Less than forty-eight hours ago I read a gushing op-ed in the ‘paper of record’ which championed university presses as the saviors of American literature. This piece of floppy drivel put me on serious edge—my insides are still burning with the acid tinge of indigestion summoned by such faulty logic and general disconnect from artistic reality. The central thesis in this rudderless boat of prose seemed to be that Amazon is EVIL and we should all buy books from university presses or breezily wander (with our decaf mochas) into the progressive bookstores housed on the campuses of elite American universities. But that’s not all. This thesis engorges the tweed-sleeved punks who run these presses. And those punks—whether they’ve read Foucault and Marx and Barthes and Judith Butler or not—still serve the uber-punks in university administrations. If not, the money dries up.
Like Dylan said, You Gotta Serve Somebody.
Should we expect the same institutions who rip off students by the billions in a continued FedLoan cash grab (the biggest grift in American history, by the way), to ‘keep American literature alive?’ We may as well piss into a stiff north wind.
Let me be clear: I don’t take issue with the notion (however true or untrue) that university presses publish important work. I myself worked on a book about the photographer Paul Kwilecki published by The University of North Carolina Press. But I doubt you find that book on the shelves of any independent bookstore outside a twenty-mile radius of Durham, North Carolina. Hell, maybe it’s in stock somewhere at a niche bookstore in NYC, but I wouldn’t bet a paycheck on it. Notice the link above is an Amazon link, you fuckers. I can have a new copy of this book on my doorstep within 24 hours. And it will be pristine and cost me less than it would at any store.
Still, why the edgy-acid-indigestion?
Because this piece doesn’t call out the real conniving bastards among us (yeah, I said it). You people. The booksellers. If I walk into my local independent bookstore, I won’t find many books from independent or university presses adequately featured. If I see ‘em at all, they’ll be buried beneath bestsellers by the regular suspects…celebrities and politicians. Independent books are lost little souls vanquished to the ninth ring of publishing hell—the bottom shelf. That’s something I will bet a paycheck on.
I can almost guarantee what we all see on prominent bookshelves at independent bookstores are the ‘bestsellers’ as dictated by the Big 5. Take this month’s list of IndieBound bestsellers at independent bookstores: Surprise! The same books I see at the good old Barnes & Noble or…wait for it…aimed at me via Evil-Amazon’s purchase predictive algorithms. There is nothing like buying Bono’s memoir, Matthew Perry’s ‘struggle’ story, or the new Cormac McCarthy from an ‘independent’ bookstore to prove you are doing your small part to keep American literature alive.
Better than the smell of napalm in the morning, I imagine.
You, independent booksellers, offer readers and writers no solutions to this epic clusterfuck—instead, you play into Amazon’s Evil Hands by trying to sell the same books I can have dropped on my doorstep within 24 hours and for less money. Why in Satan’s name would I choose to narrowly survive traffic and play bloodsport for parking to buy this same book from you? Because I have a moral obligation to support your small business? What have you done for American literature and American writers lately? Jack shit—that’s what.
Take one personal example:
In spring of 2020 I was slated to moderate a panel at a major crime fiction conference. It so happened that my panel featured a conference guest of honor (point being, I’m not a nobody necessarily). At most crime fiction conferences, writers published by independent presses (not the Big 5) can consign books with the official conference bookseller who is—always—an independent bookseller. Word came down that, this time, our heroic bookseller would charge writers $20 to consign their books. Rest assured, all writers who were speaking at or moderating a panel would have their books pre-ordered by said bookseller and those books would be available for purchase at the conference. First, it would be almost impossible for the second part of this claim to happen. It is highly unlikely that a bookseller would scour the panel offerings and make certain to order books from each writer present (note that it would also be financially foolish to do this because one would accrue immovable, excess inventory).
I called bullshit on this immediately and sent the following correspondence to the bookseller:
“I'm both a panelist and a moderator at [conference] and I debated whether to send this email. But I think I should at least make a few points for you to consider. Charging a consignment fee, in my opinion, is pretty lame—at larger conferences (like Bouchercon) I've never been charged a consignment fee, let alone $20.00. Which, by the way, is a significant portion of what most writers would make if they sold half the allowed inventory. And you'd still get your cut from the sales, right? I guess I could take heart in the fact that you say you'll order my book(s) because I'm moderating, but I can't depend on that—can I? Plus, I'd like to offer readers a few titles. I am concerned that charging a consignment fee is, well, predatory-seeming. What exactly does the $20.00 pay for? We have to bring the books and take them away, right? Are we paying for you to process the paperwork and put the book(s) on the table? Or, is the fee meant to cover the fee you pay for selling books at the conference? In theory, wouldn't the sales you make cover that?”
The response—which pretty much boils down to ‘go fuck yourself’—came as thus:
“Consignment agreements by their nature engender additional work for booksellers—each interaction effectively creates a new vendor whose inventory must be processed through our point of sale system and accounting system outside the relationships already established with publishers or wholesalers. This additional work is historically disproportionate to the amount of bookseller earnings from consignment sales, with the bookseller's percentage set at the lowest trade standard, and is without any additional financial incentive to the bookseller like earning coop dollars, all of which are important factors in a very low-margin retail operation. Thank you for your understanding. You are always welcome to contact the other [conference] booksellers and ask if they have consignment terms available.”
These aren’t lies, as Elwood Blues says, they’re just bullshit. Impressive argumentative acrobatics, to be sure, but without merit. The simple fact is these bastards were trying to scam independent writers, and for a twenty-spot. Enough dough to convince a Marriott bartender to muddle a mojito, for fuck’s sake! I, like many of my colleagues, was forced to peddle trade paperbacks from the dark shadows of a thrift store trench coat like some kind of…side-alley street salesman. This is a role I know well, but not one I aim to perform at a conference wherein I have already been fucked sideways for a few hundred dollars to simply participate. And, no, these cheap scumbags did not—to my knowledge—order my books as stated in their own official policy.
Take one public example:
In October of 2020, another teeth-grating, soul-smudging piece of half-ass journalism was published by the ‘paper of record.’ Your Local Bookstore Wants You to Know That It’s Struggling is a classic small business sob story—complete with whiny booksellers and quaint revelations of moronic business principals. You booksellers fully admitted, and it’s on the record, that you needed to peddle large numbers of Barack Obama’s memoir to survive.
Because, you know, free speech and equality and self-expression for all?
To wit:
“There’s a Hail Mary here where the holiday season could really change things,” said Ms. Hill. “To have a book like that [Barack Obama’s] come out right at this critical time, it could make a huge difference.”
And the stunning narrative continues:
Many store owners are afraid the printers won’t be able to keep up with demand, or that publishers won’t prioritize indies if supply gets tight, so they’re placing large orders up front for some of the biggest books of the season, like a new cookbook by Yotam Ottolenghi. (Mr. Obama’s book has required other adjustments: At 768 pages, it will weigh 2.5 pounds, said Matt Keliher at Subtext Books in St. Paul, Minn., so the store had to raise shipping fees or else it would lose money on every sale.) Because the demand has been so enormous, Mr. Obama’s publisher Penguin Random House will be sending orders out in batches for stores across the country, from little indies to the big boxes.
And then the big-time reveal:
“If we could sell 1,000 copies between November 17 and the New Year, that’s going to make a huge difference in us being viable, so we need those books,” said Gayle Shanks, an owner of Changing Hands Bookstore, which has locations in Phoenix and Tempe, Ariz. “We’re really trying to get the message out, to help customers understand that not just for bookstores but local retailers and local restaurants, if they want them to be there when the pandemic over, they have to support those businesses now.”
So what we’re saying here is that you—independent booksellers—are still trying to compete, in fact your business is weighted to such competition, against the company that cannibalized and co-opted distribution (of everything from consumer products to cultural objects like books and music)? This appears to be the central value proposition: We have the same books Amazon does. Buy from us because we also sell cute little bookmarks and those magnetic poetry sets?
As a reader, this is like driving to Kentucky for a bottle of bourbon when, in fact, I can buy that same bottle for less money at Total Wine or BevMo.
I have a word for doing something like that—I call it dumb.
Now, take one indie press-specific example:
There are a number of supposedly ‘independent’ bookstores* here in the San Diego region. Of those I’ve approached about carrying my books, only one, Bay Books at the San Diego International Airport and in Coronado, agreed to order any of my books from the distributor (the airport location, to their credit, has made good on this promise). The main reasons for not ordering my books (or carrying them on consignment)—according to book buyers and clerks—is that ‘we don’t carry local writers’ books’ or ‘we don’t carry books that aren’t returnable.’ Let’s stop here while I explain something: First, not carrying books by local writers is so obviously dumb I shouldn’t have to explain it. So much for ‘Buy Local,’ right? Second, most independent books are not ‘returnable’ because independent presses use print-on-demand technology—this technology lowers overhead and permits them to publish a diverse offering of voices/writers/stories. Why is this the case? Using print-on-demand technology—which has been scaled by, you guessed it, Evil Amazon—makes it possible not to invest in a print run for a book. Readers order the book from Amazon or direct from the publisher, and Amazon prints the book and send it to us, the readers. This simple method—again, scaled by Evil Amazon—has done more to empower diverse writers and storytellers than any university press or independent bookstore can lay claim to—that’s a certifiable damn fact. There are dozens of independent presses that will verify this for anybody who disagrees. My own UK publisher drop-shipped me books from Amazon last month after I ordered a few copies of my own titles direct from them. Let me say that more plainly: It was more efficient and cost-effective for my own publisher to have Amazon print and ship me my very own books. But all this is beside the point…It doesn’t matter if the books are non-returnable when and if you—as an independent bookseller—plan to sell the fucking books to readers. That’s right, whether or not a book is returnable has nothing to do with its quality and value as a cultural fucking object. You could, if you really cared about American literature, give it the old college try and sell some fucking independent books to a supposedly ‘loyal’ customer base. Or do your customers not trust you to make recommendations?
As a reader, what I buy to read is a helluva lot more important than where or how I buy it. Ideas and expression and creativity matter more than your pithy little beef with Amazon. They always have and they always will.
Now, let’s assume for a short paragraph here that university presses are ‘keeping American literature alive.’ How many of you independent booksellers are religiously ordering from university presses and finding optimal placement for these books? Perhaps a good many of you (I hope for this, but seriously doubt it), but how many of these books are you returning? Ten percent? Twenty percent? Fifty percent? More? Good thing university presses do print runs and those books are ‘returnable.’ Last I heard, Barack Obama’s memoir sold more copies than Eula Biss’s most popular book…especially in your retail locations, those supposed undervalued bastions of free speech and expression. These are questions you should ask yourselves.
Of course, even if you do privilege university press-published books at your points-of-sale, you still obscure a wealth of American literature being created by worthy writers and published by independent presses who don’t have the funding to do print runs. Here’s the tired old rub: Hundreds of amazing books are published each year that the American public does not have access to except through Ever-Evil-Amazon. Or through individual web-based storefronts which—as evidenced in my second example above—sometimes have to resort to using Amazon for distribution and printing.
Here’s an idea: Establish some relationships with independent presses and writers whose work you feel—you know—is keeping American literature alive and work with them to get their books to readers. You can do that work—of course, it takes confidence and vision and competence…all qualities rarely present and, if present, mostly in insufficient quantities.
I know that my opinions here will be assaulted by shrewd social media opportunists who will predictably accuse me of ‘not being a real writer’ or ‘not understanding how retail works’ in the modern age. Or they will say I’m ‘just bitter my books aren’t in a physical store.’ Perhaps they’re right: I don’t have a shiny Big 5 contract for any book(s) and I don’t have a neck-tied agent schmoozing at cocktail parties, looking for half-assed ways to make money off my admittedly middling talent. I don’t have a business manager or a movie deal. All I have—all I’ve ever had—is the word and the page. I’ve come to realize, however slowly, that the word and the page are all I need.
You can call me a hack if you want, but the word and the page are mine.
You know who’s keeping American literature alive? It’s some poor schmuck or schmuckette slaving away at crafting a doomed poem in a rented room inside an unheated apartment in a building halfway between hell and skid row.
That’s where American literature is alive and well. You won’t find it in the halls of academia or on the shelves of independent bookstores where loyal customers weep over the souls of dead hummingbirds. American literature is and has always been a stiff kick in the nuts, a razor-blade down a cheek, a hard nipple, a pinched ass, a mean drunk sleeping it off in a wet gutter. I can be more graphic, but you get the point.
Yesterday, I wrote this exchange in my current work-in-progress, a stiff hard-on of a novella called The Transfused Man:
“I’m clear-headed. My brain function is fine. I know the year, the month, the day of the fucking week. I know—”
“Do you remember me giving you a blow job in the Holiday Inn hot tub, Willis? Do you remember the fucking blow job!”
He did not remember the blow job. He shook his head and pinched the bridge of his nose. They made a right hand turn onto Marigold and he watched the facade of unfamiliar storefronts run past him like melted film.
“If you can’t remember that blow job…I guaran-fucking-tee you have a concussion. Those doctors can kiss my sweet white ass.”
If this brief exchange doesn’t prove I am the second coming of F. Scott Fitzgerald, you can’t read English, babe. And I feel sorry for you.
Until next time…
*I am purposely excluding Verbatim Books from this anecdote because—while they do consign and I consistently sell books at Verbatim—they are a used bookstore and neither order nor carry any ‘new’ inventory. They are a part of the solution to the problems I outline above.
I wonder how many of the independent booksellers were zealous about customers masking in their stores in 2020.