Fascinating projects – where love is more important than money

You don’t get rich in publishing. Mind you. Some do okay. Or they wouldn’t have posh offices on the Strand or in other locations in London. Even so, compared with other big companies and multi-nationals, publishing houses are the poor cousins. Most of us are in the industry because we love books and writers.

I went to a seminar on design yesterday at the InternationalAnthony Burgess Foundation, run by Literature North West. Talks in the forms of Power Point presentations were given by David Pearson and Alistair Hall.

Pearson designs for Penguin, mainly covers. He knows his stuff, and as well as showing us many beautiful examples of his work, he talked with enthusiasm about how he worked.

Hall, equally talented and very diverse in the projects he undertakes, showed us some of his work but talked at length about a project that is run mainly by volunteers.

Pearson has also set up his own publishing company with a partner. They don’t make much money but they do publish exquisite art-rich books.

Both designers have to work on spec as well as on commission. They obviously do manage to make a living by their art but because they do so much and to such perfection, the hourly rate is not good.

But do they care? I suspect not. Goodness, I work all hours God sends on writing, publishing and promoting them both. I do have to ensure that I get paid properly so that my work is valued correctly. Often that is not easy. But it is a vocation, not a job, in the end. The days and weeks whizz by. I no longer feel the need for holiday or retail therapy, though relaxation and inspirations is important and attending this seminar was a form of both.  

Perhaps Hall’s project demonstrates very well what I’m what I’m saying. Check out http://www.ministryofstories.org/news/hoxton-street-monster-supplies-needs-your-product-ideas/                 

Story is king - but alone does not make a good book

I’m reading a self-published book. It was sent to me because the author wanted a mainstream publisher to take it on. Very flattering: our little indie has been labelled “mainstream”.

There is a lot wrong with the book, and I hope my publishing company would never publish anything as bad. Lots of run-on sentences. Punctuation all over the place. Chapter titles in the wrong places. Even hideous mistakes in the blurb. Overwriting. Wasted words. More legal information than a lay person can cope with.   

And yet: I keep on reading. The story is gripping. I’m a just a few pages from the end and there are still twists and turns. I’m resisting the urge to look at the last page. I’m sure this would make an excellent six-part drama.  

The book has sold 500 copies on the efforts of the author. It has a good endorsement from a person in the same trade as one of its main characters.

Sadly, though, it makes a fool of its author.

It should have been edited.

Self-publishers must get their work edited. Unfortunately, this is one of the major costs in publishing a book. The most successful self-publishers do this. I’m about to self-publish a book and I am paying an editor. I’m fairly certain they won’t have too much work to do, but they’ll spot any incongruities, things that aren’t clear and the odd typo or grammatical mistake.    

Sadly, the book I’ve been asked to read would take so much fixing that a publishing house hasn’t got enough editor hours to do that. A free-lance would earn quite a lot editing this book, but can the author afford to pay? The editor would have to rewrite the book, in effect. So, it would be rejected by a publisher. Shame! It’s a great story.   

                  

  

One of the Greatest Joys –Getting a Good Proof Copy

Yesterday I got the proof copy of Hipp-O-Dee-Doo Dah. (ISBN

978-1-907335-11-2)

I can hardly bear looking at proof copies when they come in case there is some awful mistake. That probably comes from the time when a publisher made a terrible omission with one of my stories.

So, I got our in-house designer to check. He was very pleased with it.

“And the blue has come out exactly right,” he said.

Apparently, blue is very difficult to get to print true. Just as well, as Anthony Browne has donated the cover art. And it may explain why it took us four attempts to load the cover up to the printer.

Now, whilst I’m name-dropping, Michael Morpurgo has written the foreword and there are stories in there by Alan Gibbons and Lauren St John, both Blue Peter award winners. Yours truly has edited it. There are many known Bridge House authors included in the collection and one or two new names, including well-established author Elizabeth Arnold, who also writes computer games.      

A donation of £1.00 is given to Children’s Hospices UK for every copy sold. It retails at £7.99.

Every book is a pleasure to see. There is nothing quite like holding something you have helped to create and seeing that it is a splendid thing. This one, however, is even more special.

Now, I’ll just go and accept the proof.     

Time to Get Excited - Hipp-O-Dee-Doo-Dah is on its way out into the world

This really is a great book by Bridge House. It is going to support Children’s Hospices UK. £1.00 from every book goes to this charity.   

Our cover has been donated by the present Children’s Laureate, Anthony Browne. Michael Morpurgo, also a former Children’s Laureate, has written a fantastic foreword for us. We have stories by Blue Peter prize-winners Alan Gibbons and Lauren St John.  Naturally, also, the book contains some great uplifting stories by some new and emerging writers.     

Details of how to order will be available soon.

Bridge House’s World Stopping Events

We hesitated a lot about going ahead with this book. In the end, though, the competition brought in enough to cover the costs of setting up the book, and there was a little left over. Anyway, we’re considering having a print-based cover for this title, so we can do it in-house and don’t have to pay an artist.  

The ideal would be to publish on Kindle. Our writers are asking us why we’re not doing that. Short stories on an e-reader or even an iPhone or iPad are absolutely obvious. Yet we daren’t risk it with the current situation about US tax. So frustrating!

As usual, the people selected were delighted. One did ask me whether only fifteen people entered the competition. No, we had over 80. We’d normally have many more for a competition that included publication: we have contact with over 500 authors and have published over 100.

The theme was a little tricky this time: stories had to be linked to one of those dramatic events everyone remembers. The event had to count but the story mustn’t be about the event. If you could take the event out and the story still worked, it wasn’t right. On the other hand, the story shouldn’t be impacted too much by the event, though it was fine, if, for example, flights were delayed because of 9/11. It’s not exactly the sort of story one has lurking in the bottom drawer.                  

Cardboard Cut-Out

by Enid Reece

Americano  

People, music and laughter; that's all you need for a party.  And conversation.

Why does Tom never talk to me? I’m watching him now. His hair is greying at the sides, but he still appears trim with a flat stomach and broad shoulders. Regular visits to the gym keep his body in shape. He's deep in conversation with Mike from computing. Tom nods his head and smiles at some comment. He never smiles when he talks to me. We have mundane chats about what to eat for dinner or who’s going to empty the rubbish. 
            I take a sip of wine. Has it only been an hour since our guests arrived?  Not that they’ve come to see me - it’s Tom’s party, after all. I’m just the hostess: the wife,  the fetcher, the carrier, the cardboard cut-out who props herself up and positions herself in the right places at the right times. I walk towards the drinks table and the small group positioned there.  Perhaps my bartender skills are required.  I stand on the edge, listening.  They’re arranging a day out, going to a health farm for a bit of pampering.  That’s what I need. I open my mouth to say so, then shut it just as quickly, knowing they wouldn’t want the boss’s wife accompanying them.
           'Hello, Gwenda.’  A hand touches my arm and I turn on the hostess smile.   I recognise one of Tom’s girls.  Oh, I don’t mean that in the sexual kind of way. Her name’s Christine, one of the girls from his office.  I don’t know her all that well, just the occasional chat on the phone before she connects me to Tom’s office.  She’s changed her hairstyle. I’m sure she was a brunette last time we met. The bright red streaks through her hair look a little alarming. I guess it’s what the young do these days, change like the front page of a newspaper. 
            ‘Hello, Christine.  Would you like a glass of red or white?’
            ‘Ooh, red, please.’
            She takes the glass. Before I can engage her in conversation, she’s gone.  I’m not surprised.  I wonder what they see in me.  Good little housewife, great at organizing a party. How proud I must be of Tom and how well he’s done.
            I move away from the drinks table and huddle in the corner, my green dress matching the velvet curtains. I’m good at disappearing. No one would notice if I packed my bags and had a two week holiday as long as I cleaned up the party mess when I got back. 
            I glance over at Tom again. He’s leaning against the wall, a relaxed and confident smile on his face.  He’s moved on from Mike and is now talking to Fred, our next door neighbour.  I’ve never been too sure why we invite the neighbours. Tom thinks it’s a good idea for some reason I can never fathom.  I have very little in common with Margaret who is more interested in ‘doing lunch’ with her friends than doing something more substantial in life.  Fred is the opposite of Tom, quite happy working in the Accounts Department at the local Council offices. ‘No ambition,’ Tom has told me on numerous occasions.  I hear Fred give out a snorting laugh at one of Tom’s jokes.  How come I never find them funny? Have I really lost my sense of humour over the years? 
            My eyes move towards the buffet. The savouries are fast disappearing.  I walk towards the kitchen to replenish the plates. Two men, unfamiliar to me, are leaning against the units, discussing stocks and shares. They both look up as I enter, but there is no recognition in their eyes.
            ‘Hi, I’m Martin,’ says the taller of the two.  He smiles, showing dentistry which must have cost a fortune. ‘I don’t think we’ve met.’  He holds out a hand.
            ‘Gwenda, Tom’s wife,’ I inform him, holding out my hand.
            ‘Oh, great party. Food is amazing.’
            He takes my hand and releases it almost immediately, returning to his conversation.  Am I that boring?  When did I lose the art of conversation? Perhaps between having babies and doing the school runs.  Turning away, I busy myself preparing another tray of nibbles and return to the heart of the party. 
            ‘Lovely buffet,’ Moira, Tom’s secretary, tells me as I place the plates on the table. I open my mouth to say something, but she’s already moved away.  She obviously doesn’t want to hear some of my scintillating conversation, but then not one of this crowd do.
            It’s not all bad - I’ve had two comments about my food, both flattering.  I like to cook- it’s something I do well.  Seeing a well spread table gives me the courage I need to become hostess for the evening.
            I make my way over to Tom. Perhaps by some miracle he would like to make conversation with his wife, not that I’m hopeful. I can’t remember the last time we had a proper chat.  Probably just before the twins left home to go to university. There was laughter in the home then.  The house was full of teenagers, sleepovers, even days out.  Tom and I talked in those days.  Now the nesting is over and we’ve nothing to say to each other.   
            ‘Okay, darling?’ he asks when I reach his side. I nod my head and he returns to his conversation with yet another of his associates whose name I can’t remember.  It’s just a courtesy enquiry. I can tell he’s not interested, just being polite. Not sure why he even bothers. I stand next to his side, stiff and unfamiliar with the conversation.  I have tried to take an interest in his work, but investments are above my head. When I have attempted to try harder, he has just dismissed my efforts with an indulgent smile. 
            Giving up, I once again move towards the velvet curtains, a statue amongst the movers of life.  I wonder how these people would fit into my world. If I really think about, I’m not sure what my world is anymore.  I want it to include Tom, that much I know, but he seems to shut me out. He’s at a loss to know how to talk to me.  Have we outgrown each other? Moved in different directions without either of us noticing? 
            The grandmother clock hanging on the wall chimes the hour.  One more, and the party will start to draw to a close.  I move across the room, picking up empty glasses and plates.  Nobody notices, but then, why should I be surprised?  There’s laughter and music still coming from the party room as I load the dishwasher and begin my usual tidy.  I wonder if anyone misses me, Tom in particular.  The music stops for a moment and I hear his laughter; I’m glad he’s enjoying himself. 
            ‘Bye, Gwenda.’ A head pokes itself through the doorway. I look up and give the briefest of smiles to Margaret. ‘Lovely party, thanks for the invite.  Sorry we can’t stop any longer, Fred’s tired, insists he gets his eight hours of sleep.’ She gives a high laugh. I raise my hand to say goodbye; she turns her head, not noticing.
            Slowly through the hour, the partygoers leave.  I work around them, collecting, disposing and tidying as space become available.  I glance across at Tom as he helps one of ladies with her coat.  He looks tired. Strange I’ve never noticed before. He always seems to enjoy being the host.  He returns my gaze and I sense he knows I’m looking at him.  A smile I recognise from long ago spreads across his face and he lifts his shoulders. A habit from the past, a secret signal we used to share when we had had enough of other people’s company. I hunch my shoulders back at him. He nods his head in understanding before returning to his guest. 
            I’m in the kitchen. The final guests are leaving. The last of the plates are dispatched to the dishwasher.  I like tidying. I find it therapeutic: just me, a cloth and cleaning fluid.  My mind drifts to times past when Tom would help with the clearing.  We would laugh and share a joke, a glass of wine, then drift towards the bedroom to slowly undress each other and share a world of our own.  I confess I miss it.   
            The front door slams; the music turns off. The house is quiet except for the soft tread of Tom’s footsteps walking towards the kitchen. 
            ‘Glad that’s over,’ he says, picking up a couple of glasses and a bottle of wine. He pours us both a glass and passes one to me. He wants to talk, I can tell. Am I ready to listen?  I chew on my bottom lip and stare straight ahead, not sure I want to meet his gaze or hear what he has to say.
            ‘You didn’t enjoy it, the party, I mean?’ he says, raising the clear liquid to his lips.
            ‘No, if I’m honest.  It was your party more than mine.  I’m not part of their circle. They have no interest in me.’ 
            He doesn’t disagree but continues sipping his wine, a thoughtful expression on his face.
            ‘You could try and mix a little. Not just stand there and appear invisible.’ He swirls the liquid around in his glass, his eyes never look at me.
            My forefinger circles the edge of the glass in front of me as I try to think of a response.  ‘Have we drifted apart, Tom?’ I say, relieved the time seems to have arrived when we can talk.
            He stops swirling the wine glass and stares at me, carefully considering what to say next.
            ‘Probably,’ he finally admits.  ‘I suppose I’ve taken you for granted - rearing the kids, homemaking, and I never did encourage you to go to work.  You just began to merge with the furniture. Sorry, I don’t mean it to sound that bad, but you know what I mean.’
            ‘A cardboard cut-out,’ I say, as though that tells him everything he needs to know.  He frowns, not understanding.  ‘You know, someone you can move from room to room, place to place, hang a chosen dress on and she will do the rest. Don’t worry it’s just a name I’ve begun to call myself.’ I pick up my glass and take a large gulp. It’s sweet and heady, just like I used to be.
            ‘I’m not ready to give up you know,’ he says, picking up my hand and touching my wedding band.  Yesterday I would have pulled away, but tonight it seems different, the domestic closeness of the kitchen, Tom holding my hand.  It feels good to be touched.
            ‘No, me neither,’ I say, looking down at his hand in mine.
            ‘We’ll work it out,’ he promises. ‘How about going out for lunch tomorrow, just you and me?’
            ‘Would it be worth it?’ I ask. ‘We barely talk as it is.’
            ‘Meet me half way,’ he says. ‘You’ve already admitted you don’t want to give up on us.’ 
            He’s right. We have to start somewhere, get to know each other all over again.
            ‘Okay, lunch tomorrow.’  I feel something akin to assurance grow inside me - a knowing that with a little hard work from both sides, our lives will, once again be on track.  I squeeze his hand.
            We smile in unison, put down our glasses and head towards the staircase.
            ‘And no more talk of cardboard cut-outs,’ he says as he leads me through the bedroom door. 

 Author Bio:

Enid Reece lives in rural Warwickshire and rediscovered her love of writing when she became a widow eight years ago.  After joining a writing group she began to learn to craft of writing the short story.  After three years she had the courage to send of her first submission, The People's Friend send an acceptance and six months later she saw her first story 'The Hat Fits' in print.  Since then she had had several stories published in woman's magazines.  There are plenty of ideas in her head, it's just the time she needs to write them down.

Print On Demand

A lot of people still talk about this and there is still a bit of a perception that POD smack of self-publishing or worse still, vanity publishing.
Yet shouldn’t POD technology be welcomed? It is so less wasteful of paper and time. Customers can have pristine copies within a week – often sooner. Okay, so Lightning Source has the monopoly, but that considered they are very good to the publisher who use them:

• Their product is superior to many of those of traditional printers.
• They are quick and efficient.
• There are rarely problems, but when there are, they are quick to respond.
• They have an efficient support team ready to lend a hand when needed.
• They are very well connected and if you go direct with them you have access to many distributors.
• You can have books printed locally, thus saving on shipping costs.

There are other arguments anyway in favour of POD:
Books need never go out of print. This could be construed as a disadvantage. However, there is nothing to stop you taking a book out of print if you want to. It’s just that you don’t have to.
For the sake of a new ISBN and a new set-up cost, so, about £50.00, you can make frequent minor alterations to a book.
One disadvantage may be cost. A title that cost £1.50 to print may cost £0.20 using more traditional off-set printing. But for the latter you are talking about print-runs of thousands. Smaller companies may not be able to pay those sorts of figures up-front. Besides, the sort of companies who use POD – some of the 80,000 small presses - have few overheads so can still make a tidy profit on some ways of selling though generally price their books so that even the least lucrative way of selling makes a profit. For instance, Bridge House’s charity book, 100 for Haiti makes £7.00 for the appeal when bought straight from our site, though individual ones ordered by bookshops only make a few pence. Small presses can stay in charge. Once they’ve recouped the set up costs of the book, each book looks after itself.
Many people probably do not realise that most educational books and academic books are printed on demand. They tend not to be printed until they are ordered. This seems very sensible to me.
Print on Demand is very 21st century. Personally, I love it. I think we should embrace it whole-heartedly.