Dear Editor: You keep telling us the publishing industry’s in massive transition. But the simple truth is I want to be a writer. What are my prospects?—E.P.G.
Yes, the publishing industry is definitely in massive transition. All kinds of stuff is going on, including a bizarre New Wave of thousands of aspiring fiction writers, each of whom is determined that they, personally, need to be richer than the Queen of England.
The question you must ask yourself is: Do you want to be a writer because you belong to that (wildly unrealistic) New Wave? Or do you want it because you simply love fiction?
The thing is the industry as we know it is based on an Honor System established way, way back before fiction writers started styling themselves as the new rock stars. In a nutshell:
The publisher said, “I will provide, up-front and at my own risk, the financial backing, including the accoutrements of the business like editing, cover design, printing, distribution, marketing, and even a cash loan, in certain cases and under certain circumstances, for the author’s living expenses.”
The agent said, “I will provide, up-front and on my own time, unlimited free hours reading stuff I can’t possibly sell—far, far more hours than anybody will ever realize—in search of golden nuggets, along with my carefully-nurtured professional contacts and my expertise in negotiation and navigating the industry.”
The fiction author said, “I will provide, up-front and through my own blood, sweat, and tears, unlimited free hours of my time learning this craft until I’m really good at writing those golden nuggets that are worth all this effort to sell, publish, and, finally, read.”
And between the three of them, they turned out a valuable product. Not usually at much of a profit. Still, it was stuff they were proud to put their names on.
However, now some aspiring writers are trying to renege. They’re saying, “You guys keep providing what you promised to provide, but I’m not going to provide the unlimited free hours of my time learning my craft anymore. I’m only going to provide as much as I feel like. I’m going to bounce into your business with a couple of years or even less under my belt, wanting publication with Every Fiber of My Soul, and expect to be rewarded with enormous profits.”
Understandably, publishers and agents sometimes have a hard time coping with this development, particularly those who have been in this industry for a long time. They do the best they can—the agents and acquisitions editors I know are good-natured, extremely-knowledgeable, and well-spoken professionals who treat their clients with respect and normal human comaraderie—but they don’t always get that treatment in return. And even when aspiring writers are respectful and friendly, far, far too many of them are still failing to bring their part of the bargain to the table.
And there’s absolutely nothing agents and publishers can do about this, because their Honor System says, “Thou shalt not charge writers for the hours and hours and hours and hours of free time you spend reading their queries and submissions.” It’s actually part of the AAR license.
They are being snowed under by fiction writers’ new and wildly unrealistic expectations. They are running out of money trying to keep up with this development and, in the process, losing the very people who make their companies run.
Guess what? Someone else is making a lot of money off innocent people by helping them along with those unrealistic expectations. Snakeoil salespeople.
These are people who don’t know how to write well, don’t love the craft for the sake of the craft, don’t think you need to be a dedicated writer for life, all you need is enough aggressive determination. These are the people who preach, “You have to want publication with Every Fiber of Your Soul.” Why do you have to want this? I don’t know. You just do. They said so. And they wanted you to believe it with Every Fiber of Their Soul.
In the 1970s this mentality fueled Amway.
These are snakeoil sellers. And no matter what credentials they wave in your face—”I did it! I write crap, but I did it! Just don’t ask me why I need to get my hands on your money preaching about it now.”— they are not going to teach you how to be good writers.
I, too, have been making a living as a writer for as long as I can remember. Big deal. It’s not as great a credential as it looks if it doesn’t come with in-depth, hard-won, teachable knowledge of the craft.
Fortunately, I don’t think this phase of the industry is going to last long. I think the wheels of saving grace have already begun to turn. And the solution does involve the writer pulling their own weight. If you won’t put in all those years and years it takes to develop a marketable talent for this line of work, you can pay. Not the agent or publisher, who are honor-bound not to take payment from you. And certainly not someone whose only takeaway is, “Want Publication!”
You can pay someone who has put in the years and years (and years and years) of their own free time learning the craft and is willing to help you leapfrog over your committed hours (and they are waaaaaaay more than you think they should be) to becoming someone really good at writing those golden nuggets that are worth selling, publishing, and reading. Then you can either take your highly-improved chances with agents, or you can pay all the dues you need to pay to enter and win the IBPA awards, where publishers and agents more and more look for the quality that’s missing from their inboxes. You can bring your contribution to the table.
And this is what’s going to save the industry from the tornado fostered and fanned into an inferno by the unscrupulous folks out there telling innocent newbies, “Determination is all you need.”
No. Determination is not all you need. Lowering the bar on published quality is not a viable long-term business model, unless you’re into cheap crap made in China with your name stamped all over it. And even then you’re gambling on your readers’ stupidity.
Love is all you need. Love of the craft, love of the words, love of the imagination and its relationship to language over all other artistic media.
Not love of publication. That’s what agents and publishers are for.
Love of fiction.
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