Amazon, You’ve Gotta Be KDP-ing Me

I’m not going to lie to you. I’m pissed off.

There are probably more eloquent ways to describe my current state of mind, but none of them seem quite as accurate.

I’ve been told that Amazon isn’t as user-friendly as it used to be.

That’s a little like saying Iran isn’t the most woman-friendly country in the Middle East.

It may be uncomfortable to say, but it damn sure is the truth.

Let me explain.

I’ve written a book called Some Things Are Worth Remembering. Not just a few pages stapled together, but an honest-to-goodness book. Forty-four stories about growing up, the mistakes I made, and the lessons I learned along the way.

I spent a couple of years writing it, rewriting it, editing it, and trying to make it the best it could possibly be.

I had it professionally printed. The printer did a marvelous job. The manuscript and cover were converted into PDF files. I bought my own ISBN, which, for those unfamiliar with publishing, is a bunch of numbers that identifies your book and costs more than a bunch of numbers ought to.

Everything was ready.

All I needed was to make the book available on Amazon, where people could order it without driving to Alabama and knocking on my front door. Easy enough, right?

Oh, hell no.

Amazon has a publishing division called Kindle Direct Publishing, or KDP. Apparently, the initials stand for something different depending on how long you’ve been trying to use it. At this point, I’m leaning toward “Keep Doing Passwords.”

At first, things went reasonably well.

I filled out forms. Answered questions. Checked boxes. Uploaded files. Answered more questions. Checked more boxes.

Amazon made me jump through more hoops than a lion in a traveling circus. But I kept jumping because I could see the finish line.

There was a minor issue with the barcode, but my printer helped resolve it. Amazon accepted my manuscript. Amazon accepted my cover.

I was practically there.

All that remained was entering my banking information so Amazon would know where to send my royalties.

I had my routing number ready.

I was so close to becoming an Amazon author I could practically hear Jeff Bezos counting my future three cents.

And then everything came to a screeching halt.

Amazon informed me that the email address I was using was already in use.

Well, hell yes, it’s already in use.

I’m the one using it!

I’ve been using that email address for years. I use it to communicate with friends, family, businesses, and the occasional Nigerian prince who wants to share his inheritance with me.

But apparently, Amazon has a problem with me using my own email address.

That’s where my journey into publishing turned into something resembling a hostage negotiation, except the hostage was my email address and the ransom was a bank routing number.

I’ve spent more than six hours sitting at my desk with a laptop open, an iPad beside it, and my iPhone nearby, trying to convince Amazon that I am, in fact, me.

I’ve used artificial intelligence to help navigate the process. At this point, I’m fairly certain ChatGPT has reviewed my situation and is looking for work somewhere else.

I’ve entered passwords. Changed passwords. Received verification codes. Entered verification codes. Been told to verify my identity, which I thought was the whole point of the verification codes.

I’ve created so many passwords that I’m beginning to feel like a villain in a James Bond movie. Of course in a Bond movie, the real villain would be KDP. 

Every new password has to be different, contain a capital letter, a number, a symbol, and  a small piece of my soul.

I’ve been redirected to different Amazon accounts, screens, and departments.

I’ve gone in so many circles I could qualify for the Talladega 500.

At one point, I was asked to create another password.

I’m running out of passwords. But I still have plenty of words to use when dealing with this company.

Eventually, I contacted Amazon customer support. I explained the problem and supplied screenshots showing exactly what was happening.

I received a response from someone identifying themselves as part of Kindle Direct Publishing’s Executive Customer Relations team.

That sounded promising.

Executive Customer Relations.

I pictured important people sitting around a mahogany conference table, discussing my problem while an assistant brought coffee and somebody said, “Gentlemen, we have a situation involving one email address and a number of passwords.”

They asked for more information.

I gave it to them.

That was last Tuesday.

Since then, I’ve contacted support again. Explained the same problem again. Submitted another request.

And received another assurance that someone will get back to me. Why didn’t you just say “Your call is important to us.” It carries about the same amount of believability. 

Oh, they did do something - now have a couple of case numbers.

I’m not sure what good they do. They don’t unlock my account or solve the problem. They mostly give me something to write down while I wait for absolutely nothing to happen.

Maybe I can put them on my tombstone.

Here lies Joe Hobby.

He wrote a book.

He created seventeen passwords.

Amazon gave him a case number.

What makes this especially aggravating is that I’m not asking Amazon to do anything extraordinary.

I’m not asking them to launch a rocket into space, develop artificial intelligence, or deliver a package using a drone.

I’m asking them to let me finish publishing a book.

A book that’s already written, properly edited and formatted.

With a cover and manuscript they’ve already accepted.

I just want to give them my bank routing number without proving my identity to every department in the company.

You’d think a company that can deliver a toaster to my front porch in less than 24 hours could figure out how to let a fellow use his own email address.

But apparently, the toaster has a smoother path through the system than I do.

And here’s the part that really bothers me.

I didn’t write this book because I expected to get rich. I’ve been a writer long enough to know better.

I wrote it because I had stories I wanted to tell. Stories about growing up in a time when kids rode bicycles without helmets, played outside until dark, and occasionally did things that made their parents question whether they should have reproduced.

I wanted to preserve some memories. Share some laughs. Remind people of things we learned growing up that are still worth remembering. And most importantly, leave a piece of my legacy to my grandchildren.

I put a lot of myself into those pages.

And after all the writing, editing, proofreading, printing, and planning, I find myself unable to complete what should be the simplest part of the process.

As I write this, I honestly don’t know when, or even if, my book will be available on Amazon.

Maybe tomorrow somebody will straighten this mess out.

I hope so.

But right now, my experience with Kindle Direct Publishing has been an exercise in frustration, aggravation, password management, and learning new combinations of profanity.

And I’m reasonably certain the only human being I spoke with has already changed his name, moved to another foreign country, and entered the witness protection program.

So here’s my message to the folks at Amazon.

Prove me wrong.

Show me that customer service means more than automated responses, repeated requests for information, and case numbers handed out like participation trophies.

Help me finish something I’ve worked very hard to accomplish. Act like you give a damn.

Because right now, compared to KDP, the DMV looks like a model of efficiency. At least the DMV eventually gives you a license instead of another password.

And if somebody at Amazon actually reads this and decides to help me, I’ll be delighted.

Just don’t send me another verification code.

I may lose my religion — again.

#KDP #Amazon #CustomerService #DoYourJob #TheyDontCare

@AmazonKDP @Amazon