In search of a void…
My good friend (and soon to be famous filmmaker) Lonnie Martin recently updated his blog with an explanation of the dreaded “void” that haunts his life upon the completion of a major project.
Since I’ve been spending quite a bit of time these last few weeks looking deep within myself in a sort of western-eastern fusion way, I took the time to read his entry and feel generally jealous. That depressing lull in activity – free time after pounding against a wall for months, or years – is elusive for me. When making movies, I can see where that sort of thing opens up eventually. There’s a clear finale, and payoff. Sure, now Lonnie has to chew on nails waiting for the festivals to get rolling, and the reviews to come in, but there’s that sense of completion. Something that doesn’t really happen in the book world.
I’ll be publishing my third book this coming September and, inspired to look even further into how I’ve run my life by talk of the void, I went through my email archives and charted the life of this third book. The author was initially contacted in September of 06. That’s when our first book came out, and we were well underway with the second book. For just about every publisher, a book takes a year to put together. And that’s after the damn thing is written! That’s a year of post production. We’ll not even talk about what the author goes through to put a book together.
For a small press, that year can stretch out a bit. In the case of the third book, two years. It was about 15 months of work on the first book, and about 17 months on the second one. There’s no downtime, either. Since January 2005, I’ve pretty much been wall to wall freakout. Even when the book hits the shelves, it doesn’t stop. And, by then, as you can tell, all production is deep into the next project.
As I now look ahead with a new sense of where I want to be in life (zillionaire, surrounded by nubile teenaged women, and able to afford a high class drug habit), I’m thinking it’s time to enter into a hiatus of sorts. Not the void of Lonnie’s nightmares, but a reevaluation of what I want out of whatever it is I’m doing. I suppose I should figure out what I’m doing first. Because publishing books is roughly like pushing through an endless corridor filled with the Devil’s mucus. Or maybe I just lack focus.
So, the third book will be the last, unless money comes pouring in. I won’t shut down the publishing company, as I plan to inch up the food chain a little bit and try my hand at being a publicist. It is now my experience, after dealing with half a dozen publicists, that the job demands a high amount of pay for a very little amount of work. Basically spam email a bunch of fuckheads, get 20 replies or so, and then tell the publisher to follow up because, wow, 20 replies out of 10,000 emails!!! Wasn’t it worth all those thousands of dollars you paid!?! WOW!!!
Publicists sort of follow the modern political machine philosophy – that Jedi mind trick stuff. The war in Iraq is good. You want us to bomb Iran.
Many would say that the Jedi mind trick has failed Bush, but, I don’t know… I think there’s a very vocal, though very tiny urban liberal population that’s outraged, and a vast — oh, I don’t know, Silent Majority? – that thinks Bush is just fine. Because that’s America. Selling the crazy since 1945. Sure, Bush has all these low ratings, but I never trust opinion polls because the only people who take those lengthy, unwanted phone calls are people with an axe to grind.
Anyway, publicists. Thousands of dollars for two months of “work” which is comprised, mainly, of sending that spam email, replying happily if someone bites and saying that the publisher will take care of the next steps. And, if you want a publicist who takes those next steps themselves, then you pay through the nose. We’re talking 10 grand for the basic package. The occasional second tier publicist will let you get away with 5 grand. And it’s very specific what all that money gets you – a 250 word press release. That’s, what, $40 a word? And it’s your own words, too. Coming from the back of the book and the normal publicity materials that every publisher develops.
Sure, I guess you’re paying for the list that the book will go to. But you can buy those for five grand, and keep them updated with interns. And publicists are a dime a dozen these days, so the response is rarely coming through because the person doing the push is a celebrity… These people being contacted are reviewers, freelancers, feature editors. They’re content driven. Though publicists (and literary agents) want you to believe the book industry is full of wizards conducting arcane rituals, the truth is that every book’s publicity campaign is basically like opening up in a crowded room with a shotgun. No matter who’s firing, they’re going to hit people.
But, if you drop 20 or 30k on a publicist, at least you have someone in the lobby who has chained all the exits shut. Then, as with the first Harry Potter, a publisher can just stalk through that crowded room and hit everyone. Reload – boom – reload – boom – reload – translation rights – reload – sequel.
Retooling my company as a publicity firm could prove to be fun, lucrative, and safe compared to publishing. When I say it’s moving up on the food chain, I’m not kidding. Wolves don’t eat wolves and Viking raiders don’t raid other Vikings.
Alternatively, I could just spend the next two years with my nose to the grindstone. Throwing money at the debts, and buying myself a year off work.
My friends say, oh, Nacho, get on the career path. Let go of all this work for yourself bullshit and get a higher paying job that’s upwardly mobile.
I hate working, though. I don’t think people understand that. I spend my entire commute wondering if I could sharpen the edges of my Metro farecard and cut open people’s throats. And as for jobs…shit. I get low pay at my current fuckhead factory, but I’m able to watch TV all day and take two months off a year to self medicate in foreign pubs. Truthfully, when I think about jumping ship and changing jobs, I can’t imagine having the tolerance for anything other than night watchman, landscaper, or maybe rattlesnake milker. Jobs where no-motherfucking-body is going to bother me. No talking, no flirting, no friends, no drinking buddies, no weird drama, no supervisors, no underlings. Just me and, you know, a sharp sickle. Or a nightstick. Or rattlesnake nipple clamps.