Dead Broke Authors
Managing (and Altering) Expectations in Publishing
Since 2008 or so there’s been an undeniable explosion of growth in the self publishing industry, with hundreds of thousands of new authors making the scene every year. That may not be well received by simply everyone — there are detractors. But largely, the sudden surge of independently published authors has been a positive thing.
Some of these authors have hit a level of success that would be enviable even to Hollywood types: Hugh Howey built a custom freaking catamaran, for crying out loud. I think Andy Weir bought Mars, though he may have to split it with Matt Damon. And E.L. James has a multi-level pleasure palace mounted to a dirigible that doesn’t exist because I made it up.
Call them outliers if you like, but authors like these tend to prove that indie publishing can be a route to uber success. And though the authors themselves will be the first to tell you that it’s due more to the time and hard work they put in, rather than catching a lucky break, we all know they have leprechauns tied up in their attics. Wee little leprechauns.
It’s encouraging to see authors making it big by cutting their own path (or trimming their own catamaran sails). But we’re reminded all the time—mostly by the traditional publishing world—that most indie authors make barely anything from their work. And doggone it, we should give up and hang our heads in shame for having tried.
That’s the message, anyway.
The thing is, there are plenty of traditional authors who—despite surviving the basilisk gaze of the publishing gatekeepers—are forced into selling bodily fluids and starting Etsy shops to keep the baby in diapers. Or I assume—I haven’t asked anyone. But I’ve read a few accounts.
Take this one from Merritt Tierce, author of Love Me Back.
In a 2016 article for Marie Claire, titled I Published My Debut Novel to Critical Acclaim — and Then I Promptly Went Broke, Merritt explains:
“Forbes’ list of the world’s highest-paid authors came out last month. My name’s not on it and it probably never will be. My name is, however, on a $786 utility bill that just arrived in the mail. Summer in Texas is expensive, even when you set the thermostat at 85 degrees and tell your husband and three kids there are ice packs in the freezer if they can’t deal.”
I can tell you this is not hyperbole—it does, in fact, get back-and-crack-sweat hot in Texas during the summer. Keeping your home below crockpot temperatures is a challenge on any budget.
Meanwhile, back at the sweaty ranch, Merritt’s novel ‘Love Me Back’ released to rave reviews from the New York Times, The Chicago Tribune, Texas Monthly for some reason, and that breathtakingly coveted review we all pine for, Electric Literature.
Trust me when I tell you this—regardless of where you publish your work, you want reviews like Merritt’s reviews. Nothing says ‘you’ve made it’ like the most read newspapers and magazines in the world, and also Electric Literature. Getting those sorts of kudos can make an author’s career.
Merritt’s success was so pronounced, it prompted her to leave her full-time gig as the executive director of a small non-profit.
“So, two weeks before my book was published, I quit my day job,” Merritt writes. “I was relieved to pass the mantle to someone I thought far more suited to the gig. And I was excited to ride the momentum of the first book — to do the tour and the interviews and then keep it all going forever somehow.”
Bam. That’s a dream come true right there. Hit the big time, drop your office keys on the secretary’s desk, wave flippantly as you shout ‘bye Felicia,’ and then head for the high country—bankrolling it with all that filthy lucre you’re raking in from a book deal. Eat our pixels, suckers!
No one could possibly blame Merritt for doing this, I think. Seriously, if you just slaved away for a year or two working on a novel, and it somehow was miraculously chosen from the slush pile by just the right agent and publisher, and then that book went on to blow up in the press—you would definitely not stick around the Home Depot. That apron would come off, my friends. That name tag would fly with shuriken accuracy.
Presumably this scales up to include such jobs as Executive Director for small non-profits. I don’t know. I’m no math wiz.
“So when I said I quit my day job, it wasn’t because I could live on the publisher’s advance indefinitely. It was because I opted to become a financial dependent for the first time in my adult life.”
Except …
“My new husband had a decent job, and we thought we’d try living on one income (his) while I worked on my next book,” Merritt admitted. “So when I said I quit my day job, it wasn’t because I could live on the publisher’s advance indefinitely. It was because I opted to become a financial dependent for the first time in my adult life …”
Uh-oh.
Ok, look—I’m going to just say, for the record, that the previous paragraph is simply loaded with things about which I feel quite alarmed.
Phrases such as “living on one income (his)” and “it wasn’t because I could live on the publisher’s advance,” and further “I opted to become a financial dependent”—these are phrases that hint at ‘bad idea’ in ways too palpable to ignore.
And then we add a bit of this …
“… which has proven stressful for my relatively young marriage and even more stressful for my writing. I haven’t been able to write since the moment I started thinking I could or should be making money as a writer. I haven’t produced a Second Book.”
Hoo boy.
Ok, a couple of things—and I swear, I am not picking on Merritt. Because, hand to God, if I had landed a publishing deal followed by an acclaimed bestseller while I was still working for one of the worst jobs of my life, there’d be one of those Pompeii flash shadows of me on my cubicle wall, left as the only reminder that I’d once worked there. Future historians would wonder at the suddenness of it, marveling that a man that large could move with such velocity, right out of the door and into the nearest coffee shop, laptop in hand and latte at the ready.
Whatever the amount Merritt got for her publisher’s advance, I would have seen it as a vast fortune during that point in my life. So no, friends, I do not blame our friend Merritt one bit for vacating the premises.
It’s the rest of her plan that makes my nethers tingle.
“I didn’t want to feel like I had to force it. I was afraid a book written under those conditions would inevitably feel contrived.”
Nothing helps a newly married couple stay together like the crushing weight of financial burden—especially when one of the bread winners is too stressed to actually do the work that brings in the money.
And then …
“Sometimes I wonder if I should have asked for a two-book deal, a common arrangement in publishing. It entails a contract (and an advance) for two books, the second of which is almost never finished — often not even started — at the time the contract is entered into. I asked my agent not to go for a two-book deal because I didn’t want to owe anyone anything. I didn’t want to feel like I had to force it. I was afraid a book written under those conditions would inevitably feel contrived.”
Ok, I think I can reasonably guess at what went wrong for Merritt.
My Reasonable Guess About What Went Wrong for Merritt
When most people think of a writing career, they start from what we might call “a lousy and totally false impression.”
There’s this notion that what authors do is technically ‘art.’ And as art, it should somehow stand totally apart from the mundanity of ‘working for a living.’
Putting pressure on art makes bad art, in the minds of many—and I think we’re safe to include Merritt in that list.
You’re sucking the soul from your writing. You’re putting constraints on the free bird, caging it, forcing it to sing on demand. And now you really know why the caged bird sings—it sings to pay the electric bill.
The biggest problem that comes out of this kind of thinking is that some authors freeze up when they should be writing. The pressure is too great. The burden too heavy. Asking your art to pay your bills is like being a sex worker with clients who are sticklers for grammar and spelling.
Untenable.
Instead, we authors should only work when the inspiration is upon us—like an entranced Edgar Cayce, dozing one minute and auto-writing the future the next. Anything else is sacrilege.
There’s this weird public perception about writers—more or less it’s that we should build our lives in such a way that until inspiration strikes, we’re pretty much sitting around behind an antique writing desk, feather quill in one hand and Starbucks venti peppermint mocha in the other. We are to remain this way, repeating our mantra to the sounds of whale song, until inspiration arrives, dainty and fresh, and we can finally ply our craft.
That’s the proper work of an author.
Except that pretty much leads to never actually finishing a book, which leads to never actually making any money, which leads to never paying the electric bill. It’s ice packs and hand fans all summer, kids.
I’ve never understood this view of the author’s life. Which is to say, I was disillusioned of it early enough that I don’t remember when I shifted mental gears. I wouldn’t want to absolve myself from being a part of the popular view—I’ve seen movies. But these days, I know from experience that being an author is work. And there aren’t many jobs that let you wait for inspiration to come fluttering down on cherub wings before you have to start generating results.
Plumbers don’t get to wait for inspiration. Neither do brain surgeons, auto mechanics, dental hygienists, airline pilots, lawn care professionals, MMA fighters, Vespa repairmen, or executive directors of small non-profits.
People who want to make a living from their work actually have to do the work, when it needs to be done.
I’m being a little harsh on our friend Merritt. The truth is, she fell prey to the same thing I might have, years go, along with a few million other hopeful and will-be authors.
She fell for the trick.
How the World Sees Authors
Movies and television shows have ruined us for understanding the realities of being an author. They’ve trained us for years to expect the author’s life to be a certain way—mostly quiet moments sitting on the wrap-around porch, nestled in large sweater, cup of oolong or Earl Grey (if we’re lucky) in hand as we scribble lovingly on a yellow legal pad with a dopey smile on our faces.
You can hardly blame Merritt for believing in a vision like that—she practically won the lottery with her first book, and it stinks that it didn’t make every dream she has come true.
SIDE NOTE: Merritt, if you’re reading this, I want you to know I mean every word of the above slightly run-on sentence. It stinks. You deserve phenomenal success for what you produced, and I hope you keep pushing for it. I will always back an author’s dreams, and celebrate their successes.
The thing is, being an author is a lot or work, whether you’re indie published or traditionally published. Not only do you have to keep writing (every day, if you know what’s good for you), you also have to market yourself. You have to get out there and build that author platform, and then keep building it.
It’s not a popular idea.
Just about every author, at one point or another, is confronted with the ugly fact that part of the authors job is to market his or her work, to make sure that it has an audience. That’s how you keep from going broke at the bottom of the royalty advance barrel.
Part of your job, as an author, is to market your work.
Except Ros Barber disagrees. Like, totally.
Ros Barber Totally Disagrees
Ros’s 2016 article in the Guardian, titled For me, traditional publishing means poverty. But self-publish? No way is not only missing that final end punctuation (which I think totally adds to the suspense of the piece—would it have been a period? An exclamation mark? And ellipses? I must know!), but it also puts a fine point on her reason for avoiding self publishing like it might result in an STD.
SIDE NOTE: Can I just pause for a second and point out that both of these articles have headlines that read like soundbites? Is that a thing now? Paragraph-long headlines that sort of dare you to talk back? Is everything I’ve ever known a lie? Did Fonzie never really make it over that shark? Dark days.
Ros opens by telling us she’s written a popular blog post that details how most authors make next to nothing on the sale of their books. She’s talking about traditionally published authors here—essentially the diminishing mid-list.
Their poverty, it seems, is because of the contracts they sign. Those contracts put them on the hook for paying back every penny of the advance they got, with the total coming out of the royalties for the book. This is prior to any split coming to the authors themselves.
Eye opening, ain’t it?
Put simply, your book could sell a million copies, but if the royalties aren’t enough to pay back the advance you got up front, you get nothing for those sales. That’s a simplified version—and it’s not true of every traditional contract. But a lot of these authors are broke despite having an acclaimed title under their belt. I’m just sayin’.
“Despite royalty rates of 70%, I think self-publishing is a terrible idea for serious novelists (by which I mean, novelists who take writing seriously, and love to write).”
Now you would think that after toiling away for a couple of years on a book, finally to have it reach bookshelves, only to make nothing from all those sales—well, it might put you in mind to go for the 60–70% royalties of an indie publishing deal. Ros would disillusion you of that notion right now, mister or sister.
“Now, I understand that ‘indie publishing’ is all the rage,” Ros wrote, and you know she means business because she put ‘indie publishing’ in quotes. “But you might as well be telling Luke Skywalker to go to the dark side. Despite royalty rates of 70%, I think self-publishing is a terrible idea for serious novelists (by which I mean, novelists who take writing seriously, and love to write). Here’s why.”
Hold up …
We’ll get to her ‘why’ in a second, but let’s take a look at this up close.
I take issue with the definition of ‘serious novelist’ excluding those of us who write with those big, fat pencils we used to have to use with Big Chief notepads. I know she never mentioned it, but I can feel it there. Also, the implication that self published authors aren’t ‘writing seriously,’ and may not ‘love to write’ is kind of bunk.
It’s hard to argue against the level of passion and commitment of an indie author when you have a growing number hitting the New York Times and USA Today bestsellers lists, getting lucrative film and television deals, and building custom-freaking catamarans (dang it, Hugh Howey, you have skewed my definition of success for ever).
All that’s bad enough—but then you brought Star Wars into this.
Telling someone to self publish and earn a 70% royalty is tantamount to trying to convince Luke Skywalker to go to the Dark Side? The side that’s all evil this and Sith that? Where fear leads to anger, anger leads to hate, and hate leads to suffering?
Making 70% of every book sale makes you Darth Vader?
At least you would get to sound like James Earl Jones in the deal.
“If you self-publish your book, you are not going to be writing for a living. You are going to be marketing for a living,” wrote Ros. “Self-published authors should expect to spend only 10% of their time writing and 90% of their time marketing.”
Ok, that’s true, I’ll admit it. If you’re a self-published author, you should expect to spend a lot of time marketing. That’s because no one is doing that marketing on your behalf. No one is out there setting up interviews and guest spots, going on book tours, doing signings at book stores, pushing the book in blogs and social media, and generally just asking the public to buy your book.
That’s totally your job.
Also, that would totally be your job if you were traditionally published, too. You don’t get a break from having to promote your work because you went through ‘gatekeepers.’ If anything, you owe the gatekeepers all that work, because they made an investment in you. You’re cheating the publisher if you’re sitting back on your laurels (which I assume must be quite comfy, like beanbag chairs) and waiting to be served.
True, you do get the benefit of some support from the publisher—but all that marketing stuff is still on your plate. You still have to get out there and push if you expect to make any cheddar.
Don’t believe me? Take a another look at Ros. She’s already said that for her “traditional publishing means poverty.” Doesn’t seem much like anyone is out there selling on her behalf. So if not the publisher, and not you, then who? Who are you expecting to go sell your product?
Ros’s objection to marketing is a matter of integrity, though.
“The self-published author who came to my blog to preach the virtues of his path, claiming to make five figures a month from Kindle sales of his 11 novels, puts his writing time percentage in single figures. If that sounds like fun to you, be my guest. But if your passion is creating worlds and characters, telling great stories, and/or revelling [sic] in language, you might want to aim for traditional publication.”
Or you might want to consider keeping a diary.
If all you care about is playing with language, creating worlds and characters, and telling fun stories, you can take a lot of the stress out of your life by taking a day job somewhere and writing in your spare time. You can make a living and still revel in language, with nary a marketing moment spent.
Trust me—if you want to write as anything more than a hobby, you’re going to have to put some back into it.
I’m still stuck on the fact that Ros isn’t doing any marketing for her book, and is somehow surprised that it didn’t make any money.
The rest of Ros’s post is kind of snippy and typical (snypical?), pointing out such pearls as “70% of Nothing is Nothing,” and admonishing those who are new to the craft for daring to try to sell the work too soon. There’s an allegory of a carpenter who had better not try to sell his poorly made cabinet to anyone. And there’s the warning that you might end up looking like an amateur, because that’s bad for some reason.
Oh, and the ever-present assurance that the gatekeepers of traditional publishing represent the literal and only way to actually produce a ‘good’ book, worthy of reading, and to receive the proverbial thumbs up that you are fit for the the title of ‘author.’ All handed to you by an arbitrary authority who, collectively, turned down John Grisham’s “A Time to Kill.”
I’m still stuck on the fact that Ros isn’t doing any marketing for her book, and is somehow surprised that it didn’t make any money.
There’s probably a bit of expectation management that needs to happen here.
Managing Expectations
For Merritt and those in her boat, there needs to be an adjustment to how you think about traditional publishing.
Being an author doesn’t come with any entitlements.
Being accepted into ‘the club’ by a publisher doesn’t net you much in the way of benefits.
You still have to work for what you get—it’s that simple.
I’m an indie author, so yes—I’m a bit biased. I think indie is a smart and lucrative way to get into this business. It’s not for everyone though, and I know that.
And between me and you, I’ve considered going for a traditional deal more than once. With my author platform—around 30,000 readers and followers strong—I think I could leverage the resources of a publisher to build some real momentum. So I understand the siren call, believe me. Maybe 2017 will be the year of query letters for me.
For Ros, I have to say that the Dark Side has cookies. Also, earning 0% of everything is also zero.
I’m not going to try to convince Ros or anyone like her to come on over to indie publishing. Because she’s right. This business is more marketing than writing.
And I’ll admit, I kind of hate that myself. I would much rather write all day. I would definitely prefer bon mots to taglines and ad copy.
But I believe, strongly, that if I work hard enough to build this business, one day the marketing won’t be as large a percentage of my day. In fact, I may make enough from my 70% royalty to pay someone else to market on my behalf, at which point my writing-to-marketing ratio takes a dramatic swing to the left.
I’m really hoping that those who have read this far can see (and agree) that this is not a debate over indie versus traditional publishing.
It is, however, a debate over indie versus traditional thinking.
The former knows that they’ve started an author business, and that means taking on tasks they wouldn’t normally enjoy. The latter tends to think the business is owned by someone else, and they only discover the reality when the electric bill is overdue.
If you want to be an author—a real, true author—follow the path that appeals to you most. But remember, always and forever, the you’re in business. And every businesses fails or succeeds entirely on whether or not the owner understands their role, and owns their responsibility.
One Last Note on E.L. James
I’m kidding. I know E.L. James is a woman. I’ll admit that when Fifty Shades of Grey hit shelves, though, I didn’t realize her gender. I had expectations in one direction, and had to adjust how I was thinking. It happens, even to the best of us. So there’s no need to be ashamed of what you first thought.
Just keep in mind that once you know the truth, it’s kind of dumb to keep thinking in terms of the mistake.
Kevin Tumlinson is a bestselling and award-winning indie novelist and host of the Wordslinger Podcast. He has more than 30 books published, including his Dan Kotler thrillers, all available at kevintumlinson.com/books.
