A question of midlist

Mad Max Perkins (who seems to be off to a good start if you judge the attention some of his authors are getting) posts a thought-provoking treatise on reclaiming what’s become a dirty word in publishing: midlist:

Recently I’ve been thinking about the term “midlist.” What does the word mean? What characteristics does a midlist title possess? Is a book born a midlist title, or does it become one, retroactively? Is membership determined by the size of the first printing? by the net sale? If an editor pays $250,000 for a book, can it, under any circumstance, be deemed a midlist title? Why is the term "backlist" viewed so favorably, when the connotations of "midlist" are so all-fire nasty? At what point did the word acquire such…smelliness?

Seems there’s no insult more insulting than being characterized as a midlist author… But why? When did the term cease to mean "dependable seller" (similar in this way to "backlist"), as it had for generations? And is there any hope of "rehabilitating" the term, giving it a make-over, a face-lift–of returning to it, if not glory, then at least a modicum of its former dignity?

He then gives two contrasting examples of such, one a high-advance, big-buzz debut that underperforms, and a low-advance, modestly selling non-fiction tome. He promises more, and I’d like to see something about the culture of big advances and whether–gasp–some kind of cap should be placed upon them.

There’s also the question of acceptable risk and whether NY publishing houses are less inclined to make such judgment calls. Consider the case of Kent Harrington, whose situation I’ll describe after the jump.

Kent Harrington’s first two novels, DIA DE LOS MUERTOS and DARK RIDE, are often listed by aficionados as among the best contemporary noir novels. Harrington never writes the same book twice, and his most recent effort, THE TATTOOED MUSE, was an unnerving Hitchcock-esque thriller that not only messed with the heads of its characters, but with those who couldn’t stop reading. Now he’s on tour for his newest book, RED JUNGLE, whose first edition is published by Dennis McMillan–and that’s it. As he writes to Aldo Calcagno, he’s intrigued by the seeming disconnect between the interested readers he’s meeting and publishers’ wholesale rejection:

It all started when New York editors, important ones, said that the reason they couldn’t publish my novel RED JUNGLE was that "No one cares about Guatemala". Well this is what I found out in the desert on my low-budget book book tour. People are indeed very interested in Guatemala. So much so, in fact, that they came out to a bookstore on a Saturday to see what RED JUNGLE was all about just because they had an interest in Central America, Mayan history etc. etc. And these were people that had never heard of yours truly. So, there you have it. Red Jungle is attracting readers who are curious about the world we share. Hey, no kidding! So this begs the question: if RED JUNGLE turns out to do well in part because of it’s setting, does that mean that New York is incapable of judging what is commercial these days. And if they are, is that why book reading is in this counrty is going down hill faster than a rabbit on rollerskates? You tell me kids.

Which begs the question: who, exactly, "doesn’t care about Guatemala"? Isn’t it more accurate to say that certain members of major NY publishing houses don’t care because it doesn’t fit their limited worldview that stretches from 96th street to lower Manhattan, maybe beyond to Williamsburg or Park Slope? Much as it’s my favorite city in the world, nobody does insular provincialism like New York. The problem I have with edicts like "this book will never sell" or "no one cares" is that–well, how do you know this? Did you conduct market research where average joes were asked such questions? Is there a representative sample from each of the 50 states and beyond? Perhaps this is where my training as a scientist comes in because I’m loath to accept any kind of blanket statement in any situation, publishing or otherwise.

Maybe it’s time to redefine what a "successful" book is, and actually make a more concerted effort to figure out what, exactly, sells books. Because exchanges like this (first seen at Galleycat) rather horrify me:

Frankly, we were flabbergasted. "Really?" we exclaimed. "Not even good reviews?"

"Oh … good reviews." he sniffed. "Yes, I suppose they can help, but even then. … "

The process was starting to appear mysterious. "How do books sell?" we asked.

"When people buy them," our publicist confided.

Wow, what incredible insight. Such a confidence booster, really. But then, my longstanding motto about the publishing world has been that "Such-and-such book will never sell–unless it does."