Category Archives: writing/blogging/publishing related

writing, blogging, publishing

Bookstores are Dying: Does It Matter?

June 1, 2011New York Stories, Politics and Culture, writing/blogging/publishing relatedBarnes & Noble bankruptcy, disappearing bookstoresMarion

Yes, bookstores are disappearing. But I am shocked to find myself asking, “Does it matter?”

You had to feel just a touch of schadenfreude when the Barnes &Noble branches started to close. Barnes & Noble in my youth was a store on lower Fifth Avenue. It billed itself even then as the world’s largest bookstore. Back before the days of superstores, it was so big that it was divided into a conventional bookstore on one side of the street, and a used book/textbook center on the other. Then they went national and became the very model of a modern corporate-small-store-eating chain, the basis with Borders for Fox Books the shop that ate Meg Ryan’s Shop Around the Corner in the romanticized Upper West Side of You’ve Got Mail.

As the independents disappeared, Barnes & Noble, at least in New York, became a place that tried to promote authors and work with the locals. Readings and signings happened often. The Barnes & Noble on 67th and Broadway was not only near Lincoln Center, but a couple of movie theaters as well, including my favorite, the Lincoln Plaza Cinema, known for showing off-beat independents and foreign films. Barnes & Noble was a great place to go after you got your tickets and still had half an hour or so to kill. But it is no more.

Last Sunday, I went to the movies. This in itself is an increasingly rare occurance in the age of Netflix and instant downloads. Why would anyone leave their home and sit on chairs that might be bedbug infested next to strangers who probably have the flu and forgot to turn off their cellphones?

I made the mistake of not getting tickets online for the extra $2, The film was sold out so I had an hour and half before the next showing. With no Barnes & Noble available, I walked five blocks over to the Time Warner Center, the most mall-like structure in the City, only to find that while the Border’s was still there, it shut its doors at nine pm on Sunday nights. That might work in Santa Fe — but in the Big Apple it just seemed weird, but then again so is the whole mall-in-Manhattan-thing and most New Yorkers probably don’t even know there is a bookstore on the second floor at Time Warner. The Time Warner Mall, by the way, is best known for the statue of a very fat man with a small penis. Japanese tourists in particular seem to find this hysterically funny and are constantly posing for pictures in front of it.

Yesterday, I ventured out of my neighborhood again, and found myself in the East Village with a little time to kill, so I stopped into the St. Mark’s Bookshop which hasn’t actually been on St. Mark’s Place in years, since the rents drove it out. There on the display shelf in front was Meowmorphosis (I refuse to provide a link; you’ll have to find this one for yourself). This is a book whose conceit is that Gregor Samsa awakes one day to find he’s been transformed into an adorable kitten. This was a “collaboration” between a long-dead Kafka (Zombie-Kafka?) and a pseudonymous fantasy writer working under the umbrella of the same clever lads who brought us the Jane Austen Zombie books. Kafka, who of course, wanted all his manuscript burned, seemed to intuit the holocaust. I wonder if he saw this coming as well.

Given that this non-chainstore in what was not that long ago the city’s pre-eminent hipster stronghold is now reduced to selling cutsey over edgy, is there really any hope for bookstores at all or even a reason for their continued existence?

Just to clarify, I love books. I don’t want to read all my books in tablet form. I realize that booksellers are up against it. Even the new and well-managed, Book Culture uptown where I live has taken to selling things that aren’t books — soaps, refrigerator magnets, fair-trade handicrafts like woven African baskets and scarves. And if it keeps the place open, I’m not against it, but this doesn’t bode well.

Perhaps its personal bitterness showing through. After setting up my own micro-press to print my opus, I found that most local bookstores weren’t willing to shelve it, even if purchased through Ingrams, or at deeper discount (with returns) through me or even given to them on consignment. It didn’t move them if I offered to pack the place with friends for a reading. They too are believers in the publishing system that is destroying them, and don’t want anything that bears the taint of self-publishing which they still mistake for vanity press. So despite being a reader, and consumer of books, I feel as a writer, betrayed by the shopkeepers who don’t wish to be bothered by me and treat me like a pariah. It’s like defending the homeless person who curses you out when you don’t place money in his cup.

I am for lack of alternatives, a Kindle writer. My novel is available online worldwide in paperback and every e-book form. My sales are modest and my name is mentioned on blogs that few have heard of, but at least I’m not paying tens of thousands each month for retail space used mostly by people in need of a public bathroom or with a few minutes to kill before their table is ready. I don’t think I’ll be happy or sad when the last bookstore is gone. It’ll be more like hearing about a now dissolute old crush who wasn’t that into me to begin with and has now gained weight and is facing legal problems.

Some Things to Consider Before Peddling Your Prose on Kindle

May 21, 2011Politics and Culture, Things that Piss Me off from The NY Times, writing/blogging/publishing relatede-book revolution, Kindle, Neal Pollack, publishing industry, self-publishingMarion

God might not be calling his elect up today, but something truly extraordinary is taking place. The gray lady herself, the esteemed New York Times, has an essay in the BOOK REVIEW section extolling self-publishing.

Neal Pollack who describes himself as “midlist, midcareer” finds that for a writer in his position, “self-publishing seems to make a lot of sense.”

He plans to put out a novel that he doesn’t believe would be the “easiest proposition for mainstream publishers” as the theme doesn’t involve vampires, but Jews and basketball and the length is short. He plans to charge $4.99 and believes this will quickly earn him the equivalent of a pleasant advance.

He thinks there may be expenses including of course cover art and plane fare if he decides to do “readings and on-the-ground media in New York and Philadelphia where the book is set.” He mentions a “modest print run.” Good luck with that, Neal.

Neal references Amanda Hocking (of course). He writes of Stephen King’s e-book experiments, but he seems to have no real clue about what savvy self-publishers already know. He writes, for instance, that he wouldn’t recommend self-publishing to a “first time author.” Yet, several first time novelists who found the gates closed on traditional publishing have done quite well on their own.

I’m not an expert, nor am I Amanda Hocking for that matter. My own experiment with self-publishing has yielded only modest results, but I know enough to know that Neal might want to do a little more research before setting out. If you happen to have stumbled onto this, Neal, might I ask you to examine a few of your assumptions and assertions:

Price point: $4.99? Yes, that’s half what Amazon is charging on Kindle for your book, Never Mind the Pollacks, The Literary Music of Neal Pollack which is not exactly flying off the shelves, but $4.99 is still considered a lot for a self-published e-book even by a previously published author. Stephen Leather and JA Konrath have turned their back-lists into gold at 99 cents a piece, and even the New Yorker’s Susan Orlean who will be entering the fray with a short work to be published with some hoopla by Amazon, will be charging no more than $1.49. Yes, you have a following, but maybe not at the Kindle Store yet or for the type of book you are planning. Most of the bestsellers on Kindle are genre novels — mysteries, thrillers, and those “teen vampire” books you make fun of. Books like the one you are writing don’t appeal to publishers because the market is small, not non-existent, just modest and the gamble on a print run may be not be one publishers can afford. E-books cost less to produce. But there’s a glut of high quality, self-published books selling for less than $4.99, on Kindle. You may find your market there, but it won’t be huge and you’ll have to work for it. Your competition won’t be the $9.99 bestsellers from mainstream publishers, but the already known “independents” selling at 99 cents to $2.99 a pop.

Are you really in a position to give advice to first-time authors? You advise first-timers not to try self-publishing, lest they wind up in a “virtual slush pile.” Have you read anything about how difficult it is for someone, even someone with previous publishing credits to get a contract on a first novel these days, especially something like the one you’re publishing — a book with no vampires or zombies? The gates are shut. Yet, if you look at the top hundred Kindle sellers in the US and UK Kindle store, you’ll see many “indie” writers unknown to publishers. And if you take a peek at the genre lists, you’ll see even more. I’m no insider, but I am actual virtual friends with three “first-time” writers who are bestselling authors. Lexi Revellian’s book Remix, was in the top 100 in Amazon UK for months. It’s now down to around 126, but her new one Replica is holding at 50. Jake Barton’s Burn Baby Burn is #26 in the UK, and he has two others that aren’t doing badly. Dan Holloway’s first “indie” literary novel, Songs from the Other Side of the Wall, got some good reviews but didn’t take off. His thriller, set in Oxford, The Company of Fellows is holding its own in the top 50 in the category of “mysteries and thrillers.”

Think about that “modest print run” you propose and find some alternative uses for the print books you don’t sell — doorstops, kindling, etc: Print runs cost money. Many successful independently published writers aren’t even bothering with them, especially for shorter books. Those that do, generally use print-on-demand. Traditional printing is less expensive for a run of a thousand books or more, but it’s still going to be both a huge risk and a substantial out-of-pocket expense. I hate to break this to you, but getting your independently published book into bookstores is going to be difficult. Prepare for rejection like you’ve never seen it. As for your plan to do “on the ground media” in New York and Philadelphia, there are tons of local authors trying to get readings at stores and to get their books onto shelves. It doesn’t sound like you’ve thought through the pitfalls, including the 55% discount and return policies that online and brick and mortar bookstores demand.

I’m not trying to be discouraging, Neal. This isn’t an exclusive club. Nobody needs an invitation. Granted, you have experience that many first-time self-publishers lack. You’ve done book publicity before, you have a name and a following, and you are a professional. But this is still a new game, and you’ll play better if you learn the rules before you jump in. Your essay in the Times implies an access to media that most new independent authors lack, but I hate to break this to you, the readers of The New York Times Book Review aren’t necessarily the biggest e-book buyers or purchasers of the self-published. Your potential readers are in places like Big Al’s Books and Pals, Kindle Boards, and RedAdept Reviews. Ever heard of them? If the answer is no, you have a lot to learn.

Live Blogging — My Mother’s Death Bed

March 22, 2011death and dying, true story, writing/blogging/publishing relateddeath and dying, end of lifeMarion

It’s been many hours since she last spoke, but her breathing is steady, loud and labored. My sister and are sitting in a shit-smelly room in the Albany Medical Center, 5th floor, neurology unit. My sister is reading her kindle by the light of the patient’s bathroom. I am writing this backlit by my mac. The music is something Bach-like via Pandora. It’s not exactly a softly lit, pastel colored hospice room. There was no room at the hospice, but at least they got my mother out of the “stroke room” where an eager neurology resident made idiotic statements about an 89 year old woman with advanced CHF and coronary artery disease making “a full recovery” in 6-12 months.

When confronted with the information that she’d had a heart attack as well as a storke and cardiology had told us they couldn’t treat the blockages because of the stroke risk, Doc Bollywood didn’t blink. He just said, “Well, that was cardiology. I’m talking from a neurological standpoint.”
To which my brother-in-law replied, “Are you saying she can live without a heart? Who do you think she is, the Tinman?”

That actor had it wrong. Comedy is easy; dying is hard.

Physical therapy also stopped by earlier. We sat astounded. “I guess she’s tired. We’ll come back later.”

Yeah, tired. She’s just resting.

Not everyone who works in a hospital is crazy. Only the doctors and the physical therapists. The nurses get it. Comfort care when nothing else can be done.

My mother hasn’t said anything in the last six hours or so, and hasn’t said anything we could really understand since yesterday. — though there was a moment earlier today when I thought she understood me perfectly and I imagined I understood her grunted, garbled reply. I was telling her how great Jack — her husband, my father was and how much he loved her, how I still felt his presence, and the caring never dies.

She looked at me, and mumbled something, which I imagined was, ” He was a great husband and father.”

I agreed.

Now my sister and I just sit in a dark room and wait. My mother gasps for every breath. She was gripping our hands hours ago — holding on for dear life. Holding on to dear life. But that’s stopped. Her knees are bent up, the way we remember our father’s being.

On the phone to my friend, a nurse practioner in New York, my friend overheard the 9 PM announcement telling all visitors to leave.

“That doesn’t apply to you,” she said.

“I know,” I told her.

They finally gave her morphine. A tiny bit. My sister was worried. My mother once had a bad reaction to it. It was after a fall. She was in pain, but the drug made her paranoid, hostile. “I don’t want her to go out that way,” my sister said.

But finally my sister agreed it was time.

1 miligram to start. It’s already quieted the breathing.

We’re staying the night. Maybe in shifts. I used to work a night shift in a hospital. That was years ago, psyche, not medicine, but still it seems familiar to be here and odd, watching the woman who gave birth to me, contracting into herself, becoming smaller, smoother, more fetal.

Her strangely unwrinkled face. Dying has a beauty too. It is as elemental, fundamental as birth, but not celebrated. Still, there’s nothing tragic here. We are not meant to be too long lasting. None of us gets more much more than a century, and no one gets out alive.

The morphine is helping.