Amazon, Hachette, and...oh yeah, I have a blog.

(I originally conceived this to be a series of tweets, but in the end, it was just to much to say, but that's why it might seem a bit choppy).

Lots of letters going around about Amazon and Hachette.   I have thoughts (that are solely my own).  

The petition is interesting, in that I don’t know what it’s trying to accomplish. Support Amazon? That’s fine…but why do they really need support? I'm pretty sure they're doing okay on their own (consider that Amazon rarely makes statements, making this one from Russ Grandinetti so intriguing).

But it does bring up some good points, namely: publishing is evolving, and there are certain advantages to the Amazon model: 

• It does pay higher royalties 
• The author does have more control 
• It generally has lower prices 

On the other hand, there are problems with the petition’s arguments: 

• eBook royalties are on net revenue, NOT list price (for everyone) 
• “traditional publishing” offers many resources in addition to advances and royalties: things that indy authors have to pay out of their pockets 
• The digital bookspace IS growing, but print is by no means dead, and that’s an important component for both writers and readers 

Sp why ANY author would want to burn a potential avenue to new readers (especially Howey, who has a deal with S&S)—in either direction—is strange to me.  Multiple eggs.  One basket. 

And Amazon has been great for many authors—but so has traditional publishing (even with the BN kerfluffle, how many pBooks did WOOL sell?).

The fact is, the number of indy authors making a living off their writing is a tiny percentage of the number of indy authors.  This is true of all authors, anywhere. Yes, at least authors ARE making money off their works, when they might have been denied the opportunity before, but how many are actually able to quit their jobs versus how many authors have a self-published book?

The odds are stacked against you, no matter what.

And too, like Cory Doctorow's article points out, if you're stuck into an eco-system, how long before that eco-system turns on you? More on that below.

For now, though, I'd like to take a look at the letter from the multiple authors, which is also interesting, and it also feels like a sincere plea.  But… 

Yes, these authors have made Amazon millions.  But, in return, Amazon has sold millions of their books, making them millions. 

As publishers, we should be worried about Amazon cutting into our profits—we’re businesses, after all. 

But we also don’t seem willing to “stand up for principle” either.  Why don’t we pull our books from Amazon?  Because we know it won’t truly hurt them. 

And yes, you could email Bezos if you’re upset by this.  But shouldn't you also email the head of Hachette (or, if we're remembering who we're actually dealing with here, Lagardère Publishing)? Tell them to maybe start selling books directly, and at a discount? 

But they won’t do that: it would upset other booksellers (bookstores, iTunes, Kobo, etc), and that’s the catch-22. Books are a business dependent on two other businesses: 

• First: authors, to produce content. 

• Second: booksellers, to sell that content.

  

And that’s why Hachette won’t just say “screw you” to Amazon: because Amazon still makes them too much money.

As I said above, Cory Doctorow notes this in his article in The Guardian.  He calls Hachette hostages... or at least the headline does.

But the headline is a bit misleading (and I'd love to know if it was Cory or the copy-chief who came up with it) when you read the article, because the article also talks about what the change.org petitition says (although perhaps not as eloquently):

Namely, that most publishers are stuck in the Amazon eco-system because of choices THEY made. And the only way to change is to violently rip our DRM from that system.  In other words, Hachette is a hostage, but they also walked into the rusty van because Amazon had them a lot of candy.

And now they have a stomach ache.

 Yes, the "traditiona" model still works, but nobody has said it’s perfect (and I think even the best-paid authors would agree—I know every agent I talks to would!).  Especially if the value of a publishing contract is solely in the terms of advances and royalties (and not the resources a publisher is also going to--or supposed to--provide the author and their book).

It's important, though, to remember that the model isn't really in question in the current dispute.  And, even more important, neither company is negotiating in terms of the authors.  

So if Hachette “wins,” it’s not like they’re going to up their royalty splits with the authors.

These are two giant companies.  Sadly, I doubt individual authors even come up in these meetings, except as potential leverage. 

  

As an aside, I’ve talked about this with many of my friends outside of publishing, and the thing is: they couldn't tell you the difference between publishers and imprints.Many have heard of Random House and Penguin, but most don’t follow imprints (or know who publishes their favorite authors). We've spent so much time with "author as the brand," that hearing a bookstore has a sale on "Hachette books" can't mean a whole heck of a lot to most readers.  Even I can't name all the authors an imprints at my own company, let alone at Hachette. 

So while most people seem to side with the authors on this (including me: I want to be clear, I think it sucks that they're books aren't available through Amazon; I'll also be clear: I buy most of my books through Amazon, and tend to only buy them when they're on steep discount), I don’t think there’s much indignation against Amazon outside the industry. 

And that’s sad: it should be a bigger deal. 

But it should also be a wake-up call to publishers, since we've given away much of our connection to readers.

  

It wasn't long ago that we all clapped when Amazon came on the stage, and it was even more recent that we all were excited for the possibility of Kindle.

And we also forgot (and tend to forget) this fact: this is a business, and Amazon is a business, and their job isn’t to “preserve literature” (to loosely paraphrase James Patterson).

 Amazon isn’t a museum.  It’s not a curator.  It’s a store.  And unless you publish directly with them, they’re not an author’s partner.  They're their distributor.

But the author letter seems to think they ARE partners, especially when they talk about how authors have provided tons of content for Amazon.  But it’s the same they’d do for anything where there’s an opportunity to sell more books, which is almost certainly how Amazon views it, too: you reach our customers through our promotions, you sell more books, WE sell more books, and everyone makes more money.

  

And consider the argument that the authors are doing this for free, and deserve some consideration now in return (The argument basically reading "after all we did for you, and this is how you repay us?").  

Now consider that a blog post on Amazon reaches 100,000s of readers (and potentially millions): ad space on one of the biggest websites in the world isn’t exactly content-for-nothing.

 I know, it sounds like I'm defending Amazon.  And, on some points I am.Yes, I worked at Amazon, and I loved it.  I think the people there are great, and the authors I worked with amazing people.

But I didn’t work on the retail side.  And if I did, I still wasn’t at the level where I would have been in on these discussions.   

I say this all because I'm not trying to apologize for them.  I just think I bring a different perspective, one from both sides, that might be interesting to others (I do wish it was also a bit more interesting reading, but it's definitely a bit disjointed--I DO apologize for that!).

 Obviously you’re free to disagree with me (heck, I’m disagreeing with most of you!).  But I can't help feel frustrated that this discussion seems so narrowly focused.  Especially since, as an industry, we should be looking beyond this immediate moment. It's an important moment, and shouldn't be dismissed, but unless we look down the road, and look where this will land (and not in the hope that the DOJ will break-up Amazon or somehow they'll find the error of their ways, but things in OUR power), we are in such a touch spot.

What we should be doing is:

• We should be exploring ways to have better control over our own product.
• We should be more dynamic with our business dealings: lower advances, escalating royalties, bonus structures. 
• We should be building our brands—and NOT just the authors, but our imprints. 
•  We should innovate and take risks, instead of reacting.
•  We should have long-term plans that might radically change some underlying principles of our business.

 How do we implement these changes?  How do we innovate?  Those are the tough questions.

But they’re questions that are necessary and immediate.  Amazon has shown their hand: they’re not defenders of content, nor should we expect them to be. It's naive to think that a store owes us anything 

*Remember, they took a risk of selling the product, creating an infrastructure and overhead on their own dime.  Too, remember that Amazon doesn't return books back to publishers; they accept all the risk when they make book orders.

No, they aren't books' defenders. WE are.  Publishers.  Authors.  It’s OUR content.  

(Another aside: That’s where the petition is both wrong AND spot on. As an author, you  have options, and one of them is a partnership with a publisher.  That partnership is a collaboration, and it isn’t a one-way street of communication. For some authors, it will feel like that.  Hell, for some editors, it feels like that.  For there are authors who don’t want to be in a partnership—they want to be in control from soup-to-nuts. And, if you’re willing to do the work, then BE in control: self-publish! But if you want the resources, access, and expertise, then a publisher (even Amazon Publishing) will require compromise.  A good one will, at least. I can’t speak for all publishers.  Sometimes I can’t speak for myself: I get frustrated when author’s don’t take my suggestions.  But that’s because there ARE people involved.)

And unless we once again take ownership of that content (which other publishers--self-publishers--are doing), it can look like that bleak future that keeps getting predicted for the industry is becoming more an more a reality. And a lot of people are going to find themselves in a tough spot, authors and publishers alike.

Yet, that’s the thing I think keeps getting lost: this dispute isn’t about people. 

 Yes, it AFFECTS people.  It affects them big time.

 But this is about money.  This is about market share.  This is about leverage and power.  It’s tangentially about books, and even less so about authors.

I hate that’s the case, but unless we take a step back from our fear and anger (or adulation and reverence), it’s difficult to talk about this in a way that may actually generate solutions.  And that should be what we're trying to take from this, at least at the industry level.  Because whatever the outcome, things have now radically changed for books and authors.

The people who continue to be radical in changing more are surely going to find themselves in a better space.

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One last thing: I started this because this is all rhetoric.  These letters.  Amazon’s and Hachette’s statements.  Even my words, now.

 These aren’t facts without emotion: all of these communications are designed to help you take a side.  I'm not a journalist.  Rather, I'm a guy with a blog and some experience on both sides of the fence.

 So it’s easy to fall into the trap of the semantic argument: nitpicking individual words and phrases—that’s how debaters do it.  Looking back at my words, I've done it a few times myself.

 But always consider: what are these people really trying to say.  

• Is Amazon really good for customers? 
• Do they really champion authors?
• Is Hachette acting in their authors best interest? 
• Do they truly care about readers, per se?

Because actions speak louder than words.  And unfortunately, Amazon is the only one acting. 

And with that, I’m going to read some more submissions.

Men and Grids of Iron (Keep Reading; You'll Get It)

Ghostface Killah: You chose wisely.

Iron Man not only lived up to the hype, it went beyond the hype. It took the hype, exposed it for the bastard-child it was, and replaced it with the legitimate prince of an opinion.

I kind of liked the movie.

Consider it this way: Was there ever a more perfect casting job than Robert Downey, Jr. as Tony Stark? Hmm, who should we get to play a womanizing, jet-setting playboy who eventually redeems himself to make good on the promise he had exhibited so long ago?

Right, other than John Travolta.

He’s at his funny and charmingest (it’s a word!) best, and for a movie that doesn’t actually have a lot of characters, he more than makes up for that. He’s slightly over-the-top portrayal is to the movie’s benefit, and combines well with a rather subdued Jeff Bridges, a pretty but rather replaceable Gwyneth Paltrow, and a take-it or leave-it Terrence Howard.

Too, for a comic book movie, there’s not a great deal of “action.” There’s a lot, but the actual scenes with Iron Man is pretty much limited to three. Everything else is Downey, and as cool as the effects for Iron Man are, I had no problem with this fact.

Okay, I’ll admit: I have a little man-crush on Robert Downey, Jr.

Clearly, by now, you probably don’t need me to tell you to go see this movie. You either already have, and loved it, or never had any desire to see it (to which I say: Pardon my French, but you’re an asshole).

But one thing that needs to get mentioned is the feel-good moment of the movie. No, it’s not when Iron Man saves the village in Afghanistan. Instead, it’s the moment when the oft-maligned robot helper finally redeems himself. Seriously. People clapped when this thing finally helps Tony instead of hindering him.

The best thing about this movie is that it’s not only one of the best comic book movies ever (up there with Batman, Batman Begins, X-Men, Sin City, and Howard the Duck), it’s honestly a very good movie. It holds a wide deal of appeal, is topical(!), and is well-written. Jon Favreau does a very good job directing it, and has a decent cameo role to boot.

Next up: The Dark Knight.

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I wrote a while ago about Michael Lewis’ rather seminal baseball book, Moneyball. Well, I just finished his most recent book, The Blind Side, where he tackles (oh, that’s awful) the evolution of the game of football (that’s not soccer, for all my European readers).

While perhaps not as important as Moneyball, it’s probably the more personal story, paralleling the burgeoning career of Michael Oher and how the game of football got to the point where the left tackle position became a skilled position on par with quarterback and running back.

The reason I say it’s not as important is because Moneyball described the revolution before it started (heck, people are still fighting the revolution), whereas The Blind Side is looking at the results of its sport’s revolution.

In this case, the revolution begins with Bill Walsh, the famous coach of the San Francisco 49ers. Like Billy Beane in Moneyball, the cause for the revolution was essentially trying to figure out how to win without being able to simply buy the best talent available. What Walsh discovered was that by utilizing the short pass and eliminating much of the decision making process of the quarterback, he was able to maximize his returns, no matter who was taking the snaps. So, although most people would consider Joe Montana one of, if not the, greatest QB of all time, when you look at the players before and after him, they were all able to perform at pretty much equally high levels. Now I’m not willing to say that Montana really isn’t as good as people say, but it is interesting how successful some of his no-name replacements were, when he got hurt.

This was what we know of as the West Coast Offense (or, rather, it’s how I’m very simplistically describing the West Coast Offense for the time being), and although it wasn’t necessarily exciting (oooh, another seven-yard pass!), it was fairly effective. What it meant, though, was that the offensive line was suddenly even more important than before, as pass protection was necessary to provide enough time for the QB to make his passes.

This, in turn led defenses to look for ways to get to these now pass-happy offenses, and the most dangerous weapon turned out to be the blind-side rusher, as exemplified by Lawrence Taylor (hence the title of the book).

Which brings us back to Michael Oher. Oher was a monosyllabic mountain of a mystery, who somehow found himself from being virtually homeless in poor, black Memphis to attending one of the wealthiest Christian schools and, ultimately, being adopted by an incredibly rich, white family. The reason he’s so fascinating to Lewis is the fact that he’s not only incredibly big and strong, but he’s also extremely fast and agile. He is, in other words, the perfect combination necessary to play the, now, super-important left tackle position – the man who protects the quarterback from being taken out from behind. As we follow Oher’s journey from the streets of Memphis to being wooed by every major college football coach in the nation, it’s a rather remarkable story.

What makes it really good, though, is Lewis’ access. He is somehow able to go deep into the minds of pretty much every person (and at every level), and yet stays remarkably objective in his viewpoint. For example, although he is sympathetic of Oher’s plight, he doesn’t hesitate to kind of paint Michael, as his fame grows, as a bit of jerk. Same thing with the family that adopted and accepted him, the Tuohys. None of that overshadows what is amazing about these stories – the sacrifice, the hard work, and personal growth – but it definitely grounds them.

I’m just surprised, after the way Billy Beane gets portrayed in Moneyball that people still agree to cooperate with this guy!

If you like football, or just sports in general, you’ll probably like this book. If, like me, you also really like the strategy of a sport, then you’ll like this book, too. But, just as important, if you want a pretty feel-good story, or an insight into race, class, and religion in Memphis, this might be the book for you, too. Lewis is a good writer, a “popular” historian who understands how to weave his narrative into the facts to make us enjoy the story. It helps that he writes about sports, which is one of the more universal languages, but I also happen to think he picks fascinating topics – and fascinating characters.

It is…ahem…a touchdown.

Commence hating of me now.

Is it Real Son? Is it Really Real Son?

I wonder if, in time, we will come to view memoirs with the same disdain we hold reality television? The concepts are basically the same: to tell compelling, “real” stories in a way that certainly sensationalizes the situations and lives they are meant to describe. Granted, reality television has fallen off the deep end, going from a fairly innovative day-in-the-life-of-seven-strangers (“The Real World”) to the schlock-and-gristle of such ubiquities like “Fear Factor” or “Flava of Love.” The patina of authenticity which we were able to delude ourselves into believing about the people in these shows (“but that’s how people really talk!”) very rapidly melted away, leaving exposed the greedy eyes of network execs.

And yet we still watch. Consider that during the recent writers’ strike, most networks didn’t even bat an eyelash, knowing that they could, if necessary, throw up (both literally and figuratively) any piece of crap that could be made with a couple of cameras and a group of people convinced that not only does everyone get 15 minutes of fame, but they should get it. When Time magazine declared “You” person of the year, there was little criticism in the necessary narcissism that allows such a state to occur. We are, more than ever, willing to open ourselves up in ways unheard of just ten years ago (consider the pseudo-meta going on with the fact that you are reading this in a blog). The Internet (note: why does MS Word still insist on capitalizing “internet”?) has created access to people who never had forums before, and we have embraced them whole-heartedly. Why wouldn’t we? What is more gratifying than knowing that others can share in the joy and wonder that is “you?”

Are books that fundamentally different? I am a big believer in the idea that “the medium is the message,” and I try to always acknowledge that what works on television may not work on the internet may not work in books may not work in the movies, etc. What this doesn’t mean, though, is that they can not work. While I don’t think that the lines are blurring to such a degree that mediums are melding into an indistinguishable entity, I do think there is certainly cross-over. It can be no coincidence that the recent push in publishing for memoir is happening at the very boom of the internet social networking and reality television. While our approach to different media may be subconsciously varied, most people (including myself), rarely take time out to acknowledge that what I do here is different from what I see there.

Probably the greatest proof of this is the fact that so many “blockbuster” memoirs, including James Frey’s A Million Little Pieces and Ishmael Beah’s A Long Way Gone have been “proven” to be a lot less “real” than originally portrayed. Frey’s is the obvious example, becoming a huge best-seller with Oprah’s endorsement, only to have her slam the door in his face (on national television) when it was discovered that he had embellished the truth a bit. And yet it’s still selling, as both people who got caught up in the scandal and those that found inspiration in the story continue to read the book. Beah’s story – that of a boy-soldier in Sierra Leone – is now under attack by The Australian, which has pointed out numerous inconsistencies between his account and that of documents and others.

What these “fictionalized narratives” show is that the “reality” is just another feature of the story, such as tone and language. In other words, we are ready and willing to accept lies if they are presented to us as being true or at least with an aura of, to borrow Mr. Colbert’s phraseology, truthiness. Whether it’s a drug addict struggles or LC’s problems with Heidi, we embrace the melodrama (or, at least I do). I’m sure there are psychological reasons for this, probably something along the lines that we identify and/or compare with the train-wrecks of their lives as a way to feel better about our own, but that’s really not my field. In the end, no matter what connections we make, it is still the story we have to consciously interact with, and that is what keeps us coming back.

With that in mind, I just read Edwidge Danticat’s memoir, Brother, I’m Dying. Winner of the National Book Award, and generally praised by every publication that reviews books, it is very good. Less an autobiography and more the story of her family in Haiti and America, Danticat never holds back her love for her father Mira or her Uncle Joseph (the man who raised her and her brother while her father looked for work in the U.S.). It is this sense of the genuine that draws the reader in and makes them want to care about a family that isn’t their own. And, while taking on political issues both in Haiti and the U.S., her criticisms come off as natural: I dislike these policies because they affected me and my loved-ones in a real and personal way.

One reason I think so many people have loved this book is because it somehow glosses over the pain of her father’s death and her uncle’s flight from Haiti while never actually holding back the details of these events. It is an amazing balancing act, but she clearly is trying to ensure that her two fathers (for her Uncle Joseph is a second father for her) are not remembered for being men who suffered, but men who loved and had suffering also.

Perhaps another reason people loved it so much is because it seems so unreal. I think we, as readers (or viewers or listeners, etc.), have both the desire for the reality, but just as much desire for that reality to seem impossible. We still want our stories to have heroes and villains, and we want to both identify and disconnect with the people we read about. In Brother, I’m Dying, Danticat provides us with a family that, through all its tribulations, has an unwavering love for each other. There are few fights or harsh words between family members, and even when there are, such as between Edwidge’s aunt Denise and Marie Micheline, Denise and Joseph’s “adopted” daughter, the resolution is not only beautiful, but almost ethereal. This is a world that doesn’t discount magic, and it’s also a world that doesn’t discount the disbelief in some everyday occurrences. In the end, we want to believe that the Danticat family is this strong, cohesive unit, because it helps make the sadness deeper and the happiness grander. Whether it’s Mira reassuring his children even though he’s dying or Uncle Joseph believing he can talk the “dread” (head of the neighborhood gang in Haiti) into being reasonable, we are able to look past what these interactions should really be like.

Is that “real?” In a sense, yes. We are constantly reinterpreting events to make them suit our needs. Danticat is trying to tell us her story, keep her fathers’ memories alive, and make a political commentary about the two worlds she lives in. The truth, and how it applies to each of those things, is clearly subjective then. In turn, we provide our own subjectivity to the texts, in order to make them relevant to ourselves. We do this with fiction, too. Which brings me back to my original question: will we eventually view memoirs with the same disdain as reality television? Perhaps that’s a disingenuous question, though, because let’s face it: we tend to only disdain reality television in public. And even that is not universal. In essence, we want all of our stories to be “real,” whether they are fiction or nonfiction. It helps ground and transport us.