It occurred to me a few weeks ago, watching some figure skating, that it's undergoing the same sort of slump as publishing. I mean, seriously, if I hear Swan Lake or Romeo & Juliet or some truncated, horribly edited version of Rhapsody in Blue or An American in Paris again as a program, it'll be too soon.

As for the skating itself? Feh. It's all "let's grab the blade, yank it up behind our heads, in as many improbable (not to mention, boring) variations as we possibly can." All because of the points. I can't remember the last time I saw a skater who actually appeared to be skating to the music. (Oh, for the days of Paul Wylie and the Brians and Michelle Kwan.) It really hit me this morning as I was listening to the soundtrack from the film, The Duchess. Even twenty-five-odd years after my last competitive skate, I'll still hear a particularly evocative piece of music and begin choreographing programs and long for the feel of the ice beneath my blades. Except the likelihood that I'll ever hear this music on the ice any time soon isn't high. Because it's not what the judges want to hear/see. I remember some years back, the commentators on a competition talking about why you heard the same pieces of music over and over and for example, over again. And the commentator who was a former skater (might have been Paul Wylie, actually) said it was always a risk to use something new because the judges liked the familiar. Not that they objected to new music and unique costumes or anything, but generally, they wanted to see certain kinds of costumes and hear certain pieces of music, ostensibly so they could focus on the skating.

Which would explain why these days, it's difficult to tell one skater apart from the next unless someone really deviates wildly-- then they're branded a "rebel" and have to be that much better in order to succeed. Sound familiar?

Within the context of publishing, this is equal to the "We want different, but not too different. Stick within the parameters we set (i.e. the rules) and you'll have a better chance of succeeding." Yes, both disciplines are grounded in having a firm grasp of fundamentals; tools that allow you a greater ease in creating your art, however, in the end, those fundamentals aren't the rules to which I'm referring.

What people seem to forget is that at their core, both of these pursuits are first and foremost, creative expression. You're inspired by the music to create beautiful forms on the ice, to leap high on an explosive note, to spin or glide in a spiral or spread eagle during a long, elegant passage, to recreate a pattern of rapid staccato notes with light, effortless footwork.

You read a news story or experience an event or are privy to an exchange and a story idea is born and you want to express it in narrative and dialogue. You use the ingrained basics to create art, be it via movement or language, but ultimately, it's your individual form of expression.

And the thing is, I'm just not seeing the joy being expressed. These pursuits are hard enough to master on their own-- there's got to be something driving that desire and generally, it's a joy in what you do. Yeah, there's a large measure of competitive fire involved too, but in the end, it's the joy that's the real payoff.

So I find myself wondering, not for the first time, at what point did we allow the gatekeepers to become so important we decided it was okay to sacrifice creative expression at the altar of oft-times arbitrary rules? That it was okay to sacrifice the joy?

Another one of those passages with which I was driving myself nuts. Three hours spent trying to get the meaning I wanted across, watching the meaning change subtly and reveal new layers making me go "a-ha" at the same time it make me want to absolutely cry because it meant I needed to tweak further. However, I think I finally got it to where I can leave it-- at least for the time being.

From Between Here & Gone—it's 1965, they've just arrived in Vegas, and Natalia is facing some unexpected ghosts.

***

Jack handed the young man a couple of folded bills. "Thank you." Drawing my hand through his arm, he led us through the heavy iron and glass doors and into yet another new world—one that resonated with a shocking echo. The men, all sleek, pomaded hair and snowy dinner jackets, the women on their arms clad in lamé cocktail dresses and richly beaded gowns, capped by furs and jewels and elaborate lacquered updos. Exuding the air of exotic, privileged creatures as they strolled past vibrant hibiscus and bougainvillea, breathed in the heavy, jasmine-scented air while a sultry bossa nova drifted from hidden speakers. As if drawn by some unseen force, I drifted away from Jack, running a fingertip along a glossy leaf, a scrolled railing, taking the ambience in with a distant eye, such as one might observe an artistic masterpiece.

So surprising, this lush and tropical setting, defying both the arid desert and garish nightlife beyond its boundaries. So familiar… and yet—

Completely, utterly alien.

So often I'd tried to call the memories up for myself, trying to keep them alive. Even with no intent of ever returning, it had been an attempt to retain a piece of the girl I'd been, however small, in the sea of concrete and metal that was New York. Dancing with Jack on the dreamy, moonlit patio of the Beverly Hills Hotel had come closer than anything else in long time, draping itself around me with a melancholy sweetness, but this— Faced with as close to a recreation as possible, I was struck by the realization that it wasn't simply my acute awareness of it a fantasy sprung from desert sands.

It was more the sudden understanding that it no longer felt as if it fit. That it never would again.

"So unexpected," I said softly.

But I am drowning in a sea of brown boxes.

This is just my dining room.



And here's my little Charlie Brown Christmas tree. We considered stacking the boxes in a pyramid and stapling tinsel to it, but we refrained.


Two weeks and counting...

Two weeks from today movers arrive.

Two weeks from Wednesday, they take off with our worldly possessions.

And two weeks from Friday, we fly to Seattle on the final leg of this particular journey, which is simultaneously, the first leg of our new journey.

Then I fall down go boom.

Off to NYC for a v. v. quickie trip tomorrow to visit with Lovely Agent and Equally Lovely Editor. Combined with all the stuff that has yet to be done for the upcoming move (OMG, three weeks AWAY!), I have been running around like the proverbial chicken, sans head.

And oh, yeah, heh-- Christmas. Christmas. *insert hysterical laughter*

In the meantime, I had a column due over at Romancing the Blog today and given that my brain is a sieve, putting something coherent together was not going to be happening. So I borrowed a post from this blog from a couple of weeks ago on the Latin Music USA program that I've been obsessed with and how it relates to writing. If'n you'd like to pay me a visit, I'd really, really enjoy it, since I'm feeling like Queen Loser of Loserville at the moment.

No One Will Want This

Back to running around. *kisses to all*

I discovered tonight that The Diva has nicknamed her flute, "My Precioussss..."

Should I be afraid?

And in a proud mommy moment, she was the only flautist in beginning band to hold her instrument in a truly correct fashion. She's so my kid.

All I'd like is time enough to finish this one chapter.

That's all-- enough time to finish this one chapter, then I promise, I'll put the WIP aside and focus on packing/organizing for the move. If I have time to write, I'll take advantage of it, but I won't expect to write. Just as long as I can finish this one... godforsaken... chapter.

Ta, ever so.

Twenty-nine years later, still as relevant, still as poignant, and still as inspiring.

Is Mercury retrograde again?

Perhaps the moon is in a phase of ca-ca?

Because there seems to be a lot of stupid on the internets today.

Yeah, yeah... I know, but still.

"No one will want this."

Machito & His Afro-Cuban All-Stars

"No one will want this."

Willie Colón

"No one will want this."

Richie Valens

"No one will want this."

Freddy Fender

"No one will want this."

Linda Ronstadt

"No one will want this."

Ricky Martin

"No one will want this."

Selena

"No one will want this."

Gloria Estefan

For the past two days, I've been absolutely absorbed watching a fantastic PBS/BBC produced program called, Latin Music USA. I don't expect that everyone reading this is going to be as fascinated as I was-- after all, it hits hard on a couple of major aspects of my being: my Latin background and music. But if you have any interest whatsoever in history or music or the cultural melting pot of the United States from the 1930s on and the enormous part that Latin music played in it, I cannot suggest this highly enough. You can watch it on the website (the website is exceptionally done-- lots of resources to be discovered) and again, for me, it was fascinating. So many different aspects of it, but one of the things that I found most fascinating was the line I used as this blog's subject and that I repeated above those various names.

Those fabulous artists, at some point in their careers, all heard those five damnable words: "No one will want this." They may have been just starting out. They may have achieved a measure of success but wanted to try something different. But they all heard those words from the people who allegedly knew the market. Who knew what the public wanted. And they all refused to accept those five words and kept plugging away and harassing and taking their music to the people and they all enjoyed massive successes and maybe more importantly, they all pushed that door open a little further. That door that the people who "knew better" were so reluctant to open. The shoved their foot in the crack, held it open and shouted through, "We're here and we're representing the people and we know what the people want. Come on, we'll show you."

And being me, I can't help but relate it to writing. Because what do those of us who write out of the box hear, all too often?

"No one will want this."

Or its fraternal twin, "I have no idea what to do with this."

And so often, it's the people in the offices and towers making those decision who have no idea what the people want because they don't know who "the people" are. It was stunning, really, how those people just didn't realize the potential of the audience out there.

"No one will want this."

Every time I hear that about my work, I'm going to remember this show. Or perhaps even watch an episode on the DVD, because I just had to have it. Or listen to some of the music from the CD because I just had to have that too. By whatever means, I'm going to remember how those artists refused to accept those words.

Thank goodness because I shudder to think how much less rich my musical landscape would have been without them. All of them.

I want it. All of it.

Here's a preview of the show. So, so good!

There's been an agent blog post making the rounds that has people talking and frankly, freaking out. The post itself is a "no one understands us poor, poor agents" rant, which, okay-- agent certainly has the right to rant and to give her credit, her next post was in the vein of, "Okay, I ranted, now what can I do to improve things on my end?" for which I give her a tremendous amount of credit.

But it was the responses to the original post that got people twigging mightily. Most of them were kind of sanctimonious and patting said agent on the back which gave me a hearty "oh, please" reaction. Yes, agenting is hard-- but so's writing. With any luck, each of the parties goes into the profession knowing what's expected, or at least, learning it along the way. Writers shouldn't generalize/demonize all agents based on the behavior of a few any more than I think agents should make blanket commentaries dismissing all writers as not understanding the industry.

However, I don't think it's untoward of a writer to publicly air concern about the "If you don't hear from us, consider it a rejection," policy that so many agents have adopted of late. Especially with respect to email queries. We all know how easy it is for things to disappear into the aether, so why should it be so difficult to set up an auto-response that at least says, "Hey, yeah, we received your query, we'll respond within X amount of time if we're interested. Consider a non-response a rejection."

Such a little thing, but what a huge end-result it could have.

Something like that makes the non-response more palatable because it at least assuages the anxiety that a query actually got to its intended recipient. It doesn't take much to set up and is *gasp* professional. I know I've certainly appreciated it from the agents I've queried in the past.

Oh, and lest you think I'm solely piling on agents, rest assured, I've got my beefs with writers who expect personal feedback on every query. Listen up: Not Gonna Happen. It'd be nice, sure, but agents are just too swamped and if anyone gets the benefit of their feedback brain, it's their clients first. Yeah, I'm selfish that way. But think of it this way-- if you do get feedback on a rejection, take it as a sign you're getting closer. Just remember, too, it's all subjective and you might want to take that sign with a grainbucket of salt.

Now, going back to agents—not all writers think that all agents are the debbil, even if they've been rejected by them. I have several agents I'm professionally friendly with and with whom I enjoy talking when our paths cross, despite the fact they've rejected me-- in some cases, more than once. (Same goes for editors.) The ones who tend to raise my ire are the ones who behave (wait for it...) unprofessionally. And yes, Virginia, there are agents who behave in a less than stellar manner-- and we all have seen evidence of this, from the #queryfail debacle to agents who mock writers' dreams and think it's okay to do so because, you know, it's a hard industry and you have to develop a thick skin.

Bullpuckey. There's developing a thick skin and there's surviving a pile on.

In the vein of developing a thick skin, there was one other thing that really got people freaked within the comments. Another agent came on and essentially said that writers needed to quit whinging publicly-- that she'd had a manuscript she was seriously considering representing until she Googled the author and found their blog where the author was complaining about the response times about said agent. Okay, perhaps not a wise move on the author's part, however, here's the rub: it was apparently a locked LJ post that Google Reader still managed to read. (Who knew? I just checked mine and none of my blocked posts came up, but I'm guessing from some of the reactions I've seen around the flist, it is indeed, true.)

Anyhow, the agent then rejected the manuscript, based on that locked LJ post. That she discovered was locked after she tried to access it via Live Journal directly in order to show a colleague what had been said about them. (Um, double standard much?) Now here's the thing that bugs me-- unless there was something more in that post, like the author claiming the agent was, you know, the debbil, and had ugly babies, was that really a good enough reason to reject the author? Maybe for the agent it was, but for my part, I'm not sure I'd want an agent who rejected me wholesale, solely on that basis, especially after they discovered it was intended to be a locked post. I mean, I know that agents are pressed for time, but if they think a manuscript is that good, especially in the current market, wouldn't you at least want to talk to the author, maybe via phone, to get a vibe off them and maybe, just maybe, alert them to what had happened? (For my part, I'm wondering why the author queried the agent, if they had issues with the response times-- or maybe the LJ post came after they'd been waiting for a long time. Not sure and couldn't get the impression from the agent's response, since it was all about how offended she was.)

Worst part ? When another responder pointed out that it was a violation of privacy to read a locked LJ post (kind of wrongly, because the post showed up publicly in Google Reader-- it wasn't as if the agent hacked into the author's LJ) the agent then responded with something to the effect that she'd just performed a public service, telling all authors that things they think are private really aren't, so Be Careful. Oh, and here's a Xanax and a glass of water. Chill out, please.

Okay, the first part I can buy, although the tone in which it was conveyed seemed to suggest that said agent thought the majority of authors were idiots. The second part, however?

Really?

Really?

And to think there are agents who wonder where authors get such poor impressions of them and their disregard for authors.

Now please, for some Vaseline and a crowbar so I can pry my tongue from my cheek.

Oh, and for my own little public service announcement?

Authors, a good rule of thumb is don't put anything on your blog you wouldn't feel comfortable saying to someone's face.

Otherwise known as What the effing eff?

cupcake_goth: this is ripe for a review dear.

I'm sure y'all have guessed what a visual writer I am—while music engages all of my senses, having something visual as a touchstone can really help me illustrate the finer points. (Like last week and the lipstick cases) Other times, however, it serves as the jumping off point for something completely unexpected.

Which brings me to today's Tuesday Teaser

The images:




The teaser, from Between Here & Gone

"Why Las Vegas?"

"Because that's where she always goes first." He spared me a glance as he shifted and accelerated past a large produce truck, the speed and deftness of the move making my breath catch as effectively as the alien landscape that unfurled before us as we broke free of the shadow of the truck. A seemingly endless sweep interrupted only by the occasional gnarled scrubby tree and washed in shades of gold and brown, this desert struck me with the same sense of unease as the urban jungle of New York. Extraordinary, but not particularly comfortable or welcoming.

In a matter of moments, the snorting, backfiring truck was reduced to a dot in the sideview mirror, leaving us alone on the highway with only the growl of the car's engine and the rush of the wind as accompaniment. Both more than adequate excuses for avoiding further conversation which I would have expected Jack to take advantage of. But he surprised me, sending another sidelong glance my direction, accompanied by a soft, resigned laugh.

"The wheels in that head of yours—they're going fast and furious, aren't they?"

"I—" I ground my teeth as I looked away, aggravated at the continued transparency I couldn't seem to help around this man and terrified of what I might reveal. I resolutely focused my attention on the scenery and the surprisingly abundant wildlife, from the lizards lazily watching from the side of the road to long-eared rabbits dashing alongside the car as if challenging it to a race. Above us, a lone bird flew, its wingspan majestic as it soared gracefully through the gilt-edged sky. Fascinated, I watched, catching a flash of red feathers as it suddenly tucked its wings against its side and dove in a terrifying blur toward the desert floor. A moment later, it swooped back into view with a triumphant cry, hapless prey squirming futilely within the grasp of its claws. Feeling an eerie sense of kinship with the victim, I shuddered and returned my attention to Jack, who wore an enigmatic half-smile as if he knew precisely what was going through my mind.
"I have to admit, it's fascinating to watch the wheels turn. I wonder if maybe that's why I don't offer everything up right off the bat."

Giving up, I snapped, "I suspect it's more that you're not accustomed to being held accountable to anyone else."

"Not true. Although I can see where you might think that."

"Really?" I crossed my arms, aware that I no doubt looked—and sounded—like a petulant little girl. "When was the last time anyone called you on the carpet? For anything?"

"Well, unless it's a liquor-induced hallucination, I seem to recall you doing a fairly admirable job of holding me accountable for my idiocy. Telling me how much I was going to regret my actions." With the road a straight, unbroken ribbon ahead of us, he was able to turn and face me, head on, one questioning eyebrow raised.

Because this story is just demanding every damned thing from me. And I know it seems a little off kilter in places, but believe me, it works.

Cast Your Fate to the Wind- Vince Guaraldi Trio
So Much in Love- The Tymes
Sunday Will Never Be the Same- Spanky and Our Gang
How Can I Be Sure- The Rascals
Hold Me, Thrill Me, Kiss Me- Mel Carter
Anyone Who Had a Heart- Dusty Springfield
Walk Away Renee- The Left Banke
Bus Stop- The Hollies
Wouldn't it Be Nice- The Beach Boys
Daydream Believer- The Monkees
You've Lost That Lovin' Feeling- The Righteous Brothers
In My Life- The Beatles
Get Together- The Youngbloods
House of the Rising Sun- The Animals
You Don't Have to Say You Love Me- Dusty Springfield

This one evolved in an interesting sort of manner. While the story takes place primarily in 1965, some of these recordings are from a year or two later. It had more to do with the "feel" of what I was going for here. As such, I actually stuck to era-specific recordings rather than any remakes. And yes, Dusty is the only repeat artist in the bunch-- that may change as the playlist evolves over time. It's funny though, I can't seem to make a playlist for this story without a Dusty chart. It's like she's the patron saint of this story.

Maybe it's because I've yet to have coffee, but today's Doonesbury tickled me no end.

We've had satellite for yonks, which was great in Ohio, spotty here in NE Florida, but still a better alternative than cable 'round these parts. We're trying to decide which way to go in Seattle-- we love satellite, but HATE the current DVR we have from Dish. (Still miss my Tivo... *sob*)

So a few questions:

1) If you have satellite, does the cloud cover interfere a lot with reception?

2) Does anyone have a Tivo Series 3 and if you're using it with Comcast how much are you being charged for the cable cards? (Comcast here wanted to charge us way too much for the second card)

There might be more, but that's just to start. If you want, email answers to Fashionista35@comcast.net

Which sounds ridiculously selfish, doesn't it? But it's not exactly as it might sound. This is more about trying to give my career more focus.

At first, it was about getting published-- which I managed to accomplish, not in the way I necessarily anticipated, but in a manner which has nevertheless proved incredibly satisfying. But in the end, publishing only in YA isn't going to satisfy me. I love it, and I'm glad I discovered a gift for it, but it's not enough for me.

But now, I'm with a fantastic publishing house; one that I really feel will allow me the freedom to write in multiple genres and where I can really grow my career (pleaseohpleaseohplease...) and I think the focus really wants to be sharpened.

So long term, what do I want?

I want to publish in adult fiction. Now that I sold Stars/Carmen, that's my next goal. It's been my next goal since I sold the first YA in 2005. Hell, it's been my next goal, since I first started writing for publication. But the difference now is that I'm far more aware of what I write. Or rather, what I don't write. I don't write romance. I write romantic, but not romance. It's a bit of a bitter pill to swallow, admitting there's something I can't do. Or as ifigrowup would say, "No Barb, if you wanted to, you could do it. You just don't want to do it. You want to write romance your way, which is to say, it's not romance as the industry and the readers want to define it." (All right, all right, he has a point, dammit. Still, it remains that by all current definitions, I don't write romance.)

So, anyway, semantics aside, I continue working on my adult fiction and hoping that I can make that next step.

But then I get started thinking on some different measures of success and by what standard I would consider myself successful. In other words, what's more important-- New York Times Book Review or New York Times Bestseller List?

I won't lie-- I want approbation for my work. I want to be considered critically successful-- I want acknowledgement that I'm good at this thing I've dedicated myself to. However, at the same time, I'm very, very well aware that critical acclaim is such a subjective thing. Not to mention, personal-- I have to believe I write well. External validation is nice, but I can get that from the reader letters that say I touched them in some way. And in the vein of wanting to touch as many readers as possible, I think I'd take Bestseller over Book Review.

And because publishing is such a numbers game these days, simple fact is, the more I sell, the more I can continue to sell new books for publication.

Finally-- and this might sound bizarre as a goal-- but I never want to stop questioning my abilities. Because as long as I continue to question, that means I feel the need to improve my craft, and I don't ever want to feel as if I don't have more to learn. The day I say I've gone as far as I can and I can't possibly become a better writer, take me out back and shoot me, because I'll have become too insufferable to live.

So-- only three goals. Two lofty and one that I live on a daily basis. Seems like a good place to start.

This is a Key Lime Pie.



Note that the color is a creamy yellow. This is a real Key Lime Pie, made with real key lime juice. If someone tries to hand you a slab of something green and they try to tell you it's Key Lime Pie...

THEY LIE


That is all.

I'm sorry that suricattus had a crappy phone call that put her in a vile mood, but I'm so glad she was cheered by this and better still, that she posted it for the rest of us.

I'm not sure who amuses me more- Animal or Beaker.

gaelbrady & ladystarblade make sure you watch this!

Y'all tired of the HQHos debacle? Yeah, me too. Not that it's still not important and needs to be discussed, but you get to a point of oversaturation and simply have to draw back. And frankly, I have this thing about Publishing Darwinism. For the people who are insisting that vanity publishing* is a viable alternative and that we traditionally published folks are all elitist and shit, think we're more talented than Everyone Else, and have no faith in an individual's ability to discern what's a scam and what's not? Vaya con Dios, my friends. Catch you with your broken bank accounts on the flip side. (And yes, something like this did happen-- to authors Stacia Kane and Jackie Kessler.)

*And for the record, vanity publishing and self publishing are not the same. A lot of other people who are far smarter and have more patience than I have explained it. And if I get permission to post, a bookseller has done an amazing breakdown of what it would cost an author to produce a book with the benefits a bookseller would expect in order to carry it in a brick and mortar store.

Okay, enough of that. Moving on.

First up, my lovely, darling Selah March (dubious_virtue) liesillustrates the insanitynuances of a critique partnership of nearly a decade over at Tales From the Crit. The conversation quoted is actually real. And repeated often.

Moving on some more. To the thing I actually love and for which I would dearly love to continue receiving payment, writing.

I love when a random bit of research sparks a bit of a scene, if not an entire scene by itself. I was researching vintage lipstick colors and cases (don't ask-- it's me being supremely anal-retentive) and discovered that in the late 1950s/early 1960s, Revlon partnered with jeweler Van Cleef & Arpels whereupon the latter designed a limited edition cosmetics cases. (Lipsticks and compacts are what I've found so far.) For my purposes, I was more interested in the lipsticks (Didja know that Revlon's "Love That Red" has been around since 1951? True fax.) and once I discovered an image of the Van Cleef & Arpels designed cases, a dimension to the scene I was currently working on formed in my mind and Wouldn't Let Go. So I went with it. Because this story gives me enough fits-- I don't need to be arguing with the little bits here and there. So here we go.

Oh, and before I post, look at the cases. Aren't they pretty? I'm tempted to buy one, just because. Maybe if this story sells, I will. Packrats R Us.



Teaser Tuesday, from Between Here & Gone...

He pulled free from my grasp, pointing back to the front door as he headed down the floating staircase. "Wait for me in the car. I mean it."

Not an option. And now was not the time to explain I didn't need to be coddled. That at this point, we were in this together. I clattered down the stairs behind him, ignoring his warnings of, "Natalia, no—don't."

It was gallant, but what more could there possibly be? I was inured against more of the same. Was even able to breathe fairly naturally as I confronted more of the same filthy words scribbled across the white walls. Was steady enough to disregard the graffiti in lieu of the unexpected sight of dozens of small silver cases lined up with a uniform precision along the long edge of the pool.

"Ava, wherever you're hiding, get the hell out here. "

As Jack's voice echoed throughout the enormous room and he pushed open the various doors, I crouched down by the cases, picking them up, one by one. All of them identical, etched with delicate scrollwork and capped with faux pearls and rhinestones. I recognized these cases. Lipstick cases, created for Revlon by Van Cleef & Arpels, a limited, sought after item several years back. I recalled the glossy advertisements splashed across the pages of all the fashion magazines, showing off the elegant cases, fit for royalty, nestled inside their red-velvet lined boxes. And after hearing me gush time and again, Nico had arrived home from one of his trips to the States, package in hand. I could remember the thrill I'd felt, lifting the lid on the small box. So elegant—so unique. Something not everyone could have. To see so many of them gathered in one place was unnerving. Almost… obscene. There they stood, so pristine and polished, as if never handled, until removing the cap from one exposed the ravaged remains of a once-vibrant lipstick. The same dramatic red she'd worn the other day. The same shade as what was smeared across the walls. Slowly, I removed the caps from each case, not surprised to discover all of the lipsticks—all the same color—ground down to waxy nubs.

***
As usual, there's no guarantee that any of this will wind up in the finished MS, but I like it, it was a pretty free-flowing moment and you have to treasure those, and let's face, I'm the descriptive passage's ho.

Kind of a nice, overall response with some informative links.

Novelists, Inc. Responds to Disturbing Developments in Publishing:

Vanity publishing is not new, although the Internet has become a lucrative feeding ground for vanity publishers. Presented with enough enthusiastic jargon and color graphics, a hopeful author might well be convinced that he has stumbled upon a fantastic new way of bringing his stories, his voice, to the reading public.

Alas, the truth is that vanity publishing is still the same old opportunistic hag dressed up in new clothing, with the added flash and dash of savvy marketing. It still exists to part dreamers from their money, with very little hope of return. The dangled bait never changes, the creatively couched language suggesting that all these good things "could, may, might possibly, perhaps" happen for you if you choose one from column A and two from Column B on their à la carte menu of pricey services.

There is now a new, deeply disturbing twist being applied to this age-old money grab. Publishers with brand names, currently enjoying respectable reputations within the industry and with the reading public, are putting both on the chopping block in order to get a share of the vanity publishing market.

It takes years to build a respected name and reputation in this industry. Losing that respect happens much more quickly, sometimes overnight.

No authors' organization can prevent a publisher from setting up a vanity publishing division. Writers' organizations can, however, speak firmly and clearly about the sort of egregious business practices that reflect badly on our entire industry.
Ninc strongly advocates that any and all publishing houses that now operate or are in the planning stages of creating vanity publishing arms do so ethically and responsibly, while adhering to accepted standards of full disclosure. This includes not using the same or a similar name for the vanity division of their royalty-paying publishing house.

Ninc further strongly advocates that these houses either cease and desist or do not institute the practice of steering hopeful writers who are rejected by the royalty-paying divisions of their companies into the open arms of their vanity publishing offshoot.

To do otherwise demeans the publisher's brand and robs credibility from every one of its conventional, contracted authors.



For Those Considering Vanity Publishing

Novelists, Inc. (Ninc) is an international organization devoted to the needs of multi-published authors of novel-length popular fiction. Ninc has no unpublished members; all are experienced, savvy, and educated in the various perils and pitfalls that await the unwary writer in search of an audience.

So why is Ninc addressing the subject of vanity publishing? That's simple. We care about writers. All writers. And we care equally for their audiences, the book buying public.

Vanity publishing, by definition, involves bringing together a writer eager to have his work in print and a company eager to charge that writer for printing the copies. Vanity publishers don't care if the book is good or bad. Vanity publishers will print anything the writer will pay them to print. Quality and sales potential of the work are not priorities; in fact, they aren't considered at all.

Ninc's advice to hopeful authors remains what it has always been: work hard, learn your craft, and network with other writers to share knowledge and information. And remember, if an offer to publish your previously rejected novel and thus become a "real author" by handing over a check sounds too good to be true, that's because it is.


NOTE:

As long as there are people desperate to be published, vanity publishers will exist, and profit-motive companies, no matter the size or prior reputation, may at some point decide that if a starry-eyed dreamer and his money are soon to be parted, why not hold out a hand for their share. All Ninc and other professional writers' organizations and consumer advocates can do, and thankfully are doing, is to educate people on the subject of vanity publishing. Please, before you open your wallet, take some time to open your eyes. Here are some places to begin educating yourself:

http://www.sfwa.org/for-authors/writer-beware/vanity/

http://www.anotherealm.com/prededitors/

http://absolutewrite.com/forums/forumdisplay.php?f=22

http://www.writing-world.com/publish/vanity.shtml

http://www.panmacmillan.com/Authors Illustrators/displayPage.asp?PageTitle=An Easy Way to Lose Money

http://www.sff.net/people/lucy-snyder/brain/2005/05/is-publisher-just-middleman.html

http://ezinearticles.com/?Publishing-Scams:-Six-Red-Flags-That-Scream-Rip-Off&id=81336