If you missed those earlier posts, here are the links:

• One Micro-Publisher’s Book Sales
• More Book Sales Analysis
• One Final Stab at Book Sales Analysis

So, without further blathering on my part, here are the updated charts.

eBook & Print Sales by Quarter

Sales by Quarter, with Split for Fiction, Nonfiction & eBooks, Print

The most interesting thing about those two charts — at least to me — is that our total book sales have continued to increase and at about the same rate. In fact, we sold virtually the same number of print books in 2011 as we did in 2010, but we sold 3.25 times as many eBooks in 2011 as in 2010.

eBook Unit Sales - Kindle vs ePub

Although ePub sales are growing substantially, Kindle sales remain at 70% of our total eBook sales. However, that extra 30% of sales that represent ePub is something I wouldn’t want to ignore.

Here’s a chart that I find instructive, as it uses the same raw data as the first chart above but displays it as percentages of total sales.

Percentage of Total Sales by Print, eBook, Fiction, Nonfiction

And, finally, here’s the same type of chart that shows sales by eBook channel as percentages of total eBook sales.

eBook Sales by Channel as Percentage of Total eBook Sales

The sales labeled “LSI” are ePub format sales through Ingram Digital via our Lightning Source Inc account. LSI has something like 25 partner eBook retail sites other than B&N, Kobo, and iBooks. As you can see, those sales are almost nonexistent. However, since it costs us nothing to upload ePub files to LSI for that distribution, we’ll keep doing it.

As a side note, our total book sales for the month of December 2011 were about 50% higher than November sales, probably mostly due to the expected Christmas bump. Preliminary January 2012 total book sales (through 27 January) show at least another 50% increase over December (probably quite a bit higher than that once we have all the data in — we won’t have Kobo or iBooks sales for a week or two into February). The big increase in January sales is, again, probably due to the Christmas bump expected from all those new Kindles and Nooks sold. It remains to be seen if, as expected, those sales ease up some in March and into the 2nd quarter; that’s what happened last year.

It is also worth noting that Nook sales increased substantially in the 4th quarter, while both Kindle and Kobo sales decreased noticeably and iBooks decreased a small amount. Nook sales have continued to increase substantially so far in January.

So, that’s our experience to date. As before, I’d be very interested in seeing similar analyses from other micro-publishers (a category that includes self-publishers). Anyone else care to open their kimono?

[You can skip my introductory comments if you wish, if they make you uncomfortable, and just jump down to the story itself.]

Lighten up, folks. Those kids are over there doing what 99% of this country is unwilling to do. In fact, while they’re fighting against our sworn enemies, and making historic sacrifices to do it. the overwhelming majority of their fellow citizens remain virtually untouched by this decades-long war (don’t forget that this really all started in earnest back in 1991). While we throw our troops into the fray over and over again (too many of them have completed three, four, or more tours), we assuage our national shame by telling ourselves that hey, they’re all volunteers, and after all, we support the troops, right? And then we go back to our double whoopdidoo lattes, cruise the ‘Net on our iPhone 5s, and settle back to watch another idiotic TV reality show on our big-screen HD TVs.

You want some reality? Go join the Marines, or the Army, Air Force, or Navy.

In every war in history, the enemy has been vilified (it doesn’t matter which side we’re talking about, either). How else do you get otherwise normal human beings to jump into kill-or-be-killed situations? But in most other wars, the country has been on some kind of actual war footing, with everyone forced to make some kind of sacrifices. No longer. We prefer to just pay those volunteers to take care of the unpleasantness while we go on about our daily lives.

Maybe those urinating Marines should get an Article 15 slap on the wrists. But remember that they have been sent to kill people and break things. Oddly, we now expect them to do it with compassion and sensitivity. No wonder the suicide rates among our latest crop of veterans is so damn high.

All right, I’ll dismount my soapbox. Instead, I’ll offer a short story I wrote two decades ago, which earned an Honorable Mention in AIM Magazine‘s 1993 short story competition. Although the specific events are fictitious, I based the main character on a man who worked for me at Northrop Corp in the late 1980s. The WW II incidents related by the main character are true, and the character’s emotions are as true as I could make them.

You might also want to read my WW II biography Rough War: The Combat Story of Lt. Paul J. Eastman, a “Burma Banshee” P-40 & P-47 Pilot. Paul Eastman returned from the CBI Theater in 1945, struggled with what today would be called PTSD…and eventually took his own life.

Think about these things before you condemn the Marines in that video. Show them the understanding and compassion you expect them to show to the enemy who is trying to kill them and their buddies every damn day.

Remember
by Walt Shiel
Copyright ©1992 Walter P. Shiel, All Rights Reserved.
Honorable Mention, AIM Magazine 1993 Short Story Competition

Pete eased down out of his old Ford van. Only the slight tightening at the corners of his eyes gave evidence to any pain as his foot contacted the ground. The 60-year-old injury had become a part of him a long time ago. He pushed the door closed and headed across the parking lot.

He walked with the rolling gait of a sailor just home from a long cruise. Pete had only been on a boat once, a cramped, nauseating trip from Florida across the Gulf, through the Panama Canal, and out across the Pacific on a World War II troop carrier. He’d been all of seventeen, scared, worried, and starry-eyed with visions of winning the whole damn war single-handed.

For three years the fear of death clung to him like the jungle mosquitoes. Survival became his overriding worry. The first artillery concussions vaporized his visions of glory.

In 1942 he had hated no one, but by 1945 he’d acquired a deep-seated, gnawing hatred for an entire nation and its people. He wasn’t proud of his private hate, his personal war that never quite ended, but it was as much a part of him as the shrapnel in his leg.

Pete paused and scanned the parking lot as he always did, counting the Japanese and the American cars. Too damn many of the one, too damn few of the other.

Couldn’t people see that the war men had bled and died in continued with only the battlefield changed? Didn’t they understand? Didn’t they care?

He pushed through the swinging doors of his favorite hardware store, found the drill bits he needed and hefted a nicely balanced 22-ounce hammer. He carefully checked the labels. The drill bits were okay, but the hammer was stamped “Assembled in Mexico.”

He put it back. Too bad. It was a nice hammer.

He scooped a pound or so of nails into a sack, took them and the drill bits to the checkout stand.

“Hi, Pete,” Arnie said cheerfully. “Find everything you need?”

“This’ll do it for today,” Pete replied.

Arnie, about Pete’s age and a World War II Navy vet, slid the shrink-wrapped drill bits across the scanner. He got a red light. “Sometimes these things are more trouble than they’re worth.”

Pete squinted at the identification plate on the side of the unit. “What do you expect, Arnie? Damn thing’s made in Taiwan.”

Arnie tried again and was rewarded with a beep, a green light, and the chattering of the cash register. “Yeah, I know, but do you have any idea how tough it is to find American electronics stuff?”

“It’s worth the extra effort.” Pete handed Arnie the bag of nails.

“Don’t start with me today, you old fart. It’s been a bad morning so far.” Arnie peered into the sack and placed it on the electronic scale. “Ten penny?”

Pete nodded.

Arnie punched in the per-pound price on the register. “So how’s the workshop coming?”

“I’m almost done. Then I can start on that redwood coffee table I’ve been promising Toni.”

“The Honey-Do List is always endless.” Arnie checked the total on the register. “Comes to eighteen dollars and twenty-six cents.”

Pete fished his wallet from his back pocket.

“How’s Toni doing with her painting?”

“Okay.” Pete handed him a $20 bill. “It’d be better if it weren’t for those rip-offs that screw the honest artists out of a buck.”

Arnie counted out the change from the twenty. “What are you talking about?”

“You know. Those starving artist things they advertise for a few days at some local motel or other. Real oil paintings for twenty or thirty bucks.”

Arnie shrugged and handed his customer his change. “I guess that’s why they call them starving artists.”

“No, you don’t understand. Those damn things are done on what amounts to an assembly line in some Asian country or other. Bunch of women copy the original paintings, get paid next to nothing, and some outfit ships them back to the States where people buy them cheap and stick them in their living rooms thinking what a great deal they got and how great it is to have real art rather than cheap prints.” Pete pocketed the change and picked up his bagged goods.

Arnie shook his head and frowned. “You’re just a crotchety old man who enjoys bitching. If you weren’t one of my best customers, I wouldn’t even let you in here.”

Pete smiled. “You swabbies are all alike. The only things you care about are drinking and chasing women.”

Arnie laughed and waved him away. “Get out of here. My doctor made me give up booze, and Maggie won’t let me chase women.”

“Just as well.” Pete opened the door to leave. “You wouldn’t remember what to do with one if you caught her.”

“See you later.”

Pete waved and left, happier now. He enjoyed his twice-weekly trips to Arnie’s store. They’d been distant friends for over twelve years.

He had one more errand to run. Toni needed some glue for a Halloween costume she was making as a surprise for their granddaughter. He found the glue in the chain drugstore at the far end of the shopping center. Walking to the checkout, he almost bumped into a stooped old man.

“So sorry,” the man said, his accent heavy, his eyes downcast.

“My fault,” Pete mumbled, staggering back and bumping into a stack of Styrofoam picnic coolers.

The old man was about his own age, limping along with the help of a cane. A younger woman who seemed to be his daughter held his other arm. She said something to the old man in Japanese and they kept walking.

The man’s age and limp were like a distorted mirror image of himself. They could be veterans of the same war. The two of them could have fought in the same jungle, might even have tried to kill each other. Yet here he was, shopping in the same American drug store.

Memories washed over Pete in a tidal wave of emotion.

Nighttime in some Pacific jungle. Pete was standing guard as scared and nervous as usual. There’s a rustling in the bushes, less than ten feet away. A Japanese officer pops up out of the dark, alone. Pete spins around, shaken and disbelieving — their perimeter was supposed to be secure — and raises the heavy Browning Automatic Rifle and empties an entire clip of ammo. Most of the rounds hit the Japanese lieutenant, ripping and tearing at his body, spraying blood and visceral fluids, jerking and throwing the man’s thin body. Out of ammo, Pete stands, shaking, gasping, finger mashed tightly down on the trigger. The whole platoon descends on him, calms him, pries him loose from the gun.

That had been his first kill, but not his last. It never got easier, just more detached from his emotions. He learned to think of the dead men as somehow less than human.

Pete watched the old Japanese and his young escort walk away. They continued talking softly in a flood of foreign sounds that day-by-day became more commonplace wherever he went in Southern California.

And the usually buried memories surfaced again.

Pete huddled on a small Pacific island, now purged of the Japanese invaders and safe in Allied hands, with thousands of other Americans. Waiting. Knowing that soon, too soon, they were to be ferried again on those god-awful troop carriers, this time to be dumped on the shores of Japan itself. Rumors rage through the troops — defenses might be worse than the D Day beaches, every citizen of the island nation would probably join in the fight. Casualties might be in the hundreds of thousands, perhaps a million or more. Unreasoning fear gnaws at Pete’s insides day after day.

Then relief: Hiroshima. The Bomb. Nagasaki, another Bomb. The word spreads rapidly that they won’t have to invade. Surrender was certain, defeat of the Japanese Empire inevitable.

Pete struggled to force the memories back into the dark cache where he tried to keep them safely buried. He fought to control his panting breaths.

“Sir, are you all right?” A young woman’s voice.

He turned around. An Asian woman, smiling pleasantly. All he could do was nod. He hurried out to his van as fast as his twisted leg would allow. He read his bumper sticker for the hundredth time — “Remember Pearl Harbor” — then got in the van and drove away.

He knew he would never forget.

He turned onto the main road out of town, heading for the sanctuary of his ten acres. A Honda cut in front of him, driven by nice-looking young man in a business suit. Pete’s hand covered the horn pad but stopped.

Knowledge burned like bad whiskey in his gut, knowledge that the Japanese men, old men now like himself, had not asked for that war any more than he had. That knowledge might never erase his memories, never erase the horrors of war, never erase the deaths he’d seen and the deaths he’d caused 46 years and more ago, but he’d never forget. And he knew he could never forgive the fools on both sides who started that war, or let it start, and who had sent good men to their deaths.

His country might forget and her politicians might forgive, but Pete could not, no matter how much he might want to. World War II had changed him forever. The bitterness might not always be on the surface, but it was always with him. He had no choice then and he had no choice now. He would always remember.

Hell, somebody had to, didn’t they?

He drove past the town’s biggest discount store. He tried to ignore the sale ad for Hitachi TVs and hoped his old US-made Magnavox would keep working until the day he died.

But not one day longer.

I have three observations about this dilemma:

©1995 Walter P Shiel. All Right Reserved.

FIRST…
If you are the type who is not self-motivated and really needs external motivation, you’re probably in the wrong business. In fact, you’re probably not cut out for writing or publishing or, for that matter, most any other small business or entrepreneurship.

SECOND…
We all run up against the proverbial brick wall now and again. We all get discouraged from time to time. The difference between those who fail and those who succeed is perseverance and a willingness to take stock (briefly, don’t dwell on it to the point of paralysis) and change course as needed. All the talent in the world is useless if you can’t find the internal motivation to persevere against the odds that sometimes seem insurmountable. Don’t agonize. Just get on with it.

THIRD…
By all means, ask for advice and lessons-learned from your peers in the business. But don’t expect them to conjure up the magic elixir that will fuel your own motivation or wave the magic wand to create success for you. Remember, for 99% of us, writing and self-publishing success is at the end of a long and sometimes grueling marathon, not the victory lap at the end of a sprint. You might want to read my blog post Flash in the Pan or Endurance.

BOTTOM LINE…
If you’re not self-motivated, do something about it. Just don’t expect somebody else to do it for you. Even hiring an expensive marketing or promotion outfit won’t solve your own internal motivation problems.

Miracles happen. Just don’t bank on them…or, at least, not on their timing.

When I worked at Lockheed Martin in Fort Worth, we used to (jokingly) say that we built optimistic schedules that included, at the crucial point, the milestone “A Miracle Occurs.”

Humorous, but I wouldn’t plan that way for my own business.

So, are you self-motivated…or chronically discouraged?

“One of the most unusual and insightful stories of a young American at war, and it has a particular significance for today.” –from the Foreword by Walter J. Boyne

“In the annals of WWII aerial warfare Rough War is a jewel that has been missing for far too long.”
–Jim Hooper, Author of A Hundred Feet over Hell

“Rough War is a war biography from Walt Shiel…Fighting in a lesser known front of China, India, and Burma, he tells a story of a man pulled away from life and the struggles of survival where one wrong move could mean a fate worse than death. Rough War is a riveting war story, highly recommended.“
–Midwest Book Review Small Press Watch

++++++++++++

Paul Eastman was one of thousands of fighter pilots who served honorably, bravely, and with little fanfare during World War II. He did not end the war as a celebrated national hero. No air base was ever named for him. He never became an ace. He never became famous. Paul spent 20 months flying daily combat sorties in one of the most difficult environments of the war — the China-Burma-India Theater.

Paul Eastman maintained a daily diary throughout the war, covering his life in the air and on the ground. Rough War is based on those diaries and the many letters he wrote to his wife. His letters professed his love, expressed his post-war hopes, documented his ongoing fears, and voiced his concerns for his wife and family stateside: Would he survive the war? What would he do afterward?

Although the CBI has been labeled the “forgotten theater” of WW II, Paul Eastman’s story helps ensure that the men who fought the air war over its unforgiving jungles and mountains will never be forgotten.

++++++++++++

“Rough War is an important story that makes an equally important connection to the effects of war on the members of the US military today. “A rare achievement that offers a rewarding, creative approach to history that should be a model for more writers.”
–Ed Rasimus, Author of Palace Cobra and When Thunder Rolled

“A story of the war generation, of the forgotten theater, and of the terrible things just being in a war does to people.”
–Eric Hammel, Author of The Road to Big Week

“Rough War presents a unique history of the making of a combat fighter pilot…While aviation technology changed for America’s next war in SE Asia, the threats of the jungle, monsoon, and a determined enemy created similar issues during my own fighter-pilot experiences in Vietnam.”
–William H. Lawson, Brig. Gen, US Air Force, Retired

“Rough War presents a highly personal view of air combat and daily life in the WW II jungles of Burma. Walt Shiel skillfully blends a history of that war with young fighter pilot Paul Eastman’s personal diary, letters, and photographs. An engaging history of a small part of a global war.”
–Robert F. Dorr, Author of Mission to Berlin

Just received a new review of my WW II biography Rough War from the Military Writers Society of America: