Self-Publishing: Commodity vs. Art

Ebook sales surpassed 20% of the US book market in 2012. Also for the first time, a self-published novel hit number one on the DBW best-seller list. In light of these breakthroughs, the advice from some quarters to skip traditional publishers altogether and make a career strictly from electronic and on-demand publishing is gaining credibility.

For Wool author Hugh Howey, self-publishing is a great writer's best option and a mediocre writer's only option for career success. He posits an invisible army of self-published mid-listers supplementing or replacing their regular incomes with ebook proceeds. Howey's evidence is entirely anecdotal, but the sheer volume of anecdotes isn't to be taken lightly.

Has the long-predicted demise of the New York publishing model come at last? In a word: no. No less a DIY publishing advocate than Dean Wesley Smith believes that the industry has reached a state of equilibrium between electronic, on-demand, and traditional publishing. He shows that the basic business model used by traditional publishers for decades is indispensable, even for authors who become their own publishers. Another telling fact is that almost every high profile self-published author to top the digital best seller lists has signed a print deal with a traditional publisher (including Howey himself).

Jane Friedman points out some of the self-publishing career path's quirks, including the dominance of genre fiction and the perceived need to sacrifice quality for high product volume. In her experience self-publishing openly views books as commodities. Traditional publishers do as well (they are running businesses after all), but they tend to emphasize the artistic aspect of literature.

It's hard to argue with the raw numbers. Self-published authors receive 70% of every ebook sale and retain all the rights to their work. Traditionally published writers get 25% of ebook sales. They also get 12-15% of each print copy's cover price, but only after the advance earns out. Gaining this compensation requires giving away almost all rights to their work. Also, ebooks can theoretically remain available forever, while most print books have a shelf life of six months.

Despite the mathematical proofs, I remain unmoved by the arguments for skipping traditional publishers in favor of self-publishing. Financial gain isn't my primary motive for seeking publication. A fundamental fact of the literary industry is that it's the wrong business to get into if you're in it for the money. I write, edit, and redraft; send query letters and endure rejections because, like Howey said, traditional publishers only accept the top one percent of submissions. Material success does not necessarily denote skill; neither does popularity for that matter.

I am a traditionalist by temperament and conviction. Yes, many aspects of the old publishing model are outdated and simply unjust, but it can be fixed without sacrificing standards (e.g. Norman Spinrad's call for 50% ebook royalties). I don't presume to dictate which approach is right or wrong. Self-publishing works for lots of writers, and I wish them continued success. At this stage though, having Random House buy your manuscript for peanuts still seems like more of an achievement than servicing your boat loan on the profits of a misspelling-riddled teen mystery series.

Those are my current sentiments on self-publishing. I welcome your praise, rebukes, and insights.

Music Makers and Dreamers of Dreams

Last time I discussed the thematic stagnation of genre fiction. Since proper criticism balances the bad by pointing to the good, I offer the following examples of vivid counter cultural fiction. These gems don't reside where one might expect. In fact, I had to look far from the print fiction best seller lists to find them.

Today's prophets and social critics don't ply their trade through books at all. They send their messages through video games.

I said before that I'm hard-pressed to name a popular genre novel published within the last decade that transgressed convention to devastating effect. I can think of three video games released within the last couple of years that masterfully achieve this feat.

The first landmark game is Spec Ops: The Line. The genius of this title lies in its myriad layers of meaning. Superficially resembling a staid infantry combat simulator, Spec Ops: The Line achieves thematic heights to shame its more profitable brethren. The plot roughly follows Joseph Conrad's Heart of Darkness. But by transporting the story to the current day Middle East, the narrative attains a high degree of originality. Even more intriguing is the developer's subtle use of character, dialogue, camera angles, and game mechanics to mount a scathing rebuke of turning war into a game.

Journey by That Game Company readily fills my fantasy quota. Though far more subdued than Spec Ops: The Line, Journey makes a more immediate and deeper emotional impact by stripping the classical quest down to its basic structure. Despite having no dialogue and minimal aesthetics, Journey evokes a stronger level of attachment to its setting and characters than many far more lavish games. Though grounded squarely in fantasy, Journey features a grave warning about what happens when technological development outpaces moral maturity.

Finally we come to Bioshock Infinite. As a first-person shooter, it's the most conventional title on this list in many ways. It is also the most convention-smashing game in years. Contradictions define Bioshock Infinite. The setting emulates the past but includes technology far beyond our own. Its themes condemn religious zealotry while warning against unchecked nationalism. The dehumanizing tendencies of capitalism are skewered, as are populism's brutal excesses.

Even the characters are signs of contradiction. The oft-despised buddy character trope is central to the game mechanics, but in a way that no one expected. For perhaps the first time, the AI-controlled partner isn't a burden that mucks up combat or necessitates frequent checkpoint resets by dying at the worst times. In fact, this mechanic works so well that one gets a creeping sense of role reversal. At times, the faceless main protagonist seems suspiciously like an appendage of the supposed helper character. This arrangement feels oddly satisfying.

These are the examples of challenging non-print genre fiction that stand out most in my mind. Any other suggestions?

Epistemic Closure in Genre Fiction

I've come across a number of articles noting a worrisome trend in contemporary science fiction and fantasy. A cursory glance at genre best-seller lists shows a slew of derivative, paint-by-numbers premises endlessly recycling the same stock characters. (Only Wool distinguishes itself from the rest of the list).

You might argue that it's always been this way. True, there's always been a market for schlock potboilers. But try to recall a book in the sci-fi or fantasy genres from the last ten years that could stand beside Cat's Cradle, The Lord of the Rings, or Dune. Reviewer hyperbole often claims that the Wheel of Time books or A Song of Ice and Fire meet this test, but despite their quality both series stand on the shoulders of giants.

Why does current genre fiction underachieve compared to its predecessors? Donald Maass identifies a vital element of standout fiction: that the author has strong convictions and makes those beliefs come through in the book's characters, conflict, and themes.

Contemporary sci-fi and fantasy authors seem to be lacking in this regard. John C. Wright has a thoughtful essay on how postmodern disillusionment with scientific progress is stifling imagination. Writing on the Orson Scott Card affair, Jim Bennett blames rigid political correctness for creating a publishing environment that excludes challenges to the popular zeitgeist.

Neither culprit alone seems to explain the dearth of challenging fiction. Taken together though, a clearer picture of genre fiction's current malaise emerges. Escapism is the point of genre fiction. Fantasy transports the reader to a world that is better because it is simpler--both technologically and morally. Science fiction flies us either to worlds made better by human ingenuity, or else destroyed by it. In either case, genre fiction must be able to instill hope for or fear of worlds different from ours. It must therefore go against the grain of dominant thought for best effect.

In contrast, most contemporary genre fiction (I don't say "modern" because current science fiction is decidedly postmodern) adheres to one of two tropes: either the self-congratulatory insistence that everything is just fine or utter despair at the current paradigm's inevitable demise.

If we look back to sci-fi's origins, it's plain to see how the genre took up the cautionary role once held by fairy tales. Great science fiction authors from Jules Verne to George Orwell used their stories to warn society against the possible excesses of its pet theories. Likewise, great fantasy enshrined traditional understandings in danger of being forgotten. That genre fiction has ceased to fulfill this function illustrates why it's being reduced to a flavor of the month clearinghouse.