There are certain things nobody tells you when you decide to publish a book. You expect the writing. You expect the editing. You expect to spend entirely too much time staring at a book cover wondering whether the title should be three pixels higher. You expect Amazon to occasionally make you question your sanity.

What I didn’t expect was that apparently publishing a book rings some enormous dinner bell on the Internet.

AUTHOR DETECTED. HE MAY HAVE MONEY.

Within a remarkably short period of time, the emails started arriving.

Book reviewers wanted to review my book. Book clubs wanted to feature my book. Literary societies wanted me to participate in their programs. Marketing experts had discovered my enormous untapped potential. People I’d never heard of were absolutely fascinated by Lurid Tales of Love & Lust and couldn’t wait to help introduce it to their vast communities of eager readers.

For a modest fee, naturally.

At first, I actually looked at these things seriously.

I’m a new independent author. I’m trying to build an audience. If somebody really does run a book club with a few thousand active readers who enjoy the sort of thing I write, I’d be foolish not to at least listen.

The problem is figuring out whether those readers actually exist.

Fortunately, I have an electronic bloodhound. I started giving the emails to ChatGPT.

“Hey Chat, Check these people out.”

And Chat goes wandering off through the Internet looking for websites, social media accounts, domain registrations, previous author features, independent references and whatever else it can find.

The results have been entertaining.

One organization recently invited me to participate in a literary program. The email contained lots of flattering language about my “distinctive literary voice” and “unconventional storytelling.”

That sounded wonderful. There was just one problem. Neither ChatGPT nor I could find much evidence that the organization actually existed in the form being represented.

So I wrote back.

I explained that one of the unfortunate realities of putting a product on the Internet is that you’re immediately buried under spammers, chatbots and people trying to separate you from your money. I told them quite openly that I use ChatGPT to vet unsolicited offers.

Then I told them what ChatGPT predicted would happen next.

Their next email, it predicted, would offer me some sort of promotional or participation package costing several hundred dollars for a service whose audience or value I couldn’t independently verify.

I invited them to prove ChatGPT wrong.

The response arrived.

Virtual participation: $470.

Digital participation: $230.

Both: $700.

I laughed so hard I nearly owed ChatGPT a consulting fee.

Another “book club” contacted me with an Author Spotlight opportunity.

Same drill.

This time the menu was:

Core Spotlight: $115.

Enhanced Spotlight: $255.

Premium Spotlight: $350.

The descriptions were wonderful collections of marketing language: increased visibility, enhanced presentation, extended promotional exposure, community engagement.

What wasn’t immediately apparent was exactly how many actual human beings constituted this community I was paying hundreds of dollars to reach.

So I asked.

How many readers do you have? Where can I see previous author spotlights? Where are your social media accounts? Can I see examples of the $115 product and the $350 product? What kind of engagement do these promotions normally receive?

Those seem like reasonable questions before handing somebody your credit card.

Then there are the persistent ones.

One literary journal recently sent me another email because apparently my failure to respond to their previous solicitation was causing some concern.

“Are you still with us Author Thomas?”

Yes.

Author Thomas is still with you.

Author Thomas is just hiding very quietly behind the couch hoping you’ll eventually go away.

Here’s the thing, though.

Not everybody who offers an author a paid service is a scammer. Marketing costs money. Advertising costs money. Editing costs money. Cover design costs money. There are legitimate people and companies providing all of those services, and they deserve to be paid for their work.

The problem is that legitimate businesses should also be able to answer legitimate questions.

If you want $350 to introduce my book to your audience, tell me how large your audience is.

If you run a literary organization, show me the organization.

If you’ve featured other authors, show me their features.

If you’ve actually read my book and you’re contacting me because you think it’s special, tell me something about the book that isn’t printed in the Amazon description.

That last one has become my favorite test.

One person repeatedly told me how genuinely interested she was in Lurid Tales. So I finally sent her the Amazon link and said, essentially:

If you’re really an avid reader and genuinely interested in my writing, read the book. Then tell me which story you thought was the most enticing, which was the best written, and which had the most interesting characters.

Then we’ll have a real conversation.

I’m still waiting for the book report.

Maybe she’ll surprise me.

I genuinely hope she does.

Because beneath all my sarcasm is something fairly simple: I don’t mind spending money to promote my work. What I mind is spending money on smoke.

Independent authors are particularly vulnerable to this stuff because we’re hopeful.

We wrote something. We worked on it for months or years. We finally pushed the button and released it into the world. Then somebody suddenly appears in our inbox and says:

I found your book. I think it’s special. I can help people discover it.

Those are powerful words when you’re sitting there watching your Amazon sales dashboard stubbornly refuse to turn into Stephen King’s.

So you want to believe them.

Maybe that’s the real lesson I’ve learned.

Don’t become so cynical that you automatically assume everybody offering to help you is a crook.

But don’t become so eager to be discovered that you stop asking questions either.

Ask who they are.

Ask what they’re selling.

Ask what you’re actually getting.

Ask to see evidence.

And if their answers consist mostly of phrases like enhanced visibility, premium exposure, reader discovery and comprehensive promotional experience, keep one hand firmly on your wallet.

Or get yourself an electronic bloodhound.

Mine hasn’t bitten anybody yet.

But it growls a lot.

—Tom