I've been putting off and putting off this post, even though I need to write
it, if only to shed some light on the risks of publishing with small presses.
So, let me preface this rather epic post by saying that I'm not publishing this
as "payback" or out of malice or spite. In fact, the only feelings I
have now are bewilderment, a vague sense of loss, gratitude, and plain old
sadness. Does that qualify as "ambivalence"? Read, and
you'll understand.
This is the journey of
Song of the Orange Moons, my debut novel from
November of 2010.
If you've done any research online about the publishing industry (and I'm
sure most writers have), you know that publishing with the traditional big
houses is almost impossible without an agent, and far from guaranteed
with
one. Many years ago, circa 2005, I had an agent for my manuscript of
Orange Moons. No contract, just several
lunches over which he encouraged me to write two more chapters (I did), and we
chatted about his family, his own manuscript-in-progress, and where he'd send
my novel. He eventually sent it to three or four of the big presses, who
in general liked the manuscript, but thought it wouldn't move (sell) in the
bookstores. He suggested that I "turn it into a Young Adult
novel." At that time, I knew nothing about Young Adult novels and
said I didn't think that would be possible. Not with this book. That was our
last lunch. Dead end. Amicable parting of ways.
I made a meager attempt at finding another agent, but the process seemed so
long and exhausting that I wondered if sending it directly to the publishers
would be more efficient. (And I felt jaded by my first relationship with an
agent.) I researched the small and large presses that received submissions (not
many, folks!) and carefully packed and stamped 20 envelopes with the
personalized query letters and partials or full ms, according to the publisher’s
policies.
This. Was. Exhausting.
And expensive.
Six months later, after a few requests for full manuscripts and a few
letters telling me that the press had gone out of business, I had responses
from all 20 places. One press had seriously considered the book, but eventually
declined, sending me detailed, multi-page, single-space rejection letters from
their three readers. Heartbroken, I
literally shelved my manuscript in the living room bookshelf on the tip-top
shelf. Out of sight.
When my devoted partner figured out that I’d given up on writing, he insisted
that I slap some postage on my manuscript and send it out to 20 more
publishers. Ugh. I did it, this time
ignoring the SASE for return, and scouring the Internet and books for
publishers who were actively and currently accepting unsolicited manuscripts.
I barely found 20 and sent my submission envelopes out in the world again. My partner was right: I did feel a little
better. I felt the glimmer of hope that my manuscript would find a home.
A few months later, I had 20 more rejection letters in my binder. At least,
I thought I did. While I was on campus one morning, my phone rang, and there
was this woman named M who was telling me how much she loved my beautiful
book and asking me if she could publish it. I was ecstatic. All I could think of was, “I’m in
heaven! And heaven is a place called
BTP!”
I’ve told this story before, way back in the early days of this blog. What I didn’t tell is the experience after I
sent my signed contract for the novel.
It has been, in a word, frustrating.
Sometimes maddening. BTP was an established publisher of
Children’s and YA books. My novel was to
be the debut of their Adult line of books. M had big dreams: she said she wanted to publicize this book as
though it weren’t from a small press, but from one of the big ones. Except, of course, I would need to cover all
my travel expenses. I got that. I understand that even authors with big
presses must often create and finance their own book tours. But after two years
of waiting for the book to finally go to press, and another year of the book
being “in press,” I was so utterly in the dark about everything—what I was
supposed to be doing and when and where—that I was lost and nervous and growing
positively irked. I did what I thought I
needed to do: create an author website, join Facebook, create an author page on
Facebook. Tweet.
How well a debut novel sells is vital to the success of a novelist. My second novel might never get a glance from
a publisher based on the sales record of my first novel. Some writers are completely shut out from all
the publishers. Such are the tales I
heard from other authors. So I knew that
this novel needed reviews, and lots of them, and sales, and lots of them, if I
were to ever hope to publish the second novel I was working on.
I called and emailed BTP, trying to figure out some solid dates
about the Advanced Reader Copies, about the official publication date, about
how to get reviewed by Publisher’s Weekly and Kirkus and the others. M was
busy, no doubt, with other authors, and what I thought was a small publishing
firm became startlingly clear that M was it. M was the only one doing
everything. That was why I so rarely
could get hold of her.
It was clear though our few conversations that her original plans to make a
big splash with the book were no longer possible. It was too expensive for her to advertise the
book in the
NY Review of Books and
other outlets, and she didn’t have the time. So I did it. All.
I hired an outside publicist to help organize a blog tour. One month of publicity cost half my monthly
paycheck. I sent copies of my ARCs to 25 different reviewers and a few
contests. I wrote emails to book
reviewers and asked if they’d be interested in reviewing my debut novel. I looked up the submission policies to
Publisher’s Weekly and
Kirkus, and pretended I was some lackey
at BTP suggesting that they review book. Because my ARCs were mailed
to me about two weeks before the release date of the book, three months too
late according to the big reviewers’ policies, I was up a creek called shit.
All of this took lots and lots of postage. That was only a small part of the
investment. I set up a tour to Chicago,
paid my ticket and arranged a few readings and stayed with a dear friend, only
to find out the ARCs had not even been printed (although they were “being
printed as we speak” weeks before). I set up my big book launch, only to find
out that the hardbacks wouldn’t make it to Barnes & Noble for the party
because they were still being printed (another snafu by the publisher). The book distributors had to overnight the
boxes to the store, and they arrived on the
afternoon
of the party. I was a nervous wreck.
Amid all the hubbub during the month prior to publication, I had very little
contact with M. I had almost none
after the publication. I emailed her the
link to my
Publisher’s Weekly review,
something I was astounded by. And she emailed me her congratulations, but
didn’t answer any of my questions, like how did she like my second novel
manuscript I sent her. (She had
exclusive first rights to my second novel.)
To be honest, I hoped she didn’t want it. I was so frustrated with the lack of
communication that I was truly ready to move on to another publisher. With an agent this time.
Over the past year and a half, I went through a range of emotions. Anger at her lack of commitment to this book,
gratefulness that she published it when no one else would, hysteria when my huge
investments to publicize the book were slammed by the reality that the book
wasn’t really “in press” yet or anywhere near it. I stored this bubble of
resentment at being deceived, until I’d run into someone who’d congratulate me
on getting published, considering how very difficult traditional publishing is
these days, at which point I’m weakly smile and feel humbled.
During the six months post-pub date, I left messages and emails about some
important details, one of which was my payment, which was to be sent upon the
publication of my novel, but that I never received. She responded only two or three times, making
promises to look into matters.
And then, this summer, M finally called me back. I had emailed her to ask about digital rights
and film rights to the book—to see if she was doing anything,
anything, had
any plans with this book. She finally, finally called me back with
terrible news.
This news she’d needed to share for a long time, and was finally calling to
tell me. In fact, she’d been making
calls to her authors, two or three a week, because the news she had to share
was too difficult to tell too many times in one week. I won’t go into specifics
here, because this concerns her private life.
But she has been very ill, and her disease has progressed to a state
that she has to close her business. She wants to spend her remaining time with
her family, etc.
I listened to her tell me that all the rights to the book revert back to me,
that I can purchase as many of the remainders as I want, that I can release an
eBook immediately, that she is not renewing her 2-year dues to the nationwide
distributor because she doesn’t know if she’ll be around then, so no one will
be able to order from Amazon or Barnes & Noble because there will be no
distributor for the books, and all I kept thinking was, “F*cking unfair for her
and f*cking unfair for me and this whole unfair scenario is just crap.” I couldn’t be mad at her anymore. You can’t be mad a person who is terminally
ill. I felt horrible for her and for her family. And I thought, “What a sad, short life for
this little novel, too.”
I understood why the entire publishing experience had been so chaotic. My publisher’s life had been spinning out of
control, and she was trying to balance her health with a one-woman publishing
company.
I don’t know if this is a cautionary tale.
I feel mainly sad about her situation.
Sad that my book never really had a chance to sell copies. I'm proud to have learned how to request reviews and how to set up a book tour; I'm incredibly thankful to the online community of writers who have shared their stories and wisdom as I trolled the internet for hope. I don’t know what “lesson” I’ve learned other
than I’m determined to get an agent for my next novel. An agent who will know the field infinitely better
than I and has access to more and larger publishers.
I still believe that smaller presses are doing a wonderful, admirable service for authors, and they are doing hard work to keep literature alive and available in traditional publishing. I fully support little presses! I'm suggesting that hopeful authors painstakingly research the press to which they submit before signing contracts. Make calls and send emails to currently published authors with the press and ask about their honest appraisal of their experience. This past year has been a
learning experience. I am still grateful
that M published my book. It’s
beautiful, and I’m still hopeful that she’ll send me the remainders I ordered
from her over a month ago.
But I’m not counting on it. It will
be a year next month, and I still have not received a check for the
publication, a royalty statement, or any paperwork of sales figures. I am in
the dark about the future of
Orange Moons.
The digital book is now out, and I’m glad that it has been getting some
beautiful reviews.
And I have two completed novel manuscripts out to agents who have requested
full manuscripts. So there’s light in
other places, and I’ve moved into it. I suppose I wanted to finally tell the complete
story that this blog promised to tell: the real journey this author took with
the little press that loved her novel.
*This post has been updated to remove M's full name and to emphasize that I still admire and appreciate the invaluable work of small and independent presses.
