Why Almost Everyone Is Pissed About Harlequin
It seems there’s some confusion about why just about everyone in the professional world of writing is up in arms about Harlequin’s decision to create a vanity press imprint (Harlequin Horizons). I thought the reasons were fairly clearly spelled out by the RWA (Romance Writers Association), the MWA (Mystery Writers Association), and the SFWA (Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers Association). Seems I was wrong (a lot of really idiotic, ignorant stuff is being said in support of Harlequin right now, which will shock most people with a conscience). So, I’m going to spell it out for you to make it damned clear, with a few curse words for effect. The ScamFirst off, Harlequin is starting what is called vanity publishing, which is even worse than self-publishing because it gets the whole production model wrong: the author pays someone else to put together and print their work, then the printer keeps a part of the profits. There’s a reason why vanity publishers are so hated by almost everyone except the naive and the stupid. They are perpetual liars on a scale that most politicians would be astonished by, and they have to be, because they essentially are selling services to people that don’t need them, and fucking people out of their hard-earned money. Likewise, vanity presses often can’t meet the quality that professional third parties or traditional publishers put out. So they lie. A lot. They flower up everything they say about their services and wannabe-writers flock in and drop off their money to be handed a mediocre product that they can’t even sell enough of to make back what they put into it. This is what Harlequin is doing, right down to the lying and flowering bits. Does it seem logical why the RWA, MWA, SWFA, authors, et. al. are pissed off? Here we have a major publisher joining in on the author scamming, and thinking that somehow it’s right. The Lie and the Corporate MindfuckHarlequin has really sold themselves on the idea that they’re doing something wonderful. After all, publishing is changing, right? All them blasted writers organizations who are there to make sure authors don’t get fucked over by scam agents, etc. are just part of some out-of-date old people’s cling to the past, right? Wrong. They exist to protect writers on numerous levels. But Harlequin thinks otherwise. They think that vanity publishing is the wave of the future. That’s right. They think something that has been around longer than POD, that has been scamming and fucking people over for decades is the wave of the future. Something sound fishy? It should, because we’ve heard similar BS before. The difference between what Lulu does and what Harlequin is going to do is that Lulu doesn’t lie to you. It tells you right up front: you’re self-publishing, and you can do it for free, or buy some of our packages, and we keep a little cut (a real little cut, actually). Harlequin is saying this: you’ll pay us shitloads of money and we’ll print your book, and, oh, by the way, maybe we’ll pick it up for the regular imprints too (we won’t really), the ones that get in bookstores and sell lots of books, oh, and you’ll have the Harlequin brand on it (but it will be worth crap), so it’ll be worth moneys, and, oh, we won’t tell you that your book won’t be edited by our professional editors (because it probably won’t), so we’ll just let you pretend it does. To be fair, they changed one of those, now, since the new imprint won’t say Harlequin in the name, but that’s really irrelevant at this point. Harlequin is doing everything they can to paint this whole thing up like it’s the golden beacon of publishing wonders, when it isn’t. The closest you can get to that are POD services like Lulu or Createspace, who do a damned good job not pretending to be what they are: places that profit off selling a few copies of a lot of different books, while still giving you a cut and not charging you up the ass for services. Lulu and Createspace have latched onto a brilliant method of printing books that traditionally publishers (with exception to many small presses) have yet to see value in. But that’s not what we’re here to talk about… The SFWA and friends are pissed about this because it’s damn obvious what’s going on: Harlequin is trying to make a profit off of its slush pile at the expense of a whole lot of innocent authors who don’t know any better, all while doing very little to make clear what all of that entails. Which is this:–You’ll pay a lot to get it printed.–It won’t be in bookstores.–It won’t sell many copies.–Unless you’re the luckiest damned person alive, it won’t get picked up by a major publisher because most, if not all, publishers won’t touch it with a 200 mile pole.–You’ll be broke.–Nobody will actually edit your work, and if someone does, it won’t be edited very well. –You’ll be raped by the stigma associated with self-publishing in general, and more specifically the kind attached to vanity publishing (a much less lovable version of the anti-self-publishing vitriol). Harlequin is literally like healthcare companies who profit off of sick people, making the whole thing super shiny with a nice bow and a whole lot of B.S. to sell it to the masses. The SFWA and friends have rightly called them out for it. They’re pissed because they believe that authors should be paid, and not the other way around. And it’s a good thing to be pissed about. They don’t like seeing authors getting screwed any more than the rest of us. Harlequin’s attempts to do everything it can to screw authors is getting everything it deserves for it. These are the reasons why the SFWA, RWA, MWA, and most anyone with a conscience are pissed off. It’s not because Harlequin is cashing in
Funny Things About Grandfathers
I’ve never talked about some of my grandfather’s exploits on this blog, but one of the things you learn as a writer (or a wannabe writer, for that matter) is that your family, friends, and random acquaintances can act as fantastic inspiration. My grandfather has acted as quite the little inspiration bee in the last few years, and will continue to do so for many reasons. But there are some stories about my grandfather that I don’t think I can ever replicate in a fiction story. You know the saying, “Life is stranger than fiction”? That’s absolutely true of my grandfather at times. Here are just a few of those stories: Cub Scout CampingBack when I lived in Washington, my grandfather took my brother, sister, and I on a camping trip to all sorts of pretty places. The problem? Washington is wet almost year round. It’s either raining or the apocalypse has arrived and everything is burning to a crisp. Our trip happened to coincide with non-Biblical events, which makes for interesting camping. During a particularly wet trip we decided to stop and find a nice place to camp. Having set up all our tents, my grandfather set to making a fire. Matches, unfortunately, do little for turning soaked wood into toasty fire, so he decided to hunt down some kerosene. A little while later, he returned with a half-full container and poured all of it over the wood. The result was probably the first real-life mini-demonstration of a nuclear explosion my siblings and I will ever see. A big flame, a little mushroom cloud, and no standing fire. We gave up at that point and decided to settle in for the night. That’s when it started to pour. My grandfather, being the cub scout that he was, had put his tent, which he was sharing with my brother, at the bottom of an incline. Why? I don’t know. He just did. And at some point in the middle of the night we all heard the revving of our car’s engine. Apparently the rain had created a lovely puddle in the middle of the tent and my brother had secured all of the dry space, leaving my grandfather a freezing pond to sleep in. Eventually he had to get up and warm himself in the car. We didn’t camp outdoors after that. Stubborn DriverMany years ago my grandfather had some problems with his heart and had his driver’s license taken away for safety reasons. Anyone who knew my grandfather also knew that he was one of the most stubborn individuals ever. He gave up his license, alright, but he sure as heck didn’t give up his right to drive. He and I used to climb into this old hatchback (a Colt or something) and tear down the dirt road where he and my grandmother lived. We wouldn’t drive all the way into town, though. No. That would be too obvious. Instead, my grandfather would hide the car (very poorly, I might add) behind a small wall of blackberry bushes along the road, and then we’d walk the rest of the way. It was clear that he didn’t want to walk up and down the blasted hill. Some time later I learned that pretty much everyone knew what he was up to (Placerville is a small town). Looking back, it seems somewhat ridiculous that he was so secretive about the whole thing. Everyone knew, including my grandmother, and nobody did anything about it. Of course, I was a little young and didn’t know any better at the time. I kept the secret for a while, though, because I’m like that. Secretive and stuff. Hanging GrandsonsThere were other events following my grandfather’s early heart problems, but none put my life on the line like his desire to have me help re-paint the house. You see, my grandfather was kind of a “do it yourself” guy, but since he couldn’t reach certain parts of the house with his ladder he needed a way to finish the job. That’s where I come in. My grandfather’s brilliant post-stroke plan was to climb to the roof through a ceiling window and dangle me over the side of the house by a rope, without a mask for the paint sprayer and held only by a post-stroke grandpa. Yup. I’m not sure how I weaseled my way out of it, but he was quite adamant about putting me over the side of the house. Thankfully it didn’t happen. The MonkeyWhen my grandfather and grandmother got married, they went on the kind of honeymoon that most people only dream of these days, visiting places like Egypt and others. At some point in the trip they arrived in a place where the locals had a special delicacy that most Americans (and my grandfather was the old rancher-type) would find…let’s just say strange. But my grandfather, as I’ve said before, was a stubborn mule. Wanting, I presume, to respect local culture, he almost demanded to be served the delicacy, all while my grandmother tried to explain to him that it was not a good idea, at all. Eventually, however, my grandfather won out, as he usually did, and the locals brought before him a remarkable gift: a monkey head with monkey brain soup inside. I’m told that my grandfather turned a shade of white that doesn’t currently exist in the human makeup. And no, he didn’t learn his lesson, as the last story will illustrate. The CurseNever cross my grandmother. Ever. If you do, you’ll pay the consequences. Trust me. My grandfather never learned that, but he did help to make a funny story about the power of grandmother’s to use subtle magic. At some point in the past my grandfather had a little sailboat. It wasn’t anything special, but it brought him some joy, I assume. One day he discovered a jar of money my grandma had been saving to buy a dress or nice drapes or something (I