Opinatio

Laura Miller at Salon has written a piece about the coming revolution in publishing, which will make it possible -- and already has, to a great extent -- for anyone to publish a book. She likens this to a colossal slush pile, that mountain of unsolicited writing that only agents and editors (or their interns, more likely) have had to contend with till now. It’s not a pretty thing, the pile of slush.

As a writer, I’ve always respected the publishing professionals who sift through all that gravel to find a shining nugget. I’ve always hoped they’d see the value in the nuggets I send in, but the more I’ve participated in this game the more I’ve come to realize it’s essentially a lottery. Now and then a talented writer gets lucky, but not very often. Miller’s point is that, if anyone can publish using e-books or print-on-demand self-publishing outlets, it will be the hapless reader who has to do her own slush pile sifting. There is no reasonable way to judge the quality of millions of potential titles -- even the professionals don’t receive millions of submissions -- so the reader will have to dip randomly into the swamp or rely on trusted blogs or other book enthusiasts to figure out what’s worth reading, worth paying for. As Miller makes clear, not much in a traditional slush pile meets either description. “Crapola” is a polite word to use to refer to these brain droppings.

I promised myself a long time ago I’d never self-publish. Even when it became easier and cheaper to do it, I turned my back to that option because the odds of being read are just as astronomical via that approach as through the old system, plus there’s a tinge of pathos surrounding the whole thing. Especially after I had a book published through the old system, I decided that I would live or die as a traditionalist and let others try out the new way. So far, it doesn’t look to me as if self-publishers have found a way to overcome the real obstacle between them and literary recognition: anonymity.

People buy books by authors they’re familiar with. Or that their friends have liked. Or that repetitive ads or cultural references have thrown into their view. They can’t buy books that they don’t know exist, nor do they often drop twenty-five on a title by a complete unknown. As long as these are the facts of life, self-publishing is going to be an exercise in futility, even if, for a little while, you get a buzz over seeing your words in print and an ISBN code with your name on it.

Miller thinks not very much will change with this new model. I’m not so sure. I have a feeling that traditional publishers will find a way to exploit the seemingly universal American desire to publish. For a fee, and not a comfortably small one, they’ll take your .doc file and park it on a server somewhere in New Jersey, and you’ll get to say that your book is available through HarperCollins. Nobody who doesn’t know you will ever be able to find it, and you’ll never get a dime of your investment back, but by Jove you’ll have had a book “published.”

The sad thing is that there’s never been a shortage of people who think they can write, nor of companies that will be delighted to take their money no matter how lousy the writing is. The technology is changing, but I’m afraid the natural dynamics of writing and publishing will always be the same.