CONFESSIONS

by Catherine Rudy

In 2007, when I founded Wolf Pirate Publishing, I wanted to focus on category fiction because it was what I enjoyed reading. I had never seen the appeal of “literary fiction” for the simple reason I had my own drama to deal with—and I could admit to some that would make what was in literary fiction pale in comparison. So why should I care to read about someone else’s drama when I had my own deal with. I wanted to read something for an escape from life. Delving into mystery, suspense, thrillers, horror, and yes, fantasy was perfect for that. It gave me a reprieve from life’s obstacles.

Before opening the publishing company, I had already known there was a poor reception for category fiction. Many “reputable” presses frowned on category fiction as beneath them, even stating in their submission guidelines how they would NOT accept it. I began to feel cheap and unintelligent because I had disdained literary fiction; but not only that, because I read category fiction. I felt like the serious literati were looking down their noses at me. I was embarrassed.

For two and a half years, I kept the publishing company open, reading submissions and hearing the laments of category fiction writers. Many of them were passionate writers who faced the daunting task of finding a home for their work because of the narrow market for it. In the meantime, I discovered something. I disliked the commercial and marketing demands of the industry. Because of that, I was a horrible saleswoman. Instead, I turned all my energies to the literary aspect of the company, shifting it away from publishing and moving it toward education. I took that direction because not many submissions we received were of very good quality. It led me to my next epiphany: that I was a demanding judge of literature. I wanted to see literary merit in category fiction.

Over the years, as a fan of category fiction, I became disappointed with what I found on the commercial market. I had always read books all the way through, but then I began forcing myself to finish some. Eventually, it reached a point where I stopped reading a book when I couldn’t take it any longer. Soon, I couldn’t make it halfway through some. Finally, I found myself wandering bookstores with the fear of wasting good money on something I wouldn’t get past the first few chapters. I opened the publishing company with the hopes of changing the market. I was disillusioned.

Changing the literary quality of category fiction wasn’t going to come from publishing excellent writers. Not as a small press. Small category fiction presses rarely get reviewed in Publisher’s Weekly, a staple of success in the industry; or find a distributor to reach bookstores, unless they want to limit themselves to online sales through BN.com or Amazon.com. Small category fiction presses rarely get accepted into “literary” associations that have merit. And as I mentioned already, I was a horrible saleswoman. I was a crack editor, though.

Being a state-certified instructor and involved in training for the past eighteen years, I had been focusing my energies on a completely different aspect than writing. But having worked on the sideline in the literary field for almost twenty years and having written several manuals and class curriculums, I had subconsciously been moving in a particular direction all along. It wasn’t until I had gone through my experience with my publishing company that I realized what that was. I wanted to show writers what they were doing wrong and teach them otherwise.

I won’t go into a long list of deficiencies with today’s emerging writers (published or not), but I will expose my discovery of why there is such a high-brow attitude against category fiction. Readers, publishers, and reviewers assume there is no literary value in category fiction. I say, in part, they might be right. However, I must remind these people that literary fiction is not a separate genre in itself, but a judge of the aesthetic value of the work. Aesthetic value is not found exclusively in literature that can’t be categorized as a distinct genre. It is the quality of the writing, not the category of the work that matters. The literati need to stop judging the book by the genre and view the content between the pages. They may find literary merit in works that fall under the categories of romance, mystery, thrillers, science fiction and even horror if they look.

On the obverse side, writers of category fiction must begin to write aesthetically if they want to enjoy literary appreciation. True, many writers are content only to find commercial success in the mainstream of the general public. Even the majority of writers I have dealt with were interested only in getting published and not working on the quality of their manuscript. I wished them luck and sighed about the sad fate of category fiction if that was the main direction of writers. I did find a few serious writers who wanted to take it to another level, though. My editors and I worked with them in the Writer’s Workshop, spending months with each to help them understand the philosophy of literary merit. We gave them direction and advice, and in return, they worked hard. They were given a lot of latitude in the course of what ultimately went into their book, and two have subsequently found publishers. We didn’t charge anything for the service, but we were immensely rewarded with gratitude, accomplishments, and a sense of doing something beneficial for someone. After a year of running the Workshop, we decided unanimously to make it one of our main goals. With some relief, we closed the publishing aspect of the company and opened a nonprofit organization to focus on education, development, and mentoring writers, as well as drawing readers back into the realm of entertaining fiction.

We welcome category fiction at the Wolf Pirate Project, as well as “literary” fiction. In our effort to get the literati to change its views about categorizing literature, we accept everything. If it falls within the realm of creative writing, we will review it. We want to look at writers as assets to our culture as human beings, not commodities. We do not imagine we will change the marketing views of the industry, but perhaps we can change a few minds in the meantime about literary merit. That means starting with writers and getting them to view their work as something more than just a money-making venture, writing with an emphasis on the artistic value of literature.

TEXTBOOK WOES

by Bryan S. Rudy

When I was tasked with the mission of pursuing the prospect of developing textbooks for middle and high school age kids, I groaned. But then I was told I only had to come up with ideas to make the project feasible, not write them. I relaxed a little and got on to proving I could do my part, fearing the repercussions if I didn’t pull it off. Telling my wife it couldn’t be done wasn’t going to cut it. She would just find some way to prove me wrong. It was better to just go with it.

The hurdles to jump were astronomical, but I approached the problem the easiest way possible: one step at a time. The lesson plan was already in the hands of editors, so that was one daunting task off the table. The next was the school systems’ requirements. I did my research, made a list for the editors, and went on to the next task: financial feasibility. I already knew where this was going and didn’t even ask the question of how much the company was willing to invest in the project. I’d only get “the look.”

Taking what the school systems wanted in one hand and the budget in the other, I weighed my options and came up with one thing. Donations. Not money, but works of literature. Poems, essays, short stories, you name it. Literature textbooks were stuffed with well-known works like Rikki-Tikki-Tavi and poems by Robert Frost. The acknowledgements in the back were a smorgasbord of New York publishing houses, trusts, and estates. I saw huge dollars next to those in permission costs. I also saw boredom. The one way to turn a child off of reading and writing was to make them read something they had no connection to. As much as some educators and scholars want to believe, you can’t jam culture down a child’s throat. You first have to get them interested in the way to read it. Something about a horse and water comes to mind.

But I digress. Back to the issue of cost, which was a major factor on all accounts, both in calculating the Project’s investment into the venture and the schools’ budget. It worked in both our favors to keep the cost of production down. Editors were donating their time or working for peanuts to put the text together; other people were working on developing a student panel; and I was working on finding a reasonable printer and fielding options on hardback versus soft. I posed the idea of asking for donated works and got “the look.” I had to do some scrambling and fast talking. This is what I said to sell the idea.

It was a cooperative effort and everyone would benefit from it.

“The look” dissipated into a wary expression of curiosity. I waited in silence for a response, but there was none. There was only tacit patience. I had the floor and went on.

Let’s start with the writers and poets who would donate their works. Those seemed to be the most critical group at this point in the endeavor. We needed sample literature to go into the textbooks. On the other hand, these writers would benefit from the exposure. If these textbooks got approved by a State’s school system, thousands of up-and-coming readers and writers would read these donated poems, short stories, and essays. That was conceivably more of an audience than a traditional publisher might be able to reach for the average writer. Since the shelf life of a book in a bookstore is roughly four to six months, a textbook that was kept in circulation for years would reach many times that number of mainstream readers. And these would be a captive audience. (I received a frown for that.)

Go on, was the verbal response.

I came up with the next thing off the top of my head.

Mimicking literary textbooks in schools, each writer who was showcased in the textbook would get to include a blurb about their writing experiences. They would have a chance to communicate with the students in contemporary terms—which was a nice segue to the next most important group to benefit from the effort: the students.

And, was what I got, this time with arms folded over. I coughed to clear my throat.

I gave my spiel about what I’d heard from my children and all the other children I’d spoken to about reading and writing. Their textbooks were boring. The reading list was droll and outdated. The classes were a drag. Video games took up the time they should have spent reading or doing homework.

It was obvious these textbooks were making no connection with these kids. Somewhere along the line, textbooks hadn’t made it into the twenty-first century. I used the words I’d found in these same books. “Creative writing is meant to cause an emotional reaction in readers.” That reaction shouldn’t be boredom. The sample writing in these books wasn’t connecting with the kids.

I got “the look” again. I was clueless for the reason.

Other than having to defend why I didn’t see what was wrong with my sound argument, I then had to explain why I decided to knock cultural examples of approved literature. I wasn’t, I sputtered, backpedaling. I only wanted to point out that these antiquated works weren’t making a connection with today’s kids. They were counterproductive to attracting a child’s interest in reading. Something had to give.

And . . .

I breathed a sigh of relief and went on, this time to the schools’ benefit in this endeavor. Without having to put money out to pay for donated pieces of writing, we would be able to keep overall production costs down. As a nonprofit, the Project could price these textbooks at a reasonable rate, which would be a factor in any logistical decision on the schools’ part.

I waited for a reaction. What I got was more than I expected.

Now I’m on to investigating the question of how often we would revise these textbooks. My innocuous suggestion has snowballed into another idea I had no part in. The Project now wants to include an opportunity for current students to submit their work for possible publication in a subsequent revision, giving these kids a chance to see their efforts in print and inspiring others to take part in the cycle of encouraging reading and writing in the younger generation. It would be the start of a trend.