I realize,
that I’m grieving for the flower of life
When the forest of aesthetic is burning.