The Fractured Publisher

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Trials of a Mid-List Life Author
 

I am publishing this article anonymously owing to the HUGE, and I mean MEGA HUGE backlash I’m likely to get from people that I diss in the writing of it.  And they KNOW who they are, trust me.  I'm sending them a sealed, autographed copy just to make sure they read it.

Basically, I just want to enlighten those of you that think mid-life authors have a dead easy time of it. 

It started for me about forty years ago. That's when I got my first taste of how mean and cruel the world really is with my first successful publication of There was a little mouse...in the children's poetry section of the local newspaper. There it was - - my name, s.j. hundak, aged 61, in all its glory -- somewhere in a corner, I think. 

"In print at last," I cried.  "But not a penny for it!"  To increase the pain to my artistic sensibilities they had edited out over half of the verses.  "Not fair," I cried again. "Don’t they want to hear about psychopathic vampire mice and haunted fish tanks?"

Apparently not, it seems.

Wearied by that rather harsh lesson in publishing, I spent many years feverishly producing hidden works of wonder.  None of which, I would ever permit to see the light of day -- until 14 years later a  miracle of miracles came upon me.   The Small Press.

At last I'd found my niche.  My first short, An Alien War, found a comfortable home in the pages of Xenos, a top-market, high-quality, small magazine that stormed the UK markets (ahem) with at least a few hundred subscribers, I’m sure.  I was famous!  I was rich!  Well, perhaps not rich. But I got a complimentary copy of the magazine, so that made me very happy indeed.  A collector's edition, don't you know.  These were stories of Importance, tales that would pave a way for a new era of, of, stories I guess.

It opened a whole new world to me.  I submitted a string of my finest -- Voler, The Executive Suit, Breakdown.  I was rolling in free copies of the magazine.  Which I knew would surely sell for megabucks when I was old and gray.  Well, older and grayer.

 Indeed, my success in the literary world was too great for those around me to handle.  My wife, jealous of my riches and having no clothes to wear, divorced me.  My cats, jealous of my riches and tired of hunting their own food, left me.  My car, fed up of having no regular maintenance, abandoned me.

I was bereft, forlorn.

Driven to despair I found myself, for five long years, in a hospital for those whose delicate sensitivities needed special care.  Indeed, the psychiatrists insisted I spend some time relaxing with them.  Who was I to turn down such a heartfelt offer?  So I took a little vacation.  All in all it was a pleasant break.  The regular routine and daily M&M's they gave me made the world a much prettier place.  My rose colored spectacles developed an even pinker hue.

Then came the day Dr Lobotmo told me I had to leave.  Apparently I had recovered -- and the insurance had run out.

Those were scary days indeed.  My children, regular visitors to my holiday home, vanished off the face of the earth.  I had nothing but my clothes, my wits, and a notepad and pencil.

It was then that I plummeted to depths where no writer should be forced to go.  I looked for *shudder* work.

Joe helped me out, the proprietor of Greasy Joe's Café.  You remember the ad's from the 80's -- Eat at Joe's 'Cause a Thousand Flies Can’t Be Wrong!  I worked up the ranks from waiter to cook in my five years there.  I slung slabs of ground horsemeat for 12 hours a day, better than the best.  Then I worked from midnight to dawn on my masterpiece, my soon-to-be-famous novel.

I swore I would break out from this Nightmare Work, even if it killed me!

Finally on my forty-fifth birthday, the news I sought for so long came true. An agent had accepted my work and found a publisher that wanted my book!

I was ecstatic. I quit Joe's. Of course, I found myself broke and living on the street. But my book sold! 

It was later, to my detriment, I discovered how cheapskate the publishers were -- how unscrupulous the agent had behaved.  They gave me a 10K advance. The agent took over 1K of that.

But the true horror -- what I really need to know --  is what happened to the complimentary copy of my book?  They had fleeced me, robbed me blind and left me copyless in a sleazy motel room with my Cheetos and Coke.

Take this as a warning, my friends. No matter how good your publisher and agent, they won't be a patch on the old ways, the ways of wisdom and tradition.  Never, ever, accept an advance of 10K, even 150K, if they refuse to give you a free copy of your book.

S.J. Hundak Anonymous

Settings, circumstances and people are all fictional and S.J. Hundak would like to state emphatically that no fish or mice were harmed in the making of this article.

 ©  Copyright 2004 S.J. Hundak
 

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All content of The Fractured Publisher is © Copyright 2004 by The Fractured Publisher and/or the individual author and may not be reprinted or retransmitted in whole or in part without express written consent.