how hard it is to get a book published

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I’m sure there are people who believe television depicts life as it really is. That kind of ignorance can wipe out whole civilizations.

We were watching Midsommer Murders. Subplot: Mrs. Barnaby, who has never written a word of intentional fiction in her life, has decided she wants to be a novelist. First she wants to write romance, but that lasts for only a single episode. She decides she wants to write mystery/thrillers instead. She’s married to a detective but she won’t let him read her manuscript.

Anyhow, she’s only had to write three chapters before she finds a publisher for the whole novel!

Eeeeyahh! What was I doing wrong, that it took me years and years and years of work before I finally sold a novel? Why didn’t I succeed on my very first try, like Mrs. Barnaby? Why did it take me so long, with so much hard work, to learn how to write a novel that readers would actually like? Didn’t I know that being a novelist is easy, literally anyone can do it?

And then, in the very next episode, the whole subplot simply vanished. Wasn’t mentioned. What–no best-seller? I mean, as long as we’re indulging in pure fantasy… But even fantasy has to be, at some level, believable.

If you are thinking you might like to be a novelist–well, don’t even think about it unless you are prepared for the incredibly high levels of disappointment, and the multitude of sacrifices that you’ll have to make… or else it’s just a thing to do and you don’t really care that much.

Please don’t believe what you see on TV.

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What with self-publishing so common nowadays–it used to cost a fortune–there aren’t a lot of people who remember how blisteringly, punishingly hard it used to be to get a book published by someone who would actually pay you for it. In fact, it was just this side of impossible.

Not that many people understood that, at the time.

When I finally got a novel published, it was only after enough fruitless work to sink the Bismarck and enough frustration to discourage Hercules. Understandably, I couldn’t fight the urge to tell everybody that I’d finally accomplished this.

When I told my next-door neighbor, his eyes lit up and he blurted out, “Wow! When’s it gonna be a TV movie?” Not, “Where can I buy a copy?” Not even, “I hope it gets made into a movie.” No–he wanted a TV movie so he wouldn’t have to pay anything, perish the thought that he should buy the book.

Then there’s my hometown library. When the library director was my friend, she used to make sure the library purchased each of my books as they came out and displayed them in the Young Adults section, where people could see them. But then came a new director who knew not Joseph, and next thing I knew, my books weren’t there anymore. I searched, and finally found them exiled to the Local Authors ghetto, one step up from being hidden in a crypt under the floorboards.

I asked the new director if my books could be moved back to Young Adults where I thought they belonged. She gave me the kind of look one generally keeps in store for cranks and twaddlers and answered, “You’re self-published?”

I’m afraid that hit me on a raw spot. “No, I am not self-published. I am a real author. I am paid for my books.” Like, I only wanted some respect. Didn’t get it, though.

Sorry–didn’t mean to diss any of you who have opted for self-publication. But I come from another time when self-publication was not an option unless you were rich, or prepared to shoot off your life savings to publish a volume of your poetry. Really, when I started writing, it was virtually unknown. To me, it just isn’t real, the job just isn’t finished, until I’ve been paid for it.

I don’t go to the freakin’ library anymore.