I sold a copy of my book to a telemarketer yesterday. Usually, I ignore numbers that I’m fairly certain are spam, but this one originated from Washington D.C. and I thought, Hey, it might be President Biden, so I accepted the call.
Turns out, it wasn’t Potus, but it wasn’t exactly a telemarketer either. Instead, the caller was from a charitable organization that I support. I politely listened to the caller’s spiel and then replied, “I’m sorry, but I can’t make a recurring monthly donation at this time. I’m a self-published author and I’m never sure what my royalties will amount to.”
“Oh?” She said. “What do you write?”
I grinned to myself. “I have a novel that was published in December. Mayhem at the Happy Valley Motor Inn and Resort.”
“She laughed and said, “What?”
I repeated the title.
“Oh my,” she said. “I’m buying that right now!”
We talked a few minutes more then said our goodbyes.
At the top of the hour I checked my sales on Kindle Direct Publishing. Now, I have no way of knowing if the kind caller was the purchaser of my book, but I did make a sale for an ebook that hour. And that’s why they call me, The Hustler. (Note: I think I’m the only one to use that nickname, but maybe I’ll start a trend.)