We Gotta Talk About (Trad) Publishing

No, seriously, guys. We really, really need to talk about some of this.

A fellow author forwarded this article to me this morning, and my head nearly exploded–not because of the writer or really any of the information within, because the former is perfectly lovely and the latter a hundred percent accurate. What’s bothering me are implications, to the point that I had to take some time to calm down before attempting to talk about it here.

The TL;DR of the above-linked article is that there’s a mushrooming crop of literary agents jostling into the industry, plus trad editors are so overwhelmed they’re taking 6-12mos to even respond to submissions (when they don’t ghost), so now even reputable agents are asking writers–both new and established–to do all sorts of escalating bullshit (like moodboards, what the ever-loving hell) in order to catch the attention of said overwhelmed editors. The article takes a view along the axes of marginalization keeping a lot of writers out of trad’s pool of accreted resources, which is reasonable, just, and absolutely should be talked about.

But that’s not my lane, since I’m operating from a place of relative privilege. So I’m sticking to other lanes; and boy howdy, there’s no shortage of those.

Publishing has always been an awfully exploitative business. For a long while the level of fuckery in trad pub was low enough for plenty of writers to make a reasonable gamble by submitting by the rules and building a career, but this is no longer the case. Which is not solely or even mostly a function of the pandemic, mind you–the problems were already there well before 2020 rolled around, but conditions since ~2016 have absolutely poured jet fuel on the fire and now we’ve got a multiple-alarm blaze. (You could even trace the problems to Amazon’s strong-arming, or further back to Reagonomics, but that’s a whole ‘nother blog post.)

The Big Five/Four have already offloaded the brute work of marketing onto individual authors, hollowing out their own marketing departments in order to line C-suite pockets. Now the crunch has reached editorial departments, where even salaried folk traditionally protected from a lot of industry bullshit are being ruthlessly overworked, underpaid, and just generally mistreated. (No, this is not a “pity the poor editors” screed, just a fact.) Consequently a lot of folk are leaving, and those who remain–or the shiny new ones coming in, thinking they’re going to score a good job–find it impossible to pick up the slack. The article linked above is absolutely correct that editors at the big houses are now being used as draft-horse project managers, which does not work with novels or nonfiction books. It just…doesn’t.

The article is also absolutely correct that there is a glut of “literary agents” right now, though I’m not certain it’s as a result of the pandemic giving people “time to write”. The further fact that literary agents are wholly unregulated remains as well. A whole lot of “agents” hanging out their shingle might not know the industry or have usable reputation or connections–that’s a charitable way of putting it–and as in any unregulated field there’s a whole lotta grifters out there too. This compounds the problem of exploitation and also makes the burden on editors that much heavier.

Here’s the thing: Trad publishing is not only expecting authors to write the damn book and wait to find a reputable agent (one should do one’s due diligence in that area as a matter of course), but also expecting a writer to wait half a year to a whole year for an editor to even look at the work, and then expecting us to do all the marketing as well?

What precisely are we paying trad publishers a percentage for, then? Cover art, when multibillion-dollar trad houses are using plagiarism machines to make the covers for even hotly anticipated titles? Marketing, which we’re supposed to do ourselves? Editorial services and support, from editors so overworked it takes them a year to answer emails? Really?

Really?

An agent gets a percentage of work sold, so it’s in their interests to find a way through the tangle. But is that way forcing the author to do up fucking moodboards or audio, or other labor-intensive gewgaws? Seriously, what the hell is this nonsense? We’re supposed to do the agent’s job as well as the editor’s and the marketing department’s, in return for…what, exactly?

This isn’t really to knock agents; the reputable ones are just as baffled as their authors. One could make the case that they honestly mean well when telling authors to add these bells and whistles in order to attempt enticing some overworked editor (who might hit burnout and leave next month, orphaning an entire slew of works both debut and midlist) to shuffle a submission to the top of the inbox. And it’s not even to really knock plenty of editors, who get into the job because they love literature and want to make a difference.

But if an editor is so overworked they literally can’t answer subs from even well-known, reputable agents with proven authors in their stable, how in God’s name are they supposed to be providing the editorial care and in-house advocacy required by the books they do end up buying?

The answer is simple: They can’t. Trad publishing is literally failing at doing its job. A lot of people, for various reasons both self-serving and otherwise, have accused trad of simply being an entitled gatekeeping mechanism; even a stopped clock is right twice a day, as the saying goes, and honestly it’s starting to look like the urge for infinite exploitation, Amazon-style, has turned trad pub into the nightmare it was accused, by envious dickwads, of being.

I just keep thinking, what precisely are authors paying for when these companies literally will not or cannot do their fucking jobs?

No, really, what are we supposed to grant rights to big publishing houses for nowadays? Editing, from folks so overwhelmed they can’t even answer their email? Cover art, when they’re making it clear they want fuck over and steal from our visual artist pals even more than from writers? Marketing, when we’re expected to do it ourselves, and then blamed when we don’t have the reach of multibillion-dollar corporations? Industry knowledge, when they’re literally worshipping at the altar of TikTok and Goodreads, neither of which have even a Magic 8-Ball’s accuracy? It certainly can’t be prestige; seriously, is there any of that left?

It’s beginning to look like the barriers to entry in self-pub are a lot easier to surmount for even the most marginalized of writers. Don’t get me wrong, they’re still fairly prohibitive there, in a lot of respects–just a lot less prohibitive than this bloody nonsense.

The Big Five/Four appear to be rotting in tar pits; indie or small presses who have good business hygiene and treat their authors well are positioned beautifully to grab market share when the avalanche of market correction hits. One supposes the cycle will start all over again, then–from an original ground polluted almost past bearing by both Amazon’s predatory practices and the ecology-wrecking plagiarism machines, true, but at least a few of us might get some breathing room.

How many great stories and authors are we going to lose before that happens, though, and when said correction hits? Even more than we’re losing now because the industry is full of grifters calling themselves agents, reputable agents who can’t get overworked editors to look at anything, editors hollowed out by burnout so badly that it takes them half a year (or a full year) to respond to subs if they respond at all, editors so overwhelmed they can’t provide proper editing or in-house support for what books do manage to be sold, a complete lack of marketing support, TikTok and Goodreads being treated as industry oracles, hush-hush meetings where publishing execs are attempting to figure out how to replace pesky human writers who expect to be paid with hallucinating plagiarism machines (oh yeah, those screenshots are something, indeed), cover art made by hallucinating DALL-E and Midjourney, and titles poisoned by SEO delirium?

This is wild. This is bizarre even by publishing standards, and that’s saying something. What, exactly, are the authors–the ones providing the stuff this industry literally cannot run without, mind you, the human beings producing the books and stories even the corporate plagiarism machines cannot function without–paying for here? What services are being rendered, what benefits are authors getting by granting rights and percentages to these companies?

No wonder so many established midlisters are making the move to self-pub; no wonder the number of hybrid authors is at an all-time high. I can only see this trend accelerating, especially since the tools for self-pub have been around for awhile now and there’s a lot of free guides about how to do it–if you can find a search engine that isn’t serving up gobs of “AI” horseshite, that is. (I like DuckDuckGo, myself.)

Moodboards. For Chrissake. I just…I can’t even. Moodboards. What a time to be alive, and in publishing. I just keep coming back to that one simple question, so I’ll repeat it a final time before going to do my chores.

What, precisely, are we paying these companies for?

Anticipated Sea Change

Looking back at the Sun.

Early spring dandelions are a great source of food for early pollinators. I did not know this until recently, but it makes sense and pleases me. I think the mason bees woke up a bit early this year (to judge by the fresh mud stoppers in the nesting houses attached to the south side of the shed), and between bright yellow sun-faces, the plums and cherries, and the violets, I hope they’re getting what they need.

I must admit I have not recovered from finishing the recent zero draft. It was really, really tough, my friends. I want to get back to the usual work schedule in the worst way but am forced to more recovery time. It’s upsetting, but what can one do? It always takes three times the days I think it will, even when I’m generous with my poor nerves.

I simply can’t remember finishing a zero exhausting me to this degree before. Even the part of Strange Angels where I was buying the house and moving at the same time as turning in CEs, proofs, and drafts all together was not this unremittingly awful, and that was YA publishing (which I will not willingly go back to, ever, amen). This one was far, far worse, and for completely avoidable reasons.

Anyway, whatever, I did not truckle and it’s done now. I don’t have to do it again, I can look forward, and there are dandelions feeding the bees.

Perhaps the weekend will bring the necessary sea change. See you Monday, dear ones.

Barrel of Literary Carrots

The rains have moved back in, or at least the clouds. This pleases me. I was reading yesterday about theories that the sun is conscious and while that makes as much sense as anything else in the universe does, it also makes the big yellow ball fit the description of an Elder God and that’s hardly comforting. Of course the blessed thing powers all life on this whirling rock, so I suppose one can’t complain, but still…I prefer a bit of rain.

I’m in the middle of the Grandmaster of Demonic Cultivation novels, which The Untamed is based on, and enjoying them roundly. A collection of Haruki Murakami stories, a translation of the Tao Te Ching, and Emily Wilson’s translation of The Odyssey have all been thoroughly enjoyed lately. That last was an Experience–I hadn’t read Odysseus’s adventures since middle school, and Wilson’s an extremely gifted translator.

I did want to smack Telemachus several times, though. Boy needs to keep his manners on while talking to his mother, fa cry-eye. Even Achilles was nicer to his mum.

I might need more Murakami, I can’t tell yet. I read him while in specific moods until the itch is scratched, like listening to Jandek. Then I’m fine for a while, but at certain points I require another dose.

This is the part of book hangover (or snapback, as I call it) when I am irritated that recovery takes so goddamn long. No matter how much I pad out my estimation of time needed to re-wrap my nerves after a zero draft’s finish, it inevitably takes three times as much. It also requires a lot of “filling the well”, as Julia Cameron put it–giving the Muse and the rest of me enough grist for the creative mill. So I’ve been watching series and movies, and diving into the TBR like Bugs Bunny into a barrel of carrots. The massive effort to get a book out under significantly non-ideal circumstances does tell on one.

I mean, no circumstances are ever wholly ideal, but some are less ideal than others, to coin an Orwell-ism. I’m waiting for the swimming-relief phase instead of the merely exhausted-and-blinking bit. Boxnoggin likes that our daily rambles have become a bit slower, though I always let him sniff as long as he pleases at the usual spots. I’m just not moving very quickly otherwise.

However, work on the serial proceeds apace, as well as the short story collection, which has a cover now. (Long story short, the universe itself is conspiring to make me throw this collection out into public.) Other stuff will have to wait for an upcoming deadline; once that’s past I can engage in more and better planning. Of course Chained Knight and Gamble both need revising, and I should check in about Hell’s Acre again…

Ah, the reward for finishing a zero draft: more work. Still, I’m content to have it so. As long as there are more books to read–and to write–the gods can’t take me, right?

Right?

Another Zero Down

Well, I’m back.

I had to shut down–here and on social media–because several 10k+ word days in a row, especially on a project others tried so hard to kill, takes up rather a lot of one’s energy. It’s been a while since I closed off every other avenue and focused all my engines on a single book; normally I work on two-three at a time to keep my brain’s tendency to eat itself in check.

In any case, the zero draft is done. I had reached the point of sincerely doubting I had another book in me, but was disproved in the most elemental of ways. The zero is done, done, done. Of course there’s a fight looming to keep it protected from well-meaning (or not so well-meaning) pettifogging, but the first and hardest step is accomplished. There’s a lot of bracket notes, it’s messy, and I have a couple pages of yet more notes needing to be incorporated in the pass which will turn it into a proper first draft instead of a zero–but it’s finished. It is recognizably a whole-ass book.

There is a period of time after finishing a zero when I am the only person in the world who knows. Usually it’s a short while before an email’s fired off to my writing partner with some version of “oops, I did it again…” Occasionally there’s tears. This time nearly an hour of sobbing–pure emotional release–struck me to the floor of the office before I could share the ?good? news. It wasn’t so much the book’s ending, which is right and bittersweet, but the relief of knowing I prevailed despite all the odds and forces arrayed against the entire bloody series. I have not truckled, nor will I through the rest of the process.

If it’s a swan song, well, it’s a good one. I can be proud.

Of course there’s Highlands War to finish the zero of, which is where my energies will mostly be spent for the next couple weeks until I start revising Chained Knight and Gamble. The former needs a release date–I’m looking at July now, or perhaps August–and the latter mostly needs brush-up, the editor says, before it’s into line edits and the rest of the process. Plus, said editor wants another Ymre, so the process of building that story inside my head needs to begin now; around June-ish I can put it in a working slot on the docket. We’re coming up on submission deadlines and it appears trad wants to leave money on the table, so the Cain’s Wife trilogy will probably be the next serial (I think Danny Valentine fans will like it) and House of the Fan will have to go on the compost heap for a while. I just don’t have the spoons for that kind of epic fantasy without a publisher handling some of the heavy lifting.

Ah well. By the end of this month I’ll have a somewhat final plan for the rest of the year and through 2025. We’re in the very last loops of the holding pattern. Oh, and it’s a new month so the Monthly Sales page has been updated. (Remember to check the dates!)

I honestly feared I could not finish this particular series, but stubbornness (plus the support of beta readers, writing partner, and family) won. I do not have to mourn a slaughtered work; instead I can armour up for the rest of the campaign. No rest for the weary or the wicked, my reward for success is more work, and all that. I’m content to have it so, though I could wish this project had not been so bloody difficult. Anyway, now I am at something resembling peace, plus I have an actual-factual titanium spork on my desk, a gift from a very good Pocket Friend to fend off haters with.

I’ve fought with far less durable weapons. Everything’s going to be fine.

Logjam Broken

I’ve written 30k+ since Monday and all I want to do is go back to it. The Sekrit Projekt is at 110k now, and I suppose it’s not really a secret what I’m working on but I needed to protect the work, keep it covered and safe from the cold breath of contempt, not to mention institutional neglect.

Anyway, I haven’t been around much, either blog-wise or social media-wise. I am at the point where I actively resent anything taking me away from the work, but since a few folk have expressed concern…I’m fine. There’s Stuff Going On, but I’m well-armed and laying about me with all the determination of those used to losing battles. If you’ve missed me, don’t fret, I’ll be back on my usual bullshit as soon as I tear the last few words from my quivering guts and have a zero draft.

See you then.

Back In (Oven) Business

My kingdom for a filter…

Since several of you have asked, this is what an oven vent filter looks like! The filter itself is the honeycomb-looking thing; it’s made of rough ceramic and so far as I can tell functions a bit like a smokescrubber, catching particles. An oven needs a vent for proper heat circulation, and that vent needs a filter so cooking smoke doesn’t taint the food–even a small amount can ruin a whole meal. You can use your oven without the filter in the vent…but I wouldn’t recommend it for stuff that could produce even a little smoke. (Like bacon. Mmmm, bacon.)

We found out we needed a new filter as the Princess was baking a cake, when the old one literally fell out. The vent tube itself is held by a couple screws and that flared lip–in this picture the tube itself is upside down, it’s supposed to be fixed to the roof of the oven interior. There are ways to get the filter back in if it’s just cracked, but unfortunately ours was too broken by its trip through the wire racks. So a whole new vent tube/filter was necessary; there are tabs on the inside that hold the ceramic disc and, wouldn’t you know, a new disc wouldn’t fit.

Cue about two hours’ worth of weeding through useless AI-tainted swamps before finally finding out what precisely we needed, then a trip to the manufacturer’s website for the precise part number and ordering info, another half-hour of drilling through that mess, and finally I found the part number…only to discover it was out of stock. A month and a half later it was finally back in stock, and it took another long while to be shipped.

Guess how long it took to take the old vent tube out and put the shiny new one in? Less than seven minutes. It would’ve been less than five if I’d been able to take the oven door off like I once saw the appliance repairman do, but I felt like that was just a way to create more problems. And now the oven is back to full use.

I absolutely needed the dopamine hit from this victory; it’s been a heckuva week. And I still have a character to kill in the Sekrit Projekt today–it would’ve been yesterday, but so much intervened. And to be honest I wasn’t ready to let go. This particular fictional person deserves better than what they’re getting; sadly, that’s life. Even in fiction.

See you next week, my dears.

Morning, Chopped

We made appointments, answered questions, filled out all the paperwork online, got out the door Tuesday morning…and an officious Walgreens “pharmacy tech” refused our entire family the Covid vaccine we qualify for (since we haven’t been boosted since 2022). Which was upsetting in the extreme–I could not sleep the night after, heartsick and vexed. I’m hearing anecdotally that this is happening to a lot of eligible people, being refused lifesaving and disability-fighting vaccines by pharmacists using “religion” as an excuse or who seem genuinely unaware of CDC guidelines and best practices. It’s fucking maddening. Perhaps the reason vaccine uptake is “low” is because our public health infrastructure has completely failed, mostly due to business interests gutting it because they want the serf class–no matter how sick or disabled–back at the mill for exploiting.

Anyway, I’ve filed complaints and we’re making arrangements to go elsewhere. Plus, I’ll never step in another Walgreens again so long as I live. And that’s all I’ve to say about that, because most of what I’d add is unrepeatable blue words.


I don’t know how long it will last, but it looks like the Gallow & Ragged trilogy is discounted in ebook. (I wish I were alerted to these things more consistently.) The first volume, Trailer Park Fae, is $2.99 for Kindle–again, I don’t know for how long, but I thought I’d mention it.


I finished Emily Wilson’s translation of the Iliad and it was marvelous. She makes the Greek sing through the English and her notes are a delight. Next up is her Odyssey translation. I am smacking my lips in anticipation–after a moment spent with Osamu Dazai’s No Longer Human, which I first read in a Junji Ito adaptation.

I was in bed this morning with the Dazai as Boxnoggin got his cuddles, and happened across a particular passage where the protagonist talks about how, when people say, “Society won’t stand for it…” what they really mean is “I won’t stand for it.” If someone says, “Society will ostracize you,” what they really mean is, “I will ostracize you.” The force of the passage, addressing a “you” since the book’s in first person, was like a thunderclap. I had to set the book down and think about things for a bit–which Boxnoggin adored since it meant chest-skritches, always a favorite after a long night spent snoring in comfort.

Of course the protagonist is a bit tiresome, but the feeling Dazai describes of being an imposter in one’s own life, of clowning to hold back the despair, of utter alienation beginning in childhood, is extremely familiar. I sought out the book after Ito’s adaptation because of that definite, echoing familiarity–nausea in the Sartre sense, I’d call it. I’ve the urge to watch Breathless afterward, just to see if the existentialist throughlines I’m seeing hold.

It’s good to have some bandwidth for reading again; not-reading is almost as uncomfortable as not-writing. For a short awful while I was so emotionally and physically exhausted by the struggle around a certain series I couldn’t manage more than a paragraph before passing out at night; thankfully, the commitment to protecting the work (and myself) in this Year of the Real is paying off by granting me a little breathing room. Funny how that works out, ennit–when one starts enforcing one’s boundaries, one finds out rather quickly who was taking one’s kindness for weakness, and one acquires far more energy to spend on one’s own affairs.


It’s been a chopped-up sort of morning, as you can see by the separators. I’m about to begin another push to get the Sekrit Projekt past the point of no return, where its own momentum will take it over the finish line…but it’s rough, and various other considerations might intrude. The month of April’s going to hit like a freight train, since I’m rather behind, what with so much time eaten up by health concerns and struggling to get That Particular Series born. At least the stress nausea (I’m detecting a theme, and a rather unpleasant one at that) is receding bit by bit.

It’s not the end of the battle, but I can see it from here. And that is a welcome development indeed, my friends. The relief is damn near depthless.