“The far more serious problem is the sexism (or is it misogyny?) fueling this conversation, the sexism that makes women feel so defensive and that encourages people to dismiss or disrespect women’s books whether they are ‘chick lit’ or women’s fiction or literary fiction. Until we recognize and address the sexism at work here, we’ll continue wearing ourselves out by dealing with symptoms rather than the disease.”

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Instead, they said, short stories take more effort than a novel because the reader has to expend the energy to create a whole new world with each story they read. I wholeheartedly agree.

The problem, of course, is that what I was trying (and possibly failing) to say had nothing to do with short attention spans.

In fact, I was saying that the problem was not with short stories but with marketing. Marketers are expert at selling whatever the hell they want, no matter how inane (see Handerpants, Dan Brown, pork brains, Twitter). If someone can sell Handerpants, what’s keeping publishers from selling short stories, especially when they work so well on the Internet?

Marketers and big publishing houses seem to have this assumption that we, the customers, will only buy books that are less than literary. This belief is self-fulfilling, because unless readers really go above and beyond, we only hear about the books they think we want to buy. I’m not saying that marketers are these evil overlords who can wave their hands and make us buy whatever they tell us to, but to a large extent, they have control over the products we hear about and how we hear about them, which means they have a lot of power over how reading customers choose what we want to read in the first place.

At the same time, people are obsessing over how we can change literature to save it from the coming end times. Over at Conversation Reading, Andrew Seal is spiritedly taking on Lev Grossman’s claim that we need more plot-oriented literature to keep the world reading:

“(Grossman) brings out Stephenie Meyer and compares her boffo sales to those of Nam Le’s (quite plotty) short story collection, The Boat. Just look at those numbers! Surely the enormous difference means something! Surely it means “Literature: You’re doing it wrong.”

I don’t know if Grossman is just really unaware that the sales:pleasure ratio doesn’t work the way he’s describing, or if he’s being purposely disingenuous, but this idea that “readers” aren’t getting what they’re looking for in The Boat and so they turn to Twilight is intellectually reprehensible. Grossman has imagined “the reader” as an extremely simplified consumer of pleasure, uniform in age, means, education, and taste; and the world of literature as a wholly unified, absolutely non-diversified market.”

I don’t necessarily want to put myself in the middle of the particulars of their argument, but the really interesting thing Seal is pointing to here is the construction of these things called “readers” and how that informs how we try to “save literature.”  And unfortunately, right now, the big publishing houses are determining who “readers” are. And they don’t think many “readers” likes literature.

But the fact is that nothing will change until the big publishers stop throwing their hands up, saying, “Literature is not what the readers want.” They’re the ones who help determine what it is that “readers” want because they determine who they target as “readers.” The publishers have already decided that Twilight will sell like a successful kids book while The Boat will sell like a “literary book of short stories,” so they’re out their pimping Twilight like Bible salesmen and selling The Boat to literary elites and bored English majors (just look at the blurbs!). And guess what? The kids are going to school dressed up like Twilight characters and only a select few adults are talking about the The Boat. If the big (and, in some instances, small) publishers keep targeting only this single pool of “literary readers,” literature will die no matter how many ways we try to change it.

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by Joshua Mohr

Lately people have been asking me why I decided to publish my novel, Some Things that Meant the World to Me, with a small press. Instinctively, my gut wants to lie, stammer some kind of self-justification: “Well, uh, I felt that a boutique house (note that I didn’t say “small press”) would give me more attention (i.e. answer my emails) and nurture the book in a way true to my artistic vision (i.e. not perform fellatio on the marketing department)

in a manner a larger house might not be willing to do (e.g. my book dies on the vine while they hype their latest cookbook or tell-all memoir by a fallen debutante who smoked crystal meth and wrecked her Bentley but lived to tell the tale…).”

When people ask me about my “decision,” I want to say something that makes me sound too enlightened to peddle my subversive and cerebral material to the fatcats who run the major publishing houses. But I’m not that enlightened person at all. I am the very guy who tried desperately to peddle his subversive (Really?) and cerebral (Didn’t you go to a state college?) material to the fatcats. They shunned me, not vice versa.

I finished my first novel and got a swanky agent in New York. She did her very best to sell the book (I have no idea if she did her very best, though I assume so), but the fatcats told her, “This book is too grim. It’s not viable in the market place.” They weren’t looking for cerebral and subversive—they were looking for the Next Bestselling Voice!, someone like Jonathan Safran Foer. (I’m sure he’s a nice guy.)

This is by no means a criticism of authors who have published with major houses. I’m not insinuating that they’ve sacrificed their integrity. Far from it—some of my favorite books have had the stamp of the fatcat. This is an indictment of the major publishing houses’ attempts to superimpose templates of success onto literary fiction, judging the marketability of next year’s titles on the successes and failures of last year’s.

As my novel made its way around Manhattan, more than one editor said she liked the book, but had to “pitch it to the marketing people.” These pitches never seemed to go my way. Eighteen houses shot the book down. The swanky Manhattan agent basically fired me: “Why don’t you write a second book and we’ll try again?” she said.

I was back in square one, except now square one had the stink of failure. And I had no idea what to do.

Good times (not good times)…

I got a new agent, and she sent the book to Two Dollar Radio, an independent publishing house that saw promise and merit in the story I was trying to tell. They are the subversive and cerebral ones, the brave souls who publish literary fiction and only literary fiction. There are no cookbooks or debutante tell-alls on their list. It’s literature for the love of language and story, rather than commercial viability.

My experience finding a publisher was horrible and gut-wrenching. (Whiskey helped.) It was also incredibly confusing because I didn’t know whose opinion to trust. I began referring to it as my “faithful grope in the dark.” I knew I needed a publisher. I knew an agent acted as a liaison between writer and publisher. What I didn’t know was what editors were looking for. Only later did it occur to me that maybe agents and editors are faithfully groping themselves.

I talked with an agent and an editor to hear whether my suspicion was right: Is the whole shebang run on hunches, “informed” inferences, projections based on ambiguous past experiences?

“How do you know what will sell?” I asked one prominent agent.

“You find a book you believe in, make an educated guess, and hope for the best.”

I tried to sound calm, professional, but I think my voice cracked: “Hope for the best?”

“There are too many variables to predict with any kind of accuracy,” she said. “There are editors, acquisition boards, marketing and sales teams, the art department, then the buyers. And that isn’t even factoring in trends or positive reviews or competition. Anyone who thinks they have an answer is lying.”

I then spoke with a former editor at several major publishing houses and asked how she knew what would sell.

“It’s a crapshoot,” she said. Her tone wasn’t smug or ambivalent; the calm way she conveyed this sentiment made it feel honest.

Turns out, chance is a brutal part of the publishing trade. Good books sometimes vanish without a trace, and obvious, dumbed-down books with clever marketing tricks often become successful. It’s a savage reality of the business, one writers need to be aware of.

What I heard from these publishing insiders confirms my suspicion that writers and agents and editors are all faithfully groping in the dark. There’s no such thing as a template of success. It’s impossible. There are too many stodgy people in publishing who look to replicate past successes rather than find new and unexpected ones, to capitalize on trends rather than create them. There’s an almost singular reliance on authors who have already sold well, shoving their new work down consumers’ throats regardless of its quality. What’s left for first-time or mid-list writers with better books but no reputation?

Again, I asked the swanky agent and editor.

“There’s a diaspora of emerging writers to the smaller houses,” the agent said. “The money just isn’t there for unknowns in the current market. There are exceptions, of course. But overall…”

My ulcer tapped-dance as I phoned the editor.

She said independent houses might be better for first-time or mid-list authors, because in a smaller catalog their book will get more attention. Indie houses may have better guerilla marketing strategies for 21^st century technologies. Maybe most importantly, the sales projections at smaller houses are more modest, and a book won’t be considered a failure if it sells 6,000 copies.

“Will this be good for literature?” the editor asked. “It’s too soon to tell.”

Joshua Mohr - the Faithful Groper

Fair enough. It probably is too soon. But for me, this information is all I need to solidify a couple things, make a couple decisions. One, since they’ve corroborated that the publishing business is run on chance, I need only concern myself with one thing: the quality of my writing. That isn’t chance at all. I can’t control marketing trends or debutantes, but I can control the amount of energy I put into my revision process. I can take my time and make sure to write the best book I can.

Two, I’ve decided to publish my second novel, From a Fragile Galaxy, with Two Dollar Radio as well, next year. Assuming the “crapshoot” model is true, I see no reason to leave. I don’t want to be a free agent out to make as much money as I can, I want to publish my books somewhere that editors, not marketing people, make the decisions. 2DR has proven itself interested in my aesthetic. They’ve built me a website and booked a reading tour. They’re receptive to my ideas. They—not to sound sentimental—care. Books aren’t just commodities to them. Books are art.

At least I know that when my editors think a section of my writing needs tinkering, it isn’t because the marketers deem it “too grim.” I know that the problem is with me, the words I’ve chosen, the scenes I’ve constructed—and that’s a freedom every writer should enjoy, the freedom of knowing that their editor is more concerned with publishing the best possible novel than selling the most books. If you happen to sell a lot of books, that’s wonderful. We all want an audience. But for me the audience is only worth having if they’re reading the book I intended to write.

**

Joshua Mohr’s first novel, Some Things that Meant the World to Me, comes out next week.

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Or do we mean mass produced commercial culture, celebrity memoirs, pre-packaged music that intentionally sounds like music you’ve heard 1,000 times before, music you’ve already memorized? Are we talking about movies plotted out in marketing meetings meant to appeal to a segment of the population, instead of a segment of our brain? In other words, when we say pop culture, are we talking about the lowest common denominator, factory produced entertainment sucked down with soda pop and Kentucky Fried Chicken and everything else that’s making us fat? If that’s what we’re talking about, then I say fuck pop culture.

When did pop culture become cooler than regular culture? Was it when Britney replaced Madonna? When did we let the marketing executives into our living room? When did we stop being embarrassed by “guilty pleasures”?

But maybe that’s not what we mean. Maybe what we mean is pop culture appropriation, like Quentin Tarantino or Malcolm Gladwell. Or maybe we just mean anything popular. Maybe you think Jim Thompson’s The Getaway is pop culture. Maybe anything that’s fast-paced and fun, irrespective of where it originated or whether it makes you think or sheds light on the human condition. Maybe when I’m thinking of Paris Hilton, Britney Spears, CSI, and American Idol, you’re thinking South Park, The Sopranos, Radiohead, and Flight of the Conchords. It gets complicated, especially when Kim Gordon starts designing for Urban Outfitters.

It’s possible that what we’re talking about is so undefined that the only thing we can actually discuss is the meaning of the word.

But that’s not what I mean. I love Quentin Tarantino, The Breeders, TV on the Radio, early Liz Phair. I’m looking forward to The Watchmen, the Tyson documentary, and the next great HBO series.

But when people write The Rumpus offering to cover “pop culture” I say, “We don’t cover pop culture, actually (Mainstream K. excepted).” We cover regular culture. We like books, art films, music that doesn’t sound like everything else. We will undoubtably write about things you consider pop culture. We will even write about things we consider pop culture. But not too much. All the other magazines already have that covered for us.

Fuck pop culture. We’re going to focus on everything else.

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