A writer, reloaded

Been thinking a lot about a September 15th article in New York magazine that decreed the end of modern publishing.

For those on the outside of the situation looking in–like myself–or refugees who are breaking the mold, the ecosystem of entertainment based print material is in big trouble. By and large, the primary collective vision the publishers share about their predicament of falling sales ostensibly is that . . . well, sales are falling. Like New York Times meets the Titanic kind of sinking.

That reality and jeez, some of the advances paid out recently are too damn big, yet publishers can not stop writing those monster checks even as the bottom line ebbs beneath the horizon. Recouping a 1.5 million advance to James Frey, whose second title sold 65,000 copies verges on mathematically impossible. His Million Little Pieces audience is proving “too selective” to follow him into the future. Well, that and the fact that memoirs–in fact, most books who hinge upon single use characters that lack the mettle to be recurring players, and their authors–rarely have a second act.

And who paid Frey 1.5 million for number two? The same industry who thought his Million Little Pieces fictional memoir was a good idea. Though now known as the man who duped Oprah, his actual origins were more auspicious. He tried for quite a while to sell his breakout work as pure fiction. But then some bright spark uttered something like, “Memoirs are easy sells in this market. Couldn’t this all be true?”

My point is less that Frey failed to catch lightning a second time around. That is a rite of passage for most literary mega-phenomena. I’m not going to comment on the duplicity either. No, my contention is that publishers bet the farm on a formula that worked a lot better years ago–at the expense of minting new acts.

A million and half dollars could have brought fifteen mid list or unknown writers to market, and even paid them a modest advance. Odds are good at least one of them might have minted at least copper, if not silver. Instead a lot of ducats were spent digging for gold and only netted a cupful of rusty tin. Multiply the Frey case by twenty-five–a rough estimate of how many big bets the industry made in 2007 that rank as its most notable failures–and that’s almost four hundred voices idling on the sidelines. Even being extremely pessimistic, I find it hard to believe that there were not at least eight to twelve home-runs in the woodpile.

So why do publishers reject the math?

For starters, it’s easier. One project takes less focus and oversight than fifteen. Second, big bets like it worked in the past. So far so good. But there’s another motive: door number three, aka Hollywood math, and my own personal theory. Frey got the huge check because someone got off on the idea they could pay a writer that kind of money for a book that had at best a modest chance among the sharks. It really was never about profits. To be crass, the very image got a publisher’s dick hard. Big money brings media attention and ego strokes.

The problem with resting decisions on operations that exist below the belt, is that well, the flow of blood can only last so long. God knows, I’ve fought that reality more than a few nights myself. Eventually the brain has got to drive the body, rather than the reverse arrangement. Getting there in one piece is just more important.

And of endpoints, where might publishing be headed? I have long pondered the economics of the adult fiction model and their prospects for survival. It’s my conclusion that adult fiction publishers are staring into an abyss.

My money is on the marriage of publishing on demand and a 8,000 pound gorilla poised to become the biggest publisher the world has ever seen, who can operate without filling the distribution channel with millions of books destined for the shredder before the author typed the last sentence.

They have no need for remainders, literary agents, advances, or book tours. They can take a chance on publishing a lot of titles a year because they do not need to pay to place them in superstores. They already have a line of customers that stretches across the Internet.

All they really need is new material.

To be continued . . .

In early October, the reason for my near silence these past two months will be revealed. I’m working with some super talented people behind the scenes on that oft-mentioned-yet-never-quite-materialized-guerrilla-style-marketing project for The Last Track.

At this time, it’s best to keep the details brief, but I will mention the background of a few of the people involved.

1) A former lead art director for Harper-Collins.

2) A professional film editor.

3) An advice columnist and actor who once attended acting classes in college with a star on The Office.

4) Me. Natch.

OK, so my pedigree is a bit speckled, but still, if you’ve hung with me so far these past few years, I’m just saying it’s about to be worth your while.

You know who you are, and I’m forever indebted to your support and advice. Just a few more weeks and my raptors will be loose on the Internets.

Oh yes, they will.