My Life, Direct to DVD, by Jeff Nichols

When writing on spec, all you have is your idea and a blank screen. You stare at a blank computer page with its steady blinking cursor like an artist staring at a blank canvas. If you are writing a book that you plan to self-publish, no matter how much research you have done or what an authority you are on a subject, at some point in the writing of it doubts of whether you are in the final throes of delusional dementia will surely creep in. (No one will read it. Who will want to? This sucks.) 

If you are a self-published writer, if you don’t once think you’re turning into Russell Crowe in “A Beautiful Mind” or Jack Nicholson in “The Shining” as he hammers away at his typewriter knowing that no one will read his words, then you’re doing something wrong. Let the hopeless thoughts visit; they may linger a bit but will pass. 

I am nauseatingly self-deprecating by nature. It is a crutch if not a character flaw, but let me take a moment to be serious and brag a little: Despite big setbacks, all three of my self-published books have made money (and continue to), and all three have gotten press and attracted big publishers and Hollywood producers. One book, “Caught,” landed me a contract with an established TV production company. Sections of my books have been excerpted in major magazines. 

Don’t get me wrong, this is all B-level stuff, but really, on paper, I am a self-publishing success story. Like my writing or not, if you are a writer, by definition, you want what I have. No, I did not win the brass ring like E.L. James (“Fifty Shades of Grey”) or Andy Weir (“The Martian”) or make hundreds of thousands of dollars a year and develop a loyal following like a handful of other self-published authors (albeit no more than 20, mostly sci-fi writers, 15 of whom have either a vampire or a werewolf as their central character). Nevertheless, on paper, it would appear I won the lottery.

Let’s consider the facts: Back in 2001, I self-published a typo-ridden, incoherent memoir. By a bizarre stroke of luck, it was optioned by a major production company. Six million dollars was raised to make the film. Big Hollywood actors were attached. The film was made. It got a glowing review in Variety. I got an agent. My book got sold at auction to Simon & Schuster. The movie got released by Lionsgate Films, and later (drumroll, please) “Trainwreck” — a.k.a. “American Loser,” the name changed to stir association with the “American Pie” trilogy — was an HBO feature presentation in 2015. “American Loser” was trending in February 2016 as a popular movie on Hulu.com, a top streaming site. 

Isn’t this what all authors want? Self-published or traditional? I also eventually received just shy of $160,000. Plus speaking gigs (25 grand). So who am I to complain? Why am I calling it a horror story? 

In 1998 a literary agent passed on my manuscript “The Little Yellow Bus: A Special Education Memoir” (later to be called “Trainwreck: My Life as an Idiot”), citing, among other things, the memoir’s lack of a strong narrative. Driven by vanity and all of its byproducts, I did not take the agent’s advice or advice from anyone else in the publishing establishment. All passed. All cited the same flaws. This is where my horror story begins.

The film had no obstacles for the central character to overcome, hence no arc, and, worse for me, no humor. I say this without the slightest trace of sarcasm: The agent was right. A weak memoir was turned into a weak movie.

You might say I have become a connoisseur of self-publishing disaster stories. I simply can’t get enough. Misery loves company — the worse the story, the better. But some of these book launchings are such trainwrecks that they are indeed funny. Even hilarious. 

Looking back, many self-published authors like me are able to laugh at their own expense. One friend admits that even though he got a couple of good reviews he sold zero copies of his children’s book on Amazon. As in not one copy! I saw the book. It was good. 

Others cannot see the humor in it. Another friend spent $20,000 on Facebook ads and got 275,000 likes for a cover with a cute cat on it, yet when he checked Amazon sales at the end of the month he was horrified to find that he’d sold only 23 books.

A host of problems brought my “would’ve been successful” story to its current horror story status — in short, the memoir was written as a comedy. The movie was not a comedy. In fact, it can be interpreted in no other way but as a bleak, sad drama. Make no mistake: It was a stink bomb. So what? I got paid, you say. Yes, and I am happy for that. And for a while I did brag that my book got turned into an HBO film. Wouldn’t you? But most of the time I am reminded that there is a very bad, unfunny movie, not about my book, but about my life. (Second in importance only to one’s own life must be how it is portrayed. The words “American Loser” will certainly creep their way into my eulogy at some point.)

To add insult to injury, the movie about my life, “American Loser,” seems to have a life of its own. Unlike my “Trainwreck” life, it may even be a very lucrative “American Loser” life — for somebody, somewhere out there. After a robust DVD push, the movie has been on cable constantly for the last five years (Cinemax, Showtime, Time Warner On Demand, and now HBO). 

Perhaps worst of all, the movie just misses the “it’s so bad it’s good” genre. (Mind you, it came very close.) Developing a cult following like “The Room” would have been good enough for me.

Jeff Nichols lives in Springs. This is excerpted from “My Life (Direct to DVD): How to Sell Your Self-Published Book to Hollywood, and Other Disaster Stories.”