Yes, this week in publishing on a Thursday. This afternoon I’m headed to the Pike’s Peak Writers Conference, and I’m looking forward to meeting some of you there!
Also, a plea for my e-mail subscribers: I really want to hear from you (I do) but please please please don’t e-mail me your responses to blog topics. That’s what the blog is for. Those e-mails go to my work e-mail account, and I really need to keep my Inbox clear for work. If you’d like to weigh in and join the conversation, please click the title of the post in the e-mail, which will take you directly to my blog.
If you scroll down to the very bottom of the page that opens up when you click the blog title, you’ll see a link that says “Post a Comment.” Click that.
Then enter your comment in the window and sign in to your Google (or other) account or click the Anonymous bubble to leave a comment as anonymous. Don’t forget to enter the word verification (in this case “beerpas” — which is kind of awesome), and then click Publish Your Comment:
If you have trouble: please consult the nearest teenager. Everyone who has already e-mailed comments officially gets amnesty, but from here on out I might have to unsubscribe repeat offenders.
Is is okay to e-mail me questions about publishing or your project provided that you first check the FAQs to see if your answer is there. I regret that I’m not able to answer every question.
Cool? Cool.
Now then! Onto the week in publishing.
First up: who wants a free printer? I see a lot of hands. My good friend Holly Burns is currently giving away a free HP Photosmart printer on her blog. You just have to leave a comment about why you want it. It’s that easy. (US residents only. Sorry furranners!)
Allison Brennan was extremely kind to include her query in the Be An Agent for a Day challenge, and this week she blogged about the experience and the odd (and not so odd) reasons why some agents for a day rejected her query.
Dan Brown’s new novel is dropping in September with a ridonkulously huge 5 million copy first printing.
Lynn Viehl was awesome enough to post her most recent royalty statement online, meaning you too can attempt to make sense of a document so confusing it may as well be written in Sanskrit. Luckily, agent translators are standing by. (I kid, Penguin. Your statements aren’t too bad. Your contracts, on the other hand, should be sent with a free magnifying glass).
Innovating editor Jon Karp of Twelve recently wrote a PW article with twelve (of course) recommendations for the publishing industry, including ending Kabuki publishing and putting out much fewer books. Dan Menaker posted a hilarious response with his own suggestions (sample: 2. No more landscape- or seascape-only cover images.) , and G.B.H. Hornswoggler (aka Andrew Wheeler) weighed in a bit more seriously. He’s less sanguine than Jon about the public’s supposed disdain for books like other books, and worries about the effects of massive downsizing on reader selection. (via Other Lisa’s Twitter feed, via lots of other @people)
Speaking of innovation, bestselling author David Hewson posted a seriously awesome article about the hypothetical possibility of an author self-publishing collective loosely based on the old actor-led movie studio United Artists. David knows there are some details still to be worked out, but folks, this is likely what at least part of the future will look like. (And yes, he notes that agents will still be important, although in a slightly different role). Via MJ Rose.
Ever wondered about the difference between galleys (bound and early designed) and ARCs? Ms. Sally Spitfire is here to help.
And finally, friend of the blog Conduit/Stuart Neville just released an awesome trailer for his novel THE GHOSTS OF BELFAST/THE TWELVE:
Have a good weekend! Colorado, here I come!
Re: United Authors
I have a feeling the negatives would outweigh the positives of this model, although I like the idea theoretically. But what I want to see is some model (no idea what it would look like) in which:
a) writers get to be writers, not business people, not marketers; and
b) good writers get to make a living from writing.
As it stands now, authors are increasingly expected to do more and more of what used to be the publisher’s job, but they are not getting a bigger piece of the pie. In fact, of all the people involved in the publishing process, writers are the only ones who (in the vast majority of cases) cannot make a living from their contribution. And the writers are the ones without whom the industry would not exist!
One can adduce all kinds of reasons this situation is inevitable, but fair it is not.
Excellent blog, Nathan, I forward it to everyone, including my own agent. I’m de-lurking for just a moment to suggest that you add a Share button so your readers can post entries they like to their Facebook et al pages. Thanks!
Laurel, I’ve said this before, and I’ll say it again:
I’m never wrong. I can’t help it if the truth changes all the time.
Kate H. – I could not agree more! Very eloquent – thank you!
Although I’m not sure how much the publishing industry care that the system is not fair to writers. I do think the paradigm will shift with e-publishing, and writers will have a chance to take their power back.
The idea of a collective is a part of that shift, I think.
Wanda – I’m sorry maybe I’m confused.
The first two of the twelve I read was: “no more kabuki theatre” and “prioritize and specialize.”
Are we reading different articles?
The main reason I thought Jon Karp’s article represented him as a dodo head is it’s mostly about saving money, and not about making money. Also, there are parts of it that are exploitive and short-sighted.
Just my opinion.
Oh. Wait. Are you talking about Twelve’s mission statement?
Oh. Well, I haven’t read their mission statement. I’m sure it’s a very nice mission statement.
I have no experience of twelve as a company. I was talking about Jon Karp’s (mostly) dodo head ideas.
If you think I’m bad, calling industry players ‘dodo heads’ you should meet Troubadour.
He’s the Character of the Week at Come In Character.
He’s evil and sucks souls.
On the other hand, I doubt he’s ever called anyone a ‘dodo head.’ I guess there are lines that even he won’t cross.
Come meet him, if you dare:
Come In Character: Character of the Week: Troubadour
Hey. Do you think Jon Karp reads this blog?
I just realized I may not be anonymously posting in some remote corner of the universe, and maybe he would see this, and I’m being mean.
Not that he should care what some remote person who not only isn’t published but hasn’t written a darn thing thinks….but still.
I’m sorry.
Okay. Never mind. I’m going back to the idea that he is probably a really nice person who is trying to find complex solutions to complicated problems. He’s not a dodo head.
I take it back.
laurie-
I wouldn’t pay the fee in order to get the manuscript in front of the agent (you could do that for free by querying) but only if you really and truly want the feedback. Other writers who have had critiques at conferences would probably be better at weighing in on whether they thought it was worth it.
Okay, I’m talking too much here. I’ll be quiet for awhile.
But Wanda – I get so caught up, I forget I’m talking to a friend.
I’m glad Twelve has been good to you! You deserve to have a good company to work with.
dana-
Thanks for the suggestion on the Facebook button. I made the change, it should start showing up soon.
This is a test run. My last comment didn’t show up where it should have….did I screw up and harass Nathan at his email account? Really, this is stupidly easy and I am not stupid. I hope.
It worked! So where the hell did my other comment go?
I would like to know anyone’s take on whether conferences are helpful in getting a request and/or agent.
Please let me know if there is a post that discusses this.
Nathan-
I wanted to let you know that I referenced your blog in my blog.
https://michellereynoso.blogspot.com/2009/04/getting-inside-agents-mind.html
Michelle Reynoso
writing and photography
http://www.MichelleReynoso.com
http://www.michellereynoso.blogstpot.com
Great trailer!
SIB’s, I LOVE it. 🙂
I predict that someday, YOU will be Twelve’s dream author.
By the way, since you are all my very close friends, and this site is so quiet, I will now share with you that at 1:30 a.m yesterday, I opened a letter that officially accepted me to Grad school.
Yea! Happy, happy, happy.
Forum game today at Come In CharacterI know you guys aren’t doing anything. You’re just staring at the computer screen hoping someone will post.
So, why not come over and play?
Mira said:
“By the way, since you are all my very close friends, and this site is so quiet, I will now share with you that at 1:30 a.m yesterday, I opened a letter that officially accepted me to Grad school.”
Yaaaaaay, Mira! Congratulations!!
Hey Mira – I’m as proud as a proud thing for your achievement – good luck in the Grad school!
ECHO-echo-cho-co-co-o-o-o!
Congrats Mira!
@ Wanda
“It’s interesting (to me at least) the relationship between Tampax and women who write/make art about menstruation…and how that ends up being presented to the general public in their advertising…even though it’s about menstruation, the whole thing has a bit of a…Cheneyian (is that a word?) feel to it…and I turn, become a “Voldemortian” figure, she-who-shall-not-be-named (with a nod to Rowling)…you have no idea what I’m talking about, do you? Didn’t think so.”What are you talking about?
Keep in mind I know nothing about ‘Tampax,’ ‘women who write/make art about menstruation,’ or how that relates to Dick Cheney.
Marilyn, Elaine and Purple Clover,
Thanks, guys! You’re the best.
🙂
Mira,
Cute pic! Congrats. Feed your hungry brain!
Laurel and Wanda, thanks too! I like having SIBs. 🙂
I highly recommend getting accepted to college. Yesterday, I noticed small changes through out the day. For example, I was suddenly smarter. People were nicer. The sunshine was brighter. Cars got out of my way on the freeway. Little birds sang when I walked by. I’m not postive, but I think I saw the faires doing a rainbow dance in my honor.
Who knew?
Boy, if this is what happens just being accepted, I may not even bother actually going.
Whered had my grammer fairies got to?
Oh Wanda, thanks for the advice. I’ll keep it in mind.
But honestly, I’m not too worried about someone getting in my head. I have a pretty full head. Be hard to fit someone else in there. 🙂
Wanda –
My post above sounded harsher than I intended (after reading it again).
My suggestion is if you want to be a spokesperson and write books for a company consider dropping the TSS from any mention and consider a new company — Playtex, for instance. Tampax may have you on their “avoid” list already. The great thing about Playtex is they are more family friendly so you could get more opportunities for future writes. More exposure. Plus if Tampax has a spokesperson…maybe that would be a great pitch for Playtex. 🙂
Maybe you’re the next “it” they’re looking for.
Just a suggestion. Unless I’ve totally confused myself with the intent of your comments.
And Nathan –
Us Pavlonian dogs are waiting for the bell.
Just sayin…
Sycophancy? That wasn’t an album by the Police?
I noticed that you are very receptive to query letters. How many query letters do you receive daily? Do you really have time to read them all?
PurpleClover:
I have found writers’ conferences helpful in meeting agents. Sometimes you can get an agent’s attention in person whereas if you sent a query in the usual way it might not get past their assistant. But do your homework beforehand and make sure the agents who will be at the conference are really agents who might be interested in your work and whom you really want to work with.
If you do get agent interest at a conference, don’t let your hopes soar too stratospherically. On more than once occasion, I’ve had strong interest expressed and still not had the deal ultimately go through. In one case, the agent suggested a revision, then left the industry before I could get her the revised manuscript!
Thanks Kate,
That seems to be the response I’m getting is that if you are looking to get noticed in the slush, conferences can be a great opportunity. But I haven’t seen stats or numbers (I’m a numbers kind of gal).
Anyone with a powerpoint? 😉 kidding!
(no but seriously…if you do CALL ME!)
Nathan,
I read the United Authors blog post you listed (and thank you very much for pointing to it – very good analysis), and I have a question for you.
What would you do if you received a query from a debut writer, it looked very strong, you fell in love with the manuscript, got in touch with the author to talk about representation, and they floated this to you: “I’d like to represent myself to publishers/self-publish for print and ebooks (and btw here’s my marketing plan and editorial resources), but I’d like your representation for foreign distribution, tv and film.”
According to the blog post, this is the way of the future, but would any agent be ready to go for that? It seems the business model would be difficult to manage in the transition while the agent still had their hands full with clients under more conventional terms.
TIA for any thoughts you have on this.
Hi, Nathan,
Haven’t see you for a while.
I knew you and your readers wouldn’t want to miss this article.
https://www.thebookseller.com/blogs/84214-dead-men-walking.html
You might also want to encourage your readers to listen to Litopia Daily podcasts next week in which, if I’m not mistaken, your name actually comes up.
https://podcast.litopia.com/
Have a great weekend!
Mary (aka The Militant Writer)
Mea Culpa…I was energized by the invitation and just hit reply.
Until your note, I wasn't even aware I had done it. Thanks for reminding me.
test
Hi Nathan,
I hate to bother you, but I can't post to the contest thread. It says that posts were stopped by an administrator.
Sue
No dispespect to those who HAVE self published, but Faulkner, Hemmingway, Stienbeck and Melville didn't self publish. We know their names because literary giants put their work in a place where it COULD be seen and accessed readily by the general public.
We are slowly becoming a society of the illiterate. The only way to become huge in publishing nowadays is either to be a celebrity or be the latest favorite of Oprah Winfrey's book club.
Those who self publish unless they have unlimited resources or trust funds are doomed to obscurity or the obligatory 12 copies of their novel that their mothers buy. I've said my piece, and if you give a damn read my blog.
I walked up the stairs, slowly. I looked at the blanket laid out and thought of the Mad Hatter’s tea party. I watched as he went through the preparations with a dogged sense of purpose. He counted out and examined half a dozen mud-coloured moths, pulling their wings apart and smelling them. He placed them in the cup of the thermos and then poured boiling water over them, explaining that it was like making tea. ‘The longer they steep, the stronger the brew.’ I never drank tea. I checked my watch to be safe. I would give it five minutes.
‘Not long now.’ He swirled his finger into the mud-coloured water as the moths floated on the surface. ‘I’ll throw these out in a second and then we can drink it.’ He looked into the cup’s muddy depths. ‘You can see the sediment sink to the bottom of the cup. Just about—’
I couldn’t restrain myself any longer. I burst out with, ‘Why are you doing this?’
He looked at me sideways. ‘Because I enjoy it. It’s a full-body experience. Face it, April, how could you really love butterflies and moths without actually trying one?’
I nodded as though I understood. Henry had a point. His rebuff implied that I wasn’t a real lepidopterist if I wasn’t prepared to eat one.
‘Ready?’
I nodded, taking the cup from his hand, blowing on its steaming surface. The smell was familiar, something like honeyed tea. I raised the cup to my lips and tasted the muddy drink, gagging with disgust. The flavour was worse than I thought possible, reminding me of medicinal herbs. I sipped the gritty water, closing my eyes as I swallowed. I gulped six mouthfuls and handed the cup back to Henry.
‘Give it ten to twelve minutes and we’ll know what kind of moths we have.’
Still speechless, I stared at him. I’d finally done something unpredictable, something I had no control over. I watched as he wrapped his lips around the white rim of the cup, slurping on its chewy plastic. He drained the remainder of the tea and when he had finished he wiped his sleeve across his mouth. But the action appeared to be magnified. Was it really working as quickly as that?
From where we sat at the top of the stairs I could see the whole property, how it stretched out to the sea in a sprawling green mass. A map would never do it justice; it would never convey the property’s depth, its height, its creepiness. Nor could it speak of the forest’s manic growth. I sighed and leant back against the cottage, sliding toward Henry.
‘Are you all right?’
I ran my tongue over my lips; they felt fuzzy and fat. A wave of intense nausea inched up my throat and I swallowed over a bulk that threatened to explode from me. In slow motion, I reached for the bottle of water, drinking half it in one thirsty gulp.
Robert stepped around the Nissan’s raised hood to where Yvonne had collapsed in the dirt, cigarettes and purse contents scattered, visible in the light of the security lamp overhead.
“Oh god,” she whimpered.
He opened the passenger door. “Get up. Get in the car.”
She scrabbled around, gathered her things and hurried into the front seat, one shoe in hand.
“You stay put. I mean it.”
She nodded, eyes big, mouth pinched. He shut her door and went back to the front of the car. The man on the ground moaned, sobbing above the noise of the music and the dogfight crowd back in the courtyard.
Robert held the negative cable clamp in place, then, with one quick blow, hammered it onto the battery terminal with the bolt cutter. The headlights came on, quick-flashing as the alarm began to cycle in short blasts—whoop whoop whoop.
He had hardly dropped the hood shut and positioned himself at the corner of the building when two men came charging out through the beaded curtain. They ran around the truck, then plowed to a stop before the man moaning on the ground. They squinted at Yvonne in the Nissan’s passenger seat, then one of them spotted Robert in the shadows.
“¡Ay, chinga!” the man cried, and the two almost ran over each other, hurrying back inside.
In the same moment, several men came running out of the rear courtyard’s side entrance. They raced forward, grabbing at the burros' halters, trying to calm them. Helmut plunged out, dodging past the men and the burros. Ana ran limping close on his heels.
Helmut came to a stop when he saw Yvonne’s startled face staring at him through the passenger window. Ana stopped too, her expression changing to shock as Robert raced past her with the bolt cutter. She cried out and Helmut spun around, pulling a small automatic from the knapsack. Robert swung the bolt cutter as Helmut fired. The bullet whanged against the cutter, and the two of them went down in a tangle of arms and legs. Helmut, fingers bloodied, lost his grip on the gun, but Robert held on to the bolt cutter, struggling to get it over his head for leverage. Ana grabbed the pistol out of the dirt and shoved the muzzle against his temple.
“Stop!” she screamed, shaking so badly he thought she would shoot him accidentally if not on purpose. He let go his grip on Helmut and stepped back, huffing for breath. Helmut charged him. Robert stepped aside, stuck his foot out and jerked Helmut forward by his shirtfront so that Helmut tripped headlong into the dirt. Robert raised the bolt cutter just as Ana fired the automatic. The bullet hit the building behind and sang off into the night. The dogs and burros, already made frantic with the car honking and the headlights flashing, panicked further, the burros dragging their cinderblock anchors among the pickups and trucks, the men diving behind whichever vehicle was handiest.
J. R. Jones
jjones143@austin.rr.com
512 836-5699
(novel excerpt)
The gecko seemed to never tire, crawling over the florescent orange paint . My sleep deprived eyes followed the gecko unable to sleep, the ceiling fan wobbling side-to-side, stirring the hot air. I lay full of fear, sweating profusely unable to rest.
A quiet tapping on my door produced a hard knocking in my chest as my heart beat against the prison of my bones, instantly awakening me. I crept slowly to the window, the gecko now watching me, I peered outside.
"Mr Mickey Stone, sorry to bother you," Miss Lily said.
I tried to silence the pounding of my heart.
One moment, Miss Lily, I'll be right there," I managed to cry out.
Miss Lily the owner of the Baan Thai house stood smiling all 4'10" of her.
An almost imperceptable curtsy bow, hands pressed together she said,"Sa-wut-dee krup, Mr Mickey. I so sorry to bother you but two men were here asking for you."
I nervously bowed back, "Sa-wut-dee kha, Miss Lily," I managed to utter.
"Do you know who they were or did they leave a message" I asked looking nervously in the hallway.
" No Mr Mickey, I do not know. They waited and watched the house for some time."
Each evening, the centre of Chiang Mai comes alive as a night market and bazaar. Stalls are squeezed in side-by-side in front of local shops and restaurants. Shoppers are followed by insistent Karen hill tribe people selling their colourful handicraft souvenirs, antiques and fake Rolex watches. The smells of local cuisine cooking out on the streets, mingling magically with the colors and dialects of the people, as the street goes on and on. Foot and body massage parlors scattered up and down the street.
A Starbucks across the street caught my eye and I wandered over for a cup of dark roast black.
That was my first mistake and the beginning of a nightmare that would forever change me.
I turned to leave sipping cautiously."
"Chwy chun ka!" A beautiful young Thai woman grabbed my arm, tugging on my shirt."Chwy chun ka", she whispered afraid and trembling.
My coffee scalded me as three Thai men grabbed the young woman pushing me to the ground and glaring intently at me.
I rushed nervously away glancing over my shoulder, seeing her fighting, kicking,her screams drowned out by the sounds of the night market. The men's hands rushing over her body, searching her, throwing her to the ground. I saw them look at me finding me in the crowd and come towards me.
I jumped into a tuk-tuk screaming at the driver, "Go, Go!". After a few blocks I threw 10 bahts at him and ran down a side street. Hunched over gasping for breath, I saw a cigarette lit, a lone man, walking slowly my direction. Paranoia swept over me I dared not breath as the man approached.
"Sa-wut-dee krup" the ancient man uttered through a cavity filled mouth. I could not respond except to nod my head.
Larry Wilburn
1623 Kidd Rd.
Jonesboro, Ga. 30236
hallievp@aol.com
Vic was an exceptional vampire. He’d acclimated himself in a very short time, discovered his new powers and utilized them to facilitate his kills. It was as if he’d been a vampire-in-waiting all of his human life, and now he was finally free. The cemetery worker was the 28th murder victim and Vic had only been a vampire for 48 hours.
His salty scent was everywhere. I morphed into bat form and followed it; my body tensed for action, my incisors aching. The scent of Vic was getting stronger, filling my compact body and providing direction to my flight. I skimmed the roads, flying through alleys and side streets at sonic speed until I hit a wall of blood.
Victor was below me, his blond hair blowing in the wind, his incisors bared and dripping blood. The body of his latest victim was a lifeless heap. He sniffed the air, scenting me.
Vic transformed into a bat faster than I knew was possible for a vampire his age. We were suddenly hurtling through the streets, Vic executing hairpin turns. He was incredibly fast. He turned towards the steel smelting section of town. The place shone with hot, stinking brilliance, electric lights punctuating the darkness as smelters glowed hot red. We swooped through the metallic air.
Whizzing around an enormous smokestack, Vic disappeared from view. I followed the tight round corners until I sighted Vic, hurtling towards an open door. I followed. The hot air enveloped us as we sped through the smelting facility. To our left, a huge vat of boiling liquid steel was being hoisted and poured into a line of molds, orange sparks flying in an arch of glistening heat. Vic spun around the vat, circled and zoomed past me. I turned, followed him outside, bursting into the night.
I scanned the glowing world, then Vic smashed into me at sonic speed and down we went, spinning into a sea of hot steel. I lengthened my wings; controlling the speed of descent as I watched Vic spin, spin out of control. He obviously hadn’t discovered the trick of shifting shape in motion. He smashed into a smokestack, rolled over and was swallowed by the hot, glowing furnace.
Vic could plausibly survive a dousing in fire if he got out fast enough. If he didn’t, his blood would evaporate and he’d burn up like so many rags. It was almost too simple to hope for. Flying around the glowing pyramid, I sniffed the opening. All I got was a miniscule whiff of Vic in the burning heat that belched up. Searching for an entrance, I flew until light streamed from an open door and I swooped in, following the direction of the smoke stack. It led to a huge furnace that glowed orange-red. It was shut tight. There was no way that Vic could have exited, no chance he got through the opening with me watching, and no way he could have survived the heat within. Vic was a problem of the past.