What a sleeping baby, a serial killer, and a box of Tootsie Rolls taught me about marketing strategy.

In roughly six months my debut novel will release into the world. Which means scary words are popping up more frequently these days. Words like marketing. Promotion. Launch. Preorder. Sales.

Ah! See? I warned you it was scary. Part of me wants to hide under the bed until all those scary words go away. Especially when those scary words are followed up with an even scarier word—strategy.

I’m supposed to have a marketing strategy? (All the members of my marketing team are nodding their heads yes. It appears I’m supposed to have a marketing strategy.)

Well, good thing I’ve been saving a special marketing strategy in my back pocket for such a time as this. It stems from an incident I had about nine years ago. An incident that resulted in my husband suggesting I never answer the door again when he’s not at home.

THE INCIDENT

It was the day before Thanksgiving. I was home on maternity leave with our then three-week-old daughter, who had just fallen asleep in her car seat carrier, allowing me time to hopefully catch a quick nap before my husband got home from work and family started arriving to town.

That’s when I saw him. A young man walking past our living room window on his way to the front door with a box in his arms, obviously selling something.

Maybe because the spirit of Thanksgiving was in me, maybe because I was excited to see family soon, maybe because I just wanted to hurry him along so I could get to my nap, I don’t know, but I decided to do something I typically hate doing. I decided to answer the door. Even if I had no interest in what this stranger was selling, I could at least hear him out with a little kindness, right?

So I swung open the front door with a smile, prepared to listen to his pitch. What I was not prepared for was this young man to shuffle back and forth on his feet with a box of Tootsie Rolls in his hands and say, “Can I use your bathroom?”

“Oh. Uh . . .” My thoughts: No. Go away. I’m not comfortable letting a stranger into the house.  

My words: “Sure. Come on in. Bathroom’s this way.” Because the sad truth is I’m even more uncomfortable with confrontation than I am with strangers. But really, this stranger didn’t seem that old. Fourteen? Fifteen? A young forty-two? I’m not good at guessing ages, but I figured it’d be fine.

Once I let him into the house, I started doubting it’d be fine.

Okay, sure, he looked young. But he also looked big. Like linebacker on the high school football team big. And I swear he grew a foot taller the moment he stepped through the door.

Plus, he was acting nervous. Why was he acting nervous? All that nervousness made me nervous. Which is why I nervously told him to leave his box of Tootsie Rolls on the floor by the front door.

Why it felt important to have control of the Tootsie Roll box when I don’t even like Tootsie Rolls, I don’t know. I don’t know, okay? I was nervous!

And the more time he spent in the bathroom, the more nervous I became. Why is this kid spending so much time in the bathroom? What is he doing in there? Oh, I know exactly what he’s doing in there. He’s working up the courage to come out here and murder me. This is obviously some sort of gang initiation. Well, it might be too late for me, but it’s not too late for my baby!

I picked up the car seat holding my sleeping daughter and tip-toed through the kitchen so I could hide her somewhere in the back of the house even though part of me realized how stupid it was that I was hiding my baby from a kid selling Tootsie Rolls.

Or was it stupid? Maybe not. For all I knew this “kid” could be a dangerous criminal known in certain circles as The Tootsie Roll Killer.

Once I had my daughter tucked out of sight, I stepped back to the living room and wondered what to do next. Call my husband and leave a message? Hey honey, just wanted to call and say I love you. Also, if by any chance I—oh, I don’t know—get murdered today, can you let the authorities know it was a guy somewhere between the age of fourteen and forty-two?

Finally, I heard the toilet flush. That’s a good sign, right? Like maybe he was in there using the bathroom this whole time and not plotting a homicide? A minute later, it flushed again. Oh yeah, definitely a good sign. Then another flush.

Okay, by the fourth flush I was growing less concerned about my life and more concerned about my toilet.

When he stepped out of the bathroom, neither of us could make eye contact. I figured the first words out of his mouth would be something about a plunger. Possibly a plumber. Instead he pointed down the hallway and said, “I like your cat.”

And you know what? That was fine with me. We didn’t need to address whatever took place inside that bathroom. We certainly didn’t need to address the frantic moments that took place outside the bathroom. We could just talk about my cat.

So that’s what we two nervous people did. Then he picked up his box of Tootsie Rolls, I gave him ten dollars, and he left.

Only later, when I had time to reflect on this experience, did I realize he was the greatest salesman I’d ever encountered. He got into my house with one simple question. Clogged my toilet—then left a handful of change next to the sink as if that somehow made everything less awkward. Never said a word about what he was selling. And somehow, I ended up handing over money for a product I don’t even like. Gladly. Mostly because I was just glad to be alive, but that’s not the point.

The point is if I ever show up at your door with a box full of my books in my arms, all I can say is have your plunger ready. I know a great marketing strategy and I’m ready to make the sale!

(Or you could just preorder my book now and we could bypass that whole clogged toilet situation later. Just saying . . .)