Mr. Fox and Other Feral Tales

by Norman Partridge

  While all this was happening, the internet came along.

  So did a new technology called print-on-demand publishing.

  And the small press game changed dramatically.

  The internet cut out the middleman. Would-be editors hoping to create the next Cemetery Dance, Deathrealm, or Horror Show could choose to produce electronic "magazines" at a much lower cost than traditional print medium allowed. Horror-related websites started running fiction. Some paid token fees and operated as traditional editor/writer markets; other sites simply had no-frills forums where aspiring writers could post their stories themselves.

  Some writers bypassed editors entirely. They created their own websites, posted their own work, and promoted themselves and their fiction through internet chatrooms, message boards, and links on websites related to horror (or mystery, or science fiction). Finding an audience was no easy task, but it did become easier for aspiring writers to make an end-run around the traditional gatekeepers of the publishing world. Basic definitions began to blur. Debates sprang up. What did it mean to be a published writer? Who was a pro and who wasn't? Was internet publishing the real deal, or just the literary equivalent of open-mic night?

  Print-on-demand added another question to the mix: what was a book, and what wasn't? POD allowed publishers to produce books at an upfront cost much lower than traditional offset printing, because POD could offer very short print runs at reasonable prices. Of course, the results weren't nearly as attractive—most POD books looked like the poor relations of trade paperbacks. The real attraction to the technology was the rock-bottom price when it came to up-front costs. Besides a cut-rate approach to layout and cover art—meaning, most publishers didn't actually pay for either—a POD outfit could get a first novel into print for as little as a $20 insertion fee with the company that actually produced the book.[39]

  If the book sold well, the publisher had a hit. If the book didn't sell, he lost practically nothing in upfront costs. He could dump the book, find another writer, and try again.

  POD publishers began to form relationships with the latest crop of small press talent. A few writers got noticed this way, while most saw their books dive-bomb and vanish. But even the writers who did garner some attention found that POD was a tough way to go. Most POD publishers didn't pay advances. Often, they counted on writers buying copies of the books themselves in order to sell them at conventions, give them to relatives, etc. POD publishers couldn't get their products reviewed in traditional publications, and they couldn't get bookstores to carry them. There was only one sure way for a new writer to sell a POD book—through plain old-fashioned Barnum-style promotion, and the lion's share of that task fell to the writer.

  Not all new publishers followed the POD model. Some were running a stripped-down version of the Rich Chizmar playbook. They watched the message boards and POD market for hot prospects, and they hooked up with them. They also cut deals with more established writers looking for opportunities in the limited-edition horror game. The market began to narrow. Print-runs shrank. Quality decreased. There was a lot of talk about collectability. Instead of trying to sell a book beyond the collector's market, some new publishers focused on that audience almost exclusively. They didn't care what was going on in New York, or in the local Borders or Barnes & Noble. They cared about what was going on in the small press. They were content to move a couple hundred copies of their latest book to the hardcore horror fans, and they worked to create a fan- specific buzz about their titles in order to do that.

  Now the game was different. POD brought a new level of affordability to publishing. Niche marketing placed a stronger focus on the collector's market for publishers going the offset route. The number of small presses increased dramatically. There were lots of websites running fiction, and lots of message boards promoting that fiction. But most of all, there were lots of stories and lots of books. And lots and lots of new writers, all of them competing for attention.

  So the game had changed since I started out, and aspiring writers now faced a completely different problem than the one I had encountered as a beginner.

  It was no longer any great trick to get published.

  Now the trick was getting read.

  And that's the great danger I see in the small press today. Horror has always been a small pond, and small press horror is an even smaller one. Right now, that little body of water is brimming, and the genre is more crowded than I've ever seen it.

  I noticed this a few years ago, at the last World Horror Convention I attended in Seattle. At previous cons. I'd been able to keep up with new writers and the books they were turning out. But at that con—whoa. It seemed that things had suddenly hit overload. Everyone I met had a book or chapbook to sell. The dealers' room was jammed with work by young writers hoping to jumpstart their careers. At the mass-autograph signing, there were more people sitting at tables hoping to sell books than, there were fans asking for signatures.

  Nearly everyone I met at the con was a writer. And those that weren't...well, it turned out they were publishers. The problem was, not many members of either camp were managing to sell books. And the worst news of all was this: traditional publishers had taken a pass on the whole event. In Seattle, I counted exactly two editors who were working at New York publishing houses. I didn't see any agents there at all. It seemed the genre (and the small press) was cutting itself off, almost deliberately, as if intent on marginalization.

  I talked to several young writers at that con. They were paying their dues in the small press, trying to find a way into the professional market. Some of them told me that they wanted to do what I'd done—publish a book like Mr. Fox or Slippin' into Darkness with a small press, then use that book to get their foot in the door in New York.

  One look around that hotel and I knew that the odds had narrowed on that approach. Too many young writers were trying to run that playbook, and too many young publishers were trying to do what Rich had done with Cemetery Dance. I'm not saying that it had become impossible to get noticed that way. A few of the young writers I met at that con have since gone on to establish professional careers, but the competition is fierce. Many more writers have gotten lost in the shuffle, and so have the novels and stories they spent long hours producing.[40]

  Today it's worse. New presses appear and disappear with great regularity. Writers sign contracts and get burned when amateur-hour publishers cash in their chips. There are a lot of presses publishing books aimed exclusively at the collector's market, and way too many books going for forty or fifty bucks a pop. I'll submit the bad news here—this can't last. Like I said, the horror pond is small. There's only so much room in the water, and flooding the marketplace is never good. It didn't work in the '80s with paperback originals that cost $3.95 a pop, and it's not going to work any better with expensive hardcovers now (no matter how limited their print runs).[41] There just isn't a large enough horror fanbase to support that kind of action with cash on the barrelhead. To be perfectly blunt, there isn't a deep enough talent pool, either.

  That's right. The pond's full, but it's also getting diluted. New writers are publishing books that aren't quite ready for primetime. Established writers are publishing books that should remain locked in their attic trunks. Publishers are slapping expensive price tags on both products. They're selling them to the hardcore fans, who'll no doubt get pretty tired of bleeding green in an attempt to keep up with their favorite authors, old and new.

  It's a simple law of economics, really: those readers and collectors can only max out so many credit cards in pursuit of a good read. The way I see it, there's a small press apocalypse waiting just down the road. It'll be a reckoning of sorts. A Grim Reaper's going to take a walkthrough the neighborhood in the next few years. He'll swing his scythe and take down some publishers who tried too hard to milk the market—those who got too greedy, those who bet the farm on new writers who weren't ready for primetime or older writers who went to the limited well one time too often, those who
wasted capital on mediocre projects. He'll chop down some writers, too—those who underestimated the competitive nature of the small press, or published too soon, or bet their chips on the wrong publisher.

  The Reaper will cut the wheat from the chaff, but I doubt that he'll kill the golden goose. He'll be careful not to do that. When he's finished, the small press will still be around. But it won't be the same place it is today. It'll be a little smaller. A few publishers who didn't get it will find themselves flipping burgers; more than a few writers will end up with a first novel that didn't sell sitting on their shelf, back at square one in the writing game.

  That's the way the business works. The only sure thing about the publishing world is that things are always going to change. What you have to learn to do is change with them. That's why there is no comfort zone for a writer. Never has been; never will be.

  No matter where you live on the food chain, don't expect to find one.

  All right. When it comes to the perils of today's small press, you can consider yourself warned. If you want a piece of the small press pie, your first job is to understand the current market. Then you can decide what opportunities that market presents for you and your fiction, and set about making those opportunities work to your advantage.

  So let's talk about your fiction now, and where it might fit in today's market. Let's consider the book you want to write, and how you're going to go about selling it. In fact, let's say you just completed your first novel, and you're thinking about sending the manuscript to a few small press markets. Before you lick those stamps, ask yourself these questions:

  1. Is your prospective publisher "the real deal?" You'll need to do some homework to find that out. Talk to other writers in the publisher's stable, or do a little checking on the publisher's website to determine his past history. Ask questions, both of yourself and of any prospective publisher. Have you heard of the writers he has published? Do his books have a "professional" look? Are they reviewed in professional markets like Publishers Weekly, Kirkus, or Library Journal? What rights is the publisher tying up, and for how long?[42]

  Who sells the publisher's books? How are they distributed? Does he produce projects on time and pay on time? Will your fiction (and you) match up with the publisher and his current product—i.e., has he been successful publishing writers at your level of the game, and does he publish the "style" of book you've written (quiet horror, splatter, literary, etc.)?

  2. Is your publisher willing to invest in you and your novel? Will he pay an advance against royalties? Will he pay for quality cover art, design, and layout? Will he pay for promotion and advertising? This is especially important in the case of POD publishers. I've heard horror stories from more than a few young writers who went with POD outfits that didn't pay an advance. They found out the hard way just how quickly most of those outfits would abandon a project if it didn't sell, and just how little the publisher was willing to do to sell it. One young writer told me that his first novel sold 26 copies. His publisher did absolutely nothing to promote the book. The guy simply took a calculated risk because the writer had made a little bit of a name for himself in the small press. When the novel didn't take off, the publisher cut his losses and walked away, leaving the writer holding the bag. The publisher was out the cost of an insertion fee, which wasn't much of an investment. The writer made less than a hundred bucks on royalties from his first novel. He might as well have tossed his manuscript in the garbage can for all the good it did him.

  That's why I'd advise any beginning writer to avoid POD projects. POD might work all right under certain circumstances—say for an established author who wants to market a work that is out of print in New York—but it's a pretty sure disaster for anyone else unless they have a very savvy sense of promotion.

  3. Will publishing your book advance your career? This is your first novel. It's important. The answer to this question will depend on a lot of the other answers you've already gathered, but the basic question you'll want to consider is this: will your book afford you the opportunity to be noticed by the mainstream press in terms of reviews, production values, and—most importantly—content?

  4. What are you willing to do to sell your work? When it comes to promotion, do you expect your book to sell itself? Are you comfortable going on message boards or attending conventions to hawk it? Remember what I said about the competitive nature of the small press, especially if you're planning to try to publish your first novel in the hardcover limited market. Do that, and you'll be competing with some of the best writers in the business.[43] Also understand that there can be a downside to publishing limited editions, even if you do manage to sell them. If your fans can't get your books because of low print runs or high prices, they're liable to get a little bent out of shape.[44]

  Beyond that, the ultimate point of writing is communication. You've got to aim for the larger readership if you want to build a real audience for your work. If you fail to do that, you're shouting into the wrong end of the megaphone. Which leads us to the next, and perhaps the most important consideration:

  5. Have you exhausted your possibilities in the mainstream market? Have you tried to interest an agent in your work? Have you networked with professional contacts and asked for their advice about the best way to sell it? Have you queried New York editors who publish the kind of book you've written? If you haven't done all that, you haven't given yourself (or your book) a fair shot at mainstream success.

  Remember, always start at the top when marketing your work. It's a much harder road. I doubt you'll find one bit of instant gratification on it. You'll probably get more people grinding their heels into your ego than you would if you focused exclusively on the small press. You'll almost certainly get more doors slammed in your face. But remember—most good things don't come easy.

  Remember this, too:

  Don't sell yourself short.

  Don't sell your work short, either.

  THE ENTOURAGE

  We had Melani stuffed inside a Bijan suitcase for one simple reason; if the crowd waiting to enter the coliseum would have seen her — mummy-thin, just a skeleton covered with cream-colored skin that was as transparent as tracing paper —they would have started a regular stampede. But we couldn't tell that to the security guard who wanted to check the case for forbidden accouterments, like brass knucks or knives or maybe a gat or three.

  "Man, we're part of the Bonegrinder's entourage," StiltMilt shouted, waving a bony finger at the rent-a-cop. "And this here suitcase is the Bonegrinder's personal private property.”

  "And besides, we don't even have a key to the damn thing," I lied, shooting a glance at StiltMilt that put the ball back in his court.

  "That's the truth, officer." StiltMilt went to the hoop. "And if you think I'm gonna let you slice open the Bonegrinder's personal private property, you got another thing comin'. You think the Bonegrinder wouldn't be pissed 'bout that, you just think again."

  The rent-a-cop was thinking about it, and hard. Riot fear shone in his eyes. All summer the slums on the nasty side of the river had been burning, figuratively and literally. Some neighborhoods were now little more than fire-gutted ruins, and a lot of people were dead. Hundreds of poor folks, but also a good number of shopkeepers, cops, firefighters, and even the rare social worker. So it was a sure bet that the guard was under strict orders to search everyone entering the coliseum, because if a riot started here, tonight, thousands could die.

  I rebounded and took the argument on fastbreak, playing on the rent-a-cop's fears. "Look, man, if we don't get this suitcase inside, the Bonegrinder might decide that he doesn't want to box tonight. He might check out and leave you with a whole coliseum full of unhappy people who came to see a fight."

  StiltMilt grinned as wide and ruthless as Don King. "Folks who come to see a fight, well, they usually see one, one way or another...even if it's their own fightin' they end up watchin'."

  Now the cop was angry, because he knew us black boys had him. Bigoted anxie
ty squirmed in his pea brain as he considered the wall of black and brown faces behind us, and just that quick his jowly red face dropped like a brick building in an earthquake. Suddenly acting like it wasn't a big thing, he handed StiltMilt a pair of passes that would get us into the luxury box section.

  In we went. Laughing like a hyena, StiltMilt slapped me five.

  "Slam dunk," I said.

  Melani was getting frantic. I felt her lashing around inside the suitcase as we made our way past souvenir and concession stands. "Calm down, girl," I said. "It's your own damn fault, anyway. You wouldn't be having this problem if you'd quit starving yourself."

  "That's an idea," StiltMilt said. "I'm gonna get me a hot dog and a beer." His skinny fingers squeezed my left biceps. "You want anything, JoJo?"

  "You know I don't eat that crap."

  StiltMilt looked hurt. "Shit, JoJo. You go hungry, then, skinny fool."

  While StiltMilt bought his eats, I looked over the souvenir stand. There were Bonegrinder posters, T-shirts and silk jackets, boxing gloves, action figures, even replicas of the Grinder's championship belt that looked like they were cast from gold and green crayons. It all looked fine, like dollar signs, but none of it was selling.

  Then I saw why. Kids were circled around a youngblood who was hawking T-shirts stamped with the challenger's image and nickname from a cardboard box. Sweetmeat —stupid name —typical of the jive a kid from the nasty side of the river would go for. Obviously, the kid's people didn't know much about marketing, but at five bucks a pop it didn't matter; the shirts were going fast.