E-publishing. the new writer's boon or bust?

I'll share with you, an email i recently received from my agent. You writers out there might find it interesting:

Hi Everyone: I thought you'd like a report on my findings of the last 5 weeks through meeting in New York. I have met with the C-suite executive editors covering the many imprints of Simon and Schuster, Harper Collins, and Macmillan. I have appointments lined up with Random House, Hachette, and Penguin through late April and May. So this is straight from the horse's mouth. Those I have met with, say that there are changes taking place with all the majors. The situation right now as they describe it is "the first major revolution in publishing since the arrival of the paperback."

As they did all those years ago, they are now feeling themselves in a state of crisis and unavoidable change. Let me give you the words of an exective editor at HarperCollins. According to her, the acquisition process has changed and is changing week by week. They have implemented a process whereby two editorial boards must pass on an editor's desired acquisition rather than the previous structure of one editorial board to reach consensus. At the first editorial board in addition to the usual suspects they now have added 1) a representative from the middle readers or YA editorial team, and 2) two specialists from their electronic multiplatform design group. The first reps reads 30 pages to see if the work can be adapted for young readers by editing and the second group evaluates EBooks, IPad adaptations, Iphone apps, games, merchandising, and all electronic marketing possibilities as well as TV and film adaptation. If the property meets consensus from all at the first board then it goes out to reps from a selection of other divisions of the company and a second evaluation takes place. That's it. In a nutshell. They are holding meetings with the executors of dead authors who are looking for revenues and reissuing classics for middle readers. ALL new acquisitons are now simultaneously released to book stores and as EBOOKS on the same date (Not one year later as it used to be with paperbacks.) Huge numbers of lawyers have been retained to work out the electronic rights details. This for some celebrity authors has become a cause celebre as they can self publish on line and keep more royalties. For the debut author there is no negotiation. The working situation is stressful. Many editors have been laid off or left. Editorial assistants are now jobs filled by interns. One of those assistants we knew last year has been unemployed looking for work in publishing after serving the editor in chief at S&S for a year, and unable to find a position in spite of numerous calls on his behalf by her personally. Some of the editors I met with had currently works under submission by authors I represent. I carried this news to them and they have been working on proposals of how they can adapt their work to the new market. Another has withdrawn his manuscript and is totally revising it into another project with electronic application.

So, there it is. A changed playing field. I've been through the paperback revolution and I'm sure we'll survive this one.

With regard to the literary novelists which I represent, of which you are most dear to me, there is a changed course, however. I cannot survive financially on the advances paid by a small, independent, prestigious press. Not only will that find me in bankruptcy, but I cannot afford the time it takes to persevere pitching and followup to those editors. Right now, I have to concentrate on providing manuscripts to the trade that meet their qualifications. Having content that is topical is irrelevant if the multiplatform proposal is not made clear to the initial editorial boards. This is where the current sales are going. All of the editors I've spoken with say that they are eager to find serious literary work for young readers from 12 up. They are willing to work with an author who has adult fiction to adapt for the younger reader. (That's good.) Will I be able to pursue small presses and independent presses again? I hope so. However, the reality is that none of my novels have sold recently , except Brian's which is an old fashioned tale of pirates in the 17th Century.

I know I'm selecting talented writers. One of them was just awarded $84,000 for the Truman Capote Fellowship for FIctionWriters last month. I still cannot break him through. I don't know how long this craziness about technology is going to impact on the major houses. I still have many more editors I want to see and test on what the others have told me. I do know that more than one editor told me that the news releases about advances at auction are a myth at lest for the last two months.

Pease let me know what you think you can contribute in the way of ideas for multiplatform apps for your work. We can have a think tank if need be with several of you. We'll get past those editorial boards eventually.

Hunting for Tamara

I. J. Sarfeh's latest medical thriller.



Chapter 1.

Sweating under the midday sun, Jamal Najib peered over the doghouse, a dead Doberman sprawled at his side. The deafening gunfire had ceased, and he crouched back down. He removed his backpack and lifted up his shirt to inspect the bullet wound. Thanks to Allah, it was only a graze.

His life was spared for a reason, he thought. He must inform the world of the horrifying events he had just witnessed.

Sensing a movement to his right, he twisted around to see Tamara crawling toward him. She carried an infant under her arm, and her clothes were splattered with blood. He crept to her, took the infant, and whispered, “Allah has spared your life too, my dearest cousin.”

She did not respond.

He examined the infant boy. Drenched in blood, the body was lifeless.

Gently he lay the dead infant on the ground. “I pray for your eternal happiness in the afterlife.”

He turned to Tamara. “Are we the only ones alive?”

Her moist eyes were fixed on the tiny corpse, and she seemed in a daze.

Jamal shook her by the shoulders. “Tamara, the child will be much happier where he is going. We must think of our own survival now. We must live to serve as Allah’s instruments of vengeance.”

He slipped on his backpack, came to his knees, and looked about. An eerie silence enveloped the garden. Scattered all over the terrace were bloodied bodies. His gaze shifted to the reflecting pool in front of the terrace. Riddled with bullet wounds, two men lay face down in the shallow water. Next to them a little girl floated on her back, her terrified features frozen in death. Jamal groaned at recognizing his three-year-old niece.

After breathing a few profanities, he whispered to Tamara, “As God is my witness, dear cousin, we must take an oath to die rather than let the murderers escape justice.”

Seeing no signs of the masked gunmen, Jamal crept out on the terrace to inspect the bodies, hoping some were still alive. He looked for movement. Any movement.

All were dead.

He ran inside the mansion and into his uncle’s office. Rummaging through a file cabinet, he found the three-page document he had prepared a few weeks earlier. After folding it, he placed it inside a canvas-wrapped package in his backpack. He then retrieved his uncle’s car keys from the middle drawer of the desk and hurried back to Tamara. Grasping her hand, he led her to the Mercedes sedan parked on the cement driveway. He dropped his backpack on the rear seat, and they climbed into the car. Taking a final look at the carnage, he offered a silent prayer then drove off.

Two gunmen were crouched at the sides of the open gate, apparently lying in wait. They opened fire as Jamal drove onto the deserted side street. Pushing Tamara down, he thumped the accelerator to the floor. A spray of bullets smacked into metal. He lowered his head and kept driving. At the next intersection he glanced in his rearview mirror. The gunmen were jumping into a gray sedan.

Then the chase began.

Ten minutes later he was on Al Mansur Street, which had a few pedestrians braving the midday heat. With the gray sedan out of sight for the moment, he swerved the Mercedes to the curb and jammed on the brakes. He reached over, flung open the passenger door, and shouted, “Get out Tamara! It is best we separate.”

“But . . .”

“One of us must survive. Go, for the love of God!”

He pushed her out, and she stumbled onto the pavement. As he fishtailed the car away, he noticed Tamara’s gold bracelet on the passenger seat. If ever they should meet again, he would return it to her. But deep inside he sensed they had just parted for ever.

Racing the Mercedes onto the highway north to Baqubah, Jamal glanced in his rearview mirror and spotted the gray sedan not far behind. But he was confident that on the open road his uncle’s powerful Mercedes could outrun most other vehicles. He was right. Within a few minutes the gray sedan was a mere speck in his rearview mirror.

The city of Baqubah was only forty kilometers ahead, and he had friends there to help him. He passed two checkpoints without having to slow down. Until curfew time, most checkpoints were open to traffic heading away from Baghdad. He was almost halfway to his destination when he pulled in behind a line of vehicles stopped at a military barricade. He lowered the window, leaned out, and peered at the group of soldiers checking each vehicle. Upon recognizing their British uniforms, Jamal sighed in relief. He trusted the British.

After closing the window, he reset the interior temperature control to sixty-eight degrees, and waited. Five minutes passed, and the line of vehicles ahead of him had barely moved. Fearing the gray sedan was about to catch up, he jumped out and ran toward the barricade. As he neared it, the soldiers brandished their assault rifles and ordered him to stop.

Slowing his pace, he threw up his arms.

“Identify yourself," one of the soldiers shouted.

“Don’t shoot! My name is Jamal Najib, and I am a reporter.”

The soldier approached him. “Why do you have blood on your shirt?”

“Masked gunmen attacked our family home in Baghdad. Some of the blood is from a flesh wound.

The rest belonged to a dead infant.”

“Then why aren’t you in Baghdad to help with the investigation?”

“Because the killers are after me.”

“Let me see some identification.”

As Jamal reached for his wallet, from somewhere behind him a gunshot blasted. A knifelike pain exploded in his left chest. He crashed to the ground.

The soldiers returned fire. Jamal rolled over on his back and looked in the direction of the sniper. He saw a gray sedan make a screeching U-turn then speed away.

Feeling dizzy and a little sick to his stomach, he lay still.

One of the soldiers, a young man with a cherubic face, ran over to him. “Where do you hurt, sir?”
“My left chest. In the back.”

“You mustn’t move. I’ll get you help right away.”

“Are you British?”

“Yes, but you must lie quietly to preserve all your energy.”

Jamal had no recourse but to trust him. “Please do something for me. What is your name?”

“John Turnbull. I’ll call for an ambulance now.”

Knowing he was not long for this world, Jamal said, “While we wait, you must listen to what I have to say.”

The soldier spoke to one of his comrades and then knelt at Jamal’s side. “I’m afraid you don’t look too fit at the moment. If you must talk, make it brief.”

By the time the ambulance arrived, Jamal had finished his story.

His eyes bulging, the soldier gripped Jamal’s arm. “That was bloody unbelievable!”

“I swear by the Holy Koran I have told you the truth. Now please carry out my wishes..”

Jamal prayed to Allah that the soldier would comply.

Then his vision dimmed, and he closed his eyes for the last time.