Literary fiction is near death? Say it ain’t so Jo.
The Guardian brings us the dire warnings of the Arts Council England who see an earnings crisis among authors. Sanely The Guardian points out that the real source of the trouble is that publishers have woken up to the idea that lavishing huge advances on authors who then deliver books which don’t sell enough to earn out their advance is a form of charity that they can no longer afford. “The brutal truth is that through the 1980s and 90s it was possible for the literary novelist to make a living on advances that didn’t ‘earn out’. They were supported by an old-fashioned value system that sanctioned the write-off of losses for the kudos of association with an ‘important’ writer and a belief that literary value could be offset against the profits of more pragmatic publishing.”
Fascinatingly, perhaps in a bid for balance The Guardian brings us an alternate version of the same story, this one suppressing the excuse about advances and earning out. Their tag line on this one reads “New figures show that fewer UK writers earn enough to live on, as ACE blames falling sales of literary fiction on the recession and the rise of smartphones.” Maybe the cold weather in early December had something to do with it; or sunspot activity. Surely Teresa May can’t escape blame, nor D. Trump for that matter. Come on ACE, the rise of smartphones?
The article tells us “The researchers looked at the 10,000 bestselling fiction titles over the last five years and found: ‘Outside of the top 1,000 authors (at most), printed book sales alone simply cannot provide a decent income . . . That we are returning to a position where only the best-off writers can support themselves should be a source of deep concern.’” The wording there needs slight adjustment — it should be “the 10,000 best selling books”: we’d all love for their to be 10,000 bestsellers, but of course there aren’t. The 10,000 books with the greatest sales will get you down into territory which nobody would ever mistake for bestsellerdom, even probably that of books written for a popular audience. Most books have always been unable to deliver a living wage.
Now of course, one might prefer the term “literary fiction” to be narrowly defined as fiction written with a primary concern for art, not stuff written with popularity and sales in mind. That second-rate, catch-penny trade fiction might be in trouble shouldn’t cause The Arts Council too much concern surely. One assumes that their remit is solely with the quality stuff — which has always had, and always will have, a rather small audience. If you, heir to Edwin Reardon, write such material it is of course a matter of regret that publishers are no longer willing to play the game which pretends that your manuscript is bound to turn into a To the Lighthouse, rather than some forgotten masterpiece like, say, Emma Smith’s The Far Cry.
This poverty amongst midlisters is surely just the ending of a short interval in the history of relations between publishers and writers. Have publishers finally decided once and for all that fiscal responsibility trumps the gambling instint? I remain to be convinced.