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Saturday, June 21

Steve arrived late, as usual. Knowing him and his profound lack of punctuality, we had asked him to come by around 6:00 pm but had prepared supper to be served at 7:00. Despite our efforts, he beat us yet again. He arrived at 7:30. I had prepared a black bean soup that, thanks to Steve’s late arrival, needed several refills of chicken broth while simmering on the stove.

“I hope I’m not too late,” he said in an apologetic tone, standing in the entrance door of our home and shaking off the rain from his coat.

“Traffic was hell. You must be starving by now.”

“No, not really,” I answered, chewing on the remains of the baguette my wife and I had started eating a few minutes earlier.

“Come on in, Steve.”

I hung up his coat in the hallway, and led him to the kitchen where we sat down at the large table. Sophie and I had only one bowl of soup. We were not hungry after eating a whole French bread by ourselves. We just sat there, shooting the breeze about this and that, and watched Steve, who seemed to enjoy the soup.

Our friend Steve McCullum is a freelance journalist, and we had invited him to pitch our latest idea to him.

A few months earlier I had finally managed to find an agent who promised to find a publisher for my first novel “Rules of Extortion.” Nevertheless, we, my wife and I, had begun to worry about the slow progress. Then, a few nights ago, my wife, who was in the second trimester of her pregnancy, came up with her proposal.

“Honey,” she called out to me while I was preparing for bed. “We need to make a decision. It is June, and the baby is due October third, which leaves us a little over three months before I leave my job.”

Sophie was the manager of the Human Resources department of a major insurance company just North of Washington, DC. Her annual income was in the neighborhood of $120,000 then, enough to indulge a comfortable lifestyle, and allowing me to follow my dream of becoming a writer. She worked long hours, while I stayed home to write, clean, and cook. Cooking had never been my forte but, with the help of a fast Internet connection, I managed to find some easy recipes for the cooking-impaired. Let’s not talk about my cleaning skills at this time.

“The merger has gone well,” she continued, “but we are reaching a critical milestone. Mergers inflict layoffs, and this is where my expertise is required.”

She sat up in bed, groaning a bit, and stuffing a pillow behind her back. Then she looked at me.

“What I’m trying to say is that I will be buried in work for the next months, most probably all the way to the due date.”

I opened my mouth for a response, but she stopped me by holding up her hand.

“Hear me out,” she said.

“Come October,” she continued, “there will be no income, and we will live from our savings, unless your book hits the jackpot. I doubt it, though, the way things are going at the moment.

“Don’t get me wrong. I do love your novel, and I like your agent – at least what I know of her. But I do have the feeling that we need to power things up a bit to make it happen.

“On the other hand, the savings will not last forever, especially with a baby in the house.”

She closed her eyes for a second and took a deep breath.

“Here is what I propose,” she finally said. “Your agent lives in New York City and so does the majority of her contacts in the publishing world.”

She turned toward me.

“I want you to move to New York for the next three months and, with your agent’s support, promote your novel to everybody in the industry. We won’t see much of each other, anyways, so why not do it.”

I thought about it for a few seconds.

“Can we afford doing this?” I asked cautiously.

She nodded.

“I will give you a budget,” she said. “You can use it at your discretion, but I recommend you buy some nice suits, ties, and shoes.”

I frowned.

“I know,” she laughed. “I prefer seeing you in tight jeans and a wife-beater shirt, but as they say, desperate times call for desperate actions. And not to worry, all expenses are tax deductible. I talked to our accountant about this.”

I sat there to think about it a little longer, but the more I thought about it, the more I warmed up to the idea.

“Does the budget include rent for an apartment?” I asked. “Living in a hotel for three months seems a bit excessive.”

She shook her head.

“I have already pulled some strings,” she said. “The company owns an apartment right in Manhattan. You’re going to like it. It comes with a laundry service, security guards, concierge, and exercise facility, the whole enchilada. It is usually reserved for the executive management when they visit the parent company.”

“Great!” I said. “But, if you don’t mind, I would like talk to Steve before I leave. I’m sure he has some insights. I also would like to know what he thinks of the idea.”

“That’s fine by me,” she said.

Then, after a deep sigh, she delivered the bad news.

“There is one catch, though.”

“What is it?”

“If, after those three months, you don’t have a book deal, I want you to find a regular, paying job.”

To tell the truth, I felt stunned for a moment. I am not afraid of working, but suddenly I saw my whole writing career being flushed down the toilet.

Sophie looked uneasy. She knew what she was asking, was not easy for me.

“The savings will not last forever,” she explained, “and…”

“It’s okay,” I interrupted her. “I understand.”

I saw her eyes tearing up, and I leaned over to kiss her.

“I love you, Princess,” I said, “and that’s all that counts in my life.”

She smiled, while the tears were running down her cheeks, and she nodded.

I knew how difficult it had been for her to make a choice between a high-paying career and having a baby. We had agreed to start a family long before we got married, but at the same time she enjoyed her work tremendously. We knew we would find a way out of this conflict eventually.

That night I could hardly sleep, and I couldn’t wait to tell Steve. When the time came, he listened to our reasoning without a word, but he nodded occasionally, while working on his third refill.

“So, what do you think?” I asked impatiently as soon as he finished his meal and wiped his mouth with his napkin.

“Well,” he responded calmly, “to be honest I cannot tell you, yes, this is going to work. Neither can’t I say it won’t. Heck! I sound like a lawyer! Let me say, I would sure as hell like to know how you will be doing.”

He got up, took his empty bowl and put it in the sink where he rinsed it with hot water. Steve can be notoriously late, but he is neat.

“That being said,” he continued, looking at me over his shoulder, “I would say, go for it!”

He turned around and dried his hands on the kitchen towel.

“Go,” he said, “but don’t go without being prepared. You don’t have much time, and to be successful you need to turn to the dark side, Anakin.”

He winked, and I laughed.

“What do you mean?” I asked curiously.

He pointed towards the living room where Sophie had prepared a cheese plate with grapes and apple slices. Next to the plate stood a bottle of Pinot Grigio and three wine glasses.

“Let’s sit down,” he said.

He made himself comfortable on the couch and, casually, pulled his pipe from a pocket within his jacket. Then he realized what he had done.

“I’m sorry,” he said sheepishly.

“No, that’s okay,” Sophie laughed at him. “You’re the only person allowed to smoke in our home. We both love the smell of your tobacco.”

Steve, relieved, retrieved the pipe yet again and started the procedure of stuffing the tobacco and lighting the pipe. He took a first, deep drag, while Sophie filled our glasses.

“First of all,” he started, “let me state that most people in the publishing industry work hard and they know what they’re doing. There are, however, a great number of inepts, as I call them, and even more sharks, who destroy the good reputation of the industry.

“The real problem, though, comes in form of the big guys in the publishing business looking only at instant profit, and if you as the author cannot deliver it, you’re outta here. There’s nothing wrong about profit thinking, but, in reality, the current system kills the chances for all writers with a less-than-Dan-Brown potential.

“I have never told you this, but many years ago I wrote a novel, and I found a publisher for it. The book sold a mere 1,381 copies, a vast disappointment for my publisher who had invested in an initial print-run of 10,000. A sales record like mine makes it virtually impossible to land another contract with any other publisher. My novel writing career was over.

“Another problem is the great number of inept literary agents, who would reject Ernest Hemingway – if he was still alive – because he did not follow their submission guidelines. Let me add, that agents usually dwell in Hollywood-talk, and, as far as I know Hemingway, he talked straight.

“By the way, how much did you pay for that query letter?”

We had hired a professional service to draft us a query letter to contact literary agents. We learned that without a proper query letter we would have no chance finding an agent. I looked at Sophie, who is the number cruncher in the family.

“About two-hundred Dollars,” she answered. “Including the editing service plus several revisions, mailings, etc., we have spent a total of roughly two-thousand Dollars so far.”

Steve nodded like he had anticipated the answer.

“You see,” he said, “you need to spend a substantial amount of money before the industry even raises a finger to support you. And when you are published, they even expect you to take over most of their marketing activities – on your own expenses, of course.”

“Wouldn’t it make sense to look into self-publishing?” Sophie asked. “I mean, with the money and efforts involved, what is the real difference between looking for a publisher or just doing it all by yourself?”

Steve smiled.

“There speaks the business woman,” he said. “You have a valid point, and, in fact, there is a growing tendency towards self-publishing. However, the harsh reality is that the average self-publisher does not sell more than five hundred copies, and most of them are given away to friends and family.

“In all consequence, don’t underestimate the power of the established publishing businesses when it comes to bring your book into the market. I would still go the conventional way rather than doing everything myself.”

He moved to pick up another piece of cheese and took a sip of wine.

“You mentioned the sharks in the business,” I reminded him. “Who are they?”

“Oh, they are everywhere,” he grinned. “There is one very important fact you need to know. There is a massive market for those who prey on the unsuspecting, aspiring writer. This is a billion Dollar business in the United States alone, because, nowadays, everybody wants to be a writer.”

He pointed to the stack of magazines on the side table.

“I see you have subscribed to my most favorite useless magazine. Toss it over, please.”

On top of the stack lay the latest issue of a magazine dedicated to writers. I picked it up and handed it to Steve, who took it and paged through it.

“Not that I need to look for an example,” he said with a devilish smile on his face. “Almost every page is full of them. Unfortunately, these guys are in no position to live without bad and misleading advertisement.”

It took him a few seconds before he felt satisfied with what he found.

“Here we go!” he said. “Look at this.”

We saw the headline in big letters - Job Security, Freedom of Freelancing, Hiring Freelance Writers, Apply Today!

“Looks like a good opportunity to make some good money as a writer,” Sophie looked at me. “Why didn’t you apply? You’re a good writer.”

“Oh, don’t!” Steve protested. “In business jargon they’re called content aggregators or, in not as polite terms, a writers’ sweatshop. Their main purpose is to produce content for their websites or those of their clients. You will work for far less than minimum wage, and you might be better off flipping Hamburgers at a fast food joint. Also, by voluntarily working for a sweatshop you help them stay in business, and, even worse, victimizing other writers. In all consequence, you will quickly become a part of the problem. But besides my ideological view there are other obstacles.

“You see, there are some very smart business people at work, and they are extremely resourceful when it comes to lure more writers to work for them. They give you the impression that you can write everything you are passionate or knowledgeable about, let’s say, politics, environmental issues, history, and such. The truth is, even though politics is one of the categories they offer, the vast majority of their work opportunities are for writing articles on operating a dishwasher, changing the spark plugs on a John Deere lawnmower, and more of the same nature. They give you the manufacturer’s text, you re-word the whole thing, and you may make a measly fifteen Dollars a pop, but mostly it’s less than that, more like five Dollars in most cases. They promise, you can build your reputation, because your name appears under each article. I fail to understand, how writing about dog whistle training techniques, and more of the same nonsense helps a writer to gain reputation.”

He noticed our disbelieving expression, and he added, “I kid you not. That article has been written, as was one about drawing a Greek helmet.”

Steve shook his head and continued turning pages.

“Look at this here,” he called out. He seemed aggravated.

“This is an article where they interviewed the CEO of this dubious business.”

He pointed to a paragraph.

“This is where they write about him bragging – and I quote, ‘Most of our writers don’t even create enough income in one month to pay their weekly grocery bill, let alone a mortgage.’

Well, you can play the system and make a living with rearranging some words in less than an hour and post the result virtually unchanged as your own work. However, this is only the beginning. As I said, there is a lot more.”

He went through some more pages, and then showed us another advertisement.

He grinned, “I could go on for hours about this magazine, but I’ll spare you most of it.”

“This is their largest advertiser,” he continued, holding up the magazine showing a full-page advertisement. “They promise, they will publish your book, and, really, they will. You will get a listing on Amazon.com, Barnes & Noble, and other online bookstores. They also insist they do the cover design for you and that comes with a price, of course. They will press you skillfully into buying their editing service and their useless marketing kit. They squeeze easily several thousand Dollars out of every unsuspecting writer without any concern whether the book has a chance in the market or not. They only want your best, and that’s your money.”

“How much are the royalties?” asked Sophie, “I mean, provided you actually produce some sales.”

“If you’re clever – and most writers aren’t business people – you do some research to find out what other works in your genre go for. Then you subtract the printing cost and the publisher’s share. You may end up in the negative, so you increase the sales price, and then you end up in an unacceptable price range. I am sorry, but it’s a lose-lose situation. To answer your question, the royalties per book are most probably in the neighborhood of a couple of Dollars, provided the sales price is somewhat competitive.”

Sophie made some calculations in her head.

“So,” she said, “Let’s assume you spent about three-thousand Dollars. Is that a reasonable number?”

Steve nodded. “Oh, absolutely! If you add the registration fee, the editing service, marketing, and the cover design, you’ll get there easily.”

“Okay,” Sophie continued. “Assuming you make about two Dollars profit per book, you must sell 1,500 books before you even start to make profit for yourself.”

“As I said before,” Steve responded, “selling more than five-hundred books is extremely hard for the self-publisher, and, in all consequence, that’s what they still are. The so-called publisher doesn’t do anything for you, unless you pay for it. They provide a service for money, but they are not publishers in the traditional sense. The official term in Vanity Publisher.”

“But,” I intervened, “isn’t it possible that your novel gets some publisher’s attention and they would like to take it over?”

Steve emphatically shook his head.

“No way!” he said. “Any self-published book is automatically tagged with a red flag. Self-publishing, in view of the traditional publishing world, is a synonym for lack of talent.

“And even if your book sells well, and you try to offer your second novel to them, they treat you like you have a deadly virus. Don’t ask why. For a normal human being with a basic sense for business, just like you and me, nothing really makes sense in the publishing world.”

He leaned toward me.

“But seriously, I am not saying, everything they do is wrong, but the people in the publishing world, especially literary agents, have developed their own, specific social patterns. If you want to beat the system within three months you need to play their spiel. You need to be ruthless. Actually, you need to go beyond ruthless. You need to turn to the dark side.”

He sat back, grinning, and puffing his pipe.

“Can you do that, Stuart?” he asked. “Can you play a ruthless game?”

“Well,” I answered, “we have already made the decision, and I still like the idea, especially in view of the three month limit. I don’t want to give up without a fight.”

Steve nodded. “I think you should try it. After all, you have a brain, and, if I might add, you got the looks. It might just work.”

We remained silent for a little while to digest what had been said, and then we turned our conversation to more delightful topics. It was after midnight when Steve left, and Sophie and I went to bed soon thereafter.

Before she turned off the light, Sophie turned to me.

“I would like to add one more thing to your New York adventure,” she said. “Please, take what I will tell you now without a response or question. I want to say it once and only once.”

She sighed.

“Steve said, in order to be successful, you need to be beyond ruthless. I believe that he is right, and I want you to be successful.”

She closed her eyes.

“When we start this little endeavor, we will apply a strict Don’t-ask Don’t-tell policy. I would like you to know that, in those three months, you should do whatever it takes. You have my permission to do anything, and I mean anything. There is only one rule: Don’t ever tell me what you did. Just get the damn contract.”

With these words she turned around and turned the light off.

Next: Chapter 3

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