Midlister Dreams in the Age of Ebooks and POD

My grandfather was a midlister. Sean McLachlan aptly describes this devoted breed of writer:

They’re not rich, they’re not famous, but they make their living by writing and they’re responsible for the majority of all published titles. They’re called midlisters, and they keep the publishing industry running.

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They’re the serious professionals whom publishers rely on to produce good, marketable books year after year, spanning all genres from nonfiction to fantasy to romance to young adult. They’ve moved beyond the small press to win regular paying contracts, but they do not have bestsellers. They often work a variety of writing jobs in addition to their books, including mentoring, magazine articles, and copyediting.

My grandfather wrote historical fiction, specifically Westerns. A Michigan boy who saw combat in the South Pacific during W.W. II, his true love was the Old West–which was fed by his posting in Oklahoma as a base historian for the Air Force. He won an award here and there and was published by respected imprints including Tor, Avalon and Manor. As far as I know (and sadly he’s no longer around to ask) he never made a huge amount of money on any of his dozens of books and short stories. He wrote because he loved telling stories.

Starting in the pulp cowboy field, as the years went on his work earned respect and praise for historical accuracy and reader-friendliness. He was inducted into the Oklahoma Professional Writers Hall of Fame a few years before his death.

I learned from him some things you can learn from any true professional writer: read a lot, write every day, edit, edit, edit and most importantly: don’t quit.

As a child I was once startled to see my grandfather seated at a card table at a Waldenbooks in the mall. Next to a small sign that read “Meet the Author” set a small stack of his latest book. He seemed to be doing some sort of lonely after school detention for grownups.

“Whatcha doing Rob?” I asked him (I called him “Rob” or “Grandpa Rob,” but mostly “Rob”).

He smiled. “Just sitting here with my books.”

“Why?”

“Trying to sell a few,” he said, ever patient at my interrogation. I don’t think he sold a whole lot that day, if I remember correctly. But he seemed happy to be there.

In retrospect, I wanted to be there, too. Still do.

When I finally became serious about writing a book five years ago, I put a lot of my grandfather’s lessons about discipline to work. I worked on my novel for two years. To borrow an analogy, I put the clay on the table and sculpted and re-sculpted it until I had the best sculpture I could make.

Then the hard part: finding an agent. I toiled in the mines of writing good query letters and researching the right agents. I earned roughly enough rejection letters (and email) to literally wallpaper my office (“nice, but too short” “I liked it, but you need to chop at least 40 pages of exposition” “You write well but we no longer represent thrillers” …ad nauseum). A half dozen agents asked to read a few chapters; another three asked for “partials,” which is roughly half the book.  Two agents thrilled me by requesting a “full”–the entire manuscript.

One agent said she thought it had potential but didn’t like my narrative voice. If you ask me that’s pretty similar to a girl saying she likes you but not the way you kiss. But that’s okay–either you turn her on or you don’t.

The other agent said she really liked the book but the way the industry was going it didn’t look like something she could rep successfully. I got it. This was 2008–the economy was on the brink of a very large, unforgiving crater. Most publishers were simply not going to take a chance on an unknown newbie’s solid (but probably not blockbuster material) thriller.

At this point, after spending two years writing the book and another two trying to sell it, I was defeated. The book–my best manuscript ever– was going to cozy up to the mediocre and terrible attempts from my youth in a despised cardboard box in the basement.

I felt I was abandoning a beloved pet. I loved these characters. This story was part of me. The book is good, damn it! So, half-seriously I surfed the net to check out the self-publishing options. Nothing felt right until one day I stumbled across Smashwords, which has become the gold standard of indie e-publishing. Sure, my book wouldn’t be an actual, “physical” book, but it would be out there. People with ereaders could follow my hero’s misadventures. Why not? Beats the box.

After formatting and editing the book once more and having the extraordinary good fortune of snagging a fantastic book cover by the talented David Terrill, my orphan thriller was now a bouncing baby ebook.

It sold pretty well (as in way better than I expected), so I commissioned a print-on-demand (POD) paperback in late 2010. The  paperback is now a selection of two three four local book clubs and available on Amazon, Barnes and Noble and at least one brick and mortar bookstore.

Despite nice reviews, I often get the old “don’t quit your day job” look. One friend dropped the big one on me, saying (not unkindly) “But won’t this self-published thing ruin your chances at a real publishing contract?”

And boom…there it was. I can call myself an “indie author” all I want, but there are still those who will always equate me with self-published hackdom because I didn’t wait my turn. I picked myself, as Seth Godin would say. I shot the gatekeepers the bird.

I can’t look back now. I am what I am–self-published. There are of course stories of self-published authors who beat the odds and made it big, including the ebook sensation Amanda Hocking.  I need to write a hell of a lot more books (with a broader market appeal) to aspire to even a tenth of that level of success.  However, the success of indies like Hocking make it a little more acceptable to go your own way. Hell, J.A. Konrath has more or less stated that he’s done with big publishing houses.

I muse about what Grandpa Rob would think of all this. I have to think he would have counseled me to stick with the traditional route–no matter how long it took–at first. But knowing him he would’ve made his own out-of-print stuff into ebooks and seen firsthand that the times had changed. At least I hope so.

Would I take an offer from a “big” publisher now? I’m not making huge money–not even worthy of the title of “indie midlister” yet–but I do have freedom and get to keep far more of my book profits than I would with a publisher. Yet…the thought that I shot myself in the foot tasks me.

I get some comfort when I think of a scene from The Late Shift, a book and film about the “Late Night Wars” when Leno and Letterman battled it out to succeed Johnny Carson on “The Tonight Show:”

One of the more fascinating details is when NBC offers Letterman the “Tonight Show” in a few years, which is the same strategy that NBC did with O’Brien to keep him around. Letterman is obsessed with the prestige of getting the “Tonight Show,” but as a friend tells him sadly, “They are not offering you the Johnny Carson ‘Tonight Show’. It’s gone forever. They’re offering you damaged goods. They’re offering you the Jay Leno show…it’s leftovers, it’s shoddy.” (source: RaisetheHammer.org)

Is that the case with big publishing now? I don’t know. Is a major publishing contract “shoddy goods?” I hope not,  but I do know it’s not my grandfather’s publishing industry. It’s just not the same show anymore.

I’m doing my first book signing May 14. Like Grandpa Rob, I’ll be manning a card table–chatting with whoever will listen about the beloved characters I refused to abandon. I may even sell a book or two. Perhaps it will help me become a midlister someday.

I should be so lucky.

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UPDATE: Turning down a half million dollars in favor of self publishing? Really?