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Well, kids, we can add another name to the list of publishers destroyed by my strange, mystical power to destroy. The publisher of my novel Lifers, Creative Arts Book Company, as I've mentioned on this web site a few times, has gone belly-up. My power to destroy, which I'd thought might have gone into hibernation, is apparently alive and kicking; CAB is merely the latest company to learn far too late that I am a force of nature, like gravity. Evil gravity.
I'm sorry to see a decent small-press publisher go under, although from what I can tell, CAB brought it on themselves with some shady practices. From a purely selfish point of view, I can't complain. They published Lifers in 2001 and did a great job of it, as far as I'm concerned: The book looks great, and they got it out there for sale, and it had 2.5 years to sell-at this point, it sold what it's going to sell, really. I got paid my advance and some royalties. I can't complain about that aspect of it. Of course, now the question is, what happens with all those books, rotting in CAB's warehouse? They've got more than a thousand of the suckers sitting there. The answer is, most of them are gonna get mulched. I'm salvaging about 200 with my own money, buying them directly from CAB. I'll sell them myself as best I can, lugging them to readings and pumping them through Amazon and my own dinky web site (want one? just $7 postage-paid, bubba, 50% off the cover price-a STEAL! Of course, I routinely buy 2-year-old books for $2 at Bookleaves in New York, but let's let that drift, you bloodsucking bastards). This isn't the first time I've had this kind of affect on a publisher. I'm not kidding, my writing career is littered with the husks of ruined men and devastated companies. One could argue that publishing is a business of razor-thin margins and ridiculous market forces, and it would be more amazing if every single publisher I've ever worked with didn't fold moments after shipping my writings. It's amazing that the warehouses aren't collapsing into fire and smoke as the trucks are tearing ass out of them, barely escaping into the street with my cursed words piled up on pallets in the back. One could make that argument, that publishing is chancy so I shouldn't be surprised that a few of my publishers have gone tits-up. Except, it's not just a few publishers, it's a lot of publishers. They publish me, there is a quick, magic moment where a book or story exists and is buyable, and then, as far as I can tell, the publisher's building burns to the ground, their corporate officers flee to South America, and the books or magazines with my words in them burst turn to ashes with sudden flashes of blue flame that blind anyone unfortunate enough to be looking at it at that moment. So, another ruined publishing company, and five boxes of my novel en route to the TIS Compound. For god's sake, please buy several. If all of you pitch in and give me some pity sales, I might be able to avoid divorce by clearing some of these boxes out from under The Duchess' exasperated glare. This will also free my worried mind from concern for the books' fate and allow me to concentrate instead on the real question here: Do I have the secret psionic ability to destroy publishers? And can that power be directed to destroy other companies or, perhaps, individuals? Even if I had to convince mine enemies to 'publish' me in some superficial sense in order to destroy them, I think this could be a huge potential power. I wonder if I'm going to single-handedly destroy capitalism by bringing down every publisher in the world, one by one, and therefore the huge conglomerate's which own them? They'd build a huge statue to me in Red Square, if there was a Red Square, anymore. If you're a publisher, don't be wimpy: Get some balls and take a chance! Maybe you're The One designated by fate to destroy me. I've got dozens of books and stories just sitting here, like Publisher Kryptonite. Come on! Take a chance. Jeff |
January 29, 2004