HOW SHILLING "SHOCKERS" ARE LAUNCHED.
MY EXPERIENCES AS AN AUTHOR.
IT
is one thing to write a book, and another to
get it read. The public like to read shilling
books very much — especially when borrowed of
a friend, say, or when picked up in a railway
train.
The budding author knows this well enough,
and he yearns to oblige the public.
The public does not appreciate his noble sentiments.
It gets its literature from nasty sordid
publishers.
The publisher doesn't want to read your book,
so he lends it to another fellow who also doesn't
want to read it — in fact, this last fellow positively
won't read it unless he is paid to do so by the
publisher. This disagreeable person is ironically
called "The Reader."
He is that person referred to by the budding
author in his gentlest moments as "dear reader."
The author, if you notice, is usually very respectful
to this gentleman. If he isn't he suffers for it.
But I was more successful than most authors.
I enlisted the services of a very charming lady —
who had just launched a very poor shilling
"shocker" in a highly successful manner — to go
right straight away with my MS. to a publisher
and fascinate him on the spot into reading it
himself, which he did.
Poor man! he evidently suffered for it, if one
could judge from the letter he wrote to her
afterwards about it.
He wrote pathetically four pages of remarks,
and having filled up the four sides of his sheet of
notepaper with criticism, I suppose he hadn't
space left to say anything favourable; so he
simply signed his name and sent back the book.
My fascinating friend was disgusted with his
lack of appreciation. But I wasn't; I felt for
him, poor fellow. I altered the book and took it
elsewhere.
This time I tried my own fascinations. I tried
them on Messrs. Ward, Lock & Co. of Salisbury
Square.
I may mention, before I go farther, that my
story was one of a high moral tone which I
considered redounded much to my credit.
Messrs. Ward, Lock politely declined the
pleasure of publishing my story.
I began to feel really anxious. I felt sorry for
them too. I asked them to relieve their pent-up
feelings by saying something severe about the
book.
I called and saw the office boy and several
clerks. They seemed determined to keep me
out of the managerial sanctum at all hazards. I
suppose they did not want any further shock
given to the firm. By dint of persuasion I got
them to give me an extract from the "Reader's
Report."
I have it before me. They sent it by post so
that I shouldn't have a fit at their office. Here
is the extract:—
"In the reply to your inquiry we beg to say our
reader reports that "——" is a story in which the
interest is maintained throughout. It is scarcely
a book to be read indiscriminately, though it
cannot be said that its moral tone is objectionable.
Then next I took the book to another firm and
tried to forget it.
I pretended to myself that I had forgotten it
whilst two months went by. Then I got anxious.
I though perhaps it had killed the reader.
I wrote nice letters to the publishers, and they
wrote nice letters to me all about their reader,
how busy he was, how determined he was to read
my book soon or die in the attempt, and how he
had gone out of town, and only just come back,
(readers go out of town a great deal, they require
it).
Then I took to haunting the office and making
kind inquiries after the reader.
At last a letter, a sweet, guileless letter.
"Dear Sir, — With reference to the book left
with us some short time since, our reader's report
is now before us, and though it is not by any
means as favourable as we could have wished,
still he mentions some points which, we think,
might justify us in publishing the same,
providing a satisfactory arrangement could be
come to."
I translated as follows:—
"Dear Sir, — After keeping you waiting three
months we have read your book, and it is all
right. but we don't mean to let you get anything
out of it if we can help it. We have no doubt
you are a Juggins in matters of business or you
wouldn't have brought the thing to us."
Then we played at the spider and the fly.
Now I pride myself on my 'cuteness. At my
interview I was guarded. Both partners seemed
very fond of me, and told me all their troubles.
I felt quite sorry that they made so little profit
out of shilling books.
They advised me in a kindly way to be guided
by them. They would publish my book and give
me a royalty on each copy if I would let them
have the first seven thousand as free copies,
"just to cover the first expense you know." I
didn't commit myself. I reserved judgment.
"Go to Mr. ——," says a friend, "he is the
buyer for Messrs. ——, the largest firm of
booksellers. Ask his advice and say I sent you."
The buyer of the largest firm seemed to pity
me. He told me that my publisher had simply
offered me nothing at all for my book, because
few shilling stories reached a circulation of seven
thousand copies.
I offered my publisher three thousand free
copies, but he got four thousand in the end.
All this is now ancient history, as it happened
last April, six months ago. I told all my friends to
look out of my book and they did; but most of
them have died since then, or grown too old to
care for fiction.
I am expecting the printers' proofs every day
now. I am quite anxious to see them. I often
sit and think over those long-forgotten days and
wonder what the plot of my story was.
The publisher says I shall soon know now.
I hope so.
(THE END)
The images in this tweet are not shilling "shockers", but twopenny
pulp fiction, c. 1895.
