When you get your first publishing deal, everyone you talk to is telling you they love the book. You quickly discover, however, that almost no one involved has actually read it.

Parched was about my life as a down-and-dirty barfly, but when it came time to decide on the jacket cover, they kept sending me photos of champagne bubbles and high-class cocktail lounges. "Have they even read the book?"

I finally, jokingly, asked my agent.

"W-well... no," she responded. "I mean... read?..." Before my first publicist moved on to another house, we had several lovely chats, after which she remarked, "I can't wait to read the book!"

I learned a valuable lesson: the only one you can count on to really care about the success of your book is you.

I hemmed and hawed over those inappropriate stock photos, not wanting to be pushy, and finally agreed to a high-tech, conceptual design. Then I thought about it over the weekend, reneged, got my agent to go to bat for me, and settled on a neo-noir photo of beer glasses on a dive bar. It's perfect. Let's face it: the jacket's a big deal. You know the book better than anyone, so fight for the cover you think captures its tone and subject best.

As for publicists, they're overworked and underpaid. Okay: it's not your publicist you want to read the book, it's the people who buy books. So while my publicist was doing her part, I offered to write my own press release, put together an exhaustive contacts list, and embarked on a campaign of DIY publicity that would have done P.T. Barnum proud.

But it wasn't till I started doing interviews—print, radio, TV—that I finally got it that, really and truly, almost nobody had cracked the spine of my pride-and-joy. Sometimes I'd find out a minute before the interview began: "Thanks for sending the book. I haven't read it yet, but...." Sometimes the interview would be over; we'd be off the air and the person would stretch, yawn and say, "Mmmm, sounds interesting, hope to get around to reading it one of these days."

The thing I tried to remember here was that these people were doing me a favor by writing a piece about me, or letting me read in their bookstores, or having me on their shows. With that in mind, if I sensed they hadn't read the book I'd actually feel sorry for them and would try extra hard to make the situation go smoothly—lest they be embarrassed. Also, especially when you're on the road, you get burned out so quickly you tend to consider it a miracle that you can get through an interview at all, never mind with someone who may not have read your book. My first night out I flew from L.A. to San Francisco, discovered I'd had 800 bucks stolen from my luggage, read at a Barnes & Noble, took a red-eye to Minneapolis and was driven straight to KARE-TV for a 6 a.m. slot on the morning show. At that point, I didn't care whether the host was even literate.

This is why it's a good idea to have some stock stories and anecdotes on hand. Especially if it's a memoir, people want to know why you wrote the book, why you wrote it now and not at some other time, how you've changed. The point is, whether or not the people you're dealing with have read the book, you have more control than you might think. This is the time to let all your passion and energy for your book come through, to be your own best advocate, to exercise your best manners.

And one more thing: make sure you always carry a copy of your book. Interviewers have a bad habit of losing it, and if it's a TV interview you won't be able to hold the jacket up for the camera. Guard this book with your life. And if anyone asks for a copy, tell him—politely—to contact your publicist. n