your book around?”
“Let me ask you something. You used to work for a big advertising firm, right?”
A long time ago, but she’d included that tidbit on her website. “Yes.”
“Why did you leave?”
“I was pregnant with Ben. My doctor put me on bed rest.” At his questioning look, she shrugged. “Placenta previa.”
“And then, after you delivered?”
“I stayed home with Ben.”
“But at some point you decided you wanted to go back to work.”
She opened her mouth to take issue with his word choice, then hesitated. This was neither the time nor the place to hold forth on how much work was involved in being a stay-at-home parent. Tonight was supposed to be about Max’s book.
Before she could redirect the conversation, Max continued. “And you decided to go it alone. Why? Why not return to the firm?”
“Fine,” she said. “You’ve made your point. You don’t want to cede control.”
“Bingo,” he said. “You sign, and all of a sudden it’s no longer your baby. The editor determines content. Change this, rewrite that, ad infinitum. The marketing department decides your title. The art department picks your cover. And you get a measly advance against a six or eight percent royalty. Plus they get the right of first refusal for anything you write later, unless you’ve got a shark for an agent. And that’s assuming the book even gets picked up. After the bloodbath of the last couple decades in the publishing industry, there’s only five big publishers left. And they’re not interested in gambling on unknown authors who write genre fiction and are unlikely to ever rise above the mid-list.”
“But what if you do land a contract? Wouldn’t that give you access to a wider audience?”
“Maybe, but not necessarily. There’s a glut of mysteries and thrillers out there. The only market bigger than that is romance. And you know what happens to all those books? They sit on the shelves for a few weeks, and then they get sent back to the publisher, covers stripped, to make room for the next batch.”
“What about e-books?”
“Good question,” he said. “E-books are certainly becoming more popular. But legacy publishers are still approaching the digital market the same way they do print. Same control issues. Same cost structure, even though there’s infinite digital shelf space, and negligible overhead for distribution. And they jerk authors around when it comes to paying royalties, figuring some small percentage of so-called ‘net receipts’—which they can pretty much define in any way they choose without regard for the book’s actual price. There was even a class action lawsuit in which authors accused one of the big romance publishing houses of playing shell games. The claim was that the publisher created a sham corporation specifically for tax purposes, and then laundered net receipts through this entity by way of some intercompany licensing agreement. As a result, the authors got paid three to four percent of the e-books’ cover price instead of the contracted fifty percent.”
Eva blinked. “How do you know all this?”
He shrugged. “I’ve been reading a lot of blogs lately. When I can’t sleep, I surf the web.”
“Wow. You learned all that online?”
So much for stereotyping. She wouldn’t have pegged him as someone who read publishing blogs as a cure for insomnia. Someone who streamed internet porn, maybe. Someone who nudged his Playboy bunny bedmate awake for a bout of vigorous sex? For sure. But someone who read industry news about the literary marketplace? Not so much. Maybe his libido had taken a hit, along with his knee.
He leaned closer, the crisp sleeve of his oxford shirt brushing against her bare arm. “Want to know what else I learned?”
She caught the gleam in his eyes, the suggestive smile on his lips. On second thought, there was probably nothing wrong with his libido. She swallowed. “What?”
“Every indie writer needs PR.” His breath
“Let me ask you something. You used to work for a big advertising firm, right?”
A long time ago, but she’d included that tidbit on her website. “Yes.”
“Why did you leave?”
“I was pregnant with Ben. My doctor put me on bed rest.” At his questioning look, she shrugged. “Placenta previa.”
“And then, after you delivered?”
“I stayed home with Ben.”
“But at some point you decided you wanted to go back to work.”
She opened her mouth to take issue with his word choice, then hesitated. This was neither the time nor the place to hold forth on how much work was involved in being a stay-at-home parent. Tonight was supposed to be about Max’s book.
Before she could redirect the conversation, Max continued. “And you decided to go it alone. Why? Why not return to the firm?”
“Fine,” she said. “You’ve made your point. You don’t want to cede control.”
“Bingo,” he said. “You sign, and all of a sudden it’s no longer your baby. The editor determines content. Change this, rewrite that, ad infinitum. The marketing department decides your title. The art department picks your cover. And you get a measly advance against a six or eight percent royalty. Plus they get the right of first refusal for anything you write later, unless you’ve got a shark for an agent. And that’s assuming the book even gets picked up. After the bloodbath of the last couple decades in the publishing industry, there’s only five big publishers left. And they’re not interested in gambling on unknown authors who write genre fiction and are unlikely to ever rise above the mid-list.”
“But what if you do land a contract? Wouldn’t that give you access to a wider audience?”
“Maybe, but not necessarily. There’s a glut of mysteries and thrillers out there. The only market bigger than that is romance. And you know what happens to all those books? They sit on the shelves for a few weeks, and then they get sent back to the publisher, covers stripped, to make room for the next batch.”
“What about e-books?”
“Good question,” he said. “E-books are certainly becoming more popular. But legacy publishers are still approaching the digital market the same way they do print. Same control issues. Same cost structure, even though there’s infinite digital shelf space, and negligible overhead for distribution. And they jerk authors around when it comes to paying royalties, figuring some small percentage of so-called ‘net receipts’—which they can pretty much define in any way they choose without regard for the book’s actual price. There was even a class action lawsuit in which authors accused one of the big romance publishing houses of playing shell games. The claim was that the publisher created a sham corporation specifically for tax purposes, and then laundered net receipts through this entity by way of some intercompany licensing agreement. As a result, the authors got paid three to four percent of the e-books’ cover price instead of the contracted fifty percent.”
Eva blinked. “How do you know all this?”
He shrugged. “I’ve been reading a lot of blogs lately. When I can’t sleep, I surf the web.”
“Wow. You learned all that online?”
So much for stereotyping. She wouldn’t have pegged him as someone who read publishing blogs as a cure for insomnia. Someone who streamed internet porn, maybe. Someone who nudged his Playboy bunny bedmate awake for a bout of vigorous sex? For sure. But someone who read industry news about the literary marketplace? Not so much. Maybe his libido had taken a hit, along with his knee.
He leaned closer, the crisp sleeve of his oxford shirt brushing against her bare arm. “Want to know what else I learned?”
She caught the gleam in his eyes, the suggestive smile on his lips. On second thought, there was probably nothing wrong with his libido. She swallowed. “What?”
“Every indie writer needs PR.” His breath
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