It Was All So Briefly Beautiful

A peek behind the curtain into the world of big New York publishing.

I’ve received some emails with questions about this new Substack subscription endeavor of mine, so I thought I’d clear things up for everyone in a post. If you have any interest in my whirlwind ride from struggling artist to full-time author, or if you think you might enjoy a peek behind the curtain into the world of big New York publishing, read on.

I published my first novel, South of Bixby Bridge, on Amazon in 2011. The book was a bit edgy and deeply personal, but its reception made for an encouraging debut. It sold well enough that I dropped the screenplays I was working on to keep writing novels. The first and second books of The Park Service Trilogy followed in 2012, selling at a steady trickle that kept me in coffee and ink. (Later, when I’d finished this series, it would climb the charts and be briefly courted by a major movie studio, but at this time it had not yet found a wide audience.) By early 2013, I had carved out a humble career as a professional writer. Then I wrote Jane’s Melody and everything changed.

Jane’s Melody came together quickly, unfolding over a period of feverish inspiration almost as rapidly as I could write it down. I released it on Amazon with no expectation beyond the sense of accomplishment I felt. It sold a few thousand copies, received a few hundred positive reviews, and I called it a success and returned to working on the final book of my trilogy. Then I sat down with my mug of coffee early one morning and never got a chance to drink it. My email inbox was blowing up. Jane’s Melody was racing up the charts: Amazon, Wall Street Journal, USA Today, eventually multiple weeks on The New York Times bestseller list. It was a great surprise.

I had never submitted a manuscript to a literary agent (didn’t think I needed one) and now they were emailing and submitting their resumes to me. It happened very fast, and I was swept along in waters I’d never mapped and had no experience navigating. The agents brought offers from big publishers. Offers for multiple books. I was hesitant. A bit of bidding ensued. It was all incredibly exciting, but even in the midst of this good fortune there were signs that called for caution. None of the agents contacting me showed any interest in reading my earlier work. None seemed interested in me as an artist at all. They seemed interested instead by my newfound commercial success, and this worried me because all I had to offer was my writing.

Despite my hesitation, an offer finally landed that was too good to turn down. An imprint of Simon & Schuster, a publisher whose colophon I had seen countless times beneath the names of writers I revered, offered to purchase the rights to Jane’s Melody, plus a sequel (Jane’s Harmony, 2014) and an untitled third book (Falling for June, 2015). The contract was lengthy and in legalese, the money serious and real, but what was most important to me was written between the lines and hinted at in long phone calls—vague promises of a wider international audience and a storied literary career, the business of which would be handled by professionals, freeing me to focus on writing.

The inked contract was hardly dry before I was spirited off to Manhattan for my induction into the rarified world of legacy publishing. I was trotted out and presented at the “Largest Book Expo in America” to speak briefly and sign new editions of Jane’s Melody, hot off the presses, my name boldly printed on the spine, the title page to my promising new life—New York, New York, baby, welcome to the big time! The boy from nowhere Bellingham validated at last, feted and charmed, and then marched around and shown all the shiny things that mark the trappings of success. I had arrived and must now be introduced to my new peers.

“This is our chief financial officer, the man who signs the checks.”

A distracted handshake, urgent, firm, possibly interrupting an important business call, the cell phone still pressed to his ear.

“Meet our chief executive. She’s a huge fan of your work.”

A brief conversation reveals a very impressive, powerful woman who has clearly not read a word I’ve written and never will.

“Oh, here. You absolutely must meet William. We just published his book, too.”

Embarrassment follows when I mention his uncanny resemblance to a certain famous rock star and am pulled away by my handlers to be informed that the resemblance is not uncanny at all. (I thought he’d be taller.)

A few lectures and luncheons later, I’m cornered by the president of the imprint that now owned my unwritten books and regaled with their impressive plans to expand their publishing business, not my career: “We’re signing young YouTube stars. Influencers. Very exciting. Lots of buzz.” My questions asking what these influencers might offer the world of literature were readily brushed aside. “They have millions of followers. It’s all about the built-in audience. All about scale. Synergy. This is the future!” A smile, a hug, a kiss on each cheek, and then, “Nice chat. Sorry, gotta run.” And off she goes, the efficient clack of her departing heels swallowed up by the crowd. Rush, rush, rush. More meetings with more people, all as sharp and crisp as their freshly pressed pants. Lots of important names I can’t remember. Lots of interruptions for important calls from even more important people.

The whole trip was as bewildering and busy as a Wall Street sidewalk at noon. Missing from all this marvelous madness, however, was any discussion whatsoever about writing or books. Not books as art anyway. Books as product, yes. But only that. In that world, in the skyscrapers of Oz, there was nothing but business behind the curtain and the books themselves were just stacked up to be counted like cash. Sales on a spreadsheet, not words on a page. The world I had imagined of old leather chairs and quiet fireside chats about the writers and stories we all loved was nowhere to be found. If it had ever existed at all, it had long since been bulldozed for fill, just a legacy holding up this corporate movie set that could be folded up at will, sent on ahead to catch the next literary vogue, the next book expo.

I returned home to Seattle with jetlag that would pass and a feeling of despondency that wouldn’t. Determined to not squander my newfound freedom, I brushed off the glitter and resolved to not change my writing or my life at all. The checks that followed were more than I needed and almost everything was stashed away for a rainy day. There are lots of rainy days around here, and in this profession. I did hunt for a little writing cabin somewhere quiet (the city is a noisy place to work) and that hunt led me to this island and this house. I’ll tell that story another day. What matters here is that my misgivings had not been misplaced.

I wrote the books I owed them, and I’m proud of the work. But I wasn’t an influencer or a young YouTube star. Nor was I a famous musician with legions of fans nostalgic for the bygone better days of MTV. I was a writer somewhere in between. A craftsman. A storyteller. An artist even, perhaps. I had no idea how to replicate the success of Jane’s Melody, and it dawned on me that neither did my publisher. They were fumbling around on the dark side of the rainbow, chasing after something that lay under their feet, something the silent sower on their logo already knows: The writing is what matters. The story. Some books fall to the wayside; some sell fast and then quickly fade. Occasionally, mysteriously, one lands in the deep soil of our collective consciousness and grows a garden in our hearts.

I did meet some wonderful and conscientious people—the assistants, the art department, the desk that negotiated foreign contracts on my behalf—who were not caught up in their own press and seemed to retain a love for truly good books. But the contract was consummated with the company, and there are no courts in Neverland. The promises I’d misread between the lines yielded to the force majeure of corporate reality, proving as far away and ephemeral as the northern lights.

So, what is a writer left with once the fairy dust dissipates? Had he or she not saved, the answer would be nothing, nothing at all. Many hundreds of thousands of people have now read my books. I’ve been blessed to hear from many of you, but I have no idea who the vast majority of them are. Their identities are hidden in some server vault somewhere being harnessed to hawk this week’s new release or plastic diecast deal of the day. And the publishers are all busy buzzing about their convention halls looking to synergize their ghost writers with viral TikTok videos and starving Instagram stars. As for me, I’m here on a quiet island, having escaped just in the nick time, a good deal older, a little bit wiser, but wide awake and still writing.

Something broke in me when my illusions were shattered. I needed to rest and repair myself, and also to let a contract expire. But I have not wasted my time. I can add plumber and painter and amateur pilot next to aspiring poet on my resume. And husband now, too! But I’m still a novelist at heart and have been working at it quietly all this time. Something broke, yes, but something was strengthened, too. Something meaningful. Something more than just briefly beautiful. 

I took two things with me from this experience that I value beyond all else: The pride I feel when I’ve written something true, and the joy of connecting with people who read it and are moved. My promise is simple: I’ll follow my muse to write what I feel is true, and treat you as unique individuals, not names and email addresses to be abused. Everyone is welcome.

Sincerely,

Ryan.

An audio recording of this essay can be found here:

Audio: It Was All So Briefly Beautiful