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Everybody needs approval, but nobody needs it more than authors: approval of editorial alterations of manuscripts; approval of cover art and copy; approval over reprint, book-club, and foreign licenses; approval of titles, ad texts, and more.
New authors quickly discover that they have very little leverage when it comes to controlling the fate of their books. As they become more and more successful, however, they develop the clout to demand the right to approve many procedures. In fact, a concise biography of a successful author might read something like this:
His first contract gave his publisher total control of everything. When he achieved modest popularity, his publisher gave him consultation rights. After he became very popular, he secured “approval not to be unreasonably withheld.” At length he became a star, and his publisher gave him total control of everything.
Which processes are subject to author consultation or consent? And what kinds of concessions may an author expect from his publisher as he rises to the top of his profession? Are there limits to those concessions? Are there some issues so hot that a publisher would risk losing a superstar before yielding the right of approval?
The foundation stone of the author-publisher relationship is the text. Today we take it pretty much for granted that book publishers will make no substantive changes in the text of a book without the author’s express consent. This state of mind is of relatively recent vintage, however. Well into this century Even as late as the 1980s, a widely held attitude was that the editor was the best judge of what an author intended to say and how well he said it. And, though that assumption still prevails at the copy-editing level in such areas as grammar and house style, when it comes to the overall text, today’s editors prefer to reason with authors than coerce them. Even new authors consider it their natural right to review copy-edited manuscripts and galley proofs of their books. In hardcover publishing, where the production process moves at a courtly pace, it is easy to grant this right to authors. In the frenetic world of paperbacks, however, authors are not always granted such courtesy, and books may be rushed into print without review by the author. Few publishers retain, in the boilerplate of their contracts, the right to alter an author’s text without his approval, but in practice it is commonplace, at least on the paperback level.
Approval over textual changes is about as far as the tyro author can expect to go when it comes to control over publication of his work. Although some publishers may informally consult with new authors about such matters as cover art, it’s considered out of line for them to demand a voice in the selection of the cover artist, or be allowed input in such matters as cover art and blurbs, book design, style, or typeface, or negotiations over subsidiary rights. For a new author, the life of his first book is full of surprises, not all of them pleasant by any means. He sees his cover and cover copy for the first time only after the book is printed, learns about reprint and other subsidiary rights deals only after they have been closed (if then; sometimes he learns about them through inexplicable entries on royalty statements), or first sees the text of an ad for his book at the same time that the public does. If there are embarrassing typographical errors, if the cover is a horrible misrepresentation of the author’s vision, if the subsidiary rights deal is disappointing, if the book ad is dumb – well, tough luck, kid, be thankful we're not asking you to pay us to publish your book.
Actually, most publishers are not callous about authors’ rights in these areas. They simply feel that authors are not necessarily wise when it comes to making those decisions, and I have to say there is some merit in this judgment. Many authors do not hold a strong suit in grammar, have decidedly bizarre notions about what should go on their covers, are poorly informed about appropriate terms for book-club, reprint, and foreign deals, or have little feel for advertising, publicity, and promotion.
Such shortcomings do not prevent them, however, from demanding a say in those activities, and as they gain experience, achieve success and build comfortable relationships with their publishers, some contractual prohibitions will inevitably be relaxed. Veteran authors are assumed to have acquired a degree of professionalism, restraint, and respect for the problems of publishers, and can be expected not to insist that David Hockney be commissioned to paint an original cover, or that the publisher take out half a million dollars in television advertising.
This growing tolerance for author input is reflected in the language of contracts by use of the term “consultation.” Consultation is of course one of those vague words that carries as much meaning and good faith as a publisher wishes to instill in it, so it is not much skin off a publisher’s nose to grant it to an author. It must be understood, though, that while “consultation” might well mean, “We're eager to please you, so if you don’t like what we’ve done we’ll try our level best to improve the situation,” it can also mean, “I called you and you weren’t home, so consider yourself consulted.” The phrase "meaningful consultation" has been instituted in recent times to thwart that particular ploy and give authors more of a legal leg to stand on if the publisher abuses your right to having some sort of say about a procedure.
Publishers’ policies are frequently resistant to the formal granting of consultation rights to authors, but they might agree to what is called a side letter, an informal statement of good intentions. Although such letters are not seldom binding, they are better than nothing, and are particularly useful if there is a change of personnel and an author wants to show his new editor that his former editor wished to accommodate him.
The closer to stardom that an author moves, the more accommodating his publisher is willing to become, and this attitude is manifested in contractual language giving the author explicit approval over certain aspects of the publishing process. For the first time there may be some real teeth in the author’s right to say yes or no to subsidiary licenses, cover art and copy, and ad campaigns. Nevertheless, publishers will fight against conceding absolute power to an author, even an important author, and will hedge their contractual language by granting approval only on the condition that such approval is not to be withheld unreasonably. The adverb “unreasonably” restores a degree of ambiguity to the author’s right of consent, giving the publisher a fighting chance if a dispute turns nasty and ends up in court. By demonstrating that an author withheld his consent spitefully, whimsically, or in some other fashion that injured the publisher’s opportunities to maximize a book’s literary or commercial value, a publisher can negate the power conveyed to the author with the term “approval.” (On reflection, I realize that over the many years I have been in the publishing business, I have never seen the phrase “consent not to be unreasonably withheld” litigated or even invoked by a publisher. I’m not sure why, but I would like to think it speaks well of the reasonableness and responsibility of authors.)
Of course, the hardest victory to achieve is absolute and unhindered approval by an author in the areas we have been discussing, and its stipulation in a contract invariably bespeaks a star author, a tough agent, or an agreeable publisher – probably all three. I should stress that such control is not of necessity the goal of all authors. Some are indifferent to what goes on the covers of their books, or to the design and style, or to the size of ads. Others entrust such matters to their publishers and try not to second-guess or criticize them. They take the attitude, “I write the best books I can, and if everybody else does his or her job as conscientiously as I do mine, I can’t ask for more than that.”
A growing number of authors and agents is not content to cast their destinies to such capricious winds. As one writer expressed it to me recently, “With the midlist emerging as the trash heap of the publishing business, ambitious authors are obligated to involve themselves in every aspect of their publishers’ activities, from titles to typography, to help give their books a big feel and image.” If you feel compelled to get involved in those activities, and to bid for a measure of control over them, there are a number of concrete measures you can take.
The first is to educate yourself about your publisher’s tasks. By studying catalogues, examining the design, typography, and covers of books, scrutinizing ads and ad campaigns, and above all by talking to your editors and other staff professionals, you learn what is possible, reasonable, and economical. You do not want to come on to your publisher as ignorant about such matters as the cost of an ad campaign or the technical difficulties of producing die-cut covers. If you can speak knowledgeably about such matters, your publisher will feel a little more comfortable about soliciting your input or giving you a measure of control over certain decisions.
The second thing to do is learn how to deal with your publisher in a non-confrontational way. Find opportunities to spend some time with your editor and with the various specialists at your publisher, such as the art director, sales manager, and the head of publicity and promotion. If you can’t meet the top man or woman, an assistant will do, as long as you have the ear of someone who might serve to sponsor your wishes at the company. You can accomplish this by having your editor introduce you to these people when you visit your publisher’s offices or attend such publishing functions as parties, conferences, sales meetings, and conventions. It is important to be a good listener, and to couch your wishes as unthreateningly as possible.
Publishing people being among the busier breeds in the corporate kingdom, one-on-one discussions may not always be possible. You may be able to communicate some of your ideas in writing. Publishers’ publicity questionnaires are an underutilized source of persuasion, I’ve observed. These questionnaires, usually sent out with contracts, invite authors to furnish their publishers with suggestions about approaches to exploit the promotional value of their books. By taking time to answer the form’s questions in detail, you give yourself a perfect opportunity to contact the appropriate staff members with offers to implement your ideas. Letters or emails rather than phone calls, at least at the outset, will give your publisher an opportunity to think about your ideas and circulate them among the movers and shakers at the company. Be polite, helpful, knowledgeable, and reasonable, and you may find yourself acquiring de facto control over many publishing decisions that have not been granted to you contractually.
A time may come, however, when all of your graciousness, diplomacy, and reason are incapable of winning your publisher over on an important issue, and you are forced to take a stand. It might be hoped that by now you have an agent who can go to bat for you. That’s fine, but your agent might have reservations about taking a hard stand on your behalf. Talk it over with him and listen carefully. Talk to friends and professional colleagues, gathering as much information as you can in order to make as informed and effective a decision as possible.
It is important that you prioritize the items over which you seek approval. Which are borderline, which serious, and which will you martyr yourself for? Be prepared to trade those of lesser weight in exchange for the dealbreakers. Exhaust all avenues of persuasion before taking the hard stand, but if push comes to shove you must state, as clearly and firmly as you know how, that you cannot sign the contract, cannot permit your book to be published, will not countenance a title change, will not suffer this cover or that advertisement. For most authors, and even for agents, taking a tough stand can be anxiety-making, but once you have made up your mind and prepared to gamble everything to win your point, there must be no backing down. Publishers who discover that your bottom line is not chiseled in granite will quickly find you out, exploit your ambivalence, and never again take “no” for an answer from you.
Though you risk losing a deal, and maybe a lot more than that, by taking a hard stand, you may be surprised to learn that as often as not it is your publishers who back down. Their bottom line may be more flexible than they led you to believe. Or they may not want to risk losing money that they have already paid to you or invested in your work. You never know until you try. If you win, you will push your relationship with your publishers to a higher plateau. And if you lose, you at least walk away with your pride, dignity, and integrity. And nothing is more important than that, right? Right?
In republishing some of my articles I've been struck by how little has changed in the decade or two since they first saw the light of day. In some cases I've scarcely had to change a word. However, I'm afraid that the following piece will not stand the test of time. When you come to the end you'll see why the sacred ritual known as the publishing lunch date may be doomed. RC ********************* When the time comes for me to lay down my sword and armor and cross into the Great Beyond after a lifetime of combat with venal publishers, crooked movie producers, treacherous lawyers, and kvetchy authors, it is my fondest hope that the gods will reward me with perpetual publishing luncheons. What fardels would I not bear knowing that such a treat awaited me on the other side! Some agents and editors feel lunches are tedious obligations at best and duck out of them whenever they can. I find them incredibly exciting, frequently dramatic, and always enlightening: I have never come away from one without having learned something useful. And, if everything comes together perfectly, the occasion can be a transcendental experience both culinarily and literarily, a sublime blend of art, commerce, and hedonism.
Most outsiders (such as authors) have a dim or distorted idea of what is involved in publishing lunches. To them, these affairs are as mysterious as royalty statements and discount schedules. So come perch on the right lobe of my brain, which in agents is the segment devoted to luncheon dates, and observe the process from the ringing of the phone (which automatically makes me salivate) to the final, discreet burp.
First, you should know that it is usually the editor who extends the invitation, selects the restaurant, and pays the check. Exactly why that is, I’m not sure, for it is clear that both parties stand to benefit equally from the occasion. (Mind you, I’m not complaining!)
Because it’s the editor who proposes and disposes, any agent who reverses roles and offers to take an editor to lunch is apt to earn many bonus points on the editor’s scorecard. When I worked for my first boss, literary agent Scott Meredith, he never permitted his staff to allow editors to treat them to lunch, I think because it implied a dependency that tarnished the agency’s image. I thought that was great, and I still do, but few agents can afford a steady diet (pardon the pun) of paying for editors, and if letting an editor pick up the tab suggests that the agent is dependent on him – well, in truth he is.
Editorial calendars tend to be filled for weeks and even months ahead with other lunches, editorial meetings, business trips, vacations, conferences, and conventions. So it is by no means unusual for lunch dates to be made far in advance, with the parties exploring dates for fifteen minutes before finding an open one. This practice makes one keenly and often disconcertingly aware of the rapid passage of time. A flip of your calendar, as you and your would-be luncheon partner seek an agreeable date, and you realize that another season has passed, another year. Here it is August, blazingly hot and swelteringly humid, and you are contemplating warm, heavy food, sweaters and furs, and talk of ski trips and Christmas books; in February, as bitter winds whistle past your windowpanes, you set a lunch date for a day when cherry and magnolia blossoms will strew the selfsame streets now carpeted with yard-high snowdrifts. It’s a strange feeling. Red-letter days in the publishing calendar signal another year fled from our lives: “I can’t make it in October, that’s the Frankfurt Book Fair”; “November’s no good, we have sales conference”; “Forget the last week in May – I have to get ready for the BEA convention.” The seasons cycle inexorably and you wax philosophical about the rolling years. Have I achieved anything important? Have I fulfilled my youthful goals? God grant me just one DaVinci Code before He takes me away!
Although your luncheon may be on some absurdly far-off day, the restaurant and precise hour are seldom selected until that very morning. Then, sometime around ten-thirty or eleven, your host or hostess calls you with the traditional phrase, “Are we on for today?” The time and place are then agreed upon. But not always easily. To wit: “How does Italian sound to you?” “Had it last night. Mexican?” “I’m on a diet. There’s a great fish place around the corner from my office.” “But that’s all the way on the other side of town from me. Well, okay, but can we make it twelve-thirty? I have an author coming up to my office at two.” “That’s bad for me. I’ll be in a meeting all morning.” And so it goes.
Sometimes there is more to these negotiations than two busy people trying to find common ground. Nothing serious, just a subtle game of chicken, like waiting till twelve-fifteen before phoning to confirm the lunch date, or jockeying for who is going to come to whose side of town: I am more powerful than you because I made you come to my side of town at an inconvenient hour and eat a cuisine that gives you heartburn.
Occasionally lunch dates are canceled, and canceled at the last minute. The reasons range from “I forgot to mark it in my calendar” to “I have pneumonia.” One morning, after waiting till noon, I phoned an editor to see if we were still on for lunch. “I’m afraid not,” she said. “I was just fired.” I told her I thought that was a very poor excuse for canceling a date and I took her to lunch myself.
As the cancelee of today may be the canceler of tomorrow, we all accept cancellations with a certain degree of equanimity. They can, however, prove frustrating. I can all but guarantee that on the day I don my best suit and most expensive silk tie in anticipation of a Lucullan orgy at a four-star restaurant with an editorial kingpin I’ve been wooing for months, the date will be canceled and I’ll end up glomming a ham and Swiss on rye at my desk – and getting mustard on my tie to boot. Conversely, the days one wears jeans and tee-shirt to the office are inevitably the days one gets an impromptu invitation to Grenouille or Le Cirque.
Your luncheon companions range from the most eminent and powerful editor to the callow rookie who has just been given a title and expense account and told to go meet agents. Some agents, particularly the more prominent ones, disdain invitations from freshman editors. Why waste time with subalterns without clout when you can pick up the phone anytime and get the head of the company? I personally find that attitude shortsighted. New editors are often the most enthusiastic, ambitious, and industrious, best attuned to trends to which the older guard may be oblivious – new music, hot electronic games, rising young film stars, embryonic fads, and so forth. There’s another reason for cultivating young editors: In this turbulent age of musical chairs and sudden upward mobility, the green kid I dine with in March may be a department head in April.
Where you eat is a function of many factors: the age, seniority, and expense account of the editor; location; the amount of time available; dietary considerations; the importance of the host; the importance of the guest; the importance of the business at hand. Obviously, for example, young editors must entertain more modestly than senior ones. Yet many senior editors, having seen the inside of every restaurant in New York City after decades on the luncheon circuit, are just as happy to grab a burger at a coffee shop or munch a sandwich in the park. One of the most memorable lunches I ever had was with Robert Gottlieb, then editor in chief of the distinguished house of Alfred Knopf. It consisted of vanilla yogurt, nuts and raisins, and an orange, eaten in his office – eaten, indeed, on the floor of his office, for every horizontal surface including the couch was covered with manuscripts. Gottlieb had courageously taken himself out of the luncheon game, professing it to be too time-consuming, expensive, and fattening. All of which is true, agents and editors remind each other as they study their menus and debate trading off the appetizer for dessert.
When a senior editor is courting an agent in the hopes of capturing a big-name author, you can expect a Drop Dead, Pull Out All the Stops, No Prisoners Taken luncheon, the kind most authors think occurs every day but which in fact happens quite rarely. Such affairs reverberate in memory till the end of time. I remember one laid on for a major client and myself at the Four Seasons. Every course from the quail egg appetizer to the ethereal flan dessert had been prearranged by our publisher-host. Captains and waiters, obviously tipped off to the preeminence of the guests, attended us with obsequies usually reserved for caliphs and maharajahs. Our host had but to nod and the staff was galvanized into action. And, as the presentation of a check would have been a base intrusion of crass mercantilism into so elevated an occasion, it was never brought out. I assume it was simply forwarded to the publisher’s accounting department for review at some later date.
While sumptuous repasts are certainly incomparably exciting, and the author unaccustomed to “the treatment” may well feed off the memories till he’s old and gray, I am far from convinced that they make much difference in influencing authors and agents. Such feasts seem much more appropriate for celebrating the closing of a major deal than for softening up reluctant objects of a publisher’s affections. Which is not to say they should stop trying.
Authors have a misconception that lunches are the time when deals are made. In my experience most deals are made on the phone; the lunches are devoted more to getting acquainted with editors and their companies. Although I used to feel that some kind of business should be accomplished during lunch or a short time afterward, I’ve come to realize that friendships struck at lunch may not pay off for years. Nevertheless, there is something theatrical about presenting an editor with a manuscript at the luncheon table. I remember one occasion when I brought a bulky manila envelope with me to a restaurant. Throughout lunch, the editor cast intrigued glances at it, and at last, toward dessert, she ran a covetous hand over it. “Is this something for me?” “Oh Lord, no,” I said with a gulp, realizing I had inadvertently led her on. “These are shirts going back to Bloomingdale’s!”
Another common belief is that publishing lunches are rather boozy affairs. In truth, the dominant beverages for the last ten years or so have been wine, juice and sparkling soda water, and even the hallowed Marys are as apt to be Virgin as Bloody. On occasion, hard liquor is ordered, but sipped in moderation. As for the fabled two-martini lunch, I can truthfully say that in the last decade I can recall only one luncheon companion who ordered martinis, but since he was a confirmed alcoholic, the more he drank the more coherent he became. Because drunkenness is, among other things, a breach of manners (and manners are largely what publishing lunches are all about), editors and agents are extremely careful not to drink too much. I have seldom seen an editor become so much as tipsy at lunch. I wish I could say as much about authors, though in mitigation it must be said that they are usually a little nervous, unaccustomed to banquets on so lavish a scale.
Just what is ordered depends on the circumstances. Almost every editor in town has a diet book on his or her list and is experimenting with its advice. So there has been a distinct trend toward simple, highly nutritious cuisine, even in the elegant watering places where high-rolling publishing potentates hang out – all those places beginning with La and Le and Il. Exotic cuisines are usually avoided unless the editor and agent are old lunching companions and are willing to drop their guards a bit. With them I hit the Mexican, Brazilian, Thai, and Indian joints, drink beer (straight from the bottle) instead of wine, relax protocol and manners, and exchange confidences seldom heard at high table.
Although the agent-guest is encouraged to order anything he wants, if the editor is decidedly junior it is an act of cruelty to order the most expensive items on the menu, but I do know some agents who, if they are mad at a publisher, will take their petty revenge by hitting the company up for a five-course extravaganza with champagne, brandy, and cigars elaborate desserts.
Not all foods are suitable for business luncheons. Though I adore sloppy items like lobster and ribs, it is usually inappropriate to order them, for there is no way one can be cool and nonchalant while sucking the liquid out of a lobster claw or picking a spare rib clean with fingernails and incisors.
Like those in other industries, publishing luncheons have a rhythm and flow that follow Aristotelian dramaturgical principles, from the quiet exposition through the developmental passages and on to the stirring climax. While the talk at the outset is small – the weather, the latest Big Apple catastrophe, your life story, “How I Got into Publishing” – it is seldom unrevealing to one alert for clues to one’s companion’s literary interests, status in the company, industry clout, negotiating skill, and other traits that may prove useful in future intercourse. Above all, there is gossip.
New York trade publishing is a very small town. Although Literary Market Place, the industry’s directory, contains thousands of names, my own short list of key contacts contain no more than three hundred names or so, and anything that happens to one of them is bound to affect my clients’ interests. Promotions, firings, resignations, romances, divorces – all are grist for the agent’s information mill in the perpetual process of assessing who’s got the power, who’s spending money, which way the market’s going, what the next hot trend is.
Thus, in due time talk drifts toward serious business. What good authors and projects is the agent handling? What’s the editor looking for? There is scarcely anything you can say that doesn’t serve as a springboard. The birth of my son inspired luncheon discussions leading to at least three books my agency subsequently developed; let that be a lesson to anyone asking me to produce wallet photos of my family.
Here, then, is what I love best of all about luncheons, for within seconds the conversation can shift from idle chatter to immense profundities, only moments later to shift again to money talk as the parties try to place a dollar value on the ideas under discussion.
Listen:
Agent: Whew! Have you ever seen weather like this? Editor: This is the third mild winter in a row. Do you think the climate is permanently moderating or something? Agent: Possibly. This meteorologist I’ve been corresponding with thinks the pollutants in the air are seriously affecting world climate. The planet is overheating. The ice caps are melting. Editor: Really? This meteorologist – um, is he writing a book perchance? Agent: Funny you should ask. He’s halfway through one. He’s got great credentials and he’s promotable as hell. Looks a little like Brad Pitt. Editor: I’d be interested in a book like that. Agent: Would you be interested one hundred thousand worth? Editor: Fifty thousand worth, maybe. Agent: Fifty! The guy’s been on Oprah twice, for crying out loud!
Lunch is over. The editor pantomimes a scribble toward the captain, the time-honored gesture of summoning the check. There is no quarreling. The inviter pays, the invitee says thank you, and that’s usually that.
Goodness, it’s five minutes before three! Got to get back to the office. Loved every minute of it. Let’s do business. Let’s stay in touch. Let’s have lunch again soon!
In the 1930s, more than 3000 years after Moses led an enslaved Jewish population out of the land of Egypt, a small but thriving Sephardic Jewish community flourished in Cairo and Alexandria. Some settled there from the Middle East, others from Europe, particularly Spain and Portugal after the expulsion of the Jews in the 15th century.
They had become affluent and influential through finance and trade. Though devotedly clinging to their Sephardic customs and practices, by the middle of the 20th century they were well integrated into the public life of their host country, contributing to the common weal and even underwriting many significant civic works and public services. They did not flaunt their faith, indeed most of them thought of themselves as Egyptian citizens who also happened to be Jewish, not unlike German Jews in the early 1930s. Indeed, the fates of the German and Egyptian Jews of that era are strikingly parallel. Reading Jean Naggar's recently published memoir, Sipping from the Nile, I thought of Lion Feuchtwanger's The Oppermanns, a wrenching tale of a well-to-do Berlin family of Jewish furniture merchants who in 1932 and '33 were subtly but inexorably sucked into the maelstrom of Nazi antisemitism until it ruined and destroyed them. Naggar's book is a series of snapshots -- literally, for it is illustrated with wonderful photos of her family and home -- of a robust and bountiful Jewish society just before, during, and after its destruction and the dispersion of its citizenry.
The Op-Ed Page of the New York Times (Sunday, May 15th) carries an absolutely blood-freezing contribution by Mark Danner. Danner, author of Torture and Truth: America, Abu Ghraib and the War on Terror, managed to get his hands on a report prepared by the Red Cross after a unit of the humane organization visited Guantánamo late in 2006 to review the prison's interrogation procedures. Its report was given in strictest secrecy to the CIA.
"A short time ago," Danner writes, "this document came into my hands and I have set out the stories it tells in a longer article in The New York Review of Books. Because these stories were taken down confidentially in patient interviews by professionals from the International Committee of the Red Cross, and not intended for public consumption, they have an unusual claim to authenticity." Tales From Torture’s Dark World is a condensed version of that NYRB article adapted for the Times.
That the barbaric methods used to interrogate the prisoners, authorized at the highest levels of the US government, border on atrocity will be self-evident to anyone who who has a heart (Dick Cheney excepted). But what I wondered as I read it is whether the Red Cross's report would ever have come to light without the investigative spirit and courage of Danner and the publications that sponsored him. Though abstracts of his report will appear on countless blogs, would any of them have been willing to invest their own resources to initiate the kind of probe he undertook? It's one thing for bloggers to tread the path blazed by pioneers, but would any of them have the guts to break the story and risk prosecution or harassment?
I don't think so.
I won't try to match the eloquence of those who have appealed for humanitarian treatment of combatants and political prisoners. Nor can I judge the guilt or innocence prisoners from whom confessions were extracted by the cruelest forms of coercion. "From everything we know," Danner writes, "many or all of these men deserve to be tried and punished — to be 'brought to justice,' as President Bush vowed they would be."
No, the reason I'm writing this is to remind you that truth and openness, the pillars on which western civilization rest, depend on newspapers and magazines as well as book publishers such as those publishing these revelations. We also depend on writers like Danner to interpret those revelations and place them in a moral context such as this one:
"The fact that judges, military or civilian, throw out cases of prisoners who have been tortured - and have already done so at Guantánamo - means it is highly unlikely that they will be brought to justice anytime soon.
For the men who have committed great crimes, this seems to mark perhaps the most important and consequential sense in which 'torture doesn’t work.' The use of torture deprives the society whose laws have been so egregiously violated of the possibility of rendering justice. Torture destroys justice. Torture in effect relinquishes this sacred right in exchange for speculative benefits whose value is, at the least, much disputed."
This website has carried many items about the efforts of print publishers to arrest their sickening financial freefall. Some of these ideas are viable and some are not. The issues underlying the rescue of publishers caught up in a devastating paradigm shift are complex and challenging. But we have to find a solution.
Investigative journalism is the lantern we shine on the slimy horrors crawling under the rocks of our society. We must- must - find a way to preserve it.
In this second part of our discussion of collaboration, we examine a collaboration agreement and discuss the salient terms.
The first thing is how the money is to be divided when the book is sold. There are countless ways to do this, depending on the project, the amount of money involved, the relative importance of the celebrity and co-author, and many other factors. Let me outline a few scenarios.
• A famous actress is offered a lot of money by a publisher to write her memoirs. Though her story, like any other, requires a certain degree of skill to tell, she and her publisher agree that just about any competent writer will get the job done. They go to a young journalist eager to get his name on a book and offer him a flat fee of $10,000, which to him is a lot of money. They also offer him a “with” or “and” byline on the book, but no participation in royalties, magazine rights, or foreign translation or any other subsidiary rights. He accepts the offer because it’s a good opportunity to break into books, earn some money, and bask in the presence of a legend of stage and screen.
• A young dairymaid is walking through the woods, minding her own business, when there is a tremendous roar and a blinding flash, and next thing she knows she’s in a spaceship being interrogated by little green aliens. They take her to their world for a year, then return her to earth and drop her off in the woods where they picked her up. She immediately runs to a literary agent’s office babbling about what happened to her. Persuaded that her tale is true (agents are suckers for a good story) but realizing she’s going to have a tough time making anybody else believe her, he convinces her to team up with his client the Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist, whose identification with the project will legitimize it in the eyes of his publisher and his public. For that privilege, however, the journalist wants 75 percent of all revenues earned by the book. He also wants the first $25,000 of the publisher’s advance; if his agent is unable to line up a deal for an advance greater than $25,000, the dairymaid will receive nothing until the book earns more. The principle here is that professional writers depend entirely on their writing for a living, whereas their collaborators usually earn a living from some other source (acting, running a business, playing ball, milking cows). Thus the writer’s financial needs must be served first. In no position to argue, the dairymaid agrees to these terms.
• A tycoon who built Fingfang Enterprises from scratch into a multibillion-dollar multinational octopus decides his life would make fascinating reading and goes to an agent, asking him to package his life story. Since the agent is by no means as sure as the industrialist that publishers will fall all over themselves to bid for such a book, he tells the man he’ll have to pay a writer $5000 to spend a month interviewing him, examining news clippings and other documents, and writing an outline. The man will recover his $5000 if and when the book is sold, but if the book isn’t sold he loses his investment. After recouping his $5000, he and the writer will split all income 50-50. The man balks at 50-50: After all, it was his life, and all this writer is doing is putting down what he tells him, right?
Wrong, says the agent; there is far more involved in collaborating on a book than merely taking dictation. The man still balks. After all, once the book is out the writer’s contribution ends, but he’s got to go on all those talk shows the publisher is going to send him to. Seeing his point, and realizing that this is the kind of man who isn’t happy unless he thinks he’s gotten a better deal than the other guy, the agent suggests that after the book earns $100,000, the split will go from 50-50 to 75-25 in the mogul’s favor. “Done,” says the man, switching his cigar to his left hand so he can shake the agent’s hand with his right.
As you can see, there is no one way to slice the pie, but there is a kind of guiding principle. In theory, all collaborations should be 50-50 propositions because the subject can’t get his book written without the writer, and the writer doesn’t have a story without the subject. But on many occasions one member of the team turns out to be more important than the other, or feels he’s more important, and an accommodation must be negotiated. When that happens, some tradeoffs may be made on the other terms of the collaboration.
After the question of dividing the proceeds, the thing that concerns writers most is the byline: Will their name appear on the cover of the book, and if so, in what form? With a “with”? With an “and”? In the same-size typeface or smaller? For many writers, the byline is almost as important as the money; for some, it is more so. For that reason, the byline is the commodity most frequently used as barter in negotiating with the subject-author: “I’ll keep my name off the book if I can have one-third of the proceeds instead of the one-quarter you’ve offered me.”
The byline may be worked out in all sorts of ways. Prominent figures often feel that the appearance of a co-author’s name on their books implies that they are not entirely literate. That may be a reasonable assumption for, say, some athletic stars or ex-convicts (though I can think of exceptions), but if it’s the chairman of a conglomerate’s board or a former President of the United States, the appearance of a co-writer on the byline of his book may cause potential buyers to question just how candid or interesting the book will be. Therefore, the principal author may insist that the book be done as a straight ghost job, and recognition of the writer’s contribution restricted to an acknowledgment inside the book. Even here the writer might be able to negotiate a separate acknowledgment on its own page, as opposed to citation in a long list of contributors to the preparation of the manuscript, which reduces the writer’s involvement to the same level as that of the copy editor, typist, and secretary.
For other principals, the issue of the byline is a matter of complete indifference, and indeed, they can be most gracious in according credit to their partners. In still other cases, the co-author’s byline is the more recognizable of the two, almost the raison d’être for the book, and the publisher insists that it appear prominently on the cover and in all advertising.
Related to the byline is the question of whose name the copyright will be taken out in, and this should be stipulated in the collaboration agreement. But generally speaking, if both the subject-author and the collaborator are signatories to the publishing contract, then the book will be copyrighted in both their names, for both are defined as “Author” in that contract even if the co-author’s name does not go on the cover of the book.
Liability is the next matter to be considered. If someone brings a lawsuit against the publisher and authors claiming libel, invasion of privacy, defamation of character, infringement of copyrighted material, or some other grounds, which of the authors is liable? It’s easy to imagine the responsibility going either way. On the one hand, the subject-author might tell his collaborator a story whose veracity the collaborator cannot check and that subsequently triggers a lawsuit. Is the collaborator to blame? On the other hand, suppose the co-author embellishes on something the subject-author told him, or goes to the library and plagiarizes a quotation, or is lazy about checking the accuracy of the principal’s assertions, and a lawsuit ensues. Is the principal author to blame?
If both of them signed the publishing contract, the publisher is not going to try to sort out who is responsible, or more responsible, for the actionable material in the book. Both agreed to the warranty and indemnity clauses in the contract, and both are therefore equally liable for any breaches of those clauses. If, however, the two made some provision in their collaboration agreement about who was responsible for what in the book, then one may be able to recover his legal expenses or damages from the other. If, say, the principal author guaranteed that he would be liable for the truth of any anecdotes, assertions, or opinions and the co-author guaranteed that he’d be liable for the veracity of his research and of his interviews, there’s a chance that the blame for a lawsuit could be clearly assigned to one or the other of the authors. This procedure is known as cross-indemnification: I indemnify you, you indemnify me.
In actuality, it’s extremely difficult to keep sharp the dividing line between the authors’ responsibilities. The co-author is responsible for checking the things the subject-author tells him; the subject- author is responsible for reviewing the research and writing of his collaborator. For safety’s sake, the manuscript should be reviewed by both the authors’ lawyers and the publisher’s.
Another important matter is expenses: How are they defined, and who pays for them? Among the more common expenses in a collaboration are research assistance, the transcription of tape-recorded interviews, picture permissions, legal expenses, and typing. If the collaborators don’t live in the same place, there may be expenses for travel and accommodations and for long-distance phone calls.
The collaborators should agree at the very outset which expenses are legitimate and perhaps fix a ceiling on them. It might, for example, be inappropriate for the co-author to charge for the cost of paper, cassettes, or public transportation to the library for research, as these are usually part of a writer’s costs of doing business. It can work the other way, too. Suppose a famous Hollywood movie director is collaborating with a New York writer and has to come to New York on business. While in New York, he intends to sit down with his collaborator and work on the book, but that’s not the sole purpose of his visit. It would be patently unfair for him to charge his first-class airfare and one week’s lodging at the Regency Hotel to the collaboration.
The expenses are usually laid out by the party incurring them, who then recovers them from the publisher’s advance on acceptance of the manuscript. The burden of expenses is usually divided in proportion to each collaborator’s participation in the proceeds from the book. Thus, if the collaborators are splitting all revenue from the book 50-50, they should split the expenses 50-50, too; if 75-25 in favor of the subject-author, then he should pick up 75 percent of the costs while the co-author assumes 25 percent.
Like the expenses, the duties of the collaborators should be spelled out, though they are usually harder to quantify. The subject-author should agree to make himself available for interviews by the collaborator; to furnish newspaper clippings, diaries and journals, and other written material; and to cooperate with the coauthor in arranging interviews with his friends, family, and business colleagues. The co-author pledges to supplement the principal’s interviews with his own research, which includes checking the veracity of statements and assertions made by the subject-author. The co-author may also stipulate delivery dates of the manuscript to the principal; he may also have to clear permissions for quotations or pictures and to deliver signed permissions or other releases to the subject-author. Other duties and obligations may be specified here: The co-author might have to promise to phone the subject-author every two weeks with a progress report or send him each chapter of the book as it is finished.
It is very important to stipulate approval of the manuscript when you prepare a collaboration agreement. In most cases, the principal is granted sole approval, or sole approval subject to the editorial judgment of the publisher. This seems only fair, for after all it’s his or her book, not the collaborator’s. Yet the collaborator may have some strong objections to the subject-author’s inclusion or exclusion of certain material. So there is sometimes built into the agreement machinery for settling disputes, with the agent or editor or a lawyer being appointed arbiter.
If an agent is involved, there should be language in the collaboration agreement mutually authorizing that agent to act on behalf of both parties in the submission of the manuscript, the negotiation of the book contract, the collection and disbursement of proceeds, and in the exploitation of subsidiary rights, including serial, British and foreign translation, and movie and television. The agent’s commission schedule must be detailed, along with any special provisions concerning him: authorization for him to deduct certain expenses, a time limit on his handling of the project or of subsidiary rights, appointment of him as final arbiter of disputes between collaborators, etc. If there are two agents, as sometimes happens when the principal is represented by one firm and the collaborator by another, the questions of which one will handle the marketing of the manuscript, negotiation, collection of proceeds, and the exploitation of subsidiary rights must be answered.
Finally, there ought to be some provision for the termination of the collaboration in the event of the death or disability of one of the parties, because of failure to perform contractual obligations, or because the collaborators simply don’t get along. If the collaboration does collapse, both authors may owe the publisher a refund or one member of the team may owe the other some money advanced toward the development of the project. Precisely how the accounts are to be settled should be made clear in the agreement between the writing partners. No document can blend two conflicting personalities, which is why I repeat my advice that if you and your collaborator don’t hit it off, break off the relationship before it mires the project in grief if not in a lawsuit. But if the two parties enter the relationship in a spirit of good faith, a well-constructed collaboration agreement will go far toward insuring the success both of the friendship and the book.
With Lying Off the Table, Agents Lose a Key Advantage
It's a sorry day when authors and agents can't lie. If we can no longer fudge sales figures, maybe it's time to turn in our Blackberries and retire to our lavish Hamptons beachfront estates.
That was my reaction to the 2007 jury ruling compelling Clive Cussler to pay a movie company $5 million for (among other claims) inflating his book sales to induce the company to acquire film rights for $10 million. The film was a dud. Now that a judge has ordered Cussler to pay the company an additional $13.9 million in legal fees, I feel compelled to speak out.
It wasn't always this way. In the Golden Age of Agenting (circa 1986-93), the hot power center of the publishing and movie industry was occupied by a legendary cadre of literary agents like Paul Reynolds, Scott Meredith, Freddie Fields, Lew Wasserman and Swifty Lazar, for all of whom the salient virtue was guile. The relations between agents and the moguls of film, television and publishing were more adversarial than they are today, and both sides seized advantages over the other with little obeisance to the spirit of the seventh commandment. The agent who lacked cunning was consigned to the B List and deserved it.
As the twentieth century progressed, these fabulous individualists gave way to a more collegial, collective and committified approach to conducting business, and in time a sort of Geneva Convention of ethical conduct evolved that pretty much characterizes business on both coasts today. The rules and regulations of the powerful Writers of Guild of America govern movie and writers and their agents, and the Canon of Ethics guiding the conduct of literary and dramatic agent members of the Association of Authors' Representatives has replaced the rough justice of that bygone era. Since many of the principles of the Canon were formulated under my administration as president of the AAR, I leave it to you to determine how deeply into my cheek my tongue is thrust as I offer these observations.
One ethical innovation formulated in the mid-'90's was a more stringent code for the conduct of book auctions. The prevailing tenet up to then could be summarized by the phrase "Anything Goes," for there are no licensing requirements for literary agents, at least in New York City where a great many of them practice. Agents auctioning books were not required to reveal to the winning bidder the identity or bid of the underbidder. Many agents succumbed to the temptation to enhance the size of competing bids, or to bluff altogether. Many a winning bidder suffered buyer's remorse after reconstructing (often by simply phoning other participants in the auction) the bids and learning that the highest underbid was miles behind or did not in fact exist.
Perhaps a watershed event in the transformation of book industry rules was an auction in the early 90's for a major novel by an author who has since gone on to become a blockbuster star. As legend has it, the agent told Publisher A that she had a one million dollar offer (a lot of money then, and a lot of money now) from an unnamed publisher, whom we'll call B. Publisher A, desperate to land the huge fish, impulsively doubled the offer without conferring with her editorial board. She landed the fish, to the dismay of Publisher B who had believed the book was in his bag. His dismay turned to something approaching apoplexy when he learned that Publisher A was the head of another division of his own company.The company had been bidding against itself! Despite cries of "Foul!" the agent felt no compunction to adjust the terms of the deal.
What emerged from this event was a condition imposed by publishers that agents must reveal the name and offer of the highest underbidder under penalty of cancellation of the deal or reduction of the winning bid. This condition is reinforced by the provision of the AAR's Canon of Ethics stating that members "undertake never to mislead, deceive, dupe, defraud, or victimize their clients, other members of the Association, the general public, or any person with whom they do business as a member of the Association."
Which brings us back to L'Affaire Cussler. In its coverage of the lawsuit The Book Blog reported that attorneys for the principal of the production company alleged that "author Clive Cussler duped the Denver industrialist into paying $10 million for film rights to the adventure novel 'Sahara' by flagrantly inflating his book sales to more than 100 million copies. 'Cussler and his agent had gotten away with these numbers for years,'" said the industrialist's lawyer. "'It was a lie and it doomed the movie'"
Setting aside the Cussler team's contention that the producers were simply sore losers pinning the blame for their movie's lousy performance (it lost about $78 million) on the author of the book; and setting aside the likelihood that Cussler's books have in fact sold 100 million copies worldwide (though it's impossible to get an accurate count), we have to face the fact that inflated printing and sales figures are a time-honored tradition in the publishing industry. Except during contract negotiations, when each side hauls out numbers and counternumbers, most denizens of the publishing business are complicit in (or at least tolerant of) exaggerated printing and sales figures, for it's a victimless crime, or was until the Cussler case. Think about it: why would an agent challenge a publisher's bloated boast about his or her own client?
But the authenticity of such boasts was dealt a grievous blow by the introduction of Nielsen BookScan in 2001, a more or less scientific system for compiling sales data for publishers. I say "more or less" because the Nielsen Company does not include certain book sales outlets in its data mining, and that bloc of non-reporting stores can account for as much as 30% of a book's performance that doesn't appear on BookScan's database. Nevertheless, it is an accurate enough bellwether to sharply curtail an agent's efforts to produce impressive numbers out of whole cloth.
In short, our options for hyperbole and creative embellishment have been so hamstrung that we've been cornered into resorting to the truth to support the promotion of our authors' performance. What's the fun in that?
Some days an agent can't make a buck, and that is no exaggeration.
One of the liabilities of being a professional writer is that you attract people who want to collaborate with you. What author has not been collared at a party by a drunk who wants him to write his life story or has this fantastic idea for a novel?
Few such propositions have any commercial value. But from time to time you may meet someone whose story is compelling enough to entice you into collaboration with him. Or your agent may offer you an opportunity to team up with a famous movie or sports star, doctor or astronaut, beauty expert or political figure. If that happens, do you know how collaborations work? How the proceeds are to be divided? Whose byline goes on the cover of the book? Who pays the expenses of flying to Washington or Los Angeles or Hawaii to interview this person or to do research? Whose name goes on the copyright?
As a writer who has collaborated on seven or eight works of fiction and nonfiction and as an agent who has welded together scores of collaborations for clients, I can testify that teaming up with someone on a book can be richly rewarding, elevating, and great fun. It can also turn out to be a nightmare if the parties are ill matched, have unrealistic expectations of each other’s contributions, or fail to spell out their contractual arrangements before getting down to work. Collaborations are complex undertakings because the authors have to please themselves, each other, and their publishers at one and the same time, the literary equivalent of three-dimensional chess. Let's discuss how to enter into a collaboration with your eyes wide open.
For openers one might ask, Why collaborate at all? Collaborations often sound like twice the headaches for half the money, and sometimes that turns out to be the case. But the opposite may also be true: You can end up making more money than you can writing solo, doing less work and turning out a better book. Collaborations can broaden experience, create new areas of expertise, and open up markets for a writer’s work. They are also refreshing changes of pace from the isolated, solitary nature of freelance writing. Indeed, some writers thrive on the stimulus of another mind and a second pair of hands, preferring collaborations to writing alone. In my collaborations on a number of novels, I found that my co-authors’ contributions made for much more rounded characters and plots than I could ever have produced on my own.
What kinds of book projects and co-authors lend themselves best to collaborations? The most obvious is the autobiography of a celebrity, movie or sports star, television personality or famous politician who feels (or is persuaded by a publisher or agent) that his or her story would make compelling reading for a large audience. There are other well-known people – business leaders, scientists, and psychologists, for example – who want to expound on a subject they know well: to comment on the decline of American business initiative, the dangers of nuclear armament, the threat of Latin American insurgency, the fragmentation of family life. Then there is the person suddenly vaulted into the limelight, in whom the public becomes interested overnight: a released political hostage, a captured notorious criminal, a dedicated crusader whose cause is at last taken up by the majority. There are also the obscure people who have a great tale to tell if only someone could help them publicize it with a book: the valet-housekeeper-butler-nanny-secretary of some great household who is prepared to reveal the intimacies of the master or mistress; the victim of some affliction whose bravery in the face of acute suffering will inspire those in similar circumstances; the dedicated crusader whose cause has not yet been taken up by the majority.
Finally, there is the common case of two writers whose strengths and weaknesses complement each other: One is good at plotting, the other at narrative; he writes better male characters, she better female ones; one hates research but loves to interview people, the other can sit in a library all day but won’t hold a microphone in someone’s face and ask a lot of personal questions.
These people have one thing in common: a story to tell but insufficient time, talent, or energy to tell it without help. That’s where the collaborator comes in. But collaborations, like any other genre, are an art form, and not all writers are constituted to handle them well. Their personalities, views, and working habits must blend with the subject-author’s, and considerable tolerance on both sides is therefore necessary. The principal author may be difficult, demanding, extremely busy, and excessively vain. He may be so close to his own story that he insists on stressing the dullest aspects of it and glossing over the most intriguing and exciting. He may respond with dismay and even horror to the picture his collaborator has created, even though every word of the book has been taken verbatim from tape recordings. Collaborations are often mirrors that reflect what one doesn’t want to see.
Co-authors, too, may be poorly matched to the people they’ve been hired to write books with. They can be headstrong, insensitive, and impatient, unused to working with and deferring to another person. The principal author may feel that his collaborator is “writing his own book,” subordinating the essential material to the collaborator’s own vision, content, or style. Bad collaborations, then, are like houses built by warring contractors: The seams are poorly joined, the materials don’t match, the style confused and uninspired. If you have misgivings about your writing partner, drop the collaboration before it goes too far.
How are collaborations put together? Do they start with the principal? The writer? The publisher? The agent? Sometimes it’s one of these, sometimes another. Often it depends on how well known the principal author is. For instance, if he is a celebrity, the chances are that he will be pursued by a publisher. Once he has committed himself to doing a book, finding a collaborator is relatively easy. Sometimes the celebrity initiates the search for a publisher, perhaps because he has decided to go public with his life story or because he wishes to promote his career or practice or views. Here again, it’s relatively easy to assemble a collaborative deal, for the publisher is virtually sold on the book and doesn’t require convincing. The publisher can make a commitment with little prompting, assess the book’s value and sales potential, and work the collaborator’s fees into the project budget. Unless the celebrity already has a co-author, the publisher will usually contact literary agents and negotiate with them for their clients’ services as collaborators – assuming the subject-author and the collaborator hit it off together.
If the principal author is not a celebrity, however, it is much harder to find a collaborator, for a great deal of development must be done to interest publishers and make them feel the story is worth investing in. A writer must be found who is willing to sit down with the principal, interview him or her, and write an outline for prospective publishers. That in itself is no easy feat, for professional writers like to be paid for their time, and because in this case there is no guaranteed publication deal, the writer must do all this preparatory work on speculation. Of course, if the subject-author has money, he can be asked to pay for his collaborator’s time during the development period, usually on the condition that the first monies collected from a publishing deal go to reimburse the principal author. But if the latter cannot pay, the project could die right then and there unless the writer is so wildly enthusiastic about the book’s potential that he considers his time a good investment.
There is another way, and that’s for the principal author to interest a big-name writer in collaborating with him. For the big-name writer is a celebrity himself; presumably he has a following that will buy and read any book he sets his hand to. If this writer is enthusiastic about a story, however obscure, that’s often good enough for his publisher and a deal will be struck requiring relatively little presentation. But – famous writers are approached every day of the week by people who feel their story will make bestselling reading if only some big-name author will work with them on it. In short, if it’s not one helluva story, it had better be one helluva celebrity, or one helluva writer, writing it. (Or, I might add, one helluva literary agent selling it.)
What are the contractual arrangements in a collaboration? Well, when you talk about contracts, bear in mind that there are two kinds in a collaboration. One is the publishing contract; the other is the collaboration agreement. Depending on the nature of the project, sometimes the former comes first, sometimes the latter. If the book is already sold – a celebrity autobiography, say – the first contract drawn up would be the one with the publisher. Thereafter, when a co-author is found, a collaboration agreement would be drafted. But if the book requires the celebrity and the writer to spend several weeks together to work up a presentation for publishers, then the collaboration agreement would be the first document drawn up, the publishing agreement coming later when the book is sold.
Sometimes the terms of the collaboration can be worked into the publishing agreement, but I recommend a separate collaboration agreement because things often need to be worked out between collaborators that aren’t covered in publishing agreements. Publishing agreements define the collaborators’ joint obligation to their publisher, but they don’t define their obligations to each other.
In Part 2 of this article, we'll take a collaboration agreement apart.
Barnes & Noble Levels the E-Book Playing Field with Acquisition of Fictionwise
Back in December, after it moved a key executive into the position of Director of Digital Content, we speculated that Barnes & Noble might be contemplating a second assault on the ramparts of the e-book industry. Today the ramparts fell with the news that the retail giant has acquired Fictionwise, the world’s leading e-book retailer for $15.7 million.
With this single stroke, B&N comes roaring back into a business it abandoned in 2003. Of far greater significance is that B&N is now catapulted back onto a competitive footing with amazon.com in the all-important e-book arena. Though Barnes & Noble doesn’t boast a Kindle or any other proprietary e-book reader, there is a host of devices now available or soon to come on stream capable of carrying the immense body of e-book content that Fictionwise has aggregated.
Fictionwise’s multiformat feature enables subscribers to download books in such platforms as Adobe, Palm, Sony, iPhone and even Kindle itself. In January 2008, Fictionwise acquired eReader, the principal Palm-format etailer and reinforced the widely held view that it is the team to beat in the digital book major leagues.
Fictionwise was created in 2000 as a partnership between Steve Pendergrast and his brother Scott's Mindwise Media, LLC. They subsequently spun Fictionwise off. Starting modestly with digital reprints of science fiction short stories, it was not long before its cutting edge e-book delivery system, brilliant metrics, and author- and fan-friendly business model attracted authors, publishers and other content providers. Today it sells thousands of e-book titles for nearly five hundred publishers including E-Reads. The Pendergasts will continue operating the website for the parent company.
Asked what he thought of the B&N/Fictionwise marriage, one executive pronounced it "Electrifying! It changes everything."
I often ponder the role played by luck in the fates of books and authors. Are some authors luckier than others? Are there lucky breaks for writers, the literary equivalent of the understudy who replaces a lead actor in a show and becomes a star overnight? Do we make our own luck? Can good luck be bought or manipulated? Can bad luck be avoided? Are some of us simply, to use the poignant Yiddish word, schlimazels, those hapless folks who always seem to be standing under the flowerpot when it falls from a windowsill?
Our natural egotism rejects the notion that our successes or failures are the products of random and indiscriminate accidents. This may be particularly true for writers, not (just) because they possess an excessive supply of egotism, but because as intellectuals it is their task to rationalize their world, and the only way to do that is to start with some assumptions about human beings' control over their destinies. What, after all, is fiction but the depiction of human heroes and heroines employing their wit, skill, strength, and other resources to defeat antagonists and overcome adversity? What would become of our fiction if the protagonists' achievements were portrayed as nothing more than lucky?
As we know, the road to publication is mined with perils. It takes intelligence, determination and fortitude to avoid or conquer them. Yet, in my experience there is no guarantee that these virtues will prevail in the writing game. Indeed, there's no guarantee that the most important asset of all, talent, will emerge victorious, at least not without a little assistance from good fortune. For while writing is certainly a solitary occupation, publishing is a social enterprise involving scores of critical processes performed by numerous individuals, many of whom possess considerably less enthusiasm for the product than the author does. And beyond the mechanics of publication and distribution are processes of a magnitude and complexity impossible to reckon, including trends and fads that are no more predictable than the course of a cyclone.
Any attempt to grasp this principle leaves us wondering how any books at all ever manage to succeed with so many hostile factors militating against them. Indeed, though I have handled many successful books in my career, I can recall only a handful that behaved in a way that might be described as an agent's dream, that is, were textbook case histories of books that performed precisely the way they were supposed to if everybody did his or her job. For me, the perfect publishing experience is a unicorn, glimpsed in my fantasies but seldom bridled.
There was the Vietnam War novel that I sold to the perfect editor at the perfect publisher, which went on to do a great job of publication, eliciting dream reviews and sensational sales. At every step of the way I rubbed my eyes with astonishment and kept wondering when something would go wrong. Fortunately, it never did. The book went on to become not just a bestseller, but a backlist staple that continued to earn solid royalties year after year.
I am of course happy to take my share of the credit for the success of this book, and I'm sure that that success was created in some measure by my enthusiasm, commitment, and effort. But, looking back, I realize that Lady Luck influenced that book's destiny far more than I did, for there were numerous moments when disaster could have struck but was averted, as if the book were defended by an invisible shield. For example, some months before publication, the three principal editors who had acquired and sponsored the novel quit or were fired, leaving the book in danger of having no champion at the publisher to guide it through the hazards of publication. Providence intervened, however, in the form of a key executive in the sales department who happened to be a veteran of Vietnam and stepped into the role of protector.
Similar threats arose to imperil the book after that, yet it seemed to be under a star. Perhaps the same star that brought it to me in the first place, for I have speculated on what fate might have befallen it had it been offered to an agent who didn't love it as much as I did, or if I had submitted it to a less suitable publisher.
In another instance, a writer submitted a police thriller to our agency. The format was awful: he had typed his book single-spaced on canary yellow paper, then bound the manuscript so tightly you needed a crowbar to read the left side of every page. In addition, the writer had not queried us before sending his book, but simply submitted his big fat manuscript unsolicited. The book seemed to be begging for rejection. But the first page or two arrested the attention of the assistant who took it out of its mailer, and he showed it to me. I was predisposed to dislike it, particularly the single-spaced aspect, for an agent's eyes are his most precious tool and this manuscript would have triggered a migraine headache by the third chapter. But I too liked the first few pages. "If he wants to retype the whole damn thing double-spaced, I'll look at it," I growled at my young colleague. I figured it would be three months before I saw the book again, if ever. It showed up on my desk two days later. I hadn't reckoned on the formatting capabilities of what were at that time newfangled gadgets called word processors. It turned out to be a marvelous read, and I sold it for quite a lot of money to a hardcover publisher, which sold it for twice that much to a paperback reprinter. Foreign and movie deals followed in quick order. But I wonder what would have happened if my assistant hadn't persisted. The book may well never have seen the light of day.
If a book is the bearer of bad karma, even the most hardworking author, enthusiastic agent, and committed publisher may not be able to overcome what appear to be the machinations of evil spirits. Editors leave their companies, abandoning books at critical moments; publishers are sold or acquired, playing havoc with books making their way toward the light of day; competitive books pop up out of nowhere to steal the limelight from what was expected to be a surefire bestseller; production snafus create fatal delays, putting books in stores too late to sell when they were intended to; trends veer off in unexpected directions, leaving great books stranded on the caprices of popular taste.
We are not talking about bad publishing, or wrong decision making, or poor judgment. We're simply talking about fate, the things that can happen to books when all of the gods watching over them happen to be named Murphy.
A few years ago my agency handled a business book by one of America's most prominent moguls. It had everything going for it and I'd have bet the store that nothing could stand in the way of this baby hitting the bestseller list and staying there a good long time. Another baron of industry had brought out a book of his own a short while before my guy's, however. That man's name was Lee Iacocca, and his autobiography was nothing short of the biggest hardcover bestseller in publishing history to that time, a book whose sales, heaven help the author, challenged those of the Bible itself. And although our book performed respectably by ordinary standards, it was utterly eclipsed by Iacocca's.
You might think that bad luck can be warded off by the expenditure of a lot of money, by researching the competition, by taking every precaution to produce the book competently, position it shrewdly, promote it vigorously, and sell it enthusiastically. It just isn't so. Fickle Fortune's finger taps any book, any author its whims designate. Even one superstar author, it was rumored, became upset when she learned her latest blockbuster was pitted in the same month against another author's latest blockbuster, threatening that guaranteed Number One bestseller position she had come to assume was her right. And who can blame her for making that assumption, considering the millions spent on acquiring and publishing her books? Yet, all that money couldn't control another publisher's schedule.
I've had similarly sad experiences with a few books. A beauty book by a leading figure in the cosmetics world should have had it made with a committed publisher, a strong advertising and promotion campaign, the whole bit. But it was published at the tail end of a beauty book trend in which the laurels had all been awarded to the likes of Jane Fonda, Victoria Principal, and Adrienne Arpel. The buyers were just not there, and there was nothing anybody could do about it. In another instance, a publisher paid a ton of money for a medical book we were handling. A little while later, that publisher acquired another author whose popular books on medical subjects almost invariably went to the top of the bestseller lists. There was clearly a conflict of interest here, and when it became obvious that my client's book was going to be on the losing end of that conflict, I protested and pulled the book from the publisher. It was clear that the publisher was prepared to sacrifice all that money paid to my client in order to land an even bigger author.
And I remember a show-business client of mine who had written a beautiful novel. After I sold it, the publisher invited him in to chat about promotion. At the meeting, the author boasted he could furnish plugs from just about any celebrity they could name. The promotion people's eyes lit up. "Great!" they gasped. And, true to his word, he brought in a sheaf of star endorsements an inch thick. There was scarcely enough room in the ads to fit them all.
And how did his book fare?
Don't ask.
It's one thing for a single book to flop because of bad luck. Most of us pick ourselves up, dismiss the experience philosophically, contemptuously, or humorously, and get on with our lives. It's quite another matter when one's entire career comes to grief, when unforeseen calamities befall book after book, crushing the author under the burden of misfortune. We know that there are winners and losers in the writing game - as there are in every other, but it is impossible to be philosophical or good humored when, over a stretch of time and a string of good books, everything goes wrong - and goes wrong consistently. How many of you can identify with the author who had seven or eight books published and for not a single one did the editor who'd acquired it remain at the company long enough to see it published?
And there is more than one soul staggering around shell-shocked after seeing his or her first book crushed by a corporate takeover, the second sucked into the maelstrom of its publisher's bankruptcy, a third shut out of the stores in the Christmas sales season because a production snafu delayed publication by two months; and a fourth, fifth, and sixth orphaned after their editors quit their jobs or got the sack. Fires and floods in the warehouse, presidential assassinations, newspaper strikes - you name it, it's befallen these unfortunate souls.
Literary agents exist to even the odds against malevolent providence. We cannot, of course, prevent such calamities, but we may be able to help our clients avoid them, or rescue them before it's too late. If I've heard a rumor that a publisher may be up for sale, I am certainly not going to submit anything there until the situation stabilizes. And, on a more routine level, we try to locate the editor who will do best by a book, to push for promotional campaigns, to make sure our clients' books are scheduled for the most appropriate season, to reintroduce books to editors who have replaced those who originally acquired the properties. In short, we can maneuver our authors into the best possible positions to take advantage of good luck and evade bad.
We are certainly not deities, however, and we are still dependent to a good degree on luck. Years ago I launched an author's career when I sold her book to an editor who was so compatible with her that it seemed he had been put on earth specifically to minister to her work. One December day, just before the holidays, the author visited my office and presented me with a bottle of champagne. "This," she declared, "is for your brilliance in selecting the perfect editor for me." Modestly, I lowered my eyes. How would she feel, I wondered, if she knew the truth: that on the day I'd sold her first novel, I had called six or eight editors I thought were more appropriate. They were all on vacation, ill, or too busy to come to the phone, and one was simply in the ladies' room. The "perfect" editor I had so presciently selected had actually been way down at the bottom of my list! I decided not to tell my client. A magician never reveals his secrets, and besides, I like champagne.
I could tell countless more stories about agents who just happened to be in the right place at the right time. The point is simply that success isn't everything we crack it up to be. Good luck plays a tremendous part, and though the most successful businesspeople are those who are best prepared to deal with fortunate coincidences, and who place themselves in the best position for lucky breaks to happen to them, nobody has the advantage over anybody else in making the coin land "heads" six times in a row.
But it's a strange thing about luck. The lucky look back and see one or two incredibly fortunate accidents, godsends as it were. The unlucky look back and see a conspiracy of evil forces that seemed to stalk them deliberately and maliciously. And perhaps that is how those who have lost in this nasty game may console themselves. There are so many good writers who have not made it, talented and industrious people whose careers don't deserve to perish, who have done everything necessary to win, yet still they fail. Perhaps, instead of blaming themselves or immolating themselves in guilt, they can hold their heads up and say, "I had some hard luck."
Penetrating the Mysteries of E-Book Pricing. Kind of.
The e-book industry was officially launched at a government-sponsored conference in 1998. Starry-eyed dreamers, technical pioneers, entrepreneurs, geeks and curious publishers convened with the evangelical fervor of a tent meeting. Bliss it was in that dawn to be in the e-book business, and the wave of zeal generated predictions of the end of printed books.
Alas, some hard realities set in soon afterward. Copyright issues, technical problems, muddled business models and a lack of standards hindered momentum for almost ten years. Though the industry grew at a steady double-digit rate in spite of these problems and has at last broken out, it took a decade to mature, and that's a decade longer than most of us anticipated.
One of the problems that compromised progress was e-book pricing. No one really knew how much to charge to download a book. And the fact is, we're still not sure. If you survey prices on various publisher and etail sites you will readily see that list prices are all over the place. A quick foray onto the website of Fictionwise, the world's foremost book etailer, shows Janet Evanovich's The Grand Finale e-book listing at $14.99 (discounted by Fictionwise to $12.74 for its Club members).Temptation and Surrender by Stephanie Laurens sells for $25.99 ($22.09 Club price). The Demon's Librarian, a paranormal romance by Lilith Saintcrow, sells for $5.95 and $5.06 respectively.
As in every other business enterprise there are two schools of pricing merchandise. One is to set a target profit and peg the price to meet that target. The other is to gain an advantage over competitors by undercutting them, reducing profit to the thinnest possible margin. That easily explains the range of list prices from roughly $3.00 to $10.00. It doesn't however account for e-books listing for $20.00 or more. We'll examine that in a moment.
In an attempt to bring discipline to e-book pricing and do for books what Apple did for music (at least, for whole albums) via the iPod, Amazon has strongly prescribed a $9.99 cap for books carried on the Kindle. But an analysis of list prices of Kindle titles, described in a blog headlined "Paid Is a Lot More Complicated than You Think--So Is the Truth"*, reveals the following:
"Using two different methods for checking Kindle price data in Amazon's system, we find that roughly 30 percent of the 240,000 or so Kindle titles sell for more than $9.99 (and well over 20 percent sell for more than $20).
Yes, approximately 33,000 titles sell for around the magic $9.99--but about 13,000 titles sell for between $10 and $20. Here's is one slice of approximate numbers for the four most popular price bands:
1. $20.01 and up: 55,750 2. $10.00 and $9.01: 33,000 3. $4.00 and $3.01: 25,500 4. $8.00 and $7.01: 20,750"
The writer goes on to point out that “There are more than 7,000 free books, and another 28,000 or so titles that sell for $2 or less.”He or she goes on to say,
"Now take a look just at their hourly bestseller list, as we have done both yesterday and today. As of one slice this morning, two of the top three Kindle books (and 18 of the top 100) are free.
But the No. 4 title sells for more than the magic $9.99--Breaking Dawn, by Stephenie Meyer, at $11.38. (The print version, at No. 2 on Amazon's overall list, sells at discount for $12.64.) The Sony eBookstore sells it for $11.99 and the iPhone app version sells for $19.99.
In all, 16 titles on the top 100 are selling for more than $9.99. Some of those are pre-orders of books by the likes of Jodi Picoult, selling now at $15.37 even though presumably those books would sell for less once they are available and hit the NYT list."
A $15.00 or $20.00+ price for an e-book seems counterintuitive, but don't worry, your intuition is quite sound. We know (and appreciate) that there are diehard fans so desperate to read a new book by their favorite author that they're ready to shell out as much for a download as they would pay for the hardcover in a bookstore or on amazon.com, maybe even more. But it's safe to say that most readers and fans feel that, confronted with a choice of paying $25.00 for either an e-book or a hard copy of the same book, they will elect the version that they can put on their bookshelf when they're finished with it.
What's behind that high list price for so many e-books has to do with a stubborn fact of book publishing life. The business model of traditional publishers like Random House, Simon & Schuster and Penguin, is built around printed books. The profit to be made on a successful “book-book’ is at this time far greater than that made on an e-book.Furthermore, publishers employ sales representatives who earn commissions on sales of printed books; they do not earn anything on e-book sales.
It stands to reason, then, that from the viewpoint of a publisher and its sales reps, a low e-book price will cannibalize the profit made on sale of the higher priced print edition, and deprive the sales reps of their commissions.To bring the e-book profit up to parity with that of the print book, publishers must bring the e-book list price up to parity with that of the print book as well. That explains why Temptation and Surrender, the Stephanie Laurens novel selling in e-book for 25.99, is being sold for the very same price in hardcover on amazon.com. When a hardcover edition goes out of print and a cheaper paperback is issued, the publisher will in all likelihood lower the e-book price to maintain that same parity. (And there are mystifying anomalies. The Grand Finale, the Evanovich novel mentioned above that sells for $14.99 in e-book format, can be purchased in mass market paperback for $7.99!)
If your intuition tells you that this brick and mortar mentality is a significant reason why it’s taken so long for the e-book business to prosper – well, again, you’re absolutely correct.Whether the problem can be remedied is hard to say.Traditional publishers are traditional for a good reason.Newer entries into the e-book publishing field are not hampered by the same considerations as the Simon & Schusters of the world, and price their wares without concern about cannibalizing themselves or keeping commissioned sales representatives happy.On the other hand, traditional publishers enjoy distribution advantages that are the envy of every e-book startup.
So – you pays yer money and you takes yer choice.
Our anonymous blogger also raises a cogent point about Kindle pricing: though the price of an e-book purchased on the device may be discounted, you have to build in the price of the Kindle itself in order to ascertain the true cost of the downloaded book:
Logically speaking, the overall save-money-by-buying-a-Kindle argument is also specious for most consumers; as others have pointed out, if you save an average of $7.50 a book--supposed Kindle price of a new hardcover versus discounted Amazon print price--you need to buy at least 50 books or so before recovering the purchase price of the device. Yet it's clearly one factor in the purchase decision by many Kindle owners.
Which brings us back to the “Gillette Razor” solution we’ve championed in these pages.The inventor of the modern razor shrewdly observed that the most effective strategy to boost his product was to give away the razor and sell the blades.Giving away the e-reader and selling the books might be just the rocket boost the e-book industry needs to send it into the stratosphere.
Richard Curtis
*(Apologies to the unnamed author of this survey, which was emailed to me by a friend without a link to the source. In a rare failure of Google search capabilities I was unable to ascertain the blog's author. If the author happens to read this, sir or madame, please identify yourself so that I can accord you well deserved recognition!)
Everybody needs approval, but nobody needs it more than authors: approval of editorial alterations of manuscripts; approval of cover art and copy; approval over reprint, book-club, and foreign licenses; approval of titles, ad texts, and more.
Back in December, after it moved a key executive into the position of Director of Digital Content, we 
