Like stars
I sat down this morning with my aim on an accurate accounting, but reaching back in my memory became a lot like reaching into the backseat while driving: I knew what should be back there, in general, and I could definitely put my hands on various items, but I struggled with knowing what I was turning over and pushing aside in anything but a fuzzy, vague sense.
Somewhere around 2007, I wrote a story. It was meant to be humorous. I called it Couch Monsters. In retrospect, it was kind of a Mystery Science Theater, but for urban fantasy. The commentators were a trio of classic movie monsters, and through their commentary, they set to right all the rumor and hearsay about their weaknesses, vulnerabilities, perspectives and stigmas. My very, very small and exclusive circle of readers liked it, and thought there should be more. But, as a satire, it could be brief, and it could be flippant. As a larger conception, it had to be researched and considered more sincerely. Through that process, I happened upon a singular notion: if one becomes a monster, they are considered to be no longer human, but what if they were considered less than human previously? It was the kind of idea that consumed my thoughts back then, the black vampire in america. I'd have a simpler answer now, I think, shorter. Regardless, that premise, and fleshing out the world of the short story, and making a hundred other different decisions, and channeling the questions that were important to my life at the time, and finally allowing myself to be dragged along in the wake of all of that, I ended up writing roughly 500,000 words across 8 books. I liked what the stories were, how they started and where they went. The characters, too.
I remember getting my first hard copy from the publisher. The cover I was fine with. I had learned a lot about the job of cover artists and how difficult it is and how much of a struggle it can be to collaborate with someone. It wasn't what I wanted, the cover, but it was serviceable. I was probably a bit of a diva about it, and it didn't even come out very distinctive. The spine and back cover is what I hated. I was only shown an image of the front. No one had told me that every cover from the publisher received the same lilac, almost-purple spine. I was horrified. I felt a bit trapped, too, because I had already made up my mind that these people were the ones to give me a chance, so these people would be publishing the whole run. I hated the spines, hated looking at them every time I visited a friend and saw my work on their bookshelf in that atrociously inappropriate color. Even then, I wanted to stay with the company. I had aspirations that they would publish all 8 books, and that somewhere in there would be the groundswell I heard so much about. Someone important somewhere would read them, or hear about a review, or put their eyes on a page, a paragraph, a line. Because I had been told that good work gets recognized. But I had also been told that what I was writing was just a phase. The implication was that good work isn't just well written, good work is... well, I still haven't figured that out.
It's all moot now, because the publisher is closing its doors. I received my revestment letter yesterday, declaring that the rights are mine again, not the covers, which the publisher supplied, but the words inside. The first was available near the end of 2011, and only about half of the books were available at one point for public consumption. It's strange to think that was less than 10 years ago. In the intervening time, I've written another 7 or so novels, across multiple genres, multiple worlds, varieties of characters. I even self published a novella, because I was curious how that process worked. Just a few months ago I contemplated self publishing the rest of those first 8 books, matching spines be damned. And now, I have an opportunity to... I guess do better by those stories. Meeting other authors, editors, publishers, learning about the business, I thought that the market didn't need more presses. It didn't need people who were starting their own houses because they couldn't force their work through the traditional ones. And now, having been rejected a dozen, dozen times, I can certainly empathize. I still think things are saturated. But I also believe an author doesn't necessarily need a publisher. Of course, it would be hard to say what an author does need. A short memory is good, but a long memory is probably better. Thick skin, but also empathy. Patience. Great timing.
But that isn't why I'm going to self publisher those 8 books. I suppose on some level, I feel like they deserve to be read. But more than that, to quote another writer friend, "I just want to share something I'm proud of." And I can recognize the difference between something posted to a blog and something a person can hold in their hands. Thus, I will take the understanding I learned from the first experience, and put that towards covers, editing, and print on demand. I'll just have to apologize to everyone that supported the first run. Acknowledging shortcomings is also probably a valuable part of the process. But maybe not counting them to the point that their enumeration gets in the way of seeking out that next possibility.
Somewhere around 2007, I wrote a story. It was meant to be humorous. I called it Couch Monsters. In retrospect, it was kind of a Mystery Science Theater, but for urban fantasy. The commentators were a trio of classic movie monsters, and through their commentary, they set to right all the rumor and hearsay about their weaknesses, vulnerabilities, perspectives and stigmas. My very, very small and exclusive circle of readers liked it, and thought there should be more. But, as a satire, it could be brief, and it could be flippant. As a larger conception, it had to be researched and considered more sincerely. Through that process, I happened upon a singular notion: if one becomes a monster, they are considered to be no longer human, but what if they were considered less than human previously? It was the kind of idea that consumed my thoughts back then, the black vampire in america. I'd have a simpler answer now, I think, shorter. Regardless, that premise, and fleshing out the world of the short story, and making a hundred other different decisions, and channeling the questions that were important to my life at the time, and finally allowing myself to be dragged along in the wake of all of that, I ended up writing roughly 500,000 words across 8 books. I liked what the stories were, how they started and where they went. The characters, too.
I remember getting my first hard copy from the publisher. The cover I was fine with. I had learned a lot about the job of cover artists and how difficult it is and how much of a struggle it can be to collaborate with someone. It wasn't what I wanted, the cover, but it was serviceable. I was probably a bit of a diva about it, and it didn't even come out very distinctive. The spine and back cover is what I hated. I was only shown an image of the front. No one had told me that every cover from the publisher received the same lilac, almost-purple spine. I was horrified. I felt a bit trapped, too, because I had already made up my mind that these people were the ones to give me a chance, so these people would be publishing the whole run. I hated the spines, hated looking at them every time I visited a friend and saw my work on their bookshelf in that atrociously inappropriate color. Even then, I wanted to stay with the company. I had aspirations that they would publish all 8 books, and that somewhere in there would be the groundswell I heard so much about. Someone important somewhere would read them, or hear about a review, or put their eyes on a page, a paragraph, a line. Because I had been told that good work gets recognized. But I had also been told that what I was writing was just a phase. The implication was that good work isn't just well written, good work is... well, I still haven't figured that out.
It's all moot now, because the publisher is closing its doors. I received my revestment letter yesterday, declaring that the rights are mine again, not the covers, which the publisher supplied, but the words inside. The first was available near the end of 2011, and only about half of the books were available at one point for public consumption. It's strange to think that was less than 10 years ago. In the intervening time, I've written another 7 or so novels, across multiple genres, multiple worlds, varieties of characters. I even self published a novella, because I was curious how that process worked. Just a few months ago I contemplated self publishing the rest of those first 8 books, matching spines be damned. And now, I have an opportunity to... I guess do better by those stories. Meeting other authors, editors, publishers, learning about the business, I thought that the market didn't need more presses. It didn't need people who were starting their own houses because they couldn't force their work through the traditional ones. And now, having been rejected a dozen, dozen times, I can certainly empathize. I still think things are saturated. But I also believe an author doesn't necessarily need a publisher. Of course, it would be hard to say what an author does need. A short memory is good, but a long memory is probably better. Thick skin, but also empathy. Patience. Great timing.
But that isn't why I'm going to self publisher those 8 books. I suppose on some level, I feel like they deserve to be read. But more than that, to quote another writer friend, "I just want to share something I'm proud of." And I can recognize the difference between something posted to a blog and something a person can hold in their hands. Thus, I will take the understanding I learned from the first experience, and put that towards covers, editing, and print on demand. I'll just have to apologize to everyone that supported the first run. Acknowledging shortcomings is also probably a valuable part of the process. But maybe not counting them to the point that their enumeration gets in the way of seeking out that next possibility.
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