NOTHING IS SELLING
NOTE: “Doug and Paul” were a series of connected fictional narratives about the book industry that I posted on tumblr. The first, “Nothing is Selling” (a post in honor of Laura Zigman), was published August 19, 2014. The last, “Harper Lee’s Millions,” was determined to hew uncomfortably close to certain industry truths and subsequently withdrawn (though you will find it here for archival purposes).
LATE SUMMER. EARLY EVENING. PAUL AND DOUG ARE SEATED AT A MIDTOWN EAST BAR, BOTH NURSING TEN CANE ON THE ROCKS.
PAUL: Nothing is selling.
DOUG: I know.
I mean it. Nothing.
I hear you.
Even the brand names. Flat.
Stagnant.
Dead. (PAUSE) You ever seen a summer like this?
Never.
Have you looked at the Bookscan numbers?
I have. Depressing.
Depressing? Are you kidding me? They make me want to jump out the fucking window.
I know.
The number one fiction book in the country sold thirteen thousand copies last week.
I’m aware.
Thirteen K.
Ugly.
The nonfiction list is just as bad.
I didn’t look.
Nineteen K.
Wow. I had no idea it was that soft.
Been that way for weeks. (PAUSE) This is not a sustainable model.
DOUG: Fuck.
PAUL: Don’t even think about the implications of who is on the fucking list.
O’Reilly.
Klein.
Grumpy Cat.
(PAUSE)
PAUL: Where are they?
DOUG: Who?
Our readers.
I don’t know.
(PAUL GESTURES WITH HIS HAND TOWARDS BAR PATRONS). They’re all staring at their fucking cellphones.
Posting crap.
Texting.
Liking.
Linking.
Vlogging. What the fuck is that? And when did that become a thing?
John Green. Big spread in the New Yorker about his social footprint.
Right. (PAUSE) At least his books are selling.
Selling? His books are holding up the entire fucking market.
Along with Veronica Roth.
Right. Both of them.
Very good for our respective bottom lines.
(BOTH MEN RAISE GLASSES, TOAST)
Cheers.
Not much else, though. Seems like I haven’t seen a new author on the hardcover fiction list in like a decade.
Been over a year for sure.
We can’t break ‘em out, we’re all doomed.
(PAUSE)
PAUL: Editors are worried.
DOUG: I know.
The stories are not good.
Hachette.
Atria.
I’m sure there are others.
Business is bad, in come the consultants.
And out go the editors.
Not just the editors, dude. They’ve got personnel looking at head counts in all the corporate silos. I’ll bet our respective HR reps have identified a long list of potential “separees.”
Fuck.
The only people who are safe are the teams running the social networks.
Twitter.
Facebook.
Instagram.
Pinterest.
Linked In.
Tumblr.
You Tube.
Our collective future, right there. Some Silicon Valley venture cap guy actually said that in the Wall Street Journal last week. “For the next five to ten years, all business will turn on social.”
Remind me not to invest in his companies.
Yes. Well. If it all worked the way they say it does, we’d be selling a lot more books. I was having an argument with the mad Brazilian about this last week.
Who?
Coelho.
The prophet himself! What does he say?
He says earned media is dead.
Dead?
Yes.
The guy who was on the cover of the Wall Street Journal?
Yes. And he’s totally fucking serious. “All anyone needs,” he says, “Is a portal, a platform, and a keyboard.”
Well, he does have a big platform.
And he uses it well. But my view is that it’s still not enough. It’s one piece of a complicated puzzle.
And right now none of the pieces fit.
(PAUSE)
DOUG: How long do you make we have?
PAUL: Hard to say. We land a big book, publish it well, turn the business around, we’re good for another few years.
Shit.
Used to be you could make a comfortable living – not a killing, mind you – but a comfortable living in this business without having to worry about the specter of unemployment.
Not anymore.
Nope.
We need hits.
Yes we do. This has always been a hit driven business. Never more so than now. No hits, we all go packing.
(PAUSE)
DOUG: Midlist is soft.
PAUL: Midlist? There is no fucking midlist. Books that used to sell in the twenties and teens sell now sell in the hundreds.
Grim.
The thing I can’t figure out is if it’s an aberration or long-term correction.
And if a correction, why?
The why would be good to know. I mean, is it really all this? (GESTURES TOWARDS PATRONS AT BAR) Or something else? Are the narratives more compelling in other mediums?
You mean like reality television?
I was thinking more along the lines of series television. Mad Men. House of Cards. Game of Thrones.
Right, right. Makes sense. I’d add Million Dollar Listing Miami to that list.
What?
MDLM.
What is that?
Bravo. A show about realtors. Everyone watches it.
Never heard of it.
It’s a show about three realtors. Chad, Chris, and Sam. They compete for high-end listings in Miami. (PAUL GIVES DOUG A CURIOUS LOOK) It’s actually a good show. You would love Chris. He’s adorable.
What is that?
What?
Chris is adorable.
He is.
You’ve been working in book publishing too long.
Fuck you.
Seriously. Give me your fucking phone. (DOUG HANDS PAUL HIS PHONE. PAUL STARTS SWIPING THE FACE) Is that a gay app?
What?
That.
It’s a news app, you fucking moron. (DOUG GRABS PHONE BACK)
Open it.
There. See. (DOUG SHOWS PAUL OPEN APP. PAUL, LOOKING, BECOMES WIDE-EYED)
Oh my fucking god.
What?
I can’t believe it.
What?
She died.
Who.
Betty.
Bacall?
Yes.
No.
“Icon of Silver Screen Dead at Eighty-Nine.”
Wow. I can’t believe it.
(BOTH MEN RAISE GLASSES, TOAST)
Cheers.
(PAUSE)
I thought she was eighty-nine twenty years ago. (BOTH MEN LAUGH)
(PAUSE)
Can you imagine if social was a thing when we published her books?
No.
Seriously. The fucking stories.
Talk about viral.
Remember when she threw me out of the limo on I-95?
I remember.
Wanted me to peel an apple for her.
Who makes that ask?
And when I refused she tells the driver to pull over. Says to me, “Out of the car.” I’m like, “Are you kidding?”
She wasn’t kidding.
No she wasn’t. Dumped me on the highway 20 minutes from DC. Twitter moment: “Stranded on I-95 after being booted from limo by star client. SOMEONE SEND HELP.”
Only a demented fucking diva boots her publicist out of the car on I-95.
Boots me out, makes me find my way from the Interstate to the Four Seasons, and then screams at me for not being at the hotel when she arrives. Complains that her room hasn’t been turned down or finger swept.
Who does that?
Right? (PAUSE) Then there’s the EW episode.
That was crazy.
She stole a whole fucking rack of Armani.
What was the name of that poor fucking stylist?
I can’t remember.
He’s was crying, right?
Crying? He was hysterical. The whole thing was a fucking opera. “Load this stuff in the trunk,” she says to me. I’m like, “What are you talking about?”
“Am I not being clear?” she says. “Put the fucking clothes in the trunk.”
“They’re not our clothes, Betty.” The stylist, of course, is standing right next to me, his mouth agape, pulling on my shirtsleeve.
“She’s kidding, right. Tell me she’s kidding,” he says. Meanwhile Betty is barking, “Listen you little shitbag, you want to keep your job? Then load the clothes in the fucking car.”
You Tube moment: “Bacall Goes Ballistic on EW Stylist.”
That’s when he starts to cry, “Is she talking to me? Oh my god oh my god oh my god. What do we do? This can’t be happening. Someone tell me this isn’t happening.” I tell him to calm down. I tell everyone to calm down. I say to everyone on the set, “Don’t worry. I’ve got this.” That’s when Betty saunters over, pulls me aside, and says, “You’ve got fuck all, kid. Load the trunk. Tell the driver to take me home. And then go ask light-in-the-loafers over there out on a date. He’s just your type.“
Jee-zus. The balls on that broad.
She knew she would get away with it. Mostly because everyone was terrified of her. Including me.
(PAUSE)
No one called her on it.
Nope.
She just took the shit.
She did. (PAUSE) I still can’t believe it. She wound up stuffing all the clothes in the trunk herself. It was like a scene out of Married to the Mob.
Instagram moment: “Betty loading up on Armani swag. Police en route.” Nothing in her obit about that.
Of course not.
Fucking journalists.
They deify these people.
They don’t know.
Actually they do know. That’s what pisses me off. They’re all complicit in the game. Especially those cocksuckers at the Times.
“Betty in the Times.”
Who gives a shit about Betty in the Times?
Was she ever nice?
She was nice when she walked out on the set for an interview. Other than that, no.
You know what they should put on her tombstone?
What?
Actress. Icon. Monster.
(PAUSE)
Did her books sell?
First one, yes. The rest, no.
(PAUSE. DOUG SIGNALS TO BARTENDER) Two more.
How’s your fall looking?
Good. Yours?
Good.
Are we optimistic?
Fuck no.
(PAUSE).
All this Amazon shit still going down.
You know how they should settle this thing? Set up a cage fight between Grandinetti and Pietsch. Stage it at the New Yorker Festival. Have all the proceeds go the Authors Guild.
I would pay good money to see that.
Right?
(PAUSE)
What a fucking mess. All of it.
I know.
How did this happen?
Why did this happen?
Where will it end?
I don’t know.
Me either.
(PAUSE)
We are standing at the abyss of modernity.
People don’t know who the fuck they are anymore.
Or what they’re doing.
Or where they’re going.
They have to go online to figure it out.
Facebook (BOTH SIGH)
You know what the problem is?
What?
Most of what they’re reading is shit. The gestation period for writing is no longer weeks and days. It’s hours and minutes. No one thinks anymore. They simply emote. Online. In real time.
And wait for the world to respond.
Exactly.
A good book takes time.
It does.
To write.
And to publish.
Too many readers are caught up in this online bullshit.
(PAUSE)
They’ll tire of it.
You think?
Yes. And when they do, we’ll be there.
With the horses.
And hopefully a job.
(BOTH MEN RAISE GLASSES, TOAST)
Amen, brother.
END