Why the Collapse of Chain Bookstores is a Good Thing for Books

Today we begin a five-post, week-long series on publishing. The author is my great friend Andrew Gifford, the founder and publisher of the Santa Fe Writers Project. We've had many conversations over the years on writing and publishing, and I asked him to write a story for FPP on what he feels the collapse of Borders means to writers and the publishing industry in general. And this is it. (By the way, you may recall reading a profile of Andrew in the Washington Post Magazine three years ago. I was interviewed by the journalist. Alas, my awesome quotes were not included.)Stay tuned all week for what is, I believe, a truly fascinating story. Please read it, and please share it with your networks. Here's Andrew:




High Water Mark (1991-2000)

Before the rise of the chain super-bookstores Borders and Barnes & Noble, my first real job, in the summer of 1991 between my junior and senior year of high school, was at a small independent bookstore in Chevy Chase, MD. There were just two cramped rooms in what used to be, generations before, the servants’ kitchen and dining area of an old mansion overlooking Rock Creek. The customer entered through a narrow hallway and came out to the first room, reserved for gifts and gewgaws, and then moved around a sharp bend into the womb-like bookroom, typically unmonitored and unstaffed. A haven from the hustle and the bustle of traffic, wage slavery and salary serfdom, and the endless rat race of the surrounding city and slowly urbanizing suburbs. In the beginning, we had a strong staff. The manager – a fearsome woman who checked every outgoing package, took weekly inventory of every item in the store, and generally ruled her domain with the comfort and ease of all great generals. Her right hand was the bookbuyer, our de facto assistant manager who spent her day in the shadows placing orders. On the floor, I was one of four part timers who rotated through weekend, afterschool, and evening shifts. For the weekday shifts, the shop was run by viciously territorial volunteers, none of whom were any younger than 70. They would reluctantly hand over the reins at 4pm to one of the youthful staff members, and we’d be sure to keep our heads down till their cars had left the parking lot. For the most part, we’d be alone for the remainder of the shift. On weekends, there’d just be two of us, bored and with our noses always buried in books.

I most enjoyed the evening shifts, where I’d see maybe one customer, especially on dark winter nights, and spend the rest of the time ensconced in the bookroom, folded into a corner with a book and the silent, old house all around me. It was there where I learned to truly love books. I came from a bookish family, but was never taught to enjoy books, to embrace them. I was a typical 80’s latchkey kid, and my free time was spent with the Great God Television. When mom came dragging home at 7pm, there was no time for arts and literature. My Catholic school days were filled with nuns who appeared to have never read anything outside of Bible studies, and fanatically twisted lay teachers who behaved more like disgruntled Roman governors of minor provinces than purveyors of education.

I was the youngest of the part timers at the bookshop, coming in to fill the shoes of a pothead musician who had decided to take the summer off and drive his car around the coast of South America. No one heard from him again until nine months later, when he returned wearing a poncho, a skipper’s cap, and sunglasses like some Peruvian version of Gaddafi and demanded his job back. He was brushed off, and I got to keep my job for the long haul. Unlike my predecessor, I was happily a beast of burden for an extraordinary (for a 17 year old in 1991) $7 an hour.

Of course, it hadn’t yet dawned on me – or many people – that 1991 was the start of a transition. The internet revolution hadn’t yet caught hold, but the demand for a different way of bookselling certainly was there. Savvy indie booksellers knew a battle was coming. After all, they had just survived a major struggle, and now sat hunkered down, licking their wounds, in the calm before another storm.

Borders had been making money hand over fist with their mail order catalog. The early versions of their chain stores, and Barnes & Noble’s, had enjoyed success during the big money 80’s. Both were massing troops on the borders of retail, preparing for an all-out invasion.

On the small scale, independent bookstores like ours were seeing a quiet shift from customers coming through the door to a booming mail order business. Though I might sit through an entire shift and never see a customer, the mail, fax, and phone orders were constant. My initial job description was shipping and receiving, fulfilling the mountain of orders and carting them out to the UPS truck while the driver flirted with my boss.

I worked in the bookstore until 1996, off and on through college, and still keep in touch with the current staffers. I’ve watched it evolve, struggle, and, eventually, thrive over the last 20 years. A strange little oasis that’s defended against two decades of unpredictable, volatile, and somewhat dystopian publishing and book-selling methods.

Always feeling somewhat adrift in life, I latched onto this little store in 1991. It, and the staff and volunteers, became a surrogate for the family I didn’t really have, and the friends I couldn’t successfully make or maintain. I developed a fierce loyalty, and even went so far, when I hit college in late 1992, to place my textbook orders exclusively through the store. I was taking advantage of a 20% staff discount, of course, but the store was still turning a profit. In 1995, my boss asked me to stop. It was too much trouble to take special orders, she said. Too much work. When I returned in the summer of 95 to a greatly reduced schedule, I saw a business on the ropes. The mail orders had stopped, and sales had plummeted. A sea-change had occurred virtually overnight.

1995 saw Amazon.com go live. While not the first online bookstore, it was the first user-friendly one, and the most comprehensive. From my small college in central West Virginia, I had no choice but to drink from the poisoned chalice and take the plunge. Our college library was a haven of empty shelves and outdated books, and the only bookstore in town was an old lady’s living room where she’d sit and watch you like a hawk as you thumbed through her romance novels and mysteries. The school bookstore marked books up 200%, and there were so few students there was no hope of trading or reselling to each other. I went to Amazon and I’ve been hooked ever since.

Back at the little bookstore in Maryland, my shipping and receiving room was painted, carpeted, and became the children’s book room. The orders still trickled in from an old guard of rapidly aging customers, but fulfilling them was a collaborative effort and no longer demanded a regular position. In fact, mail orders were seen as a nuisance. The shop entered into a tumultuous phase where staff were let go, management was consolidated into one position, and inventory began to dwindle. By the time I left to pursue a post-college career, there were only two full time staffers and a volunteer army keeping the place just barely above the waves.

The mid-90’s saw much of the despair and language we hear today about the “death of print.” Except it was the “death of the indie bookstores” that weighed on everyone’s mind. The indie bookstore – privately owned, quirky, and pretty much the polar opposite of the big chain bookstores and online “e-sellers” that appeared to be the model of the future. The cold-blooded and untrustworthy internet had come crashing through the gates and laid waste to the previously secure little fiefdoms of indie bookselling. Sadly, the indie bookstores of the era were unable and unwilling to meet this change head on. Many feverishly decided to enter into open competition, appealing to their customers for mercy and for a partisan insurgency against Amazon and the chain bookstores. A sense of betrayal was born. The customers had turned away. The customers had once had a duty to support indie bookstores, and yet they had been lured off by the Sirens of convenience. For the next 15 years, the indies would retreat into different Luddite versions of this bitterness. This sense of them versus the world.

On the horizon, the masts of great warships also started to appear in the 90’s alongside the online bookstores. Borders and Barnes & Noble embarked on their super-bookstore campaign, having spent the 70’s and 80’s quietly devouring smaller chains and discount stores. The superstore campaign, though, had been pioneered by DC’s own Crown Books.

(to be continued tomorrow)

SFWP Writing Contests

The inaugural SFWP poetry contest, judged by Writer’s Center board member and workshop leader Rose Solari closes on September 1* (see eligibility note below).  For guidelines, FAQ’s, and the online entry form, please visit SFWP.com. 

The Santa Fe Writers Project was founded by native Washingtonian Andrew Gifford in 1998, and has held an internationally recognized literary awards program since 2000. For more details on the history of SFWP, please visit SFWP.com.

Poetry not your cup of tea? No problem. This year’s literary (fiction/nonfiction) contest is judged by NPR’s Alan Cheuse, and runs through December 15^. More details on that program can be found right here.

Questions? Contact SFWP.

Some may not be eligible to submit to the poetry contest. This is language found in SFWP's FAQ.

I am currently (or have been) Ms. Solari’s student. Am I eligible?

If you will be attending Ms. Solari’s writing classes in 2011 (prior to September 1st), then you are not eligible for the Program. All entries are blinded, so all past students are eligible. Employees and board members of The Writer’s Center in Bethesda, MD are not eligible.

The Santa Fe Writers Project Literary Awards Program

A brief post today. Here's an opportunity for writers of all stripes:

The Santa Fe Writers Project Literary Awards Program for fiction and nonfiction of any genre. Awards: $1500, and two runner-ups who will receive $1000 each. Winners and finalists will be reviewed by the Irene Goodman Literary Agency. This year's judge is NPR's Alan Cheuse. Entry fee: $25. *Deadline:* December 1st, 2011. More info here.


The Santa Fe Writers Project Poetry Awards is accepting poetry of any length or genre. The grand prize is: $1000. This year's judge is poet and Writer's Center workshop leader Rose Solari. Entry fee: $25. *Deadline:* September 1st, 2011. More info here.

Interview with Andrew Gifford of SFWP (Part II)

Here's the second and last installment with Andrew Gifford, publisher of the small press SFWP. To read part I of this interview, click here.

At our next birthday celebration, in January, The Writer's Center will bring in Pagan Kennedy. Pagan is a Bethesda native, and one of her very first creative writing workshops happened right here at the Center. What was it like publishing your heroine Pagan Kennedy?

Well, all the authors I’ve published are my heroes. Ray Robertson is the quintessential artist. A man who has devoted his life to the craft of writing and who hits hard every time. Alan Cheuse is in possession of a writing voice unmatched in modern American literature. Richard Currey captures the mind and soul with razor-sharp images that linger for a lifetime.

When next I have my hands on a few thousand dollars, I want to bring forward a new author whose work I’ve been supporting for many years. A young writer who also has the devotion, the voice, and the electric power of Ray, Alan, and Richard.


Pagan, though, does hold a special place in my heart. It’s her zine – and her early works – that inspired me in the early 90’s. My impressionable high school years. Her quirky participatory journalism, and her stunningly addictive fiction, has kept her on my bookshelves for 20 years. I was and still am ecstatic to have published Dangerous Joy, even though we made a mistake on the layout and found ourselves stuck with the inventory. But, hey, that’s publishing. Now they’re collector items. Or they will be, when we get around to a second printing.

What would you recommend for anyone beginning a small press?

The first rule (and this also applies to authors) is that you won’t make money. You must accept that. The old saying is true – you need a large fortune to make a small fortune in this business.

You’re in this because you love books, because you love writing, and you are willing to pursue that love all the way to the bitter end, regardless of the challenges you face or the obstacles in your path. You must also be willing to work. It’s a job – both publishing and writing – and it’s the sort of job that will follow you home, that will steal your evenings and weekends and vacations, and that will compete with your significant others, your children, your life. And that’s got to be okay with you.

If that doesn’t describe you, then stop what you’re doing right now. Sweep it all into the trash can and, please, get on with your life.

Now, the practical stuff: Don’t try and find a mainstream book. Don’t ape a dying industry. Be daring. Be different. Increasingly, as the Old Boy Network of publishing slowly topples, it’s the daring and different work that will begin to emerge.

Once you’ve found that book, then you should do the publicity yourself. Don’t outsource. Use the social networking sites – connect with people. Finally, after all this time trying to put together books with no sense of what the public truly wants, your audience is right there in front of you.

Shell out the cash to get a media list. Shell out a little more to make some nice galleys. Pay attention to your cover, your layout, your editing. Reading books, for many people, is also a tactile experience. The feel, the smell, the look. (Which is why ebooks and the Kindle will never truly destroy the printed word.) And, of course, a nice cover will sell more books than the words inside. That’s the sad truth publishers must face when working with booksellers and trying to get the casual shelf browser hooked.

Publicity should begin six months before publication. But a small press doing one or two books a year? Publicity should start a year before publication. Don’t be afraid to try and do the impossible. Explore translation rights, pitch excerpts to magazines, try and get reviews from big places. It only costs you postage, or a few minutes on email. You’ll strike out 90% of the time but, hey, to hell with them then. All you need is one good hit.

Join PMA. They’re worth it. And, if you don’t have the time or stamina to sell out of your basement, then get a distributor. In fact, I would urge you to take that path. Independent Publisher’s Group is a wonderful organization, and they’ve recently started working with PMA to cater to small presses. Don’t overreach in that area, either. Don’t go for the gold and try to get in the regular trade catalogs. You’re a small press, so act like one. Embrace it.

Indie bookstore owners and many authors are going to keel over as soon as I say this, but you need to focus on online sales and look towards electronic formats. The reason for this is simple – brick and mortar stores order more than they need to cover a supposed demand. They then return unsold copies, and typically get a free hand when it comes to salable condition. Working just with brick and mortars sees a 30-50% return rate, and a percentage of those are so damaged they need to be dumped. Online stores, however, maintain a smaller inventory. They order what they need to meet an immediate and real demand. You’ll still see returns, but maybe just 5-10%.

The industry is not about preserving indie bookstores – it’s about getting the writing to the general population. It’s about the authors, and their books. And it’s your job – by hook or by crook – to get those books into the hands of readers. There’s no room for weeping in the face of technology and change. Your future, as a small press, is to be an agent of change.

Discovery Friday: SFWP on the Future of Small Presses (Part I)

Today we're joined by Andrew Gifford, publisher of SFWP.


What possessed you to publish books?

My first response is to say “Dunno,” because it’s a hard question. I’ve spent my inheritance, my savings, and all my credit to publish books. And I will gladly do it again as soon as I get my hands on a few grand.

Neurologist Alice Flaherty gave popularity to the term “Midnight Disease” in her book. On the surface, it’s a memoir about her bout with depression and hypergraphia, but she takes it a step further and analyzes the compulsion that drives all writers to write. And it is a compulsion. It is about exorcising demons, or appeasing that voice in your head. There’s lots of real work and dedication required to bring that voice to paper, but it all starts with that weird, lonely compulsion.

I think of publishing as a branch of that midnight disease.

Since the Washington Post article about me, I’ve put lots of thought to this question. I told the journalist, Laura Wexler, it was because I loved Moody Food and wanted to give it the worldwide distribution it deserved, and then the wheel just sort of kept rolling. But the real answer is that I’m compelled to do this. I wrote my first book when I was eight years old, and my mother lovingly bound it and drew some cover art. I pitched my first book – and received my first rejection – when I was 12 years old. I started my first publishing company when I was 15, collecting poets and authors in homemade chapbooks and actually making a nice profit. What possessed me? Dunno…



What is the future of the small press? Is there room for small presses in the publishing world?

Right now, I’d say the future looks both grim and promising. Following the traditional path in the industry is impossible for a small press. The traditional path being the publication of a "marketable" book (whatever that may be), working with a distributor, doing the whole no-nonsense PR thing, putting the author on tour, etc. All the stuff the larger publishers do.

Unless the small press is well funded and, well, just damned lucky, taking the traditional path means bankruptcy. The industry nickles and dimes the publisher into oblivion. First you get clipped by the distributor, and that's just fine because they're performing a vital service. But when you're dealing in sales measured in the hundreds, you're not really making enough to justify the cause. Then you get clipped by the bookstores -- indie stores that charge for readings really rattle my cage. Suddenly you get a bill requesting "co-op money" for "advertising" that didn't go beyond the store's electronic newsletter. Sometimes these bills will be $500 or a thousand bucks. The larger publishers pay them, to keep playing nice. Or they can afford to ignore them. The smaller presses get blacklisted. All this goes on usually without the author's knowledge. Of course, that's also something that's burning the indie bookstores. I know, based on my experience, that I now seek author engagements at the chain stores or indie stores (like Politics and Prose) who truly embrace authors and good writing and don’t extort money from publishers. (And, of course, Politics and Prose is doing well, while other equally famous indie stores now sink beneath the waters. Lesson learned.)

Though there's plenty of resentment for the chain stores, as well. The chain stores have an automated returns policy designed to bolster their tenuous budgets. Books might be returned en masse without ever getting put on the shelves. So they buy the books at a 50% discount, you lose 20-some percent to the distributor, then the books are returned immediately for a full refund and another small handling fee paid by the publisher to the distributor.

Meanwhile, there are a plethora of organizations geared towards "investing" in small presses and their books. It worries me to see more and more small presses moving towards these options. Chances are it's just a money grab on the part of the so-called investors. Usually I see this take the form of a group of industry professionals -- editors and PR folks -- who promise that, with their help, the book will be able to fund a moonshot. Typically, they don't put forward real cash or enable the publisher in any way. They do some PR work and demand a huge up-front payment from the proceeds and, after that, a percentage that guarantees nobody but them will see money from the book. Publicity people are the last great mystery in the business, and these organizations use that to their advantage. But, really, publicity for the small press is easy. It's about buying a list, it's about crafting the right sort of language, and, increasingly, it's about using "guerilla" tactics: Facebook, Twitter, webpages, blogs, etc. There is no mystery.

That gets me to how the future is not really grim if you know what you're doing. SFWP’s first book came out in 2006. If I could go back to 2005 and start all over again, I would. Gladly. I have no regrets. But I'd do a lot of things differently. It's taken four books to really learn this trade and see how it can work. And it can work.

So that's the long-winded answer to the first part of the question. The second part -- is there room for small presses in the publishing world -- is easy. The answer is yes, of course. There always is. A small press won't ever make big money. Those days are (temporarily) over. But there is still a demand for what small presses can offer. My favorite story is North Point Press (now Counterpoint) and Son of the Morning Star. This struggling small press puts out an unusual book that straddled history and fiction by a writer with a strong literary reputation but no sales track record or name recognition. And lightning strikes. That sort of blind luck used to be okay to expect (and I think it still should be). Look also to the story of Graywolf Press.

Now, though, the small presses have become more mainstream. They don’t do daring things. We don’t notice them as much as we used to. Many small presses have become cookie cutter versions of the big presses, or of each other. Readership, meanwhile, declines. How can a dusty old book combat iPods and movies on the laptop and internet downloads and that lovely plasma TV after 12-hour nose-to-the-grindstone days?

The only way is if it’s different. Daring. Interesting. Forget trying to find the next Dan Brown… Gamble a little bit. Why not? Small presses need to do what they’ve always done: Find the next Bukowski. (That’s another favorite example for me – Black Sparrow.)

Would you, as a reader, say there’s no room for another Black Sparrow, and another Bukowski, in the current publishing world?

Join us next week for the conclusion of this intereview. Meanwhile, check out Andrew Gifford at SFWP, at the SFWP blog, or at SFWP's online literary journal.