On Public Relations

Observations on the practice of public relations, from an industry veteran.

[paulbogaards]

There is an old quartz wall clock in the kitchen. In the morning, when it is still dark and quiet, after I come downstairs and fill the tea kettle with water but before it starts to heat, I hear the seconds ticking. For a moment, I am conscious of this slipper of an envelope we inhabit. We are here and then gone. I think of the people who left and the conversations we had. I am not sad. I was lucky to have known them all.

[paulbogaards]

I’m looking to hire a Publicist

ACTUAL JOB DESCRIPTION (not the one you will find posted on PRH):

The Executive Vice President, Director of Publicity and Media Relations for the Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group (@paulbogaards) is seeking a Publicist to dazzle the industry and world with their work and brio and warm good humor providing day-to-day support and counseling for authors (a lot of counseling) in a blistering-paced, internal and external facing (internal = editors = suspicious, external = agents = sometimes mean though they will describe their behavior as outcome directed), detail-oriented (seat 2A not 12A), data-driven (blah blah blah) environment working with dying legacy media professionals, social media pioneers, brand ambassadors (FML), booksellers (❤️), and other half-crazed publishing desperados.

The ideal candidate for this position will have had previous experience working as a magician. There is no finer point to make. As a publicist, you need to make magic happen. Magic. Every fucking day. Come equipped with a rabbit and a top hat and a goddamn wand and get ready to wave it every Wednesday afternoon at approximately 4:00 PM. You will be given books to work on that have no possibility whatsoever of becoming bestsellers, and yet, the operating expectation is that all of them will list. Authors expect that outcome. Agents expect that outcome. Editors expect that outcome. Publishers expect that outcome. It’s as if they’re all smoking the same green-blonde hallucinogenic.

The job is a grind. No one is capable of doing it for very long. The hours, the demands, the pressure, the weight of expectation, the dissonance between acquisitions and the marketplace, all of these things cause enormous stress on publicists. Think about this: the executive director has been doing it for thirty plus years. He has become a hollow shell of the man he once was as a result.

“Every day is a beat down.”

“I know.”

“Editors. Agents. Authors. Journalists. All of them are a fucking menace.”

“Tell me about it.”

“They look at us like we are, I don’t know what.”

“They look at us like we are fucking waterboys. That’s how they look at us.”

“That’s exactly right. We’re the fucking waterboys.”

You could be that person -- one of the waterboys (or gals). You are young and full of magic and convinced that book publishing is not decline but instead enjoying a renaissance. You look at Amazon with wide-eyed awe and innocence. You will step into the job thinking of the difference you are able to exact on behalf of writers everywhere. You, my friend, are a naif.

This is what will actually happen: You will be staring at your mobile in a crosswalk, answering a complaint from an author about their seat assignment on a United flight, and then be hit by an Uber. That is the most succinct description of book publishing in the 21st century that the director can think of.

All candidates for the position will undergo Anna’s box test. This is a test where you are invited in for an interview with the director, and there is a box on the seat you are supposed to sit in. If you just stare at the box, waiting for the director to move it, you are summarily dismissed and immediately disqualified as a candidate. If you pick up the box and place it somewhere else, you have passed the first test.

You will hear whispers about publishing projects where the company is rumored to have paid considerable sums of money for a book and then a call will come in from a reporter asking questions about said project and you will immediately route it to the director. The director has experience answering questions about the amount of money the company overpaid (5 million, 10 million, 20 million) and why the book is worth that much (it’s not) and how many copies will it take to earn out (it won’t) in what will become an infinite loop of inquiry and denial and the reporter, determined, will end up substantiating the figure through a disgruntled publisher who was knocked out on the last best bid (Karp) and then come back to you and ask you to confirm the figure and you will again deny it and they will wind up reporting the number anyway (though reporters these days don’t press in the same rough way that, say, Streitfeld and Kirkpatrick used to, and that is OK with the director, he is accepting of the new school press corps, though he generally prefers old school guys, and will always answer the phone when Keith Kelly calls, because he is the embodiment of OLD FUCKING SCHOOL, a guy who will tease out any story he can about Jann Wenner).

As a publicist, editors will complain to you about the New York Times (what the fuck are they doing over there?) and then become agitated and disgruntled and dismayed and threatening when one of their books is overlooked by that outlet (they reviewed a fucking book from New Directions instead of my book?) suggesting to you that action is essential (we need to do something) and you will reassure them, say of course, of course, I’ll get right on it, but really, what are you going to do? You will come to understand, very quickly, that happiness is elusive in our industry and joy is fleeting. Mostly, everyone suspects each other of book espionage.

Generally, the Publicist can expect career advancement provided they do their job without committing actionable offenses on social media or installing a joy button under the desk in their office or threatening to kill someone because they wrote a bad review (editors do this all the time. First, they threaten you. Then they threaten the BRE. Then they write a drunken email to the reviewer). Do not be led by their bad example.

This is a good position to learn about the business, as good as any, the director basically runs a farm team for the industry, his first hire now runs comms for one of the Big Five and he will smile when he sees a story in the paper with her Chairman touting the benefits of open floor plans (“there was just this energy and buzz and sense of excitement of collaborative human endeavor that really was kind of exhilarating”) and he is proud for a moment recognizing that his first hire has mastered the PR skill of ventriloquism (she has also mastered adapting the infinite loop of denial into the infinite loop of positivity.) Others have gone on to assume posts of similar stature at The New Yorker (where Remnick still won’t give anyone a credit line including Tommy Orange whose book THERE THERE was just excerpted in the magazine and everyone is supposed to be thrilled about that and the mention of said work on the contributor page but I’m like FUCK THAT who looks at the contributor page give me a book shot in the well of the magazine but of course there is no justice in much of this work, people want what they want when they want it and for selfish ends, the labors of the writer remain forgotten, the working men and women who are the backbone of our industry are frequently an afterthought, and THAT SEEMS TO ME A GREAT PUBLISHING INJUSTICE), and the Brooklyn Cyclones (that was Dave, he was a very handsome, I went to his wedding in New Jersey, there was a Venetian dessert table with fountains, it was like something out of the Sopranos), and Jennifer, who married someone rich and Jewish (that is kind of like going to work for The New Yorker) and gave birth to four children and will sometimes send me emails asking what the fuck happened to her life:

“What the fuck happened to my life?”

“Husband. Money. Kids.”

“FUCK.” Jennifer had (has) a foul mouth. I loved (love) that about her.

“Is there still work for me in publishing?”

“No. Business is dying. Stick with your plan. Keep the husband.”

Occasionally, you will find the director weeping at his desk and you will wonder if he is suffering from some kind of nervous breakdown and then you will observe an open email on his computer and see that it is simply a note of gratitude from a colleague - warmly written and sincere - and you will come to understand that they appear so infrequently that when they do the only way he knows how to respond is by weeping and you will feel a little sad for him. As a publicist, you will live a life of sadness and defeat. And you will learn to cry.

The director is looking for someone to step into his role because he is tired of weeping. The job has exacted a toll. He has become impatient.  His responses to queries are no longer soft and nuanced. This week, for example, an editor from T Magazine sent him an email asking if Cormac McCarthy would cooperate for a cover profile and he responded “Not possible” and the editor wrote back asking “As in not possible for October because the book is so far out, or...unlikely to be possible at any time?” and the director wrote back “EVER” in all caps and then he sat back is his chair and thought “who are these fucking dragoons and when will they ever learn?”

Another reporter suggested to the director that he was giving him incorrect guidance, when, in fact, the director answered the reporter’s question with the information at hand. The director is fifty-seven and has made a living being honest with reporters and went back and forth with the reporter about his track.

“He kept asking me the same fucking question.”

“That’s how they work.”

“I said to him, ‘We’re in the weeds here. You’re suggesting the football moved. I’m telling you it was a completion. End of story.’”

You will attend meetings where nothing happens. That is another succinct description of book publishing in the 21st century.

You will be working with seasoned publishing veterans who spend most of their day worrying about Amazon and Barnes & Noble and the death of media.

You will read books before they become books and often find yourself thinking about transitioning out of the industry.

One page proposals will arrive with breathy notes from editors. An auction will follow. The director will be asked to create a marketing and publicity summary in advance of the auction.

“Based on what?”

“The proposal.”

“The proposal is one page.”

“Just make something up.”

So the director will make something up. You will help him. This will happen simultaneously across the industry. The people who make up the best things often acquire the book. So if you are good at making things up, possibly this is a job for you.

You will send emails, respond to emails, and stuff books in jiffy bags. If you are good at stuffing things in jiffy bags, possibly this is a job for you.

People will ask you questions. People from inside and outside the company. The desk you occupy is a kind of information station and you will need to learn the answers to so many questions (the director knows the answers to these questions but doesn’t have the patience to respond anymore and indeed it has become dangerous to let any questions through to him because he will often say something wrong on purpose, or say something inappropriate, there was even an instance when a reader called inquiring about Carl Hiaasen’s book tour and he asked her out on a date and Who the fuck does that?)

Candidates for this position need to be confident and made of steel and in possession of magic. Possibly you are that person. Please apply by clicking on the link here.

Thank you.

PS: “I’ll need a spacious south facing hotel room in a 4 star property, and OMG it cannot be The Muse, I mean how could you book anyone in that hotel?, it’s full of escorts and German tourists, the rooms are tiny, mine felt like a cell, and given my crippling anxiety about touring I’m lucky to be alive after that stay, you need to respect the work I’m doing on the road, and that was not a respectful hotel booking, and being in United boarding group two on my flight to New York, well, that was not respectful either, but I don’t want to get too far afield here, I just need you to listen to me and hew to my requests, do that and we will have a successful tour, my comfort and safety remain a priority, take it seriously, double pane windows on a high floor are essential, but not too high, away from the elevators and adjacent to a fire stairway, and quiet, the room has to be quiet, with fine linens and towels and four down pillows (one for between my legs, two for my head, and one to snuggle with), a king bed, a duvet, fresh flowers, white peonies if they are in season, a tub and a shower and 24-hour room service, these are the basics, the last tour almost killed me and that simply cannot happen this time out…”

#publishing #books #publicrelations

[paulbogaards]

HOW TO HAVE SEX WITH YOUR HUSBAND OF FIFTEEN YEARS

Getting Started

“Feel a surge of sexual yearning. This needn’t be occasioned by your husband. It might be occasioned by thoughts of a stranger, or a dirty passage in a book, or a photograph of a glistening brown chicken in the Wednesday Food section of The New York Times, or an errant breeze. Don’t worry about where the yearning comes from, just be grateful you get to have it. The sexual yearning is an old friend, back to visit you from your youth. It disappeared for a while—for a long time—when you were a young mother. During that era your husband (then of fewer years) was the one who kept things moving along. Your husband’s interest in sex was one of the things that made you interested in him. When you first met him, his shoe-gazing diffidence was both off-putting and alluring; you couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like if he looked at you. If he touched you. When he firmly (dominantly?) took your hand for the first time, you felt an erotic shock and had this thought: “We are going to get married.” Your husband wanted to do it all the time, when you were first married, and then all those years when the children were small. He wanted to do it inventively, sweetly, roughly, tenderly, filthily, chattily. Not you. Your body was used up by birth and by nursing, a tapped-out natural resource. Your husband carried the sex torch all those years. You had to talk yourself into it, and you had requirements. Date nights and intimacy. All that stuff. You don’t have requirements now, just this tidal, ridiculous lust. I said it was an old friend, but it’s more like old weather, a particular kind of rain that hasn’t rained in a decade.”

Claire Dederer, LOVE AND TROUBLE (published today)

[paulbogaards]

Letters were the way you and your friends found one another when you were young; you stuffed your little all into an envelope and dropped it in the box and waited. Friendships were kept alive for years in this manner. Letters weren’t rare and precious; they were the papery stuff of life, or emotional life anyway, and that’s really the only life you cared about when you were young.

Claire Dederer, LOVE AND TROUBLE

[paulbogaards]

THE RECKONING, part one

Manhattan. Late October, mid-week, early evening. Jack and Paul are sitting at the bar at Hudson Malone, drinking Bulleit bourbon neat.

PAUL: Trump.

JACK: Jee-zus.

And clowns.

Showing up everywhere.

Then you have our industry.

Terrifying.

It feels like the end of something.

Publishing.

America.

The world.

(BEAT)

You ever think about the exit?

What exit?

The job. Like when are we done with all this nonsense?

Are you kidding me? I think about it all the time.

Me too.

(BEAT)

JACK: Still. Here we are.

PAUL: Stuck.

Lost.

Robbed of joy.

Right? I mean, look at us. We’re grinding out a living in a minimum wage industry and the truth is neither one of us loves it anymore.

I never loved it. (BEAT) I liked the ratio of women to men. That’s it.

Reason enough.

Not really. (BEAT) The truth is, it was never that kind of industry. I made assumptions at the outset that proved to be wrong.

This isn’t Hollywood.

Nope.

You have to work for it here.

And even then, nothing.

No sex.

No coin.

Unless you’re an agent.

Right.

Depressing.

(BEAT)

PAUL: In a way it’s remarkable.

JACK: What?

Our business.

How so?

The fucking advances, for one.

Escalating. With no end in sight.

Even as the market is contracting.

All of us chasing a mythical beast.

The mega bestseller.

Agents know it.

Of course they do.

They sense our desperation.

They sense it and use it against us.

(BEAT)

PAUL: I got a call from an agent last week.

JACK: Ugh.

Right? I mean these guys own the fucking pipeline.

That they do.

Every time I answer the phone and an agent is on the other end my sphincter contracts to a pinhole.

Because you know what’s coming.

Yup. (BEAT) Though this one was out of the blue. “Mel Gibson,” he says. No “Hello.” No “How are you?” No “How’s the family?” Just that. A name.

“What about him?” I say.

“Interested?”

“Possibly. What can you tell me about the project?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“Nope.” (BEAT) “My client doesn’t want to put anything on paper.”

“God forbid.”

“It’s a matter of trust. He’s been burned before. I’m sure you understand.”

“But he is going to write a book?”

“Yes. A very good book. Explosive. Essential.”

“That’s not a lot to go on.”

“Those two adjectives will have to suffice.” (BEAT) “What else can I tell you?”

(BEAT)

PAUL: “Did he actually call a cop ‘Sugar tits?’”

AGENT: “What my client has said in the past has been widely misread. He is a misunderstood figure. The book will be a corrective. He is a great actor and director, and a good man.” (BEAT) “Anything else?”

“I think you’ve told me enough.”

“You want the number?”

“The number?”

“Yes.” (BEAT) “This is essential information. Because you need to be in the neighborhood.”

So I ask him: “What’s the number?”

“Six million,” he says.

“Six million? Yowza.” (BEAT) “Tell me: how did you arrive at that valuation?”

“He’s six feet. I figure a million per foot.”

“There is no way Mel Gibson is six feet.”

“He’s five nine. I rounded up.”

“I met the guy in a green room. He’s like five feet tops.”

(BEAT)

“Tell you what, if he’s under five nine, I’ll sell it to you for five million.”

“Five?”

“Yes. But only for you and as per our terms. Which we will keep confidential. We’ll call it our over under.”

“Will he be taking meetings?”

“No meetings.”

(BEAT)

“Then how will I measure him?”

“You’re just gonna have to trust me.”

(BEAT)

JACK: Five million?

PAUL: Yes.

And nothing to read?

Nope.

Not even an outline.

Nope.

Jee-zus.

This is how deals get done.

I know.

We’re all complicit. We all play.

So what did you do?

He calls me back the next day, says “The price is going up.”

“Up?” I say.

“Yes.”

“Did he get taller overnight?”

“That’s funny,” he says. Then, “There’s a lot of interest.” (BEAT) “Consider his history. Gallipoli. Mad Max. Lethal Weapon.”

PAUL: I had to think about that. I mean, they are good movies.

JACK: Yes they are.

PAUL: So on the one hand you have his work on good movies, and on the other hand his binge drinking, misogyny, and anti-semitism.

JACK: Sounds like a helluva book.

But only if he gives us the pizza.

Right. You need the pizza. 

So I pose the question, “Will he address the Trumpy stuff?” And you know what? 

What?

The fucking guy hangs up on me.

JACK: Wow.

PAUL: Crazy, right?

What a business.

(BEAT)

He’ll get it, of course.

Oh, I know.

They always get their number.

(BEAT)

JACK: Did we make the best choice?

PAUL: About what?

The business. This business.

Then, yes. Now, no.

So what would you say to someone thinking about a career in publishing.

Kids come to see me all the time. I say to them “The outlook for book publishing could not be brighter.”

So you lie.

Yes.

You don’t tell them that agents are crooks and the industry is dying.

Never. I encourage potential entrants without caveat. (BEAT) And, by the way, our industry isn’t dying.

No?

No. It’s just evolving.

Into what?

Facebook!

(THEY BOTH LAUGH)

PAUL: Seriously, it’s becoming a hard skill industry.

JACK: Ugh.

We need to be proficient in programming, math, accounting, statistics, technological literacy, etc.

Not what we signed on for.

Nope.

We are soft skill guys. Always have been.

EQ, not IQ.

Correct.

(BEAT)

PAUL: What happened?

JACK: I don’t know.

I mean when we landed this was fun.

Yes it was.

The days were joyful.

They were joyful because we understood what the fuck we were doing.

We read all the time.

The conversation wasn’t about analytics.

Or content.

Or metadata.

FMD.

Right?

The conversation was about books.

Remember the long aisles of them at Crown?

And Walden.

And Dalton!

Encore!

Davis-Kidd!

Hastings!

Media Play!

Kroch’s and Brentano’s!

The book run at Marshall Fields!

Shut up!

The days of monster end caps.

They looked like perfectly stacked boxes of cereal. My god they were beautiful.

That, my friend, was the heyday of book retail. Not now.

Now is shit.

Now is garbage.

Who is left?

No one.

Seriously. Who do we have in our corner?

The indies!

Some guy who looks like Jesus.

(THEY BOTH LAUGH)

PAUL: You ever see a clean stack line in an indie?

JACK: Never.

The stores all look a little disheveled.

Right.

Like my mother-in-law’s fucking attic.

Exactly.

(BEAT)

JACK: I miss the big guns.

PAUL: Me too.

Bobby Haft.

“Books cost too much!” That was Crown’s motto. Ahead of his time, that guy.

Harry Hoffman.

Walden was twenty-five percent of the market. Their initial buy on some big books was 250,000 copies!

Jee-zus.

Harry hated publishers. He thought we were all morons.

Here’s to Harry.

(THEY BOTH TOAST)

JACK: Did he live on a boat?

PAUL: Yes.

Who lives on a fucking boat?

Tom Hanks did.

In a movie. Does anyone you know live on a boat?

I think our head of sales lives on a boat.

Well there you go.

(BEAT)

We still have Len.

Len is the fucking man.

(THEY BOTH TOAST AGAIN)

PAUL: Good to have him back in the game.

JACK: They were some trio. Len. Bobby. Harry.

Like dealing with the fucking mob.

“Whatever you need.” Those guys and those days.

When scale meant something.

They had muscle.

The days of load ‘em in, stack ‘em up publishing.

When we beat readers to death with books.

Then in the evening, we’d go out and get bombed with accounts.

Boy did we have some big spend dinners.

I remember drinking magnums of Barolo at Sparks.

Big cabs at Smith and Wollensky.

Grand Cru at Lutece.

No one ever looked at expense reports.

We didn’t even have finance guys.

Now look at us.

Everyone owned by fucking conglomerates.

German conglomerates.

SAP.

Concur.

Corporate goons tracking everything.

Everything.

I bet there’s some gangbanger in Gutersloh staring at an excel spreadsheet right now, putting in a killshot for Marea.

(BEAT)

JACK: Remember when there were stores to shop in?

PAUL: Stores full of people.

Spending money.

People had money to spend.

Malls weren’t dead.

Online hadn’t subsumed brick and mortar.

Business was so good editors were coking up at their desks.

C-suite guys fucking in the office.

There were reporters covering our industry when we actually had shit to hide.

Kirkpatrick, that pendejo.

Now look at what we’ve got.

A disgruntled subset of journalists.

All of their heads on the chopping block.

Sad.

So sad.

Has to inform their work.

Oh it does. No one digs anymore. They basically phone it in. Post press release copy.

When was the last time you faced a round of hard questioning from a reporter?

It’s been decades.

We feed them lines of shit and they print it.

The mythic first printings.

(THEY BOTH LAUGH)

You know what our industry needs?

What?

A fact-checker.

(BEAT)

PAUL: Amazon.

JACK: The scariest monster of all.

You hearing what I’m hearing?

What?

About their plans for retail?

They’re opening physical bookstores. Everyone knows that. Plus the Prime bullshit.

And?

And what?

They’re going to scale up.

How up?

Very.

Keep talking.

They see an opportunity. You remember Bezos saying years ago that physical retail is well served, right?

Yes.

And that for Amazon to enter that space, he’d need to answer three questions: “What’s the idea? What would we do different? How would it be better?”

Go on.

He sees indies as a red ocean industry.

Indies.

What do they do well?

They curate.

Correct.

They represent communities.

Also correct.

And their people provide exceptional service to customers.

Bingo. That is the indie trifecta. (BEAT) Bezos sees all of those things as liabilities.

How so?

His is a machine driven vision. Think about it. He has algorithms that curate. He sees communities as transactional, simply a function of identifying real estate opportunities.

Ugh.

His is a knowledge universe. He’s going to wed curation algorithms to DMA transaction data and populate his stores with books he knows will sell.

And they don’t have to lift a finger.

Or do anything differently.

All of this is known.

The people in his stores? Wallpaper. You see where this is going?

Oh my god. His blue ocean is a physical bookstore without booksellers.

Exactly. The Amazon stores are going to be staffed by Echo.

And run by Alexa. (BEAT) Fucking machines.

Yup.

AI.

AI.

The death of human interaction.

Quinn, two more.

Make ‘em doubles.

(BEAT)

PAUL: As an industry, we’re not very good at predicting how things will turn out.

JACK: Nope.

All the pundits were wrong about digital.

They were.

They said the business would be all digital.

Basically.

HELLO. None of these fucking morons predicted a resurgence in physical books.

Not a one.

And now they’re all like, “Physical books are here to stay, blah blah blah.”

They could be wrong again.

Of course they’ll be wrong again.

Where do you see it going?

Five years from now we will be living in the era of monolithic retail. There will be one store for everything.

Barnes & Noble!

(THEY BOTH LAUGH)

OK, maybe not them. Maybe someone else.

Google Play!

(THEY BOTH LAUGH AGAIN)

You would think those guys at the Alphabet could figure this thing out, make a run at Seattle.

You would think.

Or if not them, Apple.

Right.

I mean they have the resources.

They do.

And they figured out Apple music.

They did.

But I can’t say I’m confident about either.

Neither am I.

(BEAT)

The indies will save us!

(THEY BOTH LAUGH)

Listen, I love the indies as much as you, but you know, that’s not how I see this thing going.

Me either.

I mean, we’re both indie guys.

Yes we are.

Some of our best friends are indie booksellers.

That guy with the giant feet.

Mayor Howorth.

Love him.

Think about the people in the indie community and their commitment to us.

It is remarkable. (BEAT) But is it enough?

I don’t know. I have a bad feeling about all of this.

Me too.

I think we’re gonna take it on the chin someday. I just don’t see a way around it.

Neither do I.

There’ll be a reckoning.

I sense it coming.

(BEAT)

END OF PART ONE

[paulbogaards]

-- Nathan Hill, THE NIX

[paulbogaards]

IT’S SUMMER READ A FUCKING BOOK FOR CHRISSAKE (for more specific instructions): Drive to local bookstore. Then to beach or park or lake. Apply sun tan lotion. Open cold beer (Peroni is good in the summer). Start reading any of the above books. You will be very happy. YOU’RE WELCOME.

[paulbogaards]

HOLIDAY CONVERSATIONS AT THE BOGAARDS (actual transcription):

Dad (me): “So what do you think you’re gonna do when you graduate from college?” Isabel (daughter): “Probably live at home.” BEAT “And get a job?” “Maybe.” “Maybe?” “I mean eventually, sure.” BEAT “How long?” “How long what?” “Will you live at home?” “Oh a long time for sure.” “What does that mean?” BEAT “It means forever.”

END

[paulbogaards]

My Conversation with @SaatvaMattress (where I try to determine if my chat partner is real)

“Samantha Customer support 👍👎 Chat started You — Update your info Someone from Saatva sent me an email saying they would call me about delivery mid-week. Never heard from anyone. When can I expect delivery?

Please wait for an agent. There are currently 1 visitor(s) waiting to be served. Samantha joined the chat

Samantha Hi! May I have your order number? You — Update your info The email said “Saatva delivery update #325117”

Samantha One moment please! You — Update your info OK. I need the mattress delivered next week, btw. It’s a present for my wife. She wants a bigger bed. I know I know. LONG STORY (possibly she hates me). Also, as an FYI, I tried to call earlier and you guys had me on hold for ten minutes. No one even told me I was going to a hold cue!

Samantha I apologize. You — Update your info Not your fault! But someone should know. Who is in charge there? Where is Mr. Saatva?

Samantha I’m contacting our delivery team, please bear with me one moment. You — Update your info OK. Again, they were supposed to contact me mid-week. It’s now Thursday afternoon. That is not mid-week (maybe it is in China but not in America and certainly not in New York). This is taking a long time, btw. Almost as long as the hold cue on the phone. Are you still there?

Samantha I apologize, the person who schedules delivery at our delivery teams fulfillment center is gone for the day, I am going to have to email him. You — Update your info Gone for the day? It’s fucking 3:30 in the afternoon. Who goes home at 3:30 in the afternoon during the holidays? Oh, right, the mattress scheduler! And of course it’s a guy. If it was a woman, I wouldn’t be having these problems. Women are far more accountable than men. Is he at the holiday party? IS HE DRUNK? He must have a beeper. Beep him FFS! Don’t email him! The last thing he will do is read an email at the holiday party. All I’m saying is that this shouldn’t be a goddamn mystery. And Saatva shouldn’t send me an email telling me I will hear from them and then go dark. Very bad customer service. And I hope you will let the appropriate parties know. Because if I don’t hear from someone tomorrow, I’ll find someone who can get me a mattress next week. They won’t have a fancy fucking name like Saatva, but at least they will show up.

Samantha I’m sorry to hear this. I’m trying to obtain an update for you, however, the person who does scheduling in the delivery team’s hub is gone for the day. You — Update your info I’m not even sure you’re a person, Samantha. Your responses are very distant. You sound exactly like my mother before she left my father. Here is what you need to say: “Paul, I understand how disappointed you are. I will personally see to it that someone calls you tomorrow morning, and that your mattress will, in fact, be delivered next week. Even if I have to deliver it myself.” That’s a human response. That’s an understanding response. This conversation, not so much.

Samantha I apologize, however I am unable to guarantee any date for delivery. I am going to email our delivery team. You — Update your info

Samantha you’re not listening. Seriously, are you a machine? Because that’s the only way to explain our interaction. You need to guarantee that someone will call me tomorrow. With answers.

Samantha I am emailing the delivery team now, to inform them that if they do have your merchandise on file, to contact you to schedule delivery as soon as possible. But, I do not have a further update at this time. You — Update your info Merchandise? It’s a fucking mattress. That’s it. You’ve blown your cover, Sammy. I have three final questions for you: what color are your eyes? What is your favorite movie? And do you like pasta? See, a human being would actually be able to answer these questions. Prove to me you are a human being, Sam. Before I give up on humanity. Or Saatva. Or both.”

Samantha, of course, did not respond to my final questions. 

[paulbogaards]

ACTUAL JOB DESCRIPTION (not the one you will find posted on PRH, updated 10/20/2015)

The Executive Vice President, Director of Publicity and Media Relations for the Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group (@paulbogaards) is seeking a Publicity Assistant to provide day-to-day support in a fast-paced, external facing, detail and data driven environment working with authors (yikes!), agents (shoot me), booksellers (❤️), dying legacy media professionals (💩), social media pioneers (ugh), and other half-crazed publishing desperados.

This position will support the EVP in the daily grind that is 21st century book publishing and corporate communications (“We off the record here? OK. He’s a lousy reviewer. And he’s a douchebag.”), including general administration (“Just code the expense to ‘Mariachi band’ and ‘Dohle, Markus’ using Concur"), calendar management and scheduling (nothing gets booked on Friday EVER), phone coverage (no calls should get through unless they are from recruiters), email (you will have access to all my email and if you are thinking of writing a book like almost every candidate who walks through the door then you will have mountains of inappropriate material to choose from), OOOs (“I AM GOLFING. WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU?”) and other written correspondence (making the EVP look smarter than he is, because, let’s face it, he’s not that smart.)

The assistant will generate reports and presentations and answer questions based on Excel (“OMG what is happening to these pricing trend lines?!”), PowerPoint (“Snapchat and the Opportunity to Build Lasting Relationships with Readers BLAH BLAH BLAH”) Bookscan (“How is the book indexing? Seriously? Have you looked at the sales? There is nothing to index.”) and Edelweiss (“Did he really say that on a TI sheet? Don’t they know these things are public?”)

The assistant will be also responsible for copious amounts of research including the preparation of client dossiers (“We need to know where all the bodies are buried when things go south”) and detailed reports on golfing destinations as well as boutique distilleries and bourbons. The assistant will evaluate submissions (“Wow. This guy has an agent?”), write reader reports (“Ha! Never going to happen!”), and assist in the preparation of P&Ls (“Um, there is no way this will earn out.”). The assistant will have much to ponder.

And yes, there will be secret assignments (hunting down menacing reviewers) and the excitement of dealing with our educated press corps on deadline when they call and ask probing questions about advances (“How much did you pay? How many copies do you need to sell to earn out? Are you doing this to burnish the brand?”) and of course we are always unfailingly polite in our responses.

The assistant will have an opportunity to work with high-profile authors (read: DISCONSOLATE AND NEEDY) and assist on their book campaigns by writing press releases (who the fuck reads these things?) and pitch letters (seriously if you are reading this and still sending out pitch letters does that make you feel sad and tired and lonely or is it just me because I have been doing this for thirty years?), creating other content (an author video! a book trailer! a pop-up hotel!), assembling press kits, putting things in the mail, scheduling author tours, explaining why the signatures on the tip-in pages are all bound in upside down, and calling housekeeping when the author has an issue with the sheets (“We had specifically requested 600 thread count sheets. I mean do I have to mail the fucking sheets to your hotel before my client arrives?**”)

The ideal candidate will possess exceptional diplomacy skills (“That was a lousy fucking story”), be able to tell essential truths (“I would not tour the author. Anywhere. Ever.”), and write effective, succinct pitches (“Please please please interview my author for your radio show for your podcast for your blog before their editor accuses me of sabotaging another one of their P&L’s”), be proficient on all social platforms because the EVP has been known to say things like “WE SHOULD PIN THIS ON SOMETHING” and “MAKE ME A PICTOCHART”, be able to manage multiple tasks in a frequently stressful environment (“I have no idea why your book isn’t selling,” “We always work on more than one campaign,” “Yes I went to college.”) and create ORDER FROM CHAOS.

Previous experience providing administrative support in a corporate environment where your superior was frequently under the gun and often blamed for sales quotas not being met or failed product launches or saying the wrong thing on social media PLUS requisite visits to HR for frequent “code of conduct" violations as well as legal where they may have been named in a lawsuit stemming from xxxxxxxxx helpful but not required. Absolutely no whiners. Knowledge of IPAs and how to hack Gutersloh based computer networks a plus. Also, this detail: it is unlikely you will live up to your predecessor because Maggie Southard was/is the fucking bomb (and her boyfriend better get his shit together and ask her to marry him soon). Finally this: Hachette will offer you a job in two years with a better title and more pay. So it’s a no brainer. Apply through HR at PRH. Good luck Maggie. Congrats LB. Thank you.

** Gloria Vanderbilt used to do this.

[paulbogaards]

KEYNOTE OPENINGS FROM TI SHEETS (all sourced and verified)

“Everything is copy.” – Nora Eprhon

In publishing, it might be said that everything is story (or the shaping of narrative). Those narratives often begin with the creation of “TI sheets.” TI sheets (formerly known as fact sheets and recently renamed title information sheets) provide publishing personnel with essential information about a book and author in the run-up to publication. TI sheets include a synopsis of the work and bio of the author, as well as detail on print runs, comp titles, bisac categories, page count, carton quantities, publicity and marketing detail, price, ISBNs, etc. The most important element on any TI sheet is the “keynote.” The keynote is a succinct handle written by the editor that sales personnel will often reference when they are presenting the book to booksellers.

What follows below is a compilation of actual keynote openings, all sourced from TI sheets during recent 2016 launch meetings:

“A sweeping history…”

“A heartwarming story…”

“A bitingly funny…”

“A spellbinding psychological novel…”

“In this vivid and masterful novel…”

“A fascinating and original portrait…”

“A smart, irreverent, blistering…”

“A charming, hilarious, sweet-as-candy…”

“A profound and profoundly important…”

“The newest crime novel sensation…”

“Not quite a crime novel sensation, but still…”

“Not even close to crime novel sensation…”

“With the amount of fucking money that we paid for this crime novel, we better make it a sensation…”

“A stunning first novel…”

“I thought it was stunning when I made the acquisition but if I’m being honest here that kind of love is hard to sustain in book publishing mostly because something else comes along and then the book you thought was stunning seems, well, good but not great in comparison and it was so late in being delivered and the agent has been such a pain in the ass asking for refresher advances every other goddamn month that there’s a part of me that just wants to walk away from the project…”

“A compact masterpiece…”

“It’s fucking short, OK, and god knows no one has time to read anymore because they’re all walking around with their mobiles up their asses so this is really the best shot we have at wresting potential readers from their internet-addled torpor…”

“A bittersweet debut novel…”

“Bittersweet? Seriously? I can’t believe I actually considered using bittersweet as part of my keynote, I mean if I was a sales rep and read that I’d shelve the fucking book next to all the shitty milk chocolates at Duane Reade…”

“A wildly imaginative, irresistibly page-turning novel…”

“It’s a page-turner assuming you’re in a good space and not fighting with your spouse or partner and the kids aren’t having trouble in school or doped up or both and your boss isn’t taking a giant dump on your head everyday in which case you are definitely going to need a few pops when you get home and after that, well, who knows, you might settle in, read a few pages, but I’m not convinced they’re good enough to distract you from all your fucking problems…”

“I fell in love with this novel…”

“Please please please read this novel and fall in love with it and do your goddamn best to sell the shit out of it because my year end P&L reviews for the past several have been really really really depressing (I started taking Lexapro) and as I sit here typing this I can’t remember the last time I acquired a book that actually sold more than a few thousand copies or came close to earning out and as a result I’m beginning to doubt everything about myself and this industry…”

END

[paulbogaards]

Exclusive: Preview of New Facebook ‘dislike’ Buttons

Facebook CEO Mark Zuckerberg announced yesterday that they are working on alternatives to the “like” button to enable users to express emotions such as empathy on newsfeed posts. “People have asked about the ‘dislike’ button for many years,” Zuckerberg said. “We’ve finally heard you and we’re working on this and we will deliver something that meets the needs of the larger community.” Among the options being considered in a series of pilots expected to be rolled out among user groups next week are:

Want to like

Trying to like

Not sure I like so much

Not sure I like at all

Dislike (sorry!)

Willing to give you another chance

Seriously?

C’mon

Honestly, is this the best you can do?

Think you need to see a doctor

I have a book that can help you

Hate

God you’re an asshole

You have a drinking problem

You have an eating problem

No one gives a shit about the colleges you’ve been visiting with your daughter

Blow me

FMUTA

While you were working at Habitat for Humanity this summer I was banging your wife at the Holiday Inn express 

Get a life you fucking moron

[paulbogaards]

“Why do I write? To investigate the mystery of existence. To tolerate myself. To get closer to everything that is outside of me.

If I want to understand what moves me, what confuses me, what pains me—everything that makes me react, in short—I have to put it into words. Writing is my only way of absorbing and organizing life. Otherwise it would be too disturbing, too distressing.

What passes without being put into words, without being transformed and, in a certain sense, purified by the crucible of writing, has no meaning for me. Only words that endure seem real to me. They have a power, a value superior to us.”

-- Jhumpa Lahiri, In Other Words (coming from Knopf in February 2016)

[paulbogaards]

Fireworks! First books just off press (finished copies coming to a bookstore near you 10/13). #cityonfire

[paulbogaards]

@GRRMspeaking (George R.R. Martin) on the best novel of 2014!

"BEST NOVEL. The big one. I read a lot of good novels in 2014... but, alas, not all of them were published in 2014. So many books, so little time, it's hard to match the reading to the awards calendar. One of the 2014 books that I did read stands above all the others, however: STATION ELEVEN, by Emily St. John Mandel. As best I can recall, I've never met Emily St. John Mandel, and I've never read anything else by her, but I won't soon forget STATION ELEVEN. One could, I suppose, call it a post-apocolypse novel, and it is that, but all the usual tropes of that subgenre are missing here, and half the book is devoted to flashbacks to before the coming of the virus that wipes out the world, so it's also a novel of character, and there's this thread about a comic book and Doctor Eleven and a giant space station and... oh, well, this book should NOT have worked, but it does. It's a deeply melancholy novel, but beautifully written, and wonderfully elegiac... a book that I will long remember, and return to."

[paulbogaards]

Partial transcript from Harper Lee’s Monroeville press conference earlier this morning, including select responses from Ms. Lee (fictional):

“Yes I wrote the fucking book. Asshole. Next question.”

“Did I want this? Seriously? A bunch of deranged reporters descending on Monroeville? I don’t think so. Next question.”

“I know what you meant. ‘Did you want this book published and if so why’dya wait so long blah blah blah.’ Listen: I want this book published. The American people want to see this book published. Readers around the world want to see this book published. And so of course with all the fanfare and the passage of time and given my age there have surfaced a small subset of vocal detractors who are questioning my faculties and the motives of my publisher. The former, I hasten to add, are fucking fine.” (Ms. Lee blows kiss to the assembled press corps. Applause.)

“The latter? Entirely mercenary.” (Laughter from press corps.) “OK: I really did it because I’m bored out of my fucking mind.” (More laughter.) “I mean, take a look around. Right? Next question.”

“'Nelle?’ Yes I read that too, and ‘No,’ no one in my life has ever called me that.”

“I have no idea how Van Dusen came up with that fucking nickname. Moron. Next question.”

“He said that? Listen: I don’t take editing from anyone. Period.” (Ms. Lee pauses, steps away from podium, gives assembled press corps the finger, and smiles. Camera flashes go off.) “That’s for Van Doozy. Next question.”

“Who? Never heard of him.”

“He read the book four times? What is he, dyslexic? No one should read any book four times."

“Personal appearances?” (Ms. Lee turns away from dais, PR rep tiptoes up to podium, whispers in her ear.) “Oh, those. Sure! We’re gonna do a big fucking book tour!” (Laughter.) “I’m really looking forward to The Chew.” (More laughter.) “And I can’t wait to meet Mitch Kaplan. Van Doozy tells me he’s a piece of man candy. Yum! Next question.”

“Two million copies? Who said so?” (Pause.) “I don’t know what they’re smokin’ up there at Harper Collins, but we could sure use some down here!” (Laughter.) “Next question.”

“My two biggest? Well, the first is that the embargo will be broken. Because we all know that when publishers announce any kind of embargo, the race is on to break it. I mean, we’ve got a bunch of European publishers flying to London right now to read the damn thing. And asking them to keep a secret is like asking Kim Kardashian to put away her fucking cell phone. And, by the way, who wants that? I mean, us gals down here love her bumper shots.” (Laughter.) “Hashtag: #JUNK!” (More laughter.) “And you guys didn’t think I knew a thing about social media.”

“My second? That the New York Times will ask that crankpot Kakutani to review Watchman. Because if they do she’ll bury me.”

“Gregory Peck? He was OK. A fair kisser. Next question.”

“Hands down: True Detective. Love that fuckin’ Woody. Next question.”

“A good stiff Manhattan. Bridge on Saturday night. Bible study on Sunday.”

“Weekdays? Mika on Morning Joe. My fucking publisher better get me on that show.”

PRESS REPRESENTATIVE: “OK. Thanks for coming. No more questions.” Applause.

END

[paulbogaards]

Oliver Sacks on learning he has terminal cancer

"I cannot pretend I am without fear. But my predominant feeling is one of gratitude. I have loved and been loved; I have been given much and I have given something in return; I have read and traveled and thought and written. I have had an intercourse with the world, the special intercourse of writers and readers.

Above all, I have been a sentient being, a thinking animal, on this beautiful planet, and that in itself has been an enormous privilege and adventure.”