Building a Brand

By Lisabet Sarai

If you want to be successful in the highly competitive game of publishing (I'm told), you need to do more than just write good books and get someone to sell them for you. You need to “build a brand”. What does this mean? Here's a simple definition from Dummies.com:

When people hear your name, they conjure up a set of impressions that influence how they think and buy. Those thoughts define your brand.

For an author, having a “brand” means, first, that readers recognize your name and second, they have a clear and hopefully positive understanding of what you write that leads them to purchase your books. Popular authors like James Patterson or Stephen King have legions of readers who will buy anything they publish, sight unseen. Readers know what to expect from these authors. They'll pre-order a book before it's even released. The power of the author's brand trumps the quality of the actual writing.

In the erotic romance world, brands rule. Authors typically produce a multitude of titles in one or two clearly defined genres. Carol Lynne writes M/M contemporary erotica romance, often with a Western setting. Sabrina York creates rock-hard, flint-hearted military heroes, emotionally scarred SEALs or Special Forces guys who struggle against the weakness of loving a special woman. Cerise De Land pens Regencies populated by disgraced dukes and feisty, independent ladies.

In the realm of erotica, I consider Rachel Kramer Bussel an example of effective brand-building. Pretty much anyone who reads erotica will be familiar with the dozens of anthologies she has edited, many focused on kink or fetishes. Rachel builds her brand not only through her publications but also through readings, parties and an amazingly active presences in the blogosphere. Just say “cupcake” or “spanking” to any erotica reader and Rachel's name is likely to come to mind.

Alison Tyler provides another instance. Alison’s brand is even more focused than Rachel’s—she writes dark, transgressive BDSM, mostly M/f, significantly less playful and exploratory than Rachel. Her characters are driven by need, not just erotic curiosity. Alison’s not as “out in the world” as Rachel. She characterizes herself as “a shy girl with a dirty mind”. Still, I suspect there are few readers of erotica who wouldn’t recognize her name. Having recently joined Twitter, I’ve discovered she’s a true expert at this medium, with the ability to make almost any snippet of prose sound fascinating (and naughty). I’ve been studying her technique, but so far I can’t come close.

So how does a poor aspiring author like me go about building a brand? The authorities I've consulted highlight three major issues:

Distinctiveness – Both your name and your work need to be sufficiently unusual to stand out from the crowd.

Value – You need to offer your readers good value for their money. You can't fake your way into effective branding, at least not for long. Especially when you're building your brand, every title you produce has to satisfy your target readers.

Consistency – Your brand controls readers' expectations. People who purchase Carol Lynne's books expect explicit M/M erotic romance. Readers who buy Rachel's anthologies expect playfully transgressive, sex-positive stories in which pleasure trumps more serious issues. For a writer, brand consistency encompasses both genre and style. If a book doesn't fulfill readers' expectations, your brand will suffer.

And there's the rub, for me. Consistency. I write all sorts of genres and heat levels. I write both erotica and romance. BDSM fiction was my first love but I've deliberately diversified. I've written contemporary, paranormal, historical, suspense and science fiction; heterosexual, gay, lesbian, and ménage; dark, playful and comic. When a reader comes across my name, he or she isn't likely to have immediate expectations about content or tone. About the only thing that a reader can assume is that my work is likely to contain a lot of sex―but even that isn't guaranteed.

Distinctiveness isn't a problem. I happened to choose a pen name that appears to be unique. (I was trying for something that sounded foreign and exotic, to go with the exotic setting of my first novel.) Google my name and you'll find pages and pages of references to me and my books. It appears that in cyberspace, at least, there's only one Lisabet Sarai.

I'd like to believe that I'm set as far as value is concerned as well. I produce quality work, or at least I try, with original premises and engaging characters. Most of my work has received very positive reviews.

If consistency is required in order to have an effective brand, though, I may never succeed. I'm easily bored. I don't want to write the same sort of book over and over. I'm contemplating sequels to several of my novels and I'll be honest―I'm not sure that I want to return to the same worlds and characters for the duration of another book. I'd rather try something different―to stretch my abilities.

Obviously there are common threads that run through my work. I tend to write stories that have a strong sense of place and I frequently use foreign settings. My characters tend to think a lot―they're not usually action-hero types. In my stories, sexual identity tends to be fluid; it's common for a straight character to discover homoerotic yearnings or vice versa. Sex in my tales is often a revelation as opposed to just recreation. This is particularly true of sex that involves dominance and submission. Finally, I think it's fair to say that my style is more literary than popular (though I'm trying to diversify in this area as well.)

These kind of abstract commonalities aren't enough, I suspect, to bolster a brand identity. I'd be really interested to know what readers think when they hear the name “Lisabet Sarai”. Most probably, it depends on what (if anything) they've read. The trouble is that any particular book they've picked up will likely give them mistaken expectations for the next one of my books that they read.

I really don't know how seriously I should take this dilemma. Should I channel my writing energies into just one or two genres? If my goal were to support myself with my writing, I'd probably have to do just that. But really―I hate that notion!

So where does that leave me? Can I be a moderate success without building a brand? Can I attract a community of readers who appreciate diversity and don't mind having their expectations violated? I don't know. To be honest, I’ve all but given up on the whole notion of branding.

I’m a writer. Period. Pick up one or two of my books and read them to discover what I do. Sorry but I can’t offer you any shortcuts.

Boogie Night

By Lisabet Sarai

I live in a foreign country where porn is seriously illegal. I'm here by the grace of a government that could kick me out at any time. So these days my husband and I no longer indulge in the porn we used to watch occasionally, back when we lived in the U.S. -- back in the days of video tape cassettes. That's okay. Back then, most of the movies we sampled were rather boring and stereotyped, with buff, bulging, heavily-waxed protagonists who looked like plastic and “plots” so flimsy they didn't deserve the label. I don't find purely physical sex very erotic, in literature or in film. So much of the time, our porn experiences were rather disappointing. (Fortunately I had my resident stud to console me in the face of this disappointment!)

It looks as though the adult film industry may have matured, especially since so many women have joined the directorial ranks. Every month when I write the Erotic Lure newsletter for the Erotica Readers & Writers Association, I survey the Best in Adult Films pages and pick out a couple of titles that look appealing. I'd love to have the chance to actually view some of them, to see if my intuitions are correct. Alas, that's not really practical.

I love my adopted country, but I do feel rather isolated. I have to keep Lisabet Sarai strictly under wraps here. I don't get the chance to hobnob in person with my fellow erotica authors. I've known several of the Grip posters for nearly a decade, but I haven't actually met any of them in meat space.

Before we moved here, though, for one short period, I was part of the New York City erotica “scene” and it was a heady experience indeed.

Picture this: the dim, brick-walled basement of a funky bar in the Bowery, well-known as a venue for erotica gatherings. I've attended several events there hosted by Rachel Kramer Bussell, doyenne of the New York erotica community. Now I'm hosting a release party myself, for not one but two new books: my third novel, Ruby's Rules, and the BDSM and spirituality anthology Sacred Exchange, co-edited by me and S.F. Mayfair.

The room is not exactly full – I've always been terrible at promotion – but the modest crowd includes both strangers and dear friends. One of the authors represented in Sacred Exchange has come all the way from western Pennsylvania to participate and to meet me. My closest girlfriend has driven in from New Jersey. Rachel is there, with her latest flame in tow. A small but appreciative group sips red wine or martinis, chats, laughs, and waits for the reading.

I am wearing a tight burgundy velvet cocktail dress with a halter neck that accentuates my cleavage. Underneath I'm wearing very little – the costume won't allow it. Despite the horrible pronated arches that usually keep me in flats, I've donned the highest heels I own. My hair is a wild mass of curls. I've exchanged my glasses for contact lenses and I've done the best I can with the unfamiliar eyeshadow, mascara and blush.

I climb the two steps to the podium in the corner, nervousness fluttering in my gut like a trapped bird. There's a spotlight trained on the pedestal, which is fortunate because otherwise I never would have been able to see the pages of my book. A hush comes over the crowd as they notice I've moved into position. I purse my lips around the mike and try to sound husky and sexy. I begin to read from the first chapter of my novel featuring the brilliant, ruthless and irresistible Ruby Maxwell Chen:

---

My silence is making my unfortunate guest even more nervous.

I lean forward slightly. Under the desk, I smoothly part my legs and spread them wide. Mr. Dalton’s eyes grow round and his mouth falls open at the sight of the black lace garters against my pale skin, and the jet triangle of hair framed between them.

“Well, Mr. Dalton,” I say finally, “I need time to consider the details of your proposal. However, I am confident that we can come to some understanding.”

“Uh...I...” He is rendered incoherent with confusion, embarrassment, and, I can clearly see, lust. I delicately part my silky fur to expose the damp pink folds of my cunt. I have been planning this for the past ten minutes, and I am wet with anticipation.

“I believe that you have said enough, Mr. Dalton. I will give you my answer shortly. In the meantime, I would appreciate your removing your jacket, your trousers and whatever you have on underneath.”

He wants to run, but my eyes hold him, my eyes and that moist, inviting chasm between my thighs. “Now,” I say, allowing a hint of sternness into my voice.

He complies, as I expect. My eyes give him no respite as he awkwardly sheds his clothes. He wears tight blue briefs that highlight every detail of his straining cock. The showy underwear is a present from his girlfriend, perhaps; he is too caught up in his ambitions to have a wife.

A blush is spreading over his fair complexion, and he hesitates to remove the briefs, though they hide nothing. I tap my pen on the desktop, feigning impatience. In truth, I love the suspense, the gradual, reluctant submission, the slow exposure of vulnerable flesh.

---

I continue for ten or fifteen minutes, losing my anxiety as the story takes over. I can feel the appreciative gaze of the audience. I am Ruby's voice. Though I'm two decades older and far less gorgeous than my heroine, I identify with her as I read. I am transformed into an object of desire.

The bar is silent when I stop. Then comes the applause: not thunderous – there aren't enough people here to thunder – but enthusiastic. I realize that my pulse is racing. When I excuse myself to go to the ladies' room, I discover that my panties are distinctly damp.

I return and the crowd closes around me, offering me copies of my books to sign.

For one moment in time, that one precious night, I feel like a porn star.

And it's one of the high points of my life.

Squick City

By Lisabet Sarai

When it comes to perverse sex, I'm pretty broad minded. There isn't much that I wouldn't consider, at least in a literary or fantasy context. (The real world is something else. It has been a while since I've had the chance to test my actual physical or psychological limits.)

I've written enemas and golden showers (my editor made me excise the latter) and yes, it turned me on. I find incest, especially among siblings, embarrassingly hot. Necrophilia? Well, let's just say I can see the appeal, at least in a fantasy role play like Kathleen's story “Chill”. Bestiality? How can anyone who's ever been licked by a cat or admired a stallion not consider the erotic possibilities? I've never written a BDSM story about knife play, but I've read a few that made me shiver with arousal. (Tess Danesi's “Lessons Slow and Painful” in Fast Girls is the most recent example that comes to mind.)

Eating come? Sure, why not? Rimming? Thrilling, in the right circumstances. Diapers? I've written that into at least one story (“Poker Night”, in my Rough Caress collection). There's a scene in Ruby's Rules where a character gets fucked with a champagne bottle and another featuring clothespins on the labia.

There is one kink, though, that I can't imagine writing, because it scares me silly, despite the fact that I gather it's fairly popular. I'm referring to “breath play”, otherwise known as erotic asphyxiation. In case this isn't familiar to some readers, breath play is basically getting off by being strangled, smothered, or otherwise deprived of oxygen.

I found in my research that there are physiological reasons why hypoxia (the shortage of oxygen) is pleasurable. Supposedly, being deprived of oxygen produces a giddy, hyper-lucid or hallucinogenic state that greatly intensifies the experience of orgasm. According to some sources, the resulting state of bliss is as addictive as cocaine.

Sorry, but I'll choose other methods for my hallucinations.

In the context of a BDSM relationship, breath control obviously carries an emotional charge as well as possibly involving physical pleasure. The sub is literally offering her life to the dominant. I can understand the excitement of that level of trust, intellectually, but I still can't imagine ever be willing to participate in a breath control scene—even though it would pain me to refuse anything to my Master. It's so far outside my comfort zone that I don't think I could even write about it, at least not convincingly.

Yet some authors do. Rachel Kramer Bussel's story “Your Hand on My Neck”, in her acclaimed anthology Please, Sir, is about erotic asphyxiation. Rachel's an accomplished writer with a definitely kinky bent, and I usually resonate with her tales, but this one left me cold. I found it disturbing as opposed to arousing.

And yet...part of me hates to accept that there's anything I couldn't eroticize, if I tried. When I saw Charlotte's topic for the week, I was tempted to push myself and try to write a short piece focused on this, my most serious squick. (Actually, it goes beyond “squick”, which seems to have the connotation of disgust. My reactions to the suggestion are closer to terror.)

Then I thought about all the other stories on my mental list, waiting to be written. Better I should devote my scarce writing time to something more appealing – like gang bangs or face sitting, suspension or branding.

Everybody's got limits, right?