“I’m not good at drawing, but I’m good at telling people what to do.”

Robinson and I were on the phone. We’ve only ever been on the phone. Or Zoom. He lives in various west coast cities, including one or two in South America, and I live in Cincinnati which, as you already may be aware, is a long way from South America.

This particular conversation was about how he didn’t particularly care for the artwork on a couple of my books and wanted to design the cover on the next one. Naturally, I asked him if he could draw. The question drew the response above.

I laughed.

But he was serious.

“No, really.”

I mean, I totally believe him when he says he knows how to boss people around, but I also found it was funny that he said it all. Most of us couldn’t pull it off. Cultural differences perhaps; or possibly the hubris of age. He did just turn 30. He went mountain climbing for his birthday.

Regardless, since we came together to market my books, Robinson had been a constant source of entertainment. So much so that I started keeping a record of my favorite Robinsons.

“I will make all of this more interesting.”

As I recall, we were discussing how, thus far, I had been doing little to no interweb advertising, and the promoting I had been doing was not particularly slick or engaging. Indeed, Robinson made of point of how often my posts included pictures of my dog, posed as if he were reading a book. Or deep in thought. Or contemplating the relative appeal of a fire hydrant versus the nearest telephone pole.

We’d done a quick review of my efforts on Facebook and Instagram and, from his side of the Zoom call, I could tell he was not impressed, which was ok. Neither was I.

“So, what do you think you want to do with all this?” I was pensive, awaiting his judgement.

There was a long pause. “I will make all of this more interesting.”

I took that to mean he was taking over, a development for which I couldn’t have been happier. I do not enjoy creating social media posts. And, if I haven’t made it clear, I’m not good at it. Except for the dog pics, which are excellent.

“Not the most amazing read of my life.”

At this point, it should be obvious that Robinson pulls no punches or, more accurately, I don’t think he pulls any punches. If he does, I can’t imagine what he’s holding back, but at least he actually reads my books. I learned early on that, in interviews, the person doing the interviewing rarely reads your book. They just ask general questions and expect you to fill in the holes.

Robinson, on the other hand, reads everything. He does this so he knows what he’s trying to market. On this day we happened to be talking about Drunk Log. Well, I was, anyway. Like an emotionally needy child, I was looking for positive feedback from the Venezuelan.

“Not the most amazing read of my life.”

I was aghast. This was the “no pulling punches” thing smacking me in my own, needy face. I allowed my brain to quickly replay pertinent parts of the conversation because, you know, did he really just say that about one of my beautiful, perfect books?

Wait!

He couldn’t have been talking about my book. He must have been talking about the book he’d finished right before picking up mine. Relief washed over me. I’m not saying I’m the best writer in the world, but I definitely want my marketer to think I am and, just in case I was wrong, I silently thanked him for lying to me.

“Well, you don’t have to be the best writer in the world. We just need to convince people that you are.” (This one is sort of related to the one above.)

Early in our relationship, we were having a conversation about my desire to sell a crapload of books. Robinson asked me about my favorite authors, and I let him know the list included Vonnegut and Hemingway with John Irving thrown in for good measure. As I recall, Robinson asked me if I thought I was as good as any of my favorite authors.

“Um . . . no. I’m no Hemingway . . . or Vonnegut . . . or Irving . . . but I’d like to be. Someday. Someday sooner than later.”

For the record, I don’t think I’m as good as them, but even if I did think I was as good there was no way in hell I was going to admit to it.

Robinson paused and stared at me from the other side of the Zoom call.

“Well, you don’t have to be the best writer in the world. We just need to convince people that you are.”

I didn’t ask him how, exactly, one goes about convincing people they’re the best writer in the world. I suppose part of me was afraid of the answer, while another part figured Robinson knows exactly what he’s doing, and if he doesn’t know exactly what he’s doing, that was okay. There’s no doubt his ocean’s depth of marketing knowledge was far superior to that of my puddle. Besides, even if it isn’t, he sure acts like it is.

I’m a great believer in swagger.

“I just need you to look natural, or at least as natural as you can look.”

Robinson let me know it was time to start making videos—under close supervision. His supervision. During our discussion I relayed my fears about how I look in front of a camera, and he let me know he shared those fears—about me.

“I will send you script suggestions and instructions on where you put the camera, where you stand, how you stand, how to look at the camera. Everything like that. I just need you to look natural, or at least as natural as you can look. Don’t worry. I won’t let you screw it up.”

“Um . . . thank you?”

I thought about everything Robinson had to say and, between then and now, have received the written instructions/directions.

Can’t wait to see how it turns out, and what he will say about it.