Book Reviewers and Porn

September 24, 2006 @ 8:39 pm

A new release, some ranting, forthcoming reading and more pictures…

If you missed the fanfare, it’s because there wasn’t any, and what it wasn’t about was the paperback release of Dermaphoria a couple of weeks ago, which has quietly slipped into bookstores near you. Or not. If I sound a little irked, it’s because I am. Having been at this whole writing thing for a while now, I’ve grown accustomed to the rallying cry of the independent bookstore. Like rare plants in the Amazon, they fall with alarming regularity beneath the corporate axe of the big chains. When it happens, it hurts. Here in San Francisco, we just lost A Clean Well Lighted Place for Books near city hall and Cody’s over in Berkeley. Don’t let the following rant mislead you, I always prefer to shop at independents for my basic necessities (books, music and coffee) and San Francisco has tons of very cool, local merchants for all three, even though it gets harder and harder to avoid the Seattle Coffee Mafia on most days.

What really burns me, though, is hearing the constant plea to support independent bookstores, while those same independents don’t support writers from independent publishers, i.e., me. I’ve had two independents in town tell me point blank that they will not carry my books. Why? I don’t know. It can’t be because of the critical response, which was positive for both, especially The Contortionist’s Handbook. It can’t be due to sales. Though I’m light years from being a household name, the Handbook is the living definition of that business buzzword du jour, “long tail.” It continues to move in small but steady increments, slowly gathering a wider and wider audience.

Yeah, I get it… shelf space is finite and profit margins are slim. It’s a tough business, business being the operative word. I won’t accept a bookstore’s decision to not carry my books, which they defend on the grounds of business, only to have that same bookstore demand revenue on the principle of supporting local merchants, keeping the neighborhood colorful and diverse, etc. An independent bookstore needs to pay its rent, sure, but so do I. If Angry Young Hipster Indie Bookstore, Inc., says “get fucked” to me and my Velvet brethren (unless they’re selling promotional copies or galleys, which they sometimes do and which takes money out of my publisher’s pocket and mine) but Barnes & Noble keeps us on the shelves, guess where I’m going to shop?

More on the subject of Dermaphoria’s very quiet paperback release… While pondering over a pint the difficulty in getting media attention for books, especially fiction, in this day and age of shrinking review space, I joked that book reviewers choose their subjects the way people choose their porn. I said something like, “I ain’t pretty or famous, so I’m not counting on any column space for the paperback.” The more I thought about it, the more the book reviewer/porn analogy panned out:

The Barely Legal “Virgin”

Everybody wants to witness your first time, including book reviewers. Any story they pitch needs an angle to get the editorial green light, and “this is a really good book by a writer you’ve never heard of” is an angle that rarely works. Angles that do work for unknown writers include “local author,” “regional interest” or something politically topical or pertinent to current events. Above all, the “debut author” pitch is virtually guaranteed to garner newspaper attention, regardless of where you’re from or what your book is about (see, The Contortionist’s Handbook). By book number two, unless you’re a household name (see, Jenna Jameson), or you’re a local author or have written a book of regional/topical interest, then you’re damaged goods (see, Dermaphoria).

The Whips & Chains

Some people find Playboy or “vanilla sex” just not enough, so they prowl the aisles and internet for their release via sex as a post-apocalyptic interrogation. Book reviewers–and the book-buying public– are the same way. Try pushing a well written, humorous and insightful memoir (see, Wendy Dale), and your chances of public attention are slim. Try that same memoir with a recovery story mixed in and you’re getting somewhere. Every shameless confession you make to either victimhood or perpetration of any number of vices increases the odds you’ll get covered and the amount of column space for it. You don’t have to go the memoir route, so long as the grizzly details of your life are the staples of your publicity bio as you market your “fiction,” which gives you the added bonus of not having to write worth a fuck (see, J.T. Leroy, the aftermath of which plays nicely into this metaphor as a sort of inverse Traci Lords scandal).

Pick your poison: child abuse, alcoholism, drug abuse, or molestation and cross out the “Anonymous” half of your recovery, then get down on all fours for the camera and do that chain gang.

The Ron Jeremy

Rumors aren’t good enough when it comes to size. People want to see it and yes, it does matter. When it comes to precious review space and choosing between the Brilliant But Little-Known Genius Wordsmith on the Small University Press versus The Semi-Talented, Just-Out-of-College Kid with the Six-Figure Advance, guess who’s going to win? Of course, the argument goes that the Big Advance is a sign of a publisher’s faith in a book and therefore an indication of its literary merit, and I’ll go with that… to a point. That’s until the size of the advance itself becomes the significant topic within the media coverage of the book. Big advances are like big winners in Vegas. You might hear about them the most, but they’re far outnumbered by everyone else. Regardless of the statistical reality, the press likes the big numbers, the kind you whip out and watch people’s eyes go wide, the kind you force into that small, tight bank account of yours with generous amounts of lube… you see my point.

The Paris Hilton

You’re sick of her, no doubt, and donkey porn sure ain’t your thing. Admit it though, the combination of the two holds a sick roadkill fascination for you. Slap her name on a dvd of her being slapped around, and a goodly portion of the “I don’t buy that sort of thing” public will come out of the woodwork, cash in hand. The fact is, publishers can bank huge amounts of money on the sales of books written (or ghost written) by someone whose fame or infamy is already established. If you’ve never written a book in your life but you’re the star of a long running and highly rated sitcom or a factory engineered pop star, then your memoir/attempt at fiction/attempt at poetry will be almost guaranteed press coverage, even if it’s bad (see, Brittany Spears, Jewel) . If you’re an established author whose books sell in droves, then you have review space waiting by default. Much like the Whips & Chains category above, being included in the Paris Hilton category affords the benefit writing prose that most anyone else could outdo with a pen clenched between their ass cheeks (see, Dan Brown).

Aspiring writers take heed. Unless it’s your first time, you need to write a graphic and gut-wrenching memoir, get a shitload of money up front or already be a celebrity. Otherwise… well, perhaps you’re a dedicated wordsmith of formidable talent. Perhaps you were lucky enough to have been born beautiful (which can tip the scales in your favor with press coverage), or perhaps instead you drew the genetic short straw (see, Will Christopher Baer). Maybe you’re over thirty, holding down a job and raising a family and have decided to go the dignified route and keep your skeletons in the closet. If so, be prepared to hear the crickets chirping come publication date. Sometimes being naked and pretty just ain’t enough.

/end_rant/

I’m going to read again, soon. Out loud, I mean. San Francisco’s 2006 LitQuake looms. In the past, the festival has always proved to be the literary equivalent of walking on broken glass for yours truly. Regardless, I’ll be part of the litcrawl at the end of the week, reading from either Dermaphoria or my work in progress, I’ve yet to decide. If you’re in town, I’ll be reading with a few other authors from the Cage, namely Michelle Richmond, Stephen Elliott and local legend Michelle Tea. We’ll be at the Make-Out Room (21+) on Saturday, October 14th, from 8:30 to 9:30 p.m. As long as you’re hitting the pub crawl, be sure to check out my buddy, David Corbett. He’s a wicked crime writer and all around good bloke.

The next few pages of the Gabor Kiss’s graphic rendition of the Handbook are here for your viewing. I’ve fallen out of step with my regular posts of this, due largely to the aforementioned move and the usual low key chaos that dogs me. The currently posted pages, which have already been up for a bit but have not been announced, will remain posted for the next two weeks, after which I’ll once again attempt to resume the regular two week rotation.

Lastly, just in case I haven’t beaten the dead horse to a soggy pulp, Dermaphoria is now in paperback. So, if you couldn’t shell out the scratch for the hardcover, you can now buy two paperbacks. Back in a couple of weeks, and I’ll see you in October. Spread the word..

Stay warm and bound,

~Craig