The life of a writer takes many strange turns and on the way we meet many strange people. We love to hear that the time we spend typing our guts onto a computer screen is appreciated, and we are ecstatic beyond words when a publisher is enthusiastic enough about our work to offer us a contract. That is, after all, the ultimate goal of any author. When it finally happens, our first reaction is to open a bottle of champagne and have a party. Until we discover the champagne has gone flat and all we have to show for the celebration is the dirty plates and left-over food.
Yes, this is yet another story of the pricks of the world who love to burst our happiness bubble. Although I enjoy sharing my “horror” stories with fellow authors, I do wish they’d stop happening to me! But I digress. Back to the story.
I met “Marge” (not her real name, although why I want to protect her I have no idea) at a writers conference where I was invited to conduct a workshop on electronic publishing. After the presentation, she told me she was interested in taking over the publication of my novel “Red Wine For Breakfast” and, after reading the first three chapters of my new novel “First Class Male”, wanted to offer me an advance on that one as well. I was thrilled. I checked out her credentials on the web and she seemed legit. We spoke on the phone several times over the course of the next few weeks and planned to meet for lunch near her hometown, which was about a two hour drive up the California coast, where we would finalize the two contracts. She even suggested I obtain an agent to protect my interests, which I did through a contact in one of my writer’s organizations.
On Thursday morning, I had a publisher. I met Marge at her favorite restaurant where she knew everyone and everyone knew her. My first indication that things were not exactly the way she’d presented them, was when the entire staff practically ran from the room when she rolled in. Oh, did I forget to mention? Marge is in a wheelchair. I was impressed with her energy and enthusiasm in spite of being afflicted with MS, and felt she was THE person to take my book to the top of the Best Seller List.
She was very warm and friendly and we shared some light conversation over an overpriced lunch which was, she pointed out, her treat . Marge talked about how she’d inherited the publishing company and had so much money, she didn’t know what to do with it. She showed me her five caret diamond and mentioned how much she’d spent on her previous author, who she was having problems with. She then began telling me, in intimate detail all about the problems, including her suspicion that the author was having an affair. I attributed the small cringe in my stomach to the curry salad dressing, but something told me things were only going to go downhill from there.
We finally got down to business, and she produced the first contract in which she would take over the publication of my novel. The one I’d spent four years on. The one that was already in bookstores, on the web and doing just fine. Her plan was to do a mass market paperback, put in airports and grocery stores, even Costco and WalMart. And I’d get 30% of all sales. It sounded great…until she took out her pen and crossed out the paragraph that referred to the advance. It was her understanding that since the book was already out, she wasn’t going to pay me anything for the rights, but the royalties would be sufficient. The curry was now starting to make it’s way back up into my throat.
When she pulled out the second contract, which was a boilerplate she’d printed off the internet, she apologized for the misunderstanding regarding the advance she had previously offered. This was a small company, she said, so she couldn’t possibly offer me the $1,000, but only half that amount. (She could hock the ring, I thought but didn’t think it was a good time to make that suggestion) I read through the rest of the contract and was stunned to see that, for a mere $250.00, she expected me to sign over ALL rights, till death did us part, to her company. The salad was now threatening to join the dressing. Unfortunately, she’d forgotten to keep the last page which stated in big, bold letters: THIS CONTRACT FAVORS THE PUBLISHER. No, DUH!
I took the papers, put them into my briefcase and told her I would discuss it with my agent (which I had) and my attorney (which I didn’t have) and get back to her. Still feeling that maybe there would be room for negotiation, I didn’t want to tell her what I was really thinking. Until she made a comment that totally destroyed any chance of us ever working together, even if she had offered me ten million dollars. Marge, the nice lady in a wheelchair, told me her lawyer asked her if she would have any trouble working with a JEW! Yes, that’s what she said. And, if you can believe this, her response to his question was; “Some of my best friends are Jewish.”
I excused myself from the table, went to the bathroom and tossed the $24.95 salad into the toilet. Taking a deep breath, I returned to the table where Marge was busy selling my book and asking me to sign them for the ambushed customers and staff who couldn’t say no to the “handicapped” lady. I smiled. I signed. I watch her pocket the $13.95 for a book she had purchased from me at MY cost. When the last of the books were sold, I thanked her for lunch, got into my car and drove back down the coast. The view was extraordinary, the ocean magnificent. The temptation too great. I pulled off the side of the road, tore the contracts into tiny little pieces, threw them into the ocean and watched as they floated into oblivion.
Thursday morning, I had a publisher. Thursday afternoon, I didn’t, and when I returned home, I opened a bottle of champagne and celebrated.
The saying “A Picture is Worth 1,000 words”, (or in the case of “First Class Male” around 96,000) has probably never been better illustrated than when it comes to the cover of a book. As a writer, I consider myself to be an artist with the literary word. My creativity with graphic design however, is pretty much limited to stick figures.
When First Class Male was originally published in 2001, my publisher hired the graphic artist who consulted with me on the cover design. The book sold quite well, (especially to members of the National Association of Postmasters of the US (NAPUS) at their national convention in Long Beach, California in 2005) but after more than a decade, I felt it was time to give the book a new look.
Being visually creatively challenged, I went on line and sought out someone who I felt would understand exactly what I was looking for. She was also the designer who created the cover for my third novel Undercover Reunion.
With my publisher having gone out of business, the only way I could offer my novel in print format was to re-publish the book with Creatspace, and since I had long since lost contact with the original cover artist, I decided to give the ole boy a face-lift along with a new ISBN #!
It is with great joy that I’m announcing the re-publication of First Class Male with a fantastic new cover and new price! It is already available in ebook format on Smashwords.com and will soon be re-released in print on Amazon!
I’ve been a writer for as long as I can remember and since the BIG 6-0 is less than a year away, I can’t remember what I ate for lunch let alone when I started putting my thoughts on paper and releasing them on an unsuspecting and, judging by the Amazon rankings, uncaring world.
While I can’t remember exactly when I began writing, I can certainly recall when I stopped. Just as many of you can recall where you were when a major catastrophic event occurred; President Kennedy’s Assassination in Dallas, the space shuttle Challenger exploding on take-off, the twin towers collapsing on 9/11, I can recall the exact moment when my Muse packed her bags and took off for points unknown.
Wednesday, January 27, 2010.
The dawn of the iPad, the birth of electronic publishing (Ebooks), and the beginning of the end to what I had, up until that date, considered to be a unique and special career. I was a writer. I was a published author. My books were stocked on shelves in bookstores from New York to California. I was invited to speak at writer’s conferences. Fans lined up with copies of my book at signing and book fairs. I was special. I was good. People read what I wrote and agreed. Being a writer was something to be proud. Most important, people would pay me to read what I wrote. Life was good.
Until Wednesday, January 27, 2010. Ebooks changed everything.
Now, anyone with a computer and a little knowledge can be a “published” author. You don’t even need money, not one dime. That joy I once experienced when my book appeared on Amazon is now shared by millions who never took even one writing class.
When everyone can be a “published” author, EVERYONE and I do mean EVERYONE will be. With the invention of the Ebook and all the Ebook readers, being a “published” author is the easiest goal in the world. It’s certainly easier than exercising to lose 20 pounds. You don’t even have to get off your chair to succeed!
With thousands of bloggers and millions of tweeters who are being followed by still more millions, going viral on YouTube, getting “liked” by friends they will never see much less want to hang out with, my Muse simply had enough.
“What is the point?”, she asked, just before slamming the door. “You spend so much time agonizing over that one perfect sentence and here’s some jerk who coughs up a bunch of common a four-letter words and hits the best seller list. You just don’t get it. I’m outta here.”
And, she’s right. I don’t get it. I don’t get the popularity, or the rationality of zombies or the romantic appeal of blood sucking vampires. (Apparently they don’t need a good blood flow to get an erection. They take some kind of erectile vampire juice. If that’s true, I’d like to find some for my husband. Viagra is so expensive!) If this is what the reading public wants, why waste my time?
And yet.
I have to admit even writing this for the blog-hop has stirred up a bit of excitement I thought long dead. (Viagra or vampire love juice notwithstanding!) And I do enjoy a good hop. Maybe, just maybe, it will be enough to jump-start my writing once again.
The views and opinions expressed are my own and do not necessarily represent or reflect the views and the opinions of any other persons, institutions, companies or organizations I am are affiliated with and are not intended to malign any religion, ethnic group, club, organization, company, or individual.
Any reproduction or electronic re-transmission of content without the expressed permission of the author is a violation of federal statute Copyright Act of 1976 and will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.
Author Raven West 
Writers Beware! Don’t sign away your soul just to be published!
Raven West ♦ February 24, 2013 ♦ Leave a comment
The life of a writer takes many strange turns and on the way we meet many strange people. We love to hear that the time we spend typing our guts onto a computer screen is appreciated, and we are ecstatic beyond words when a publisher is enthusiastic enough about our work to offer us a contract. That is, after all, the ultimate goal of any author. When it finally happens, our first reaction is to open a bottle of champagne and have a party. Until we discover the champagne has gone flat and all we have to show for the celebration is the dirty plates and left-over food.
Yes, this is yet another story of the pricks of the world who love to burst our happiness bubble. Although I enjoy sharing my “horror” stories with fellow authors, I do wish they’d stop happening to me! But I digress. Back to the story.
I met “Marge” (not her real name, although why I want to protect her I have no idea) at a writers conference where I was invited to conduct a workshop on electronic publishing. After the presentation, she told me she was interested in taking over the publication of my novel “Red Wine For Breakfast” and, after reading the first three chapters of my new novel “First Class Male”, wanted to offer me an advance on that one as well. I was thrilled. I checked out her credentials on the web and she seemed legit. We spoke on the phone several times over the course of the next few weeks and planned to meet for lunch near her hometown, which was about a two hour drive up the California coast, where we would finalize the two contracts. She even suggested I obtain an agent to protect my interests, which I did through a contact in one of my writer’s organizations.
On Thursday morning, I had a publisher. I met Marge at her favorite restaurant where she knew everyone and everyone knew her. My first indication that things were not exactly the way she’d presented them, was when the entire staff practically ran from the room when she rolled in. Oh, did I forget to mention? Marge is in a wheelchair. I was impressed with her energy and enthusiasm in spite of being afflicted with MS, and felt she was THE person to take my book to the top of the Best Seller List.
She was very warm and friendly and we shared some light conversation over an overpriced lunch which was, she pointed out, her treat . Marge talked about how she’d inherited the publishing company and had so much money, she didn’t know what to do with it. She showed me her five caret diamond and mentioned how much she’d spent on her previous author, who she was having problems with. She then began telling me, in intimate detail all about the problems, including her suspicion that the author was having an affair. I attributed the small cringe in my stomach to the curry salad dressing, but something told me things were only going to go downhill from there.
We finally got down to business, and she produced the first contract in which she would take over the publication of my novel. The one I’d spent four years on. The one that was already in bookstores, on the web and doing just fine. Her plan was to do a mass market paperback, put in airports and grocery stores, even Costco and WalMart. And I’d get 30% of all sales. It sounded great…until she took out her pen and crossed out the paragraph that referred to the advance. It was her understanding that since the book was already out, she wasn’t going to pay me anything for the rights, but the royalties would be sufficient. The curry was now starting to make it’s way back up into my throat.
When she pulled out the second contract, which was a boilerplate she’d printed off the internet, she apologized for the misunderstanding regarding the advance she had previously offered. This was a small company, she said, so she couldn’t possibly offer me the $1,000, but only half that amount. (She could hock the ring, I thought but didn’t think it was a good time to make that suggestion) I read through the rest of the contract and was stunned to see that, for a mere $250.00, she expected me to sign over ALL rights, till death did us part, to her company. The salad was now threatening to join the dressing. Unfortunately, she’d forgotten to keep the last page which stated in big, bold letters: THIS CONTRACT FAVORS THE PUBLISHER. No, DUH!
I took the papers, put them into my briefcase and told her I would discuss it with my agent (which I had) and my attorney (which I didn’t have) and get back to her. Still feeling that maybe there would be room for negotiation, I didn’t want to tell her what I was really thinking. Until she made a comment that totally destroyed any chance of us ever working together, even if she had offered me ten million dollars. Marge, the nice lady in a wheelchair, told me her lawyer asked her if she would have any trouble working with a JEW! Yes, that’s what she said. And, if you can believe this, her response to his question was; “Some of my best friends are Jewish.”
I excused myself from the table, went to the bathroom and tossed the $24.95 salad into the toilet. Taking a deep breath, I returned to the table where Marge was busy selling my book and asking me to sign them for the ambushed customers and staff who couldn’t say no to the “handicapped” lady. I smiled. I signed. I watch her pocket the $13.95 for a book she had purchased from me at MY cost. When the last of the books were sold, I thanked her for lunch, got into my car and drove back down the coast. The view was extraordinary, the ocean magnificent. The temptation too great. I pulled off the side of the road, tore the contracts into tiny little pieces, threw them into the ocean and watched as they floated into oblivion.
Thursday morning, I had a publisher. Thursday afternoon, I didn’t, and when I returned home, I opened a bottle of champagne and celebrated.
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