The US Publishing Industry Shoots Itself in the Foot--Repeatedly (Advances, Part IV)

Jump to Part I, to Part II, or to Part III

The topic of advances has come up on this blog before. Without a doubt, big advances sometimes pay off for the publisher—Special Topics in Calamity Physics, for example, seems to be doing quite well.

But all is not so well in a number of other cases. Holt paid debut novelist Jed Rubenfeld $800,000 for The Interpretation of Murder, gave away 10,000 advance-review copies, conducted a major publicity blitz, and did a first printing of 185,000 copies. The book was published almost six months ago, and, at last report, had moved about 26,000 copies. I calculate that Mr. Rubenfeld’s unearned portion of the $800,000 is roughly $732,400.

Gordon Dahlquist’s much-hyped Glass Books of the Dream Eaters was acquired by Bantam as part of a two-book deal for two million dollars. That’s—let’s say it again— $2,000,000. 120,000 copies were printed; so far, over almost seven months, sales have amounted to about 21,000 copies, which means so far the earned royalties are, say, about $55,000 of that $2 million.

Charles Frazier’s second novel Thirteen Moons (following his bestseller Cold Mountain) leveraged the author an $8 million advance from Random House (in an apparent attempt to live up to their name). Eight million dollars. That’s the highest advance ever paid for a novel. After almost five months of sales, the number of copies sold is 250-300,000, which would be an outstanding sales record had the first printing not run to 500,000 copies. Publisher’s Weekly estimates that to earn out the advance will take sales of a million copies in hardback plus two million copies in paperback.

Not all bad bets are accompanied by trumpeting of the advances paid. Random House (them again?) won’t say what they paid Mark Haddon (of The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time) for his second novel, but they printed 200,000 hardbacks, and, in six months, have moved about 44,000. In a similar vein, see HarperCollins, who printed up 150,000 copies of Vikram Seth’s Two Lives, and moved about 20,000 in four months (though Book Scan figures claim only around 6,000 have been sold).

I’m not claiming these aren’t good books (as it turns out, I haven’t read a single one of them. I dislike having things shoved at me.) Nor am I claiming the publishers can't break even on one or two of these, via paperbacks or rights sales—though it does look to me as though the five deals quoted above might amount to a collective loss of, oh, maybe six or seven million dollars? Maybe more? (Remember that the investment wasn't just in the advances, but in huge print runs and expensive publicity campaigns.) But these figures do raise some interesting issues.

First, when publishers and agents contend that fiction is a tough business these days, don’t they ever ask themselves precisely why it is so tough? Might it have something to do with the immense risks of spending too much money upfront?

Second, why is there never any blowback for the agent? An author whose overpriced book tanks will have a hard time moving into the front row again, but how is it that editors continue to do business with agents who convince them to pay ridiculous prices for books? I know, I know, it’s an uncertain business—but a broker who convinces clients to buy stocks that crash soon finds that no one will deal with him. What magic spell prevents agents from being blackballed?

Third, for those who believe that publicity sells books and that a big push is what determines bestsellerdom and profits—take a look at the situation described here. The publishing houses were solidly behind every one of these novels, and the public responded with a resounding yawn.

I’m not complaining about people earning money. If Mr. Frazier earns $8 million, that's between him and the Internal Revenue Service. But giving him $8 million in the hopes that his book might make money for the company is not just absurd but unnecessary. He would have written the book for $4 million, or $2 million, or, probably, like most authors do (and like Mr. Frazier did with Cold Mountain) for no guarantees whatsoever.

Here's my theory: The editors calling the shots at the big US publishing houses are all in the pay of the US television industry. TV tried to kill the printed word for decades, with a great deal of success, but there was always a diehard core of readers who refused to be defeated. Finally the TV execs have come up with a plan--if the industry refuses to die, it must be induced to commit suicide.

Paranoid, you say? Perhaps. But it's the only theory I can find that's consistent with the facts.

Jump to Part I, to Part II, or to Part III

Second-Novel Blues

Lately a number of writers have been muttering about the trials of so-called Sophomore Slump—the problem of writing the dread Second Novel. Cate Sweeney has posted on the topic over on her blog, and invited comments.

I’m not the right person to ask (but when has that ever kept my mouth shut?), since my first novel (Things Unseen) didn’t get published…partly because I didn’t try very hard to get an agent (I thought of it as a practice novel) and partly because I was well into my second novel, Tomorrowville, which—despite many admiring but puzzled comments—was rejected by every agent in the solar system. (I was told by several that they had briefly taken up the agenting profession for the sole purpose of rejecting my book, and that they were happy they could now retire with the satisfaction of a job well done.)

You may recall the faux-inspirational story Michael Palin, the Lord of Swamp Castle, tells in Monty Python and the Holy Grail (“…then that castle burned down, fell over, and sank into the swamp…”). Swamp Castle stood on the third try, but my third novel, A Map of the Edge, was sent back to me by a number of agents who said they’d love to see a rewrite. Well, I’d love to see a rewrite, too, but it hasn’t happened yet (more on this in another post). Smite the Waters is my fourth book, and while it was being shopped around, I wrote a fifth book, Earthly Vessels, which is sitting and cooling down enough for me to do a structural revision.

So, I’m not sure where I fit in to the Sophomore Slump pattern—I’ve already written my second book, and even written a book beyond my first published book. (Or, rather, written a first draft beyond my first to-be-published book, but you knew what I meant, didn't you?) I have, however, considered the problem that at some point MNW will have the option to look at an additional book of mine. This presents some thorny issues for me, since none of my books fall into the same genre or tone as Smite. I mean, not even close. (Though I have first chapters of a couple of other stories that might be compatible with Smite, so by the time the issue arises the problem might solve itself.)

I know a writer whose first novel won a major prize, was published to a warm critical reception, and then showed rather disappointing sales. She felt under such pressure and up against such frustration in writing her second novel that, somewhere around the middle, she stood up and heaved her printer through the window. (Which would be more impressive if you knew her, as she’s slender, none too tall, and generally not the sort of person you expect to toss the furniture about.)

Don’t leave the theatre yet, as there’s a happy ending. I don’t think she finished that second book. But she did sit down and battle her way through her third novel, an emotionally challenging and structurally difficult book, and she published it and watched as it promptly leapt onto the LA Times Bestseller list and then jumped the pond and sold even better in Europe. Which may show that second books are a bitch, but also shows that your encounter with your second novel tells you little or nothing about your future in writing.

I just wish I could figure out which book is my second novel. Is it, like, the second one I wrote, or is it the one I just finished after Smite...? Or is it whatever I revise next? Or is it just whatever I write next? (Oh, please, tell me it isn’t one I still have to write...)

An Interview Worth Reading: Novelist Keith Dixon

David Thayer has posted his excellent interview with writer Keith Dixon.

Although much of the discussion centers on Dixon's new novel, The Art of Losing, it also ventures into areas we've been discussing (Dixon shares my enthusiasm for shut-your-eyes-and-jump-into-the-water novel planning).

He also reflects on critical/artistic success versus financial success ("I think we all at some time or another face a situation that asks us to compromise our values, and more often than not that situation involves money...") and other aspects of the writers life. Dixon's remarks make an interesting read for anyone involved in this silly business.

In Which I Play Paul Revere

Yes indeed, the redcoats are coming (though I'm not sure how many lights I ought to put in the window when they are coming by airmail). I mentioned before that The Manuscript had already been available here last month (possibly through some sort of mistake), but the beginning of March lands a whole slew (from the Irish slua, meaning army, host, or throng) of Macmillan New Writing paperbacks in America. Here they are with their Amazon US links; give me a heads-up if I've missed any:

Michael Stephen Fuchs, The Manuscript
Brian Martin, North
Roger Morris, Taking Comfort
Suroopa Mukherjee, Across the Mystic Shore
Hugh Paxton, Homunculus
Cate Sweeney, Selfish Jean
Aliya Whiteley, Three Things About Me

I'm not sure if distribution will extend beyond the web or not, but if you managed to make it to this site I'm sure you know how to use Amazon. And if you dislike Amazon for some reason, let me recommend Powell's as an alternative...

Pandora's Sisters Gets a Website

Following a prolonged period of cybersilence, Michael Stephen Fuchs has unveiled the website for his new MNW novel Pandora's Sisters. (Since he's a pro at that sort of thing, it's naturally a rather flashy--no Macromedia pun intended--site.) Hop over and have a look.

Michael also announces on his blog that this is the official pub date for The Manuscript in the US of A. True enough, but through some quirk of distribution, Barnes & Noble claims they've had the book in their warehouses available for purchase for about a month...

How Do You Do That Thing You Do? Matt, Part II

Matt Curran has posted Part II of his essay on his storybuilding process on his blog.

I don't think I'll be giving away too much if I tell you that his post explains how important Matt believes it is to have a detailed plan and stick to it...except when you don't/can't/shouldn't.

This has been an enjoyable sequence from MFW so far, and there's more to come. I suspect we're keeping him from something important.

How Do You Do That Thing You Do? Raymond's Method

I've mentioned Raymond Obstfeld (aka Laramie Dunaway; contact your local FBI office for a full list of his writing aliases) before on this page, specifically in connection with his new book written with Kareem Abdul-Jabbar. Although I naturally invited Ray to contribute to this discussion, he's awfully busy these days, cutting the ribbons at the dedication of major monuments, riding to hounds, and tossing money from the sunroof of his limo to admiring throngs.

Luckily, he has already held forth on this subject in one of his books on writing, Fiction First Aid. (His other book on writing, The Novelist's Essential Guide to Crafting Scenes, continues to do steady business seven years after publication.) Ray has agreed to let me swipe the following from Fiction First Aid as his contribution to this discussion:

Some writers prepare detailed outlines of their novels before they start. They know everything that will happen from the moment the hero pulls out his gun on the first page until he kisses the love interest 358 pages later. For example, when Edgar nominee Robert Irvine once spoke to my writing class about outlining, he brought with him a typical outline that he uses when writing a novel. It was seventy pages long! It included dialogue, character sketches, chapter-by-chapter breakdowns—just about everything but what to eat while writing the book.

On the other hand, when novelist Ross Thomas spoke to my class, he claimed that he never started with an outline, that it took away the thrill of discovery. When his protagonist walked into a room, Ross told us, he wanted to be looking over his shoulder, just as surprised as his character.

I fall somewhere between. I use what I call a slap-dash outline, one that describes only the chapters immediately ahead of me. This allows me to maintain the spontaneity of discovery, yet provides a compass that points me in the general direction I need to go.

When I write my first chapter, I often have no idea what the novel is about. And for the next chapters, I avoid thinking too much about what will happen down the road in the novel. Technically, the beginning of a novel should establish tone, character, and plot. But let’s face reality. The purpose of the novel’s opening chapter is to grab readers by the throat and not let go until they are compelled to find out what happens next. So when I start a novel, I’m thinking only about writing a novel that does that—to me. It must interest me so intensely that I’ll want to write the rest of the novel just to discover what happens next…

Once you’ve written that riveting opening chapter or two, you will need to create some kind of outline. Many writers know the ending of their books before they start writing the first word…Outlines are just road maps to these destinations. For me, the slap-dash outline is road map enough because it encourages my curiosity, which helps me intensify the suspense, yet still lets me know enough about where I’m going not to panic.

[F]or the first third to half of a novel, you can limit your outlining to three or four chapters ahead of where you are. This is enough to keep you from getting stuck, but not enough to kill the freshness or momentum of your writing…

The further along you get in your novel, the more detailed your slap-dash outline will become. For the first half of a book, you might need only a few lines under each chapter heading…However, as the novel becomes more complex, with all the subplots coming together, you may need to write much more under each heading. Also, you may need to outline more than a few chapters in advance. In fact, there will be a definite point, usually two-thirds of the way through, where you’ll have to outline the rest of your novel. Again, you may not stick to the order or even the events you outline, but you’ll at least know the basic elements that need to be in the novel.

The book also includes a reproduction of one of Ray's slap-dash outlines (beneath his comment that "At first glance these notes look like the drug-induced scribblings of someone who claims frequent sightings of UFOs, but they make sense to me.")

Raymond then adds an odd flourish—the After-The-Fact Outline. This outline breaks down the novel into scenes on (shades of Roger Morris) colored index cards. Ray claims this allows him to see the shape of the book better, to note where the tone, length, or pacing of scenes might be repetitive, and consider which scenes might be moved around for maximum effectiveness. Many screenwriters (and Raymond is one himself) lay out their scenes on index cards as a kind of proto-storyboard. In any case, Raymond’s method is an interesting hybrid, with a fairly free-form initial process, followed by a highly organized attack on the finished draft.

Wait until I tell him about Roger's A3 transparency paper. He's gonna love that.