While I was in the States this last go round, I had dinner with my friend Tim Vandehey, a ghostwriter who lives in Kansas City. I refer to Tim those folks who’d like to have a book, but aren’t the least bit interested in doing the associated work. Tim knows the publishing industry inside and out. He writes for celebrities and industry leaders, and has had a number of his projects hit the New York Times Best Sellers list. He’s not just a good guy; he’s the real deal.

Just as an aside, sometime during the revision process, most writers toy with the idea of hiring a ghostwriter like Tim. It’s normal to fantasize about someone who can salvage the project and rescue you when you’re knee deep in frustration and angst. It really is. A ghostwriter, for those of you unfamiliar with the term, is a professional who’ll write your book while listing you as the author. Sometimes ghostwriters remain completely anonymous, thus the moniker. Sometimes they’re listed as the co-author. You might notice this arrangement when you pick up a book by someone famous for something other than writing.

If the idea of a ghostwriter sounds too good to be true, that’s because it is. Ghostwriters charge from $20,000 to $100,000 (or more) to write a book. They’ll charge you that much, not only because you’re desperate enough to pay it, but also because you’re buying six or more months of their life.

That being said, I met Tim years ago at a writing conference in Idaho. It was during the workshop he was conducting that I faced an ugly truth about my own fanciful approach to writing. “The world is full of would-be novelists sipping wine along the river Seine all day,” Tim said, “dabbling, talking a good game, but never actually accomplishing anything. Never getting their work out into the world.”

OK, maybe that’s not exactly what he said, but close enough for horseshoes.

I spotted him in the bar that evening, tapping away at his computer while the rest of us staying at the hotel were unwinding after a long day of talking shop. He was working on three book projects, he claimed, he had to meet his deadline. Oh, how I marveled at his focus, his single-mindedness, his dedication. His ability to write under less than ideal conditions, i.e. not along the banks of the Seine.

Tim, you see, treats writing like a business. That’s how he makes his money, supports his family. He doesn’t have time to contemplate his navel. Or write 15 drafts until he gets the setting just so, as one tends to do when writing fiction.

Not long ago, Tim came out with his own (co-authored) book. How To Sell A Crapload of Books: 10 Secrets of a Killer Author Marketing Platform.

I’ve started sending this book to my own clients. Because it’s all fun and games, this book-writing stuff, until it’s time to sell a few thousand copies of it.

A lot of my clients write really well. I mean, REALLY well. They’ve also got a nice little platform for themselves, a following, so there comes a time when the possibility of traditional publishing comes up in the conversation. They’ve suddenly seen the very real possibilities for their book. They recognize that the thing has legs. They no longer think exclusively in terms of selling it at the back of the room after speaking gigs; handing it to potential clients to bring them up to speed, as they originally intended. A much larger audience awaits them. OUT THERE.

Do we write a book proposal? Send out agent query letters? That’s the sort of thing they start asking.

Is the platform large enough (over 30,000+ followers), yummy enough (you’ve got a hefty list you can turn over to your promoters), to attract a house, that’s always the question I’m considering.

Platform, platform, platform.

One of the most common myths about platform, according to Tim, is this:

If my book is great, platform doesn’t matter.

And that’s a hard pill to swallow for a lot of us who still believe talent will rule the day. I mean, my whole raison d’etre is to keep my clients from publishing crap. I’m all about beautiful writing, effective structure, and a clear, compelling message. I’m all about understanding the audience, the problems they are experiencing, the solution you are providing them, the associated benefits, supported by your well-crafted stories.

And yet.

Having a massive platform also gives you more freedom and options in the publishing world. See, when it comes to the decision to buy a book, publishers give the quality and originality of the work and the author’s marketing platform more-or-less equal weight. But as your platform gets stronger and stronger, quality becomes less important. That balance tips away from 50-50.

In other words, beautiful writing, well, it’s only part of it. The lesser half of it, even. The other part, that’s the stuff Tim deals with in this book.

Fair, or not, it’s true.

Regardless of whether you intend to go the traditional publishing route, or not, you’re going to need to develop a platform, sooner rather than later, if you want to sell some serious books. You need a plan in hand that will walk you through the process step-by-step. Really, when you look at it here (picture me flipping through the book), it’s very doable.

Otherwise you’re going to end up being one of those people that announces their recent publication on Facebook a couple of times, sends out a cute note to the old email list the one time, then throws those hands up in the air, all dramatic like.

And I’d rather you learn this platform and marketing stuff  from someone I respect, who knows the non-fiction industry inside and out.

In other words, if you’d like to sell some books, buy this book.

Nuff said.