My premature thoughts on being a frozen embryo
I should probably keep my mouth shut about the news that Amazon has purchased Marshall Cavendish's kids book until things become clearer. Whatever I say will annoy someone. But if I can broadcast my feeling about the loathsome snarkiness of Kirkus Reviews and be so audacious as to tell folks at the ALA that Best Books was broken and needed to be fixed (which eventually happened, though you'd have thought I was suggesting they decapitate puppies and make slippers out of them), I guess I can take another dump in public. A couple years ago, I had a manuscript that wasn't right for my publisher. It was a project from the heart. I had no expectations for major sales, but I wanted to get it out on the market. I even thought about printing it myself. It was that kind of book. Last year, while sitting next to Margery Cuyler at a book signing, I pitched it to her. She liked it. We made a deal. The book is scheduled for the fall of 2013. I met my Cavendish editor, and liked her. I was excited, end they were enthusiastic. That's a good combination.
When I saw the news this morning, my first thought was that I knew how a slave felt when he was sold. But that's absurd. Slavery, rape, and the Holocaust are far too dreadful to be used metaphorically for every sling, arrow, and hangnail. This, in truth, was just about a book, and not about my survival, honor, or freedom. My editor, who was wonderfully responsive and will probably be spending the next 24 hours on the phone, did assuage my initial fears. The book would still be published as planned. Which brings up my newer, better metaphor. I feel like a frozen embryo, or perhaps a puppy (with its head still intact) trapped in a custody battle. If Amazon prints this book, will Barnes and Noble and the indies stock it? I don't want to antagonize them. I sell a lot of books through Barnes and Noble, and I sell a lot through indies, especially when I do school visits. If I decide to make some sort of self-destructive grand gesture and offer to buy back my contract, I piss off Amazon and Marhsall Cavendish. Amazon sells a lot of my books. I just published my first eBook, both there and on Barnes and Noble. I have friends at Marshall Cavendish. I don't want to piss off anyone. (Except for Kirkus.) I want everyone to like me. (This is a genetic defect common among Jews.) And I want everyone to buy my books. More than anything, I want to spend my time writing books, not sleuthing all over Google to try to figure out what this morning's news will mean to me two or three years down the road. It could be terrible. It could be the best thing that ever happeend to my career. Odds are, it will be neither. But I hope I never again wake up to the news that I've been sold.
Wait, forget the embryo. I feel like Joseph Merrick. "I am not a commodity! I am a man!"
When I saw the news this morning, my first thought was that I knew how a slave felt when he was sold. But that's absurd. Slavery, rape, and the Holocaust are far too dreadful to be used metaphorically for every sling, arrow, and hangnail. This, in truth, was just about a book, and not about my survival, honor, or freedom. My editor, who was wonderfully responsive and will probably be spending the next 24 hours on the phone, did assuage my initial fears. The book would still be published as planned. Which brings up my newer, better metaphor. I feel like a frozen embryo, or perhaps a puppy (with its head still intact) trapped in a custody battle. If Amazon prints this book, will Barnes and Noble and the indies stock it? I don't want to antagonize them. I sell a lot of books through Barnes and Noble, and I sell a lot through indies, especially when I do school visits. If I decide to make some sort of self-destructive grand gesture and offer to buy back my contract, I piss off Amazon and Marhsall Cavendish. Amazon sells a lot of my books. I just published my first eBook, both there and on Barnes and Noble. I have friends at Marshall Cavendish. I don't want to piss off anyone. (Except for Kirkus.) I want everyone to like me. (This is a genetic defect common among Jews.) And I want everyone to buy my books. More than anything, I want to spend my time writing books, not sleuthing all over Google to try to figure out what this morning's news will mean to me two or three years down the road. It could be terrible. It could be the best thing that ever happeend to my career. Odds are, it will be neither. But I hope I never again wake up to the news that I've been sold.
Wait, forget the embryo. I feel like Joseph Merrick. "I am not a commodity! I am a man!"