Friday, Aug 29, 2008
I've published several books, won adoring reviews, and even sold a few copies. But I've made almost no money and had my heart broken. Here's everything you don't want to know about how publishing really works.
Mar 22, 2004 | "A midlist author is one whose books are well received but have failed to make a commercial breakthrough; whose work sells solidly but unspectacularly, who's well known within the writing community but the majority of book buyers have never heard his name."
-- David Armstrong, "How Not to Write a Novel: Confessions of a Midlist Author," 2003
Reader Advisory: By the end of this story I will have broken the most sacred rules of modern authordom. I'll tell you how much my publishers have paid me for the books I've written. I'll tell you how many copies each of those books has sold. I'll share with you some of the secrets, lies and euphemisms told to me by my publishers, editors, publicists and agents in their efforts to comfort, pacify and motivate me, and I'll share some of the salient facts that make those secrets, lies and euphemisms such common industry currency.
If you don't want to hear about the noir underside of publishing -- if you're a writer longing for a literary career, or a reader who's happier not knowing that producing and marketing a book these days involves about as much moral purity as producing and marketing a pair of Nikes -- I suggest you stop reading now.
Still with me? Great. But who, exactly, might I be? I'm not saying. Because although I've published books and articles about things most people won't talk about, let alone publish -- my sex life and marriage counseling, my quirky predilections and unpopular politics, my worst mistakes and no-longer-secret yearnings -- I'm using a pseudonym to write this story, because telling the truth about my life as a writer is one risk I can't afford to take.
Thinking you'll put the clues together, figure out who I am? Give it your best shot. If you could identify me based on the story I'm about to tell you, I wouldn't have it to tell.
Here's a Clue: You might know me by my number: 40,137. That's today's sales ranking of my latest book on Amazon.
Sadly, this is also how I rate myself: Not bad, not nearly good enough.
Interlude: A Midlist Author Friend Writes
"Tales of the midlist author: When [my latest book] came out a few weeks ago, it bounced around the Amazon rankings in the 25,000 to 30,000 range, supported there by the radio shows I'm doing and my buddy who runs [a Web] bulletin board. Then last Thursday, I mailed a 450-piece promotion to my personal list, pitching Amazon that's selling the book for 30 percent off list. This morning, [my latest book] is No. 1,665. Now, we all know that the Amazon rankings are a distorted mirror and can't be taken too, too seriously. On the other hand, they're the only instant sales data midlist authors have. So I'm encouraged. My mailing to 750 members of the [organization presumably interested in my latest book] goes out this weekend. Fingers crossed that I see at least one day in three figures."
The Story
Being the author of several critically acclaimed, moderately successful books has given me an extraordinary, exciting, occasionally lucrative, quite public life. It has also broken my heart.
Nothing makes me happier than writing. And, thanks to the rules that govern publishing today, nothing I've ever done for a living -- housecleaning, data entry, creating campaigns for big-name, cutthroat ad agencies, full-time motherhood -- has been as hard on me as being a writer.
Being an author is the culmination of a lifelong dream. And -- because the sales of each book I write determine my ability to remain one -- being an author has ruined many of my greatest lifelong pleasures. Reading a book that's poorly written I pace the floor, beseeching the Muses, God and the editors of Publishers Weekly to explain why trash like this sells so much better than serious books like mine. Reading a book that's well written, I writhe, instead, with envy.
Relax with a glossy magazine on a sun-splashed beach? Not me, not anymore. The magazine doesn't exist that hasn't either published or rejected my work, and there's a trail of tears behind every story. Sunday morning in bed with a steaming cup of French roast, a well-schmeared bagel, the book review section of the New York Times? Sounds great -- if only I could sip, chew and gnash my teeth all at once. Veg out in front of the tube? Impossible. Playboy is nearly the only channel that hasn't scheduled, then cancelled me -- each booking raising hopes of thousands of copies sold; each cancellation a stake driven through the heart of my career.
Never an enthusiastic employee, I quit my job at age 35 to become a full-time writer, to live life on my own terms. After publishing four books -- each of them critically acclaimed, several of them award-winners, none of them big enough sellers to ensure my next book contract, let alone the lifetime of book contracts I crave -- I feel less in control of my finances, my schedule, my priorities and my well-being than I did when I had bosses and employees to answer to.
Acknowledgment Of Good Fortune
Believe me, I know I'm lucky to be published at all. I've read enough talented unpublished writers to realize just how arbitrary that privilege is. I'm more fortunate still to have had publishers who made significant investments in my books, editors who have gone to the mat for me, an agent I admire and trust. For more than a decade I've earned a reasonable living as a writer, raised a child as a writer, had a mostly great time being one.
You know that bumper sticker, "I love humanity -- it's people I can't stand"? Well, I love writing. It's publishing I can't stand.
Statement of the Problem
In the 10 years since I signed my first book contract, the publishing industry has changed in ways that are devastating -- emotionally, financially, professionally, spiritually, and creatively -- to midlist authors like me. You've read about it in your morning paper: Once-genteel "houses" gobbled up by slavering conglomerates; independent bookstores cannibalized by chain and online retailers; book sales sinking as the number of TV channels soars. What once was about literature is now about return on investment. What once was hand-sold one by one by well-read, book-loving booksellers now moves by the pallet-load at Wal-Mart and Borders -- or doesn't move at all.
Interlude: Publishing Today Is a Business
"Publishing today is a business, dominated by stockholders and profit margins, run entirely according to the hard, cold numbers. Investors in the major megacorporations that own nearly all of the New York majors want profit, and lots of it. In a business that traditionally makes maybe 4-6 percent profit in a good year, today's stockholders are demanding 15-18 percent. Gone are the days when a publisher could nurture a writer with potential through several lackluster efforts. Today's editors can't afford a single flop."
-- Jeff Kirvin, "What's Wrong With Publishing," January 2002.
Mine is what editors call "the human story behind the headlines." But it's not just about me; not just about the many wonderful, once-revered writers I know, who -- loving the craft of writing, hating the damage that being a writer has done to them -- aren't writers any more.
It's about the narrowing of the breadth and depth and diversity of our culture: the quieting of all but the blandest voices, the elimination of all but the safest choices. It's about what it will mean to you if the blunt force of commerce succeeds in silencing midlist authors like me.
Interlude: Excerpt From the Unacknowledged, Unpublished Publishing Glossary of Terms
When they say: "Americans read trash, not meaningful books like yours. You'd need to worry if your books were commercially successful."
What that means: "Your next advance -- if there is one -- will be half the size of your last."
When they say: "Your book will have a long life in paperback."
What that means: "We'll be forced to throw good money after bad to recoup our losses on the hardcover."
When they say: "Your career is building slowly but steadily."
What that means: "Time to look for a day job."
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