Publication, One Year Later

Inspired by Michael Allen's The Truth About Writing, here is my truth about self-publication:

I'M SOOOO BLOODY RICH, HA HA HAAAA! I OWN APARTMENT BUILDINGS AND SHOPPING CENTERS, HA HA HAAAAAAA!!!

I'll pour you the first dram if you can identify the origin of that quote.

I start with money, because that seems to be the bottom line for many people thinking about publishing, “professionally” or otherwise. If you are one of those people, here is the truth: I've done better than break even, but not so well that I should bother with a tax claim. In fact, the IRS would very much prefer I didn't, since they will have to pay me for the privilege of giving them a little extra work.

If you're hoping to become rich and famous by self-publishing your short stories, I would say on the basis of my limited experience: there ain't no way it's going to happen. But really, who expects that? I held out hope for a little beer and peanuts money; I got it, and for that I'm grateful. If you're someone who thinks sales figures are indicative of a writer's — or, God forbid, a person's — worth, give your head a shake and think again. You should see the portraits Modigliani drew in exchange for beer, never mind the peanuts. No, really — you should. People love him now, but patiently tolerated him at the time and in metaphysical currency you and I are worth every bit as much as he was.

Having said all that, I suspect there is a modestly lucrative shell-game to be had in the world of self-publishing — provided you have a few cooperative friends (including an adroit accountant) and the prerequisite energy. Basically what you do is this: dream up a catchy name for a publishing house; create, format and self-publish a half-dozen or so books for the market; get your accountant friend to seek out and exploit every possible tax loophole and apply for every available artist's fund and grant (there are still quite a few of those in Canada, particularly if you reside in Quebec). In other words, you become a small publisher. The potential upside to this is when strangers ask you who published your work, they will nod knowingly when you say, “Oh, I was picked up by Catchy Name Publishing House. They're kinda new to the market, but gosh: great group of people!” Additional bonus: you will almost certainly make more money than if you single-handedly publish a solitary collection of short stories.

The potential downside is you will likely be more taken with the business of publishing than with the act of writing.

A publisher's name seems to mean a great deal to a large number of people, and I have to admit I've wrestled a bit with some of the barbs directed toward my ego. “You resorted to a vanity press,” is one of the more common attempts at dismissal. I think there is a difference in kind worth pointing out: I actually formatted my own book, enlisted the talents of others in the cover artwork as well as the proofreading and editing. I can attest to the quality of time and labor that went into the final product. Then there is the business of generating interest and sales. That's why it's called “self-publishing,” and that's why, after I've witnessed the love and attention that others have given to “my” product, I'm prone to bristling at “vanity” accusations. So far as I know, the offer behind most vanity presses is you give them the words and a lump sum of money, and they will give you a box of books.

Vanity is, of course, one of the Seven Deadlies. I hate it when someone in the Church publicly speculates as to my motivations; you can just imagine how I feel when some Secular Fool stands up and with pious high dudgeon pulls the same boneheaded stunt. Taking a deep breath and attempting to give him the benefit of the doubt, I can only presume that the act of multiple submissions, and working what connections one has, and currying what favor one can, followed (not at all inevitably) by acceptance, professional editing, formatting, packaging and selling is a process that scourges all trace of vanity from a writer, thus purifying his soul for the public scrutiny to follow. I can presume, but not for very long.

Or perhaps I misunderstand. Perhaps it's not an accusation at all, but a sentiment informed by the wisdom of Qoheleth. Well then! Let me refill your glass, sir, and we shall lift a toast to our brotherhood of vanity!

There is another way of looking at this: the practical way. I think I'm as clever with words as most people in the business. But what professional publishers want, quite rightly, is a meal-ticket. They want someone who can publicly attract attention to their own product while maintaining a monastic work ethic. Consider some of the names you look for when you visit the big box bookstores. These people have to master the dog-and-pony show to get 90 seconds worth of coverage in magazines, newspapers or (better yet) local television — then they have to retreat to their room to write. And never mind the messy business of paying attention to lovers, spouses and children (while ignoring the critics). How anyone can come up with a book a year is beyond me. It's beyond me, because I very much doubt I have that capacity.

I'm guessing I have three more books of fiction in me, tops, and I am a very slow worker. Frankly, if there is a vice informing my publishing style, it's “sloth.” For better or worse I've come to think if I'm not having fun writing, people won't have any fun reading the end product. Fun takes time, and I hate to be rushed when I'm having fun.

I also loathe waste, and the current publishing industry produces little but. When will this be brought to bear? I think it could be quite soon. I can recall some of the punditry that came after the fall of Communism. “Reagan brought them to their knees!” claimed one. “Yes,” rejoined the other, “but how much of the fall was simply a result of the sheer dead weight of Communism?” I believe commercial publishing is collapsing beneath the sheer, dead weight of its own colossal waste. In contrast, Print On Demand gives you just as many books as are going to be read (or purchased). Call it “vanity publishing” if you are so inclined, but the way I see it, I'm part of the solution, not the problem. In fact, the more accurate sobriquet might be “humility publishing”: modest means attaining reasonable goals.

When it comes to meeting goals, I have to say the experience of self-publishing has been vastly more gratifying than I could ever have imagined. Family and friends have treated my work with more seriousness than I have any right to expect; my blog-friends have been stupendously generous in their encouragement and support; those who read the book but didn't find it to their taste have had the good manners to keep their reactions to themselves; and, wonder of wonders, complete strangers have sent me some of the most touching notes imaginable.

What, if anything, will I change the next time? Having worked with the POD model for a year, I think I'll probably make the next PDF free, and bring the price of the book closer to its actual cost of production. I believe in giving back: why shouldn't the customer buy her own beer and peanuts? Who knows: by the time I conclude my career in fiction, I may just make it a square deal and throw in dinner and a nightcap.

OLYMPUS CAMERAS: Service With A Shrug

In my earlier incarnation as a camera salesman, when it came time to purchase my own single lens reflex camera, I opted for Olympus. A quarter-century later I can say that my OM-1 and the half-dozen lenses I've accumulated continue to serve me very, very well. Money well spent, really.

So when my wife and I decided on a family digital camera, she rightfully pointed out my happy history with this brand and encouraged me to spend some extra bucks on the SP-350. For the past year-and-a-half, we've been happy with it, with only one small niggling detail: we couldn't figure out how to change the "movie" setting from MOV file (a difficult format for non-Apple users to transfer to DVD) to Mjpeg file. The manual (both the book and the PDF) said the camera was automatically set to Mjpeg (it's not), and didn't elaborate on how to change settings.

I hadn't bothered with the disc of Olympus software that came with the camera. This weekend, after my older daughter said she wanted to "make a movie," I finally loaded it to my computer and hooked up the camera. The first thing that popped on-screen was a notice that I could "update [my] camera!" Figuring this might get me to my desired destination, I clicked "Yes" and got the usual disclaimer indicating I had to accept Olympus's terms of use. Fine: I hit "I Accept," and the download began. Finally, the Olympus website prompt informed me I should detach my camera, turn it off, then turn it on again for the new firmware to take effect.

I detached and ... FREEZE!

I tamped down my panic and considered my options. Something similar had happened with my wife's iPod, the result of genuine "user error." I took the iPod to an Apple store, and one of their crew fixed the firmware problem while I watched. He winked and handed it back to me, as good as new -- no charge. I didn't think I'd done anything inappropriate with the Olympus, but you can never be too sure about such things. I figured I was within driving distance of the Olympus Canada Service Center -- a quick visit might be just the trick.

When I got there, I cautiously told them my tale of woe. The fellow who took my camera nodded sagely. "You've fried a circuit," he said. "It'll cost you $140 to get it fixed."

I blinked. "I don't understand," I said. "How did I fry a circuit?"

"It's the patch," he said. "Most cameras can't handle them. Olympus has been taking them off the website one at a time."

"And for this I have to pay $140?!"

"Gimme a minute." He stepped into the next room and closed the door behind him. Then he opened it and stepped back in. "I can go as low as $80."

"Let me get this straight: I followed the instructions like a good boy and downloaded the patch from Olympus; the Olympus patch fried my circuit, so now I have to pay to get it replaced? That's rather vexing."

He shrugged. "I'm afraid those were the risks you accepted with the terms of agreement."

Well, I knew that. I just didn't think an Olympus employee could look another human being in the eye and say those words without bursting into tears of shame and self-loathing.

So here is my public service announcement: if you own an Olympus digital camera DO NOT, UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES, VISIT THE OFFICIAL OLYMPUS WEBSITE AND DOWNLOAD ANY UPGRADES THEY PROPOSE. And for those of you thinking of purchasing Olympus, no: AVOID OLYMPUS PRODUCTS, do a little homework AND BUY ANOTHER BRAND.

i am a garage-glam rocker

I gave this a try (h/t Jim) and came up with the band name "Leopoldo" (after Leopoldo Jimenez), and an album titled Hours In The Library, that debuted at 98. The cover was supplied unwittingly by pallamaio, and looks like this:



What accounts for the appeal of the randomizer? I found this whole exercise genuinely amusing, thanks to various little "a-ha!" moments. "Hours in the library" -- I couldn't have cooked up a better "album title" if I'd given it a week's thought. Of course, a second go-round could just as easily produce a laughable flop.* Had I followed all the rules, my genre would be "Pop." Not a good fit: even when I was a kid I chafed at pop songs. I figure this is my cue to exert a little personality on the random elements, so I have created my own musical genre: garage-glam rocker. Could be a few years before I figure out just how that's supposed to sound, but stay tuned.

*I gave it a try, and came up with Dark Adventure Radio Theatre, Everything You Said Today. The cover was courtesy of ѕ н α 5 в 6 _ ѕ н α 5 в є 6. It debuted at 69, thus qualifying as "Improv."

I Killed High Fidelity. And So Did You.

This is an interesting piece on the death of high fidelity sound (link via ALD). Robert Levine covers a wide swath of ground and blames everything from the ubiquitous mp3 to grunge rockers in the 90s to the inescapable sound competition in common listening environments (the car, or the kitchen).

I'm somewhat conflicted on the whole issue. On the one hand, I very much enjoy a larger, more spacious sound (here I lament what compression does to the 80s New Wave band Split Enz). On the other hand, I find the whole DVD Dolby Digital Surround Sound ("5.1" on-the-verge of evolving to "7.1") phenomenon to be just a bit too much. I am not at all keen on turning what might otherwise be a perfectly functional family rec room into a personal planetarium because, frankly, that sort of sound envelope gets me feeling queasy after a while.

I propose the industry meets me halfway. I used to love listening to my records on an old pair of 70s-era headphones. I can recall a particular chimes track on a Rush album that began at the right ear, then seemed to travel over my scalp to land at my left ear. The new Donald Fagen DVDs are engineered for spatial effect, but I don't get that same sense using headphones. Is the difficulty with my headphones? Is this "loss" a function of age? Or are there headphones that can simulate some of the Surround Sound effect, but not enough to induce me to reach for the barf bag?

Fagen has a lot to say on this issue, of course. I find the "Classic Albums" documentary on Aja endlessly fascinating, particularly when Fagen and fellow Dan-man Walter Becker go through a particular cut track by track and explain how the sound layering works. Fagen's Morph The Cat won a Grammy for its 5.1 mix. Levine's article has some fun contrasting sound files, so here is how Fagen's most recent CD sound levels contrast with his earlier work. This is the title track from Morph:



And this is the title track from his 1982 album, The Nightfly:



While I do enjoy the 5.1 tweaking that the latter track has received in DVD format, I'm also disappointed I don't have a "louder" CD version to play in my car. Ah, well: caveat emptor. Such are the pratfalls inherent to a consumer culture.

Communication Breakdown

My wife met me at the cafe the other day, and I made a round of introductions to the newer employees. When we left my wife said, "Those are some very pretty co-workers you have!"

I saw no point in denying this assertion, even as I realized her comment required some reassurance on my part. I swung into action. "They are lovely," I agreed, "but they're also quite young."

I doubt my wife could have look any more shocked if I'd poured coffee on her lap. "That's my point," she said rather icily.

"No no no," I insisted. "You don't understand: they're very young."

My wife just shook her head. If nothing else, I probably reassured her I was too big a doofus to take the Casanova route through my mid-life sillies.

Embarrassing Treats: The Book Beneath The Bed

In the comments on my previous posting, Cowtown Pattie confesses to the books beneath her bed. Man, I know all about that. In every marriage there is a sound sleeper and a not-so-sound-sleeper. I am among the latter breed: my side of the bed has the light, as well as a pile of books. But only one book actually resides beneath my side of the bed.

I heard about it when it was first published five years ago, but I resisted buying it. "You finished with that scene when you grew up," I told myself. I found a copy in the expected venue: one of those bookstores singularly devoted to its chosen subject matter, where the covers of their magazines and books (and CDs and DVDs) show airbrushed pictures of impossible-looking people with impossible coifs and smiles making a big public show of enjoying activities that any right-minded person keeps to herself, or eschews altogether. I furtively looked around to make sure I wouldn't get spotted by someone I knew, and quickly leafed through it. Somehow I mustered the strength I needed to put it back on the shelf and walk away. But this summer when I found a copy on sale, I succumbed. Now I sneak peaks at its contents when my wife is fast asleep. It's a pleasure with an embarrassment factor that borders close to shame, but I will now confess: I own, and get a big kick out of reading, The Encyclopedia Of Contemporary Christian Music (Amazon).

And make no mistake: I have to be careful when reading it, because it doesn't take long for the giggles to set in, thus waking up my wife and earning her rightful scorn.

From 1965-1995 the Christian Contemporary Music scene was possibly the craziest scene going. Sincere-minded kids possessed of varying degrees of talent and vision walked into a burgeoning boom industry run by idiots on a short moral tether and amoral sharks who grew fat off the sheep flung their way. This environment released a torrent of the crappiest music imaginable, making the few gems that actually surfaced seem very much like an honest-to-God miracle. Author Mark Allan Powell clearly has the freakiest record collection on the planet. He loves the artists and their material, and occasionally works hard at attempting a cautious respect where I might be prone to unabashed contempt. He also has a gentle sense of humor which serves to leaven the absurdities of this industry (and they are Legion).

This kind of cultural fetish is not to everyone's taste. But I seem to have developed an appetite for it, and it cries out to be fed -- at discrete moments. And, yes, the bookstore mentioned above was a "Christian" bookstore. But now we're treading into "shame country" ....

"Nobody looking? Time for some Mark Allen Powell..."

Embarrassing Treats: The Album Cover That Hooked Me

Let's ring in the new year with some embarrassments, shall we? Some people enumerate "guilty pleasures" but I prefer to steer clear of the term, figuring if the guilt is in any way genuine, the pleasure is probably not. My embarrassment, on the other hand, is personally manageable and legitimate content for public amusement. So the next few posts will trot out a few items I am embarrassed to admit I enjoy.

Item number one is an album I downloaded earlier this year. eMusic took note of my penchant for Bill Evans and dispatched an automatic e-mail suggesting I "might also enjoy" Jimmy McGriff. Beats me how McGriff's funky organ-grinding can be considered in the same virtual breath as Evans' ethereal piano harmonics, but eMusic's search engine located a winner: McGriff has been a pleasure to play on my little mp3 player as well as on the larger home stereo.

Do I hear you asking where, in all this, is the embarrassment factor? Well ... McGriff received my aural attention because he arrested my visual attention first and foremost. Yes, I'm no different from anyone else: I can be appealed to by the most direct marketing ploy in the history of man(sic)-kind. Here is the album cover that caught and held my eye. Groove Grease makes for pleasant listening, but in this house where the women outnumber the men, the title combined with the album cover is prurient enough to actually cause me (*cough*) a little embarrassment.