I did not expect the same from Stephen King. Not many people believe that the horror genre has any merit, unless one is studying Poe. Asimov and Lovecraft are not touted as great literature. Stephen King belonged in the category of “never-admit-that-I-read-his-stuff” when I’m near a writer. And that’s a shame. The gift of time was granted to me recently – time to do only non-stressful tasks, like reading. I chose to read everything I could get my hands on authored by Stephen King: short stories, essays, novels (if you find anything, like notes or sketches, be sure to send them to me). In the middle of rereading It I stumbled upon character names right out of Faulkner’s Yoknapatawpha county, names like Sartoris and Snopes, the irony being the characters in King’s story were African American, and the characters in Faulkner’s stories sole purpose in life seemed to be to uphold the “White” Southern institution. I really got a chuckle out of that. To read more about these influences see Faulkner Sightings, about half-way through the page. Faulkner Sightings only reports direct influence. You have to know Faulkner’s stories to see Faulkner’s incredible stream of consciousness through Stephen King’s eyes. It turns the horror genre on its head.

Then I turned on my limited literary analysis tools, limited because the only analysis class I ever took was in high school. Stephen King is only a few years older than me, ok, maybe 10 years older. I heard shades of Neil Young singing through the pros, “…out of the blue and into the black…”. Vietnam underlying everything,  the turtle under Vietnam, and the gunslinger/cow poke at the bottom. All that shaped me had already shaped King enough that he could write about it, and I could relive it.

I saw this question in my search for the Faulkner influence, “Will Stephen King ever be part of the American Literature Canon?” If he does not enter that hall of American lit it will be because people cannot get past the “horror” angle. That’s unfortunate. Stephen King is versatile, his characters live and breathe, his story lines are real enough to be truly horrible, and his mastery of human nature is spooky.

Arianna Huffington from www.ihavenet.com

Three years ago The Huffington Post, barely out of its incubator, was brushed off as a casual, digital hobby of Arianna Huffington.

By February 2010 The Huffington Post had 3.7 million unique visitors (Nielson Online). Technorati, the premiere blog search tool, has the Huffington Post as the second most linked to blog, second to TechCrunch.

The Huffington Post (The HuffPost in the colloquial) combines American “pull-yourself-up-by-the-bootstraps” and “Horatio Alger entrepreneurship” with the ability to brand itself as “The Online Commentator”. So why is The Huffington Post, long on government administration critique, important to the publishing industry?

In part, the answer is The Huffington Post is redefining its role in the world as the “Internet Newspaper”, including various new fields, along with books.

As she is quoted by the New York Times, “when the posts are linked on the front page, the site provides a megaphone and gives authors some prominence. ‘We’ve been very successful in selling people’s books.’”

Take a look at the Huffington Post Book Review Roundup. Even using the conservative estimate of 10,000 viewers, a book reviewed on The Huffington Post is going to do very well.

As more and more people go to online blogs for information, Twitter for breaking news, and Facebook for recreation, The Huffington Post, avante guard of the publishing world, sets the new direction for any kind of information. Publishers, in the throws of electronic rights, in freefall as the traditional publishing world disintegrates, must pay careful attention to any innovation – especially one that is so successful.

It was at Bennington College, formerly an all-woman’s school gone co-ed seven years previous–450 women and 150 men at the time of my attendance–that I met my third great writing teacher, Nick Delbanco, and my third great friend, Marc Falcone. Bennington dorms were two-story, white New England clapboard houses abutting a baseball-large field on three sides. The fourth side had a middle distance view of the White Mountains and which ended at a small rock wall the students labeled “The End of the World”. The school resembled a Vermont village ala Grandma Moses and an atmospheric cross between a David Bowie concert, the Grateful Dead, and a 50′s beatnik hangout in the Village. It had a Black Music department, an extensive modern dance facility, no grades and no exams. Affairs were encouraged between faculty and students. Drugs, drinking, sex, various other forms of exotica, and remarkable hard work were all de rigueur.

Born in Pittsfield, one hour due south on Route 7, I was the only local at the school. The majority of the student body was from New York and Los Angeles, a smattering from Boston and Washington, a pittance from overseas. I was the country mouse to their town mice: I’d never attended private schools as they had, nor traveled, nor dressed, nor read the books nor seen the movies they’d seen. I didn’t even know what a cappuccino was. Yes, a country mouse filled with inchoate aspirations and no real sense of his own talent or predilections, a wildly desirous junior who searched for both transcendence and degradation all at once, a crazy, lusty mix of Henry Miller and the hallucinogenic and warrior ideas of Carlos Casteneda–remember him?

I wanted to live Siddhartha, Ken Kesey, Jack Kerouac, Camus, Stendhal’s Frederick Morel all at once. Dig that. The vitality, the great force which sent me to Israel then through Greece and Spain, which kept me up late at night listening to Coltrane and woke me early to my Corona electric typewriter and my first taste of extended hard artistic work–I wrote two short novels, I wrote a book of short stories–this overwrought, wild life, this angst which visited me nightly, like a centuries-wandering dybbuk which finally found its best place to rest–this gorgeous untamed energy which I only ever found one other time in my life when I was first married and found my way to yeshiva, this energy enlivened me, brightened me, the hard work enlightened me, and I had much to speak about with Nick Delbanco who turned me on to Malcolm Lowry’s “Under The Volcano”, and much to speak about with Marc Falcone, who turned me on to Charles Ives.

He was great, Delbanco, with his corduroy pants, bald pate with the long strands pasted cross-wise over it, handsome Sephardi nose, coal black eyes, and a cool and sinuous manner and way of speaking that reminded me of confidence men in grade B movies. He was patient, patient, patient with foolishness–and just how did he do that, I wonder, as I look back. And he always returned papers on time, never late, and always with more remarks and comments and good cheer than even the best of them deserved.

And then there was Falcone, whose brother, Vinny was Frank Sinatra’s band leader. Marc would do an imitation of Sinatra, where he’d pinch my cheek and spit out in this Brooklyn twang, “Love ya, kid, now get outta here.” He was swarthy, moustached, handsome, talented, my first friend who had real taste. We lived together my second year at Bennington, in Helen Frankenthaler’s old studio. He got after me to wash the dishes; he got after me to read Joyce; he did wonderful imitations of golf announcers on television; he let me bum cigarettes; he loved me like a one-year younger brother; and I just sent him my book and I still love him madly back.

Growing up without much ‘life friction’ in Pittsfield, Massachusetts gave me an attenuated sense of self. I was, truth be told, a bundle of unexpressed and conflicted desires, an amalgam of yearning for degradation and transcendence all at once. And so my freshman and sophomore years at the University of Vermont were experience-seeking years, a restless quest for the fruit of the Tree of Good and Evil, years of trying to figure out how to think, how to read, how to enjoy, the limits and delineations of my mind, personality, an attempt to create stability and yet excitement, a search for how to live, the greater quest for self. Which included hours and hours of ping pong playing with Ellis Burwick (believe it or not, I was eventually the Vermont state ping pong champion), wandering cafes in Burlington, shooting pool, chasing girls, reading Hemingway and Fitzgerald again and again, listening to John Coltrane, Miles Davis, even Sun Ra, growing my hair, hitchhiking up and down Route 7, constantly rearranging the furniture in my small dormitory room.

And then amidst this chaos of a life, I met a writing teacher and a friend who was a girl. David Huddle was a southern gentleman, tall and good-looking, with a charming drawl and a gorgeous swirl of auburn hair. He’d been an intelligence officer in Viet Nam and then gotten an MFA at Columbia. He’d written with Peter Taylor, among others, and he would read Flannery O’Connor and Edna O’Brian out loud in class. He liked my writing and spent time talking books with me in his office. Wendy P. was from Concord, just outside Boston, and she had attended private schools. She was blond and pretty and well-educated and despite having a boyfriend, spent many hours educating me about college life, city life, art and art history, the pleasures of perfume, tea, dressing well, eating out, how relationships worked, even lectured me about what women want. We spent a lot of time together, her boyfriend didn’t seem to mind, and she pushed me to write and to read. She was an art history major with ambition and she applied to transfer to Vassar and was accepted.

This was a bombshell to me, losing this good friend, and it gave me the eerie feeling of being left behind, as if Nazis were chasing me and Wendy was racing away in the escape car while I was left on foot. This certainty of becoming once more friendless by losing my sole contact with what felt like higher life, of being consigned once again to what seemed a faceless lower middle class of northern Vermont, kindled within me the urgency to change, grow, escape, to have real ambition for once in my life. It was an urgency which made me imagine writing as something which could be sustaining, as a means for constituting self.

And so I reached further than I ever had, what felt like the edge of risk for me, and I decided that I would try and write for Bernard Malamud. To transfer to Bennington College was then my first real act of will, a first real act of individuation and I applied and, thankfully, was accepted. And it was at Bennington that I began to read and write seriously, to work really hard, where I first asked myself honestly what I thought about things. And it was where I met my future brother-in-law who would make my match with my wife, and where I began to to see through the fog of my too-benevolent upbringing and successive aimless existence to a certain heart of conflict, difficulty, disappointment, and possibility for joy, where I first glimpsed my way into life.

Spending time with an agent to sell the idea before the book is written may clarify whether or not the book should be written in the first place. After all, the market may already be saturated with books about how to cook frogs and other potential road kill. The time spent marketing the idea is well spent if the author discovers that and avoids one more of such books. Then again, the author might find a publisher that is interested enough and encouraging enough to start the author writing.

The alternative is also risky. If the author starts writing the book because he has a passion about foraging and using everything that he finds in the wild, he takes the risk that the book won’t sell even after it’s written. How many Euell Gibbons’ can the book industry support? (My personal opinion is that the world could use more like Mr. Euell. I can’t count how many times I’ve read his books. If you aspire to be like Mr. Gibbons and are having a difficult time finding a publisher, drop me a line.)

The variant on the basic book model is that the author takes the risk and writes the book before searching for an agent or a publisher. This is the path most new authors must take unless they are well published in venues such as newspapers or magazines. However, there are many instances when a person is recognized as a leader in their field. The publisher might approach such person to write a book, giving assistance at all stages of the book from planning to print.

After the author finishes the manuscript he starts looking for an agent. The agent takes the manuscript in hand and starts shmoozing it up. A good agent has many contacts throughout the publishing industry, each specializing in particular fields; a good agent knows to whom the book should be directed. Phone calls, meetings, lunch, calling in favors all go into the pot. The more the agent believes in the book, the harder the agent works to find a publisher.

For the sake of this model, the book gets accepted by a publisher and the cycle becomes identical to the basic book model. Revisions are made, the manuscript is proofed, typeset, proofed, and published. We’re still dealing with printed matter and one author. Next I’m going to look at ebook creation and collaboration.

Notice that I haven’t said anything about publicity in either model. That’s deliberate. Publicity and marketing of books opens up many possibilities today. This is going to be addressed in later posts.

Books on a Shelf

So many book models exist today. From the traditional write-and-publish to the eBook, with everything in between, the variations are staggering. This post is about the basic book model. Once the book life cycle is described I can then talk about the variations on the model. By enumerating the book models I can have a better understanding of how to create a flexible, living model that works for French Creek Press.

The basic model starts with the author. Ms. Author has an idea for a book. She has never published a book, nor has she published articles on the book subject. After carefully outlining the book, doing the research, writing the synopsis, and writing the first three chapters, she finds an agent. The agent then submits the book to a likely publisher. For the sake of our example the publisher accepts the book and pays a small advance to the author.

At this time the author retires to her little cubbyhole, chains herself to her desk, and writes the book. Since she is chained to the desk 8 hours a day, she actually finishes it according to schedule. The day finally comes when she writes, either literally or figuratively, “And they lived happily to the end of their days. The End”. She lovingly wraps the manuscript, after all, this is her six month in creation heart and soul, and ships the manuscript to the publisher.

When it gets to the publisher it is sent off to readers. The manuscript is ripped apart and put back together according to the publishers needs. Requests for change are drawn up, and everything is sent back to the author. Please fix. Maximum revision time? Four months.

While the author is revising the book, the publisher sets the publishing process in motion. The publishing schedule is set; the book cover is commissioned; the book layout is designed. When the book returns to the publisher, all revisions accepted, the book goes out to proof, offset printing is scheduled, then to the printer for pre-publication copies (ARC-advanced reading copies), and then to the pre-publication reviewers. Then the first print for publication is run.

In this basic model the publisher is established. The books are sent to the distributor, possibly accompanied by the pre-release reviews. Bookstores order the book, and the book is shipped and placed on the shelf in a brick&mortar bookstore.The book remains on the shelf for some period of time. The books not sold become “remaindered”.

That’s the simple life cycle. Next in the life of a book, I look into publishing variations for printed books.

The pictures displayed here are from two different public domain libraries:
Keyboard by Petr Kratochvil
http://www.public-domain-image.com/site_map.html

French Creek Press is a new, fledgling company. In a marketplace full of publishers that know the ropes, have been around for decades, have scoped out the marketplace, how could French Creek Press stand a chance? I’ll answer that with another question. How, in times when stores and publishers are closing, can Harlequin open an new digital only division, Carina Press, headed up by Angela James? The answer is, at least, twofold. An all digital press means publishing is only electronic. There is no need to pour money into thousands of books because no book is produced. All the preprint costs are minimal compared to the print and distribution cost. Yes, there is still distribution, but there is no heavy transport cost. This is the ultimate “on demand” product. The book is produced once in a particular format. Then it is sold multiple times, on demand, with no inventory charge

French Creek Press goes one step farther. Instead of investing tens of thousands of dollars in traditional marketing, the decision to use Social Media as the primary tool was made. Viral Marketing combined with on demand printing means French Creek Press can take a risk on new authors. The cost to French Creek Press is much less than the cost to publish a book through one of the old stalwarts. While we are not exclusively producing digital books (we do print books) we cut costs to the point where we can publish authors, sustain the cost of publishing through its lifecycle, market the books, and stay in business.

I was taken to task for following Harlequin’s move. Since the books are a bit, a little bit, risque, and my lifestyle is the antithesis of risque, what am I doing looking at Harlequin? I can’t afford not to. And neither can any other publisher. Harlequin is taking some very drastic steps to stay open and competitive. By adding Angela James to their team they have increased their survival rate multi-fold. Check out what Smart Bitches, Trashy Books has to say about Carina and you’ll see why this is a brilliant move.

I have roots in the computer industry where revolution takes place on a regular basis. Change with the newest, latest, greatest technology that just made all the equipment I bought six months ago obsolete, or die. By keeping to the principle of on demand production and viral social marketing French Creek Press has the opportunity to grab a piece of the action while producing high quality products. In the meantime, I’m keeping my eyes on the big guys that are adapting to the new reality. And I’m keeping my eye on the women publishers that make a difference in the industry.

A group of tight-knit friends grow up together through high school in a world twisted inside out by a terrible war, accessible, affordable  drugs, great opportunities for education and tremendous drive to change. While all ages have some need to throw off authority, our group comes of age in a time when all authority must be destroyed because it is authority. What happens to someone young and unworldly as he or she steps out into that maelstrom? Who do they become if they survive?

Cosmo leaves the group first as he heads off to Viet Nam, burning with American patriotism. He returns wounded and broken, his best buddy dead, himself a user. Then Woodstock explodes on the scene amidst the rain. For many it is the identifiable point-time of change. College, not-college, travel, poverty and fame follow the young adults. It seems as though everyone is diving off a cliff into the unknown. Cosmo makes his first mistake when he goes AWOL from his hospital bed in search of oblivion from memories of his stay in Viet Nam. Joey’s life turns secretive. Frankie dreams of being Dr. Schweitzer. Dave dreams of the starting lineup on a professional football team and Nick makes his first irreparable mistake that forces him into years of global travel.

From Viet Nam, and terrorism through out the 70s and 80s, through Ireland, France, Asia, and the Middle East, Cosmo and Nick run from themselves and from each other. It ends in Jerusalem, to where all roads lead.

Hawaii at the time of my birth was not yet a state in the Union, and the Japanese had not yet supplanted the white American as the major stockholder. Pearl Harbor was bombed and rebuilt. Schofield Barracks wouldn’t house my daughter for at least forty more years. Hawaii was in transition from old to new, from tearing itself apart over losing its identity to becoming part of a great nation.

Eventually my family made it to Pennsylvania, founded and governed by one of the true early innovators, William Penn. His governing principles served as an inspiration for the United States Constitution. As a friend of George Fox, the founder of the Quakers, William Penn created an environment of hospitality for people of all faiths. He implemented a democratic system with full freedom of religion, fair trials, elected representatives of the people in power, and a separation of powers – very innovative stuff in the time of kings.

A hundred or so years later, a man named Emmor Kimber settled in an area that served as a stopping point on stagecoach routes to Yellow Springs and Lancaster at the time of the Revolutionary War. Emmor Kimber was a Quaker teacher who established the French Creek Boarding School for Girls. It became known as a model for progressive education which drew students from great distances. Among his other concerns, and true to his nature, Kimber was an abolitionist, operating a stop on the underground railroad under the school.

I grew up in Kimberton; statehood, people’s freedom, and a love for innovative learning marked me at birth and followed me through my life. Now the world stands at another pinnacle of change – a revolution in communications. Just as the Industrial Revolution turned the world upside-down, technology today is transforming communication into something we can’t yet identify.

French Creek by David Christman 7547

French Creek Press Ltd., named after the creek that ran through William Penn’s land grant, through Kimber’s innovations in education and protection of people’s life and liberty, positions itself as a “press”, a mechanism to disseminate information. To do that we have three divisions:

Pixel/Point Press – operating on the edge of technology, creating solutions using cutting edge technology to reach all corners of the world.

Kenwood Academic Press – serving the student and faculty body as a print on-demand publishing house and personal writing coach service to ensure that all voices be heard.

French Creek Press – serving established and upcoming authors as a print on-demand and electronic book publishing house.