Jonathan Worth Bingham
He didn’t mean what we ordinarily mean by vanity—sometimes I think we women need and deserve it—but the fruitlessness of all human effort.
I’m not sure what my maternal grandmother, Munda—formally Helena Lefroy Caperton, mesmerizing story teller and writer—meant by the phrase; she was one of the most complex women I’ve known, capable of speaking truth to the power of sons-in-laws and also to announcing at a formal dinner (after several whiskeys) when she was tired of being ignored, “I don’t care what you say, it’s all nothing but sex.”
I’m writing here about the vanity of us writers, so often ignored, especially if we are women and other marginalized people. We may be easily seduced by the blandishments of what used to be called, with my grandmother’s frankness, “vanity publishers” but which often parade now under authentic-sounding names.
Can we be forgiven for signing these disreputable contracts, which often do not stipulate the amount of money we are expected to contribute to the publishing of our books until after we’ve signed?
Of course. I almost fell into the clutches of one Thursday as I search for a publisher for Little Brother: The Short Life and Strange Death of Jonathan Worth Bingham. This press, possessing an august name and outposts abroad, solicited manuscripts in a recent edition of the venerable Poets and Writers, adding as a come-on that they don’t require the efforts of an agent in order to look at the work.
Well, that sounded good to me, since at the moment I don’t have an agent, but it might have served as a warning. At best, an agent protects a writer from being exploited by a publisher, which our desperation may prevent us from doing for ourselves. At worst, they are useless, taking their tiny percentage for doing nothing, as several of mine have done.
I might also have been alerted by a request to consider changing the names of the people I quote, which I would never do. These are the words of these long-dead (in most cases) individuals. The two or three still living have generously granted me permission, having long waited for Jonathan’s story to be told before it sinks to the bottom of the past, sixty years ago.
What really drew me, though—as Munda would say in another context; a most cynical woman, she believed devoutly in romance—was the sensitive and perceptive letter that came with the proposal. The proposal was lacking in all details, with a contract attached, to be signed at once and returned. What I noticed was the letter.
When I called, aglow with gratitude, the woman who answered at this vanity press didn’t seem to know what I was talking about and ended with the ubiquitous, and meaningless, “Have a good day.”
Another warning sign.
The sad thing about this letter, written by an unknown woman toiling in this particular version of hell, is that at another time, her insight might have won her an editorship in a legitimate publishing house. As they shrink and disappear, the opportunities for English graduates and lovers of literature disappear, too.
But back to this vanity publisher, which I will not name, because there are a lot of these snakes doing business in the world.
I was saved, barely, from signing a contract that would have cost me a bundle of money and given me OK-looking printed copies of my memoir, which would not be distributed in bookstores or reviewed except perhaps in my immediate neighborhood where friends would try to be helpful. Hundreds or thousands of copies would remain unsold and unread.
Jonathan deserves better. So do I.
I was saved by the wisdom of my son Chris Iovenko, who is a life-long writer and knows the rules of the game, as well as the publisher of five of my books, Sarah Gorham of Sarabande Books, and the timely advice of Pamela Kelly of the Authors Guild—a reason to join that organization, and a powerful one.
Kelly in a prompt email answer to my query laid out the machinations of vanity publishers: snare, through advertising, a desperate writer, draw up a contract that indicates nothing of what the writer will be expected to pay and to do, and produce a largely unedited book very few people will ever read.
What a scam! If you want to read the details, look at the shocking expose Kelly told me about—but you have to join the Authors Guild. It is well worth doing, for many reasons which you will find out about by looking at their site.
On the same day—Thursday—when I nearly signed that noxious contract, I heard from the university press that has been considering my proposal for Little Brother, asking to see the manuscript itself, which I have sent. The acquisition editor there proved, in our telephone conversation, to be the kind of perceptive, balanced, humorous individual I want to work with—a reminder for all of us that the human voice tells much more about character than any number of emails.
And so I am blessed to have escaped a disaster, through the support and good advice of two people I greatly value—and through the prompt warning of the Authors Guild’s Pamela Kelly.
Well spoken, Sallie. It was a close call!