ISIS EYES
NOTE: This was the third Doug and Paul “conversation.” It posted January 14, 2015.
MID-JANUARY. SUNDAY AFTERNOON. PAUL AND DOG ARE SEATED AT HUDSON MALONE, DRINKING BLOODY MARYS WITH IPA CHASERS
PAUL: We made it.
DOUG: I don’t know how, man.
God it’s fucking exhausting.
Just making it to year end is some kind of miracle.
(BEAT)
PAUL: It’s getting harder.
DOUG: I know.
By the time December rolls around, I’ve got nothing left in the tank.
Same here.
Why is that?
We’re getting older.
Working ourselves to death.
Fuck.
It’s a function of age.
And stress.
And uncertainty. Never being able to figure this business out.
(BEAT)
PAUL: Just when you think it’s over, holiday sales rebound.
DOUG: They were good.
Physical sales, up.
And B&N had a good year. B&N!
It was all those signed fuckin’ Black Friday tip-ins.
Is it just me, or does B&N request 15,000 signed tip-ins of everything?
It’s not just you.
Authors shouldn’t write books anymore. They should just sign tip-in sheets.
The smart writer, the truly savvy author, is writing a novel on tip-in sheets as we speak. One sentence on every sheet they sign. Then when they publish their book, they’ll get some digital meathead to invite readers to post pictures of the signed pages on Instagram.
And some fuckwad on the internet will paste them all together.
Bingo. The end result will be a front page story in the New York Times: “Hidden Novel Discovered on Signed Tip-In Pages.”
Sounds like a Holt project.
Little Stevie!
(BEAT)
Gotta give it to Riggio. You can’t ever count that guy out. I remember a luncheon for President Clinton at their headquarters ten years ago. Great event. Total lovefest. As we’re leaving, Len comes up to the President and asks if he’s a righty or a lefty. The President tells him he’s a lefty. Len nods, smiles, and says, “Always greet an adversary with your right hand.” Then he leans into the President, winks at him, and whispers in his ear, “Your dominant hand is for squeezin’ their fuckin’ balls.” I never forgot that.
(BEAT)
Who saw ebook sales plateauing?
Or hardcovers making a comeback?
Or backlist having a banner year?
Or the resurgent indie marketplace?
Main Street trumping Wall Street.
I’ll tell you who didn’t see it: the prophets of the Internet. Godin. Greenfield. Shatzkin. Shirky. Trachtenberg.
“Is there a ninety-nine cent pricing angle I can work into the story?”
Moron.
(BEAT)
DOUG: How do you explain it?
PAUL: Easy. We had the horses in 2014. Ina. Lena. Doerr. Dubya. Grisham. Tartt. Again. And on the trade side: Hillenbrand. Strayed. Flynn. James.
It’s a hit driven business.
Always has been.
One percent of the titles driving ninety-nine percent of the revenue.
Our industry is like a mirror-image of America.
(BEAT)
The game was supposed to be over by now.
Publishers, gone the way of the dinosaur.
Or at least diminished in a significant way.
Obits written for the independent bookseller.
They said a move to an all digital reading culture was inevitable.
No more gatekeepers.
Just Grandmaster Russ and his tribe of ten million authors.
Yet here we are. Still drinking at the teat of one Douglas Quinn.
Amen.
(BEAT)
Do you miss the old days?
In what sense?
You know. When you could walk into a bar, pull up a stool, start a conversation with the gal sitting next to you.
I do.
Me too.
Now you walk into a bar, and they’re all on tinder.
Or booking their next session at SoulCycle.
You ever been to SoulCycle?
Are you fucking kidding me? I would never, ever set foot in a cycling studio.
I went to Bikram once.
How was that?
Hot. Dirty. Pretty certain the plague in Station Eleven had its origins in a Bikram studio.
(BEAT)
Look at ‘em. (THEY SCAN THE BAR) You have to wrest their fuckin’ mobiles away from ‘em.
Quinn should make a new law: “No mobiles at the bar.”
DOUG SIGNALS TO QUINN, WHO WALKS OVER.
DOUG: We think you should institute a new “Quinn’s Law.”
QUINN (RAISING AN EYEBROW): Whaddya got?
PAUL: This is serious
QUINN: Check.
PAUL: No mobiles at the bar.
(BEAT)
QUINN (THINKING): I’ll consider it. Two more?
THEY BOTH NOD.
Don’t forget the chasers.
(BEAT)
PAUL: Can you imagine being in a relationship that was brokered by an algorithm?
No.
“We found each other on eHarmony.” That’s like the saddest thing ever.
(BEAT)
DOUG: What do you make of Marky Mark’s initiative?
PAUL: “A Year in Books?”
Yes.
Honestly? I’m underwhelmed. I mean what makes his initiative so special?
Thirty-one million friends.
They’re not real friends. They’re facebook friends. (BEAT) My kids are never on facebook anymore. They laugh at me when I’m on it. They’re like, “Dad, what are you, a hundred years old?”
Why is it that when anyone with a platform reads a book, they’re celebrated as some kind of hero? People have been reading books for hundreds of years.
They’ve been going to bookstores.
Checking out books from libraries.
All without incident.
Or prompts from facebook.
Now someone reads a book, and they’re anointed as a savior of our industry.
(BEAT)
You see the PEW report on social?
I did.
Fifty percent of internet users age 65 and over now use facebook.
Terrifying.
Facebook has become a rest home for seniors.
(BEAT)
By the way.
What?
Who doesn’t have a fucking book club?
Right?
DOUG, IN HIS HANS AND FRANZ VOICE: “Row row row your book club down the flabby loser stream.” (BEAT) What about this other initiative?
What initiative?
Online courses.
Seriously?
Yes.
“When is Derek Jeter gonna start teaching online classes?” is not the first question friends ask when we’re out to dinner.
(BEAT)
“He taught a generation how to play baseball. Now learn how to conjugate verbs with Derek!” (PULLS OUT HIS PHONE): Here’s what she said: “People want and expect more from authors than just books.”
Jee-zus.
Right? I mean that is both dangerous and demented. All of a sudden we’re in the experience business. The next thing you know, we’ll be building author theme parks.
You know what people want from authors? A good fucking story. Writing is not a high-contact environment for a reason.
Why is that again?
Because authors are fucking crazy.
(BEAT)
PAUL: Paris.
DOUG: Awful.
Kalashnikovs.
I know.
You know what the problem is?
What?
Some people have nothing to live for and everything to die for.
I don’t want to talk about it.
Why?
Why? Because it scares the shit out of me. The entire city of New York is a hotspot and our police force, thanks to fuckin’ Deblasio, is effectively on strike.
Me. Personally. And I don’t want you to take this the wrong way. But I’ve been in some editorial meetings where I thought about pulling out a Kalashnikov.
That’s not funny.
Only as a deterrent. (BEAT) You know, to make them rethink an acquisition. (BEAT) I would never actually use a Kalashnikov.
I’m being serious here: I don’t think it’s safe to utter the word Kalashnikov anymore. The wrong guy overhears that conversation, and the next thing you know, you’re in lockdown at Rikers.
(BEAT)
DOUG: The world is a dangerous place.
PAUL: As dangerous as it has ever been.
What do we do?
We do what we’ve always done: live our lives. Go to work. Publish books. Drink IPA if we’re having a bad day. Or not. Like now.
We don’t back down.
Ever. (BEAT) Our industry is a beacon to the world. We live our lives standing.
Salman
Ayaan.
Malala.
(BEAT)
Joe Eszterhas. (THEY BOTH LAUGH)
Farah taking a shit on the lawn!
Only a guy would put something like that in a book.
And only Sonny would publish it.
Fuck you.
(BEAT)
PAUL: I had a colleague from Holtzbrinck call me.
DOUG: About Houellebecq?
Yup. He says, “Should we be worried?”
What’d you say?
I asked him about security in their building.
What’d he say?
He said they had a guy in the lobby who didn’t strike him as especially attentive. That he wore Beats and played Candy Crush on his cell phone all day.
I wouldn’t underestimate a guy like that. They’re usually the ones packin’ heat.
That’s exactly what I said to him. Also: that I’d be more worried about Houellebecq than some nut job showing up in the lobby. Welly is a gassed-up fucking sex-fiend.
So I’ve heard.
Did you read his first interview in the Times?
No.
He tried to bang the reporter.
What?
On the record.
No.
Yes. Hold on. (BEGINS SCROLLING THROUGH HIS PHONE). Here it is. Now I’m reading this verbatim, mind you. Byline: Emily Eakin. Here we go: “He had talked about going to Chris et Manu, a swingers’ club, on Friday night, but when I called him in the early evening, he was having second thoughts. He suggested I drop by his apartment in a see-through skirt instead. ‘I don’t really want to go out,’ he said. ‘I just want to have sex.’ When this failed to elicit the response he was looking for, he made a feeble attempt at blackmail. ‘We have reached the limit of talking,’ he said. ‘There are things only people who have physical relations with me get to hear.’”
Wow.
Right? I wouldn’t leave that guy alone in a room with anyone.
(BEAT)
PAUL: Sony.
DOUG: Jee-zus. That was a fucking disaster. Can you imagine if we had the same kind of industry breach?
The emails from Binky alone: “Haruki, Cut the fucking tit talk. Seriously. Intelligent breasts???!!! What were you thinking? Cheryl Strayed got out of the advice business and you should too. NOW! xxx Bink”
You know whose emails I’d love to read?
Whose?
DJ’s.
Melville?
Yup.
He’s a fuckin’ tinderbox, that guy.
And Nan Graham.
Nan. What editor of sound mind takes a giant dump on Phil Klay and the National Book Foundation in the New York Times?
Seriously.
Right? At least Phil’s book was in stock over the holiday. Anyway, if that’s the kind of crap she says on the record, I can only imagine what she says when she’s off.
Everyone in this industry used to have manners. Editors. Agents. Authors. There was an unspoken code of conduct. Now look at us. It’s like the fuckin’ movie business.
“These fish have manners.”
Success for one book doesn’t have to come at the expense of another.
Our greatest industry attribute is the generosity we bring to all writers and their work.
Even the ones we don’t publish.
When a book takes off, it’s good for everyone.
With one caveat.
What’s that?
When the author is an asshole.
Right.
High AAQ equals death.
(BEAT)
You know who’s a superstar?
Who?
Ann Patchett. A great writer who makes a point of championing the work of other writers.
She bought a bookstore, for chrissake. Who does that anymore?
Tom Nissley.
Old Phinney-bottom!
These are good people.
Patchett was on the Newshour during the break talking up Jackie Woodson and Hector Tober.
Solid.
Her enthusiasm for those books drove a result. She made people want to read them. And you know what else?
What?
She was an early advocate for Station Eleven.
Your plague novel.
She picked right up on it.
Honestly: that book was a fucking surprise.
Not for us.
Seriously: how do explain its success?
Easy: death and catastrophe.
DOUG (THINKING): Makes sense.
(BEAT)
PAUL: I had an author take a pot shot at a critic in an email to a reporter the other day. I was like, man, what the fuck are you thinking?
DOUG: What’d they say?
They said the critic was demented, on meds. And that’s a direct quote.
No.
Yes. Direct quote. To a reporter. In a fuckin’ email. Granted, the critic worked at a rival outlet, but still. Some things are better left unsaid.
Who was it?
Can’t say.
Why not?
It’s not what I do.
You just told me about Houellebecq.
Because everything he said was on the record to a reporter and printed in the New York Times Magazine.
Right.
AAQ?
Very low. He’s actually good guy, as long as you keep him away from people.
(BEAT)
DOUG: How safe are you?
PAUL: In what sense?
Say if all your emails were made public?
I have always assumed that everything I write in an email will eventually be made public, and as such, consider myself pretty much indemnified against anything terribly incriminating. Some potential embarrassments, for sure, but nothing I could be thrown in jail for. How about you?
Me? I’d be in trouble.
I find that surprising.
Well, you know, Amazon. I’ve definitely said some things about Bezos and Grandinetti.
I think we’re all guilty there.
(BEAT)
I’m sure they’ve said some things about us as well. (BEAT) You know the thing I can’t figure out?
What?
If they’re acting with malice. If those two guys sit around and say to each other, “How can we put these dumb fucks out of business?”
I don’t think they’re in it to bury us.
No?
No. I think Jeff’s in it to build the best experience he can for his customer. And Russ believes in empowering writers.
Where does that leave us?
As collateral damage.
Great.
You see the Golden Globes?
I did.
You know they won.
I do.
Does that seem fair?
No. But they always fuckin’ win. And now they have a deal with Woody.
I heard. Maybe they’ll go after Cosby next.
(BEAT)
Daphne got out.
Finally.
Always had a soft spot for Daff. Salt of the earth. And just about the only person you can say that about at Amazon.
You know what would be great?
A BEA panel featuring former Amazon employees. “Amazon, Off the Record.”
We could get Lucky Peach and Preston to moderate!
That, my friend, would trump the buzz panel in ratings.
Paging Roger Ballsheimer!
(BEAT)
So I’m sitting on a cache of emails from agents and authors.
About Amazon?
No, no, no. Amazon commentary is verboten at our company. Trager would have my nutsack in a sling. I’m talkin’ everyday stuff. Author and agent complaints, mostly. But totally incendiary. I mean, you wouldn’t believe the shit people put in emails.
Like?
Can’t say. But I’m thinking one day, if an agent or author says the wrong thing, pisses me off just enough, they’re all going up on Pastebin. That would be a story.
Fuck.
One with worldwide repercussions.
(BEAT)
DOUG: What would you have done?
PAUL: About what?
The movie. Would you have pulled it?
No. Would’ve gone straight to on-demand, and given theatres the option of screening it. Sony made two PR mistakes: the first was indecision, the second was pulling the film.
Check.
Granted, the circumstances were complicated. I’m sure there were a lot of sleepless nights.
(BEAT)
DOUG: You sleep OK?
PAUL: For the most part.
You ever wake up and find your wife staring at you?
Weird.
What?
That question.
Why?
Because it happened the other night.
I knew I wasn’t alone.
(BEAT)
But it wasn’t a warm stare. It was a cold stare.
Exactly. It’s a death stare. The kind of look Isis recruits have before they chop your fucking head off.
What do you think it’s about?
I don’t know. But it happened to me again the other morning. I woke up and Mary Kay was lying in bed staring at me. Like she’d been awake all night. But she’s not saying anything. She looks frozen. And pissed off. And so I do a quick inventory of all the things she could be angry with me about but before I have a chance to say anything she says in a voice that sounds like Linda Blair in The Exorcist: “You did this.”
Jee-zus.
Right? I’m thinking, “Did what?” I have no idea what the fuck she is talking about.
So what happened?
I say, “Did what, hon?” I get nothing back. Nothing. So I say, “Can I be honest with you? I’m a little at a loss here.” And without missing a beat, she says, “Everything.” And then she shrugs, tosses off the covers, gives me both middle fingers, and storms out of the bedroom.
Good morning to you as well, hon.
Right? I mean, I’m no angel, but I don’t go to bed with my wife and expect to wake up with the Babadook, for fuck sake.
(BEAT)
PAUL: How is your year, looking?
DOUG: Good. You?
Great. Unbelievable. Some incredible books. I can’t remember a list that ever looked this good.
So you must be terrified.
Absolutely. Things can only go only downhill from here. I’m thinking something epic. Massive credit card slash data breach at Amazon. New York Times shutting down. Costco replacing their book run. A plagiarism charge leveled against James Patterson.
Hasn’t that already happened?
Charges against Big Heavy Jimbo? I don’t think so.
I seem to remember an article where he was accused of plagiarizing himself.
I think that was O'Reilly. One of his Killing books.
Right.
Hasn’t hurt him at the box office, however.
No it has not.
(BEAT)
Something bad will happen.
Something bad always does.
But we’re safe for another year.
Looks that way.
And always with a seat at the bar.
Amen.
(END)