A common complaint about corporate owned publishers is that they value profit above all else, that they create products rather than books, brand authors, pump the handful at the peak of the pyramid. In this respect corporate publishers are like cereal makers, auto manufacturers, or steel fabricators, hell bent on beating or meeting quarterly targets, pressured by beancounters into compromising their standards for the sake of the bottom line. This profit motive has ruined the business, ushered in an era of mediocrity, rendered resistance futile through the sheer vitality of greed.
I’m going to say that it ain’t so. What drives corporations isn’t the desire for profit, but fear of uncertainty. I was able to capture one of these conglomerated beancounters in an imaginary smoke filled bar. We’ll call him Marty. In the third grade Marty and I sat next to one another; I wanted to be a fireman. Marty wanted to be an actuary. He’s still wary of me because he thinks I set his lunch bag on fire in the Sixth Grade. I’m like, Marty, get a hold of yourself and do this interview.
Marty works for Gigunda Corporation as CFO. Due to Sarbanes-Oxsley considerations Marty declined to be photographed. Gigunda owns every publisher in the world, has a toy division, centralized purchasing in Goa, which is accidentally cool, and manufacturers scissors that come with the warning, “don’t run with these, you knuckleheads.” Marty wants a Harley, but owns a Vespa, lives in New Jersey, works in Manhattan, is divorced, and believes his ex-wife may be cheating on him.
Marty, why did you buy all those publishers?
We have a corporate mandate to buy things and so, we do. The scissors division was throwing off excess cash flow and we had the litigation sequestered through aggressive use of finite risk, although, Jesus, they won’t stop running with scissors.
Well since you bought all those publishers literary culture is suffering. You guys keep shelling out huge advances for celebs. How come?
Uh, well, huge to me is a hundred million. Or five hundred million, unhedged. How big are the advances?
Alan Greenspan got seven million.
Uh huh, that’s not a lot of money. R&D for the second generation Slinky is over two billion. The new Slinky is made of a an alloy that deflects radar. What do we give the average author?
Five, ten grand.
Then what?
They deliver a book. You publish it.
What about children’s books?
Yeah you publish those.
We’re not employing children at those wages, are we?
No, the books are written by adults.
Man, you had me going. Well, I’m sorry that I ruined literary culture, but take a look at commodity pricing, take a look at the yuan imbalance, we all going to fall into that abyss, let me tell you. I could live with a bad quarter, or even consecutive bad quarters, but I can’t live with the negative arbitrage of literature versus derivatives at this point in the business cycle.
Marty, can I have a hundred million dollar advance for my next book?
It’s not up to me. We have a matrix of decision makers in each discipline and besides, you set my lunch bag on fire, creating an enduring sense of uncertainty that haunts me to this day. You made your bed, mister, you lie in it.
Wow, Marty destroyed literary culture because he was pissed off at me. My face is red.
Brilliant historical reportage. I’m suggesting you turn this into a biopic like “I Shot Andy Warhol.”
One of your best. And thanks for wrecking the industry for the rest of us, dude.
I am sorry about destroying the publishing business. It’s not like his lunch burst into flame, it smoldered. If only Marty would seek the help he needs….
I would call this outstanding satire, except I’m not sure it’s satirical. Is it irony?
For some reason, I’m troubled by the idea that this is journalism.
I hope you made Marty pick up the tab.
Mark, All of Marty’s cash is tied up in oil exploration limited partnerships, so I had to spring for his Amstel Light.
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