The Capitalism of Publishing

 

The public is not typically aware that bookselling is essentially a consignment business. (Not all authors are aware of this, either, though they should be.)

Here’s how it works, in a nutshell. Bear in mind there are others that handle much of the logistics, but what’s here is the core process.

·       The publisher issues a catalog of what books are available to bookstores this quarter.

·       The bookstore orders the books it wants.

·       Customers buy those books from the store.

o   If they buy more than the store ordered, the store orders more.

o   If they buy fewer than the store ordered, the bookseller may return the unsold copies at the publisher’s expense.

·       Booksellers build the ability to return books into their business plans.

·       Publishers go along because they have to.

There are four major publishing houses that operate like this. Don’t be confused by the number of “publishers” that have their names on the spines of books. Those names are generally what are called “Imprints,” and a single house may own multiple imprints. For example, the Hachette Book Group owns Grand Central Publishing; Basic Books Group; Hachette Audio; Little, Brown, and Company; Little Brown Books for Young Readers; Orbit; Running Press Group; and Workman Publishing. Each of these has imprints of their own. If you buy a book published by any of these, the publishing company that runs the show is Hachette. The others in the Big Four are no different.

Since the big publishers can afford to accept returns and pay for display space dedicated to their books, theirs are what you see in your local bookstore. Since the local bookseller depends on this financial support to stay open, they do not as a habit stock books that

·       are put out by publishers that cannot afford to accept returns or pay for display space.

·       are self-published.

Rest assured, if you go into your local bookstore and ask for a specific title by an author not connected to any of the Big Four, your bookseller will order it for you. This is much appreciated, but it also means no one – literally no one – will find such a book by browsing the shelves, nor will it ever appear as a staff recommendation.

Where does this leave the small press or self-published author?

Shit out of luck.

Though it may sound like it, I’m not complaining. I accept this is how things work. I returned to self-publishing because I chose not to swim in the publishing business’s version of the Seine River during the Olympics. I have made my peace with it.

I’m writing here to encourage others to look clear-eyed at their prospects. Examine why you write. What do you want to get out of it? Money? How much? Fame? How much?

Or will the respect of those you would like to think of as your peers be sufficient? The joy you get from crafting something that, while imperfect, came out about how you wanted? The satisfaction of putting together a story others will enjoy reading, no matter how many – or how few – actually read it?

There is no right answer; there are wrong ones. By “wrong,” I mean, if you’re getting into it to make money and you don’t, whose fault is that? Is the system rigged against you? Sure it is, if only because there are more people who want to make money as writers than the industry can support. The lottery’s rigged against you, too, and you don’t bitch about that. (You have one chance in 292,201,338 to win the Power Ball jackpot.)

Telling stories for money is a privilege, not a right. It’s on you to come to accommodation with the industry. If you can’t, don’t bitch; quit. Not being a writer is the default state of humanity; there’s no shame in it. Those who make even a serious attempt are outliers.

“But I can no more not write than I can not breathe!”

Then save your breath and stop whining. No one is owed a living in their preferred profession. No one knows that better than I do. How I came to know it is a topic for another day.

Why I am Self-Publishing Again

To paraphrase Joel Cairo in The Maltese Falcon, my experiences with the publishing industry have not been such that I am eager to repeat them.

In no particular order:

·       After negotiating a release date for an e-book version of a novel (like it wasn’t already bad enough they weren’t released together), the e-book did not come out on the agreed upon date. When I asked why not the publisher said, “I changed my mind.”

I would have liked to have been told. As a courtesy, if nothing else.

·       A magazine accepted a story of mine but never told me when it would run. I assumed it hadn’t until I tripped over it months later.  When asked why they snuck it in without telling me, I was told they consider it the author’s responsibility to keep up with things like that.

·       Receiving quarterly statements annually.

·       I gave a publisher an exclusive, during which time they dithered for well over a year, made several suggestions – which I adopted – then, when my agent and I pressed for a decision, blew me off with a two-sentence e-mail that contained misspelled words and grammatical errors.

·       I spent hundreds of dollars on a promotional campaign and would have spent more but could not receive any sales figures when I requested them so I had no idea how effective the campaign was.

·       Probably not very, as I was informed later the new hire/intern (I forget which) assigned for the social media campaign forgot and the entire venture was uncoordinated

·       A Hollywood producer who expressed enough interest in the Penns River series that I

o   Wrote a pitch.

o   Wrote a draft screenplay.

o   Traveled to Western Pennsylvania to look at locations

before he apparently lost interest. Last report I had was that Netflix did not pass, but said we needed an experienced showrunner. He either couldn’t find one, or didn’t want to. Either way, after saying things might be sidetracked because he had a possible new gig lined up. I never heard from him again, not even to say he accepted the new job.My track record has shown I am more than capable of fucking things up all by myself. I was kind of hoping these guys might be more helpful.

I now own all the rights to all my books and will re-release the Penns River novels with new covers between now and the end of the year. There won’t be a big campaign, as nothing will be new except the covers and I don’t want to confuse people.

Here are the benefits I see in returning to self-publishing:

·       I write what I want, when I want to. In fairness, my previous publisher did not restrict me in this regard.

·       The books come out on my schedule. If I want it in print six weeks after I finish it – two weeks after I finish it, the day I finish it – it will happen.

·       I can set my own pricing, within certain guidelines. There is no way I can win if a reader has to choose between a Michael Connelly book and mine if mine is more expensive.

·       I can get sales and revenue figures any time I want. Literally 24 hours a day 365 days a year. (366 days on leap years.)

I also won’t have anyone else to worry about. I know I shouldn’t, but I always felt bad a little when my books didn’t sell any better than they did. I knew the publisher had invested time and effort in me that some other writer could have used and would have appreciated. I felt a sense of obligation. Now the only person I have to worry about pleasing is me, and my loyal cadre of readers.

What do I lose?

·       Free editing. (I know an excellent editor if I need one. I’ll just have to pay for it myself.)

·       Free covers. (The Beloved Spouse™ and I have come up with ongoing cover schemes we like that are unique and will unify the books in each series.)

Bookstores never stocked my books when I was commercially published, so no loss there.

Last but not least, I can’t possibly make less money. Having to pay for editing is an added expense, but whatever I do with that, my sales numbers will not suffer. They can’t, and I mean that literally.

Could I find another publisher? Probably. While my sales suck, I’m respected enough that another small press would likely pick me up. Do I care? Not really. I don’t want to cast aspersions on all publishers; there are a couple I think I’d be quite satisfied with. If I were twenty years younger I’d be all over them.

Here’s the thing: I’m not twenty years younger. I’m 68 years old and have enough books I want to write I doubt I could have them all written by the time I’m 75 even if I never have another idea, and the ideas seem to come quicker all the time. If I went with a publisher those books might take ten to twelve years to see the light of day, if they’re published at all.

The Western drop in the fall; the next Nick Forte no later than spring of 2025. I expect to put out at least three books every two years after that as the Forte series continues, the Penns River series concludes, and a handful of standalone ideas come to fruition. The books will still be as good as I can write them, even without adult supervision. When I don’t think I can invest the same effort as I always have, I’ll stop writing them.

So the short answer to “Why am I self-publishing again?” is, “It’s time.”

Never Pay to Write

 Gabino Iglesias is becoming my spirit animal. His substack posts consistently teach me something, or confirm something I already knew. Gabino has worked his way up from self-publishing to bestseller status and is a regular reviewer for the New York Times and NPR, so his cred is solid. He’s been on a roll of late with advice to fledgling writers.IO already knew most of what he wrote, but Gabino’s unique perspective makes it that much more effective. ‘

 

Among his recent pieces was one titled, “Don’t Pay to Write.” I’m going to quote from it here, adding my own perspective to what he says, but it’s relatively short and always on point, so I strongly encourage you to read the original. You won’t be sorry.

 

The theme of the article is that writing is work, and people get paid for their work. (“When you get your car fixed, the mechanic doesn’t pay you. You know why? Because they are the ones with the knowledge and the ones putting in the time and work to fix your car.”) I have long believed writers are their – our – own worst enemies, feeding a race to the bottom through a willingness to do anything to get their words on a page or a web site. As a general rule, don’t let anyone publish your stuff unless you get paid. Quoting Gabino: “Exposure isn’t that great, it’s something you die from.”

 

Here's Gabino’s checklist to make sure you don’t get taken, with my comments. (I only lifted the first sentence or two from his post. Again, you should read the whole thing. If you don’t think it was worth your time, I’ll send you a full refund, no questions asked.)

 

1.    Always read submission guidelines carefully.* I see this one as doubly important:

a.    To make sure you don’t overlook some dumb thing that gives them an excuse to reject you. Editors are looking for new voices, but they may get 500 submissions for ten slots, and at least fifty will be good enough to include. They’re looking for ways to cull the herd whether they’ll admit it or not.

b.    To make sure they’re worth messing with. If their guidelines, which they expect you to follow to the letter, are vague, poorly worded, or have multiple typos, they don’t really know what they’re doing.

2.    Do your research. As Butch Cassidy famously said, “Who are those guys?” Check them out on the web. Do you know anyone who has worked with them? When in doubt, check Victoria Strauss’s “Writer Beware” resources, or Preditors and Editors. (New P&E website under construction.)

3.    NEVER pay to get published. Ever. Under any circumstances. Two things come to mind:

a.    What does it say about the value you place on the result of your labor and talent that you don’t even think you can give it away? Which you also should never do. (More on that later.)

b.    What impression does that create? How much can they value your work if they weren’t willing to pay you for it?

4.    Vanity presses are predators. Full stop. It doesn’t matter what they promise you or what kind of contract they offer. They are preying on the members of the herd who don’t know any better.

 

You might be willing to write something for free. You have to be the judge of which of these exceptions apply to you, but I have done two of the following for free:

1.    Charity. I wrote a story to Unloaded 2, an anthology that sent all its profits to a gun control organization. I also contributed a story for Down to the River, which sent its proceed to American Rivers, an organization that works to protect our rivers. I was flattered to have been asked to take part in each of these endeavors and proud to have played some small part in noble causes.

2.    Loyalty. I wrote a story for The Shamus Sampler Part 2 because the editor had extended himself on my behalf in the past.

3.    Making a statement. I haven’t done this one yet, in part because I tend to put my statements here, so I have an outlet. If opportunity presents and I have something I feel strongly about, I’ll line up.

 

Writing is an occupation. It may not be your full-time job – if all you write is fiction it almost certainly is not – but it’s a job. Treat it with the respect you show your day job. If you don’t respect your work enough to demand consideration for it, why should anyone else?

 

(* - This applies to contracts, too. Read every word. I sold what I think is the best story I ever wrote without realizing I was selling the rights essentially in perpetuity. I’ve found ways around this for promotional purposes, but I would have loved to find a good outlet for reprints.)

 

"No One Buys Books"

 (Sincere thanks to Gabino Iglesias for bringing this to my attention. The summer will include several posts similar to this, all thanks to his insights and willingness to share them. If you’re not following his Substack, you really ought to.)

 

It has become almost a mantra for me on Facebook. A friend posts an item about a publisher and I reply, “Every time I hear something else about the publishing industry, the less I want to be a part of it.” Sometimes I go on at greater length, depending on the initial post.

 

I have reasons for this distaste, but the core has been eloquently summarized  by Elle Griffin in her article for The Elysian, “No one buys books.” It’s long but well worth your time if you’re a writer or aspiring write, as all professions should be viewed in the hard, cold light of day.

 

The purpose of Ms. Griffin’s article is to describe what was made public by industry insiders at the anti-trust trial resulting from Penguin Random House’s attempt to purchase Simom and Schuster for $2.2 billion. Keep that figure in mind, as much of the testimony revolves around the idea there’s no money to be made in publishing.

 

I should probably leave well enough alone, as I cannot do justice to Ms. Griffin’s piece in the space I have here, nor can I match her ability to distill the evidence from a long trial into an article. She took a year to read the book that broke down the trial; I’m not going to do that. (You can read the book if you want the gruesome details.)

 

What I’ll do here is describe the sense of what a writer with a borderline career thinks about all of this. Consider or ignore my comments as you see fit. As always, please feel free to comment either here or on social media.

 

I’ll list the headings from Ms. Griffin’s piece, with my thoughts inserted, along with a few salient quotes.

 

Bestsellers are rare.

Q. Do you know approximately how many authors there are across the industry with 500,000 units or more during this four-year period?

A. My understanding is that it was about 50.

Q. 50 authors across the publishing industry who during this four-year period sold more than 500,000 units in a single year?

A. Yes.

— Madeline Mcintosh, CEO, Penguin Random House US

 

I think we all figured something like this, but god damn. Fifty over four years?

 

Big advances go to celebrities.

Top-selling authors were defined as those receiving advances (i.e., guaranteed money) in excess of $250,000. Far fewer than 1 percent of authors receive advances over that mark; Publishers Marketplace, which tracks these things, recorded 233 such deals in all of 2022.

— ken whyte, Publisher at Sutherland House

 

This was a safe bet, too. More on this later.

 

Franchise authors are the other big category.

Q. Putnam typically publishes about 60 books a year. Correct?

A. 60, 65, sort of on average… I will say of those 65, though, a good portion of those are repeat authors… franchise authors that we regularly publish every year, sometimes twice a year.

— Sally Kim, SVP and Publisher, Putnam

 

Can you say “James Patterson” or “John Grisham?” Not only are they getting all the money, they’re squeezing the rest of us out of the available publishing slots. I don’t hold this against either author – I’m in favor of anything that gets an author paid, keeps people reading, and doesn’t involve AI-generated content – but how can publishers be that lazy or timid not to want to keep trying to develop more writers for their stables?

 

Publishing houses want a built-in audience.

In some of the cases, the reason they are paying big money is because the person has a big platform. And if that platform is there for the advertising, then the spend might be lower.

 

— Jennifer Rudolph Walsh, former Agent

 

I can’t blame them for this, but I’m also aware most corporations take it as the cost of doing business to build audiences for their products, whether we’re talking about cars  or dish soap.

 

A big audience means publishing houses don’t have to spend money on marketing.

Well, duh. Of course, that doesn’t mean they won’t spend a bunch to paper buses, subway stations, and other easily visible locations with ads when one of the big boys drops a new one, when all they’d have to do is let the word out through social media and the fans will line up to buy the book..

 

Publishing houses pay for Amazon placement.

Q.  Penguin Random House has hired data scientists to try and figure out these [Amazon] algorithms so that its books get better presented on Amazon than its competitors’ books?

A. One of the many efforts that we pursue, correct.

Q. And Penguin Random House pays Amazon to improve its search results?

A. There is something that is available to our publishers, it’s called Amazon Marketing Services, AMS, and all publishers can spend money and give it to Amazon to have hopefully better search results.

 

— Markus Dohle, CEO, Penguin Random House

 

We all know publishers pay independent bookstores for placement. (Cover out, front table, special displays, etc.) It’s also not improper for Amazon to feature the books it thinks people are most likely to buy. That’s what they do, sell books. Paying to juke the stats that feed the algorithms cuts the legs out from the smaller publishers and independents without Amazon acknowledging the search results that are ostensibly tailored for each reader are artificially skewed. Every day I’m one baby step closer to sending my books out free as PDFs to anyone who sends a request via social media or e-mail.

 

But even celebrity books don’t sell…

Just because the publisher pays $250,000 or $500,000 or $1 million for a book does not guarantee that a single person is going to buy it. A lot of what we do is unknowable and based on inspiration and optimism.”

— Michael Pietsch, CEO, Hachette

 

I told you we’d come back to the massive celebrity advances. There are a lot more quotes in Ms. Griffin’s article, but the gist of it is the publishers have no idea what’s going to sell. Frankly, they seem to have little idea what they’re doing. As I have said for years, publishers will freely admit they don’t know what will sell, only what won’t. And your book won’t.

 

Books don’t make money.

About half of the books we publish make money, and a much lower percentage of them earn back the advance we pay.

 

— Jonathan Karp, CEO, Simon & Schuster

 

Yet PRH was willing to pay $2.2 billion for S&S. If that’s not a prima facie case for people who

a.    Don’t know what they’re doing;

b.    Are at best disseminating about the money to be made;

I don’t know what is.

 

Oh, wait a minute.

 

It’s all about the backlist.

I would actually expect a book that is selling 300,000 units in a year is probably going to sell at least 400,000 or 500,000 over its life once you get backlist in there too.

 

Our backlist brings in about a third of our annual revenues, so $300 million a year roughly, a little less.

 

— Michael Pietsch, CEO, Hachette

 

Also known as the “long tail.” It doesn’t take Paul Krugman to figure out this is a good sales vehicle, given the primary decision factor when buying a book is author name recognition. The long tail would also benefit what used to be called the mid-list if publishers could be bothered to deal with the mid-list again, but they’d rather go the same route that has so badly damaged the film industry and bet the bank on bestsellers they already know are at best fifty-fifty to recover their money.

 

Amazon is the biggest threat to the industry.

Q. Are you concerned that Amazon will favor Penguin Random House Simon & Schuster in terms of promotion and distribution and discoverability?

A. Yes.

 

— Donald Weisberg, CEO, Macmillan Publishers

 

Because they’ll pay more to juke the algorithms. Just as Macmillan could do, and almost certainly does at the expense of smaller publishers.

 

A “Netflix of Books” would put publishing houses out of business.

We all know about Netflix, we all know about Spotify and other media categories, and we also know what it has done to some industries… The music industry has lost, in the digital transformation, approximately 50 percent of its overall revenue pool.

 

— Markus Dohle, CEO, Penguin Publishing House

 

Yet movies still get made and music produced. Maybe the publishers might want to look into a business model that provides for this. It’s harsh – and likely a death knell for small, independent booksellers – but any entity with $2.2 billion to buy a competitor has the wherewithal to adapt to the times.

 

Authors are getting more independent.

I think really from the advent of online—really, once the internet became popular, you know, we heard the phrase disintermediation. And I don’t understand why that wouldn’t be a possible prospect for any best selling author, to just disintermediate, to go straight to the internet and sell directly if you have a following… Colleen Hoover has published with both Amazon and Simon & Schuster. And her Amazon book was on the independent book sellers’ best seller list. So what that says to me is that a Rubicon has been crossed.

 

— Jonathan Karp, CEO, Simon & Schuster

 

Gee, I wonder why. How many of us have gone to conferences and heard how even the top sellers are regularly badgered by their publishers to write more books quicker, do more promotions, and fudge what they write to suit the publisher’s perceived audience? Who needs that bullshit?

 

Another publishing house bites the dust.

After the Judge denied the merger, Penguin went through a massive round of layoffs and Simon & Schuster was sold to a private equity company instead.

 

Private equity tends to have one game plan: buy a company, load it with debt, wring out costs to improve its financials, sell at a profit. Dealing Simon & Schuster to private equity, The New Republic warned at the time with some slight hyperbole of its own, would mean “absolute devastation and wholesale job loss.”

 

— ken whyte

 

Private equity firms are evil incarnate, cannibalizing companies and destroying jobs for the short-term profit of a few investors with no regard for an industry, or the economy. This is not unique to publishing. If these vultures didn’t see a way forward to make money from publishing, they wouldn’t buy the companies. There’s a cognitive dissonance here someone should be able to exploit at some level.

 

#  #  #

It’s a shitty situation, but it doesn’t have to be the nuclear winter of publishing. Baseball analyst Bill James once wrote that if Major League Baseball as we know it were to fold overnight, professional baseball would be resurrected inside of a year. Different teams in different cities, but there are too many people willing to pay to watch young men play baseball for the enterprise to disappear.

 

There are also too many readers willing to pay money to read for books to go away. The business model may change – it almost has to – but books will always be around in some form because there will always be people willing to pay to read them. To those who say the reading public is aging out, I say there are more old people on the way, and old people read more as other, more physical activities are denied them.

 

We’re living through an historical sea change, and history is never as clean, or inevitable, as books make it sound fifty or a hundred years later. It’s messy, it’s uncomfortable, and it’s a little like wrestling with a pig: you both get dirty, and the pig likes it.

 

But that doesn’t mean you can’t come out ahead if you stick with it.

 

 

 

The Evil Empires

 The Beloved Spouse™ and I try to be good citizens. We vote. We pay our taxes. We never shirk summonses for jury duty. We set aside money each month for worthy causes. We make an effort.

 

But it gets harder all the time.

 

I think I’ve bought two things at Wal-Mart in the past twenty years. Even then it was because I needed something right now and couldn’t find it anywhere else. I am aware of Wal-Mart’s historical record with local businesses and their workforce and have little good to say about it.

 

But we buy a lot of stuff on Amazon, which is no better and might be worse.

 

We resolve to do more shopping elsewhere. We’ve begun to find things on Amazon, then look to see if they’re available locally, or online elsewhere. Not as convenient, but if it’s not too much more expensive we can’t afford it, or can’t live without it if it is, we’re walking away from Amazon as our go-to source for a lot of things.

 

But I’m a writer. I depend on Amazon for what passes as my career, especially now that I am self-publishing again.

 

Why I am returning to self-publishing is a post for another day; it’s a saga of its own. Accepting the premise that traditional publishing is not a good deal for me, here’s my conundrum:

·       Amazon makes it easy to create and sell my books. Hell, Amazon makes it possible to create and sell my books.

·       Much as I love small bookstores, they will not stock books unless the publisher accepts returns; they also do not typically host events for books they do not carry. (This is not limited to self-published authors. I had the same issue when I was under contract.) I can interview “real” authors and bring books to sell on consignment, or I can try to join a larger event. I did the latter several weeks ago. The bookstore not only did not promote the event, most of the employees didn’t know we were there, so no potential customers were directed around back where a dozen authors were eager to meet them. In fairness, they did pay promptly for the book I sold.

 

So Amazon is what I have left, despite its failures as a corporate citizen. Well, I guess I could write in a vacuum and deliver the results free as e-books to friends upon request. What would that involve?

·       Writing the book on Microsoft Word. (Or Google Docs or Apple Pages.)

·       Letting folks know about it through Facebook and The Social Media Platform Formerly Known as Twitter.

·       Sending electronic copies via G-Mail.

 

That leaves me to deal with some combination of Microsoft, Apple, Google, Meta, and whatever TSMPFKaT’s parent company is called, none of which are any better than Amazon.

 

Fuck.

 

The problem with trying to have a conscience is how much we are surrounded by people and entities that do not. Tech companies are the worst. No one starts a tech company to build an ongoing enterprise anymore. They start them to get enough of a niche for one of the giants to buy the company – or their company’s technology – so they can cash in. I have firsthand experience with this, so I’m well familiar with it. The situation is as likely to change as Joe Biden is likely to appoint Marjorie Taylor Greene to the post of NASA Administrator.

 

I enjoy telling stories. I enjoy the editing process. Writing posts about the craft on this blog. Doing what I can to promote others. Appearing at conferences and events. I don’t care that I don’t make any money from it. The entire process enriches my soul. It brings me joy.

 

Until, that is, something makes me look at the entities I have to work with for even my small niche. A more soul-sucking bunch of Midases for whom too much is never enough cannot be found outside of Nestle, the CEO of which believes water should be a commodity.

 

We’ve cut way back on our Amazon purchases. As for the writing, I guess this is going to be one of those situations where I need to have the serenity to accept something I cannot change. I’ll try to make up for it elsewhere.

A Cautionary Tale

 Of all the people involved in getting material to readers, the writer lives at the bottom of the food chain.

 

Today’s case in point:

 

Bingeing Homicide: Life on the Street inspired me to write a short story that takes place entirely in a police interview room, hence the title: “The Box.” I am as proud of this story as I am of anything I have written, including the two Shamus-nominated novels.

 

I submitted “The Box” to [magazine name redacted], figuring I might as well start at the top and work my way down. It was a pleasant surprise when they accepted it right away, as is. For reasons unclear to me now (and this is my fault), I expected publication this fall.

 

A few weeks ago I saw a new issue of [magazine name redacted] was available and I wondered if “The Box” was in it. It was not. I poked around and found the story came out earlier this year. Way earlier. So early there are no print copies left.

 

This was news to me. I wrote the publisher and asked if, in fact, I was reading this correctly and the issue containing “The Box” had already been out for over six months, and, if so, why I wasn’t notified.

 

He replied the same day to tell me “we can’t promise we will reach out to everyone although sometimes we try to do so. It’s a matter of bandwidth… only communication with authors would run into hundreds per month (400+ to be exact).

 

“In the past we have encouraged our dear authors to follow our newsletters and check our shop.”

Follow-up messages revealed “The Box” was published in the February-March 2022 issue. 

I never claim to be a big shot. I don’t ask for special consideration. Writers understand that all the industry shit that rolls downhill comes to rest on our shoes. I get that. But is it not enough that publications no longer feel the need to extend the basic courtesy of a rejection (the general attitude is “Submit and fuck off. We’ll call you if we want you.”), but they no longer even feel it necessary to tell you when the story they accepted will be in print? Honest to God? For him to cite “400+” authors to reply to, he clearly meant those who submitted and were rejected. That’s bad enough, but I made the cut and it was still on me to divine their publication schedule?

 

I would have bought a print copy; they’re gone. (The Beloved Spouse™ found one for me online. Said purchase exhausted what I was paid for the story.) I can’t even self-publish it or put it on my web site, as [magazine name redacted] owns the “exclusive rights to publish” for “the full term of copyright,” which, as I understand it, is my lifetime plus 70 years. That’s my fault for not reading the contract more carefully when I signed it. My life plus 70 is a lot to give away for $25.

I have never made money from a book. Not one time. Author’s copies for promotion and consignment sales, web site maintenance, and marketing costs have overwhelmed all proceeds. My average monthly royalties from Amazon for the five self-published books averaged $1.75 over the past year. Bookstores won’t stock my books because they can’t return them.

 

I wouldn’t mind if my average rating on Amazon for all 13 books wasn’t 4.6. Of course, that’s based on only a total of 144 ratings. Don’t misunderstand me. I am grateful for all my readers. (Especially since I appear to know most of you personally.) I am flattered when asked to sit on panels or contribute to anthologies, especially when I see who I’m surrounded by. I will not ever dispute that I have been fortunate to have such respect and I want you all to understand I never take any of the good things for granted.

 

Still, it’s tough. The excitement of an approaching release is now tinged with the anticipation of the disappointment to ensue when the book sinks like a stone. More than one person told me White Out, released July 11, is my best book; it has six reviews as of this posting. They’re all five stars.

 

I never expected to earn a living as a writer. Mostly I hoped it would pay for a conference or two each year. (I can’t write off the trips, as the IRS considers my writing to be a hobby.) I write because I enjoy the challenge of crafting a story. Finding the right tone, getting the dialog just so and fixing the descriptions so I can say, while not perfect, “this is the best I can do.” All of that remains as true as it ever was, but there is a point where the satisfaction derived is overcome by the frustration endured. I’m not there yet, but I can see it from here.

 

I’m not asking for sympathy. I went into this a grown-ass man with his eyes wide open. Consider this a detailed PSA for fledgling writers: don’t kid yourself. Do your homework. Take pride in the fact that you provide the raw material that drives an industry, and understand that industry will treat you no better than a mining company treats topsoil.

 

Scratching My Niche

Not to be a pain in the ass about it, but I’m still floating from what has to be my best week as a writer. First the announcement that Down and Out Books is not only bringing out the third Penns River novel (Resurrection Mall) next year, but will re-issue both Worst Enemies and Grind Joint to keep the series together. Then the thrill of getting to read at Noir at the Bar: The Final Curtain with a group of writers I would have been happy for a chance to listen to, let alone be included with. That’s a good fucking week by any measurement.

It’s the Down and Our deal that will (hopefully) lead to more lasting ramifications, and I couldn’t be happier to end up with them. Seriously. “But wait,” I hear you say, because you’re the argumentative sort who lives to derail my train of thought. “Might you not be happier with a six-figure advance, and a national book tour where you’ll meet hot, literate women at every stop whose libidos are surpassed only by their imaginations?”

Actually, no.

I made peace with the big New York publishers quite a while ago, and I harbor them no ill will. I understand why they passed on my work despite consistently favorable comments about the stories and the writing, and the enthusiastic support of three (count ‘em: three!) different agents.

To wit:

• My books have ambiguous or melancholy endings. I don’t write true noir—the Sole Heir™ and I have dubbed my writing style as gris—and the endings aren’t upbeat enough for mainstream audiences to dig into. Hell, my cops don’t always even catch the crook. (They do at least figure out who it is.)
• No romance. Some sex once in a while, but my protagonists each have personality traits that do not bode well for feminine engagement.
• Unapologetically hard-boiled style. Like it or hate it, my books don’t have what I call “bestseller style,” calculated not to offend anybody and possibly hurt sales. I mean no offense by that term. Lots of excellent writers take a little of the edge off and still write books even I enjoy. My talent doesn’t run in that direction. It is what it is.
• Foul language. Yes, Virginia, in 21^st Century America there are a lot of people who don’t care what horrible things a character does to another human being so long as said character doesn’t say “fuck” in any form or “cocksucker” or—dare I say it? Dare! Dare!—“cunt,” which is often a complete deal breaker. In the words of Ray Barboni, I say, “Fuck that.”
• The Penns River series (and standalone Wild Bill) use multiple points of view, which I guess confuses some people. Frankly, I like the idea my small cadre of avid readers is smarter than the average bear and can hold multiple thoughts in their heads at once, so to those who think my books might be too complicated, I say, “Fuck that, too.”
• I’m a sixty-year-old, overweight, ordinary-looking man. There’s no way for the marketing people to make that sexy and the bean counters are afraid to invest in a franchise because they think I’ll die any minute.

Down and Out gets that. They get what I’m trying to do and they get that there’s not an audience of millions for it, and they’re okay with it. I’ve read several of their authors, researched others, and they publish books that appeal to the kinds of readers that are inclined to like what I write. I have friends who work with them and every indication is that Down and Out treats its authors the way I want to be treated. I don’t need to be coddled. Just don’t bullshit me. Tell me what you’re going to do, what’s expected of me, then do it and I’ll hold up my end.

To steal a line from Rick Blaine, “Louie, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”