Take a look at the fossils in the Burgess Shale Formation, a strip of ancient rock in the Canadian Rockies. These are fossils of creatures that lived 500 million years ago and can’t be found anymore on our planet. Some look like winged lobsters or walking accordions with poisonous spines, like manta rays with parrot’s beaks or five-eyed worms the size of elephant snouts. They’re creatures with body plans so bizarre and befuddling that we’d be terrified if we saw any of them crawling along the sidewalk. But it’s through these bizarre bursts of evolution that nature experiments and selects which creatures will survive and move into another era.
Even so, I’m not faulting publishers in these halcyon, gold-rush days of ebooks for innovating and plunking down $50,000 or more to build each interactive ebook application (and that’s what they often cost). They’re expensive, and everyone from publisher to author tightens their belts on royalties to make these applications happen. But even if publishers don’t see immediate profit from ebook apps, the experiences they gain are essential for evolving into the future. In times like this, when the pace of evolution is fast enough to be called a revolution, there are massive changes and die-offs, and the nimble will inherit the earth. The survivors will be those who are agile enough to scamper between the legs of the bigger dinosaurs, avoiding them as they fall.
I’ve spoken of innovators, but the publishing world has plenty of laggards, as well, including some of the biggest names in the game. While they were once the industry darlings, many of the bigger, more established New York publishers are now the dinosaurs.
Walking into the New York offices of a Big Five publisher is like stepping back in time. Or like stepping onto the set of Mad Men. Even when you’re out for lunch with the presidents and general managers, you’re often in a vermouth-fogged version of the 1950s and ’60s, where deals are decided over lunch or sometimes by the quality of your suit tie or class ring.
Success slows some publishers down, making it hard for them to take risks. And just as Amazon is wary of innovating too fast or leaking its secrets, top New York publishers likewise can be very cagey and secretive. I know of one publisher, for example, who paid for a vice president to rent an apartment for a month and lock herself in there, in total secret, with the manuscript of a forthcoming blockbuster book. The vice president had a month to format the manuscript as an ebook by hand. The publisher didn’t want to risk giving outside conversion houses the digital manuscript, for fear it might leak.
But all the secrets come out once a year when all the retailers and publishers gather at a trade show called BookExpo America.
April showers bring May flowers, along with rants from publishers at BookExpo America in New York, the nation’s largest book event. I’d fly there every May to represent Amazon in talking to publishers about ebooks and innovation. My meetings with publishers outside Amazon’s walled garden weren’t all pleasant exchanges of ideas and innovation, though. In fact, more often than not, I’d find myself getting yelled at and treated like I was an invading Vandal or Hun.
On one particular day, for example, I was in a basement somewhere in New York City, and a senior vice president of Disney books was screaming at me.
He was at one end of a conference-room table, and it felt like an interrogation. I usually associate Disney with talking animals and spinning teacups and walking brooms, but when you’re actually being yelled at by Disney, you see the dark side of the Magic Kingdom. But I don’t hold it against them. An hour earlier, I was in the same conference room, but that time, a vice president of HarperCollins was screaming at me. An hour later, another publisher would be yelling at me.
The screams got worse every year, louder and louder. Publishers love to hate Amazon. Even before Kindle, Amazon’s relationship with the publishing world was like that of an aging couple. They were forever arguing with one another, but still married after all these years.
It didn’t matter what we yelled about in any given year. The next year, it would be something different—but we’d always shake hands and smile when it was all done. The Amazon folks would move on to confrontations with the next publisher, and the vice president of Disney would go on to yell at Apple or Sony. It’s a dance we did every year underneath the trade show floor.
On the floor itself, you could get autographs from famous authors, pick up complimentary books or comics, hold the latest e-readers in your hands, and swap business cards with thousands of small publishers and independents on the book-publishing sidelines.
But two stories below the trade show floors—in underground conference rooms laid out like Cuban detention cells—the real wheeling and dealing happened. Everyone’s shirts were rumpled with sweat and exertion, and people were pounding their fists on tables. And yet, everyone smiled to themselves, because everyone was getting something from these negotiations.
The same unholy shrieking happens every year at the Frankfurt Book Fair in Germany—the screams are just more guttural. Even at the London Book Fair, now that ebooks have taken off, strained smiles break through the British reserve of once-formal publishers. That’s because serious amounts of money are involved every year at these negotiations, and that’s true all around the world.
Book readers are mostly oblivious to these backdoor, underground conversations, because the content keeps flowing, and the struggles behind the scenes are just part of business as usual. But they are struggles for everyone in publishing.
You see, most everyone in publishing came into it with an arts background, a degree in writing. These are people who have read Homer and Aeschylus, who can tell the difference between a simile and a metaphor. They can spot a good book when they see one. But nothing in college prepared them for these blood-elevating, stress-inducing fistfights with words.
They came to publishing because of their love of words and their love of language, because of that imaginative faculty we all possess that somehow switches on when we’re immersed in a book—when the real world peels away like an ugly scab and we’re left with fresh new skin underneath, entranced by this imaginative new world. Maybe that’s what kept us going through all those negotiations at trade shows like BookExpo America.
When it was all done, everyone would smile through thin lips and shake hands, and there’d be an invitation to a party at the Flatiron Building, where everyone would get drunk together with Whoopi Goldberg and Spiderman. All these publishing executives would party with actors and authors and swill manhattans as if Tuesday was the new Friday, but they’d come back to those underground conference rooms the next day, their hangovers pounding in their heads and their fists pounding on the conference-room tables. We reenacted this ritual every year out of misguided self-interest. But if we didn’t reenact this, books would have piled up at the publisher’s offices in Midtown Manhattan and you’d have had no way to buy your books.
Even though books are moving to digital, events like BookExpo America are as strong as ever. Likewise, the American Concrete Institute still meets once a year at its main trade show, even though concrete is as old as the Roman Empire. Whenever industries are held together by relationships, you’ll still find people meeting every year. So we won’t see trade shows like BookExpo America fade or move entirely to chat-room windows on computers just because books are going digital. And especially not now, while the ebook revolution is in full swing and the relationships of key players are shifting on a near-daily basis.
There’s a triad here between publisher, retailer, and author. Without any of these three, readers wouldn’t have any books to read. Authors write books, publishers package and print books, and retailers sell them. You can’t, for example, drive to Random House’s offices in Midtown Manhattan and ask to buy a copy of The Lost Symbol. They’re not going to sell it to you, and the security guards will chase you out. Nor can you drive to Dan Brown’s mansion and ask him for a copy. He has security guards too. Authors and publishers and retailers are in an intricate dance around one another, orbiting like stars in a triple-star system. It’s a complex, convoluted orbit, but this dance is ultimately for readers’ benefit.