Things I Learned (and Gained) from Bundoran Press, 4th and last Part

Lots of good things happened during the eight years I was running Bundoran Press.

Let me talk for a minute about Mike Rimar. I had met Mike at a con or two in passing but I was surprised when he came up to me and asked if he could invest in Bundoran Press. I sort of laughed and said there were a lot better places to invest his money – in fact most places were better. He insisted, said it was something he really wanted to do and, then he repeated it when we were both sober. His persistence and humour both impressed me so I asked if he wanted to buy part of the company and be a partner. At least, that way, he’d get a title in exchange for his cash. Which is how Mike Rimar became a partner in The Press.

Mike did his share of the heavy lifting – literally when it came to moving boxes of books but in a lot of other ways, too. He manned the table and proved a surprisingly good salesman. He produced our book videos as well as a series of interviews as Bobby Bundoran. When I asked him to go outside his comfort zone and speak at book launches, he stepped up to the mike (or mostly just shouted since we usually didn’t have a sound system).

We eventually edited two anthologies together: Second Contacts and Lazarus Risen. It was an interesting process. We agreed on an evaluation system before we even saw a story using a rubric which measured both the quality of the writing and story-telling and the adherence to the anthology’s theme. We evaluated every story separately and then averaged the ratings (which were sometimes quite divergent). That made it pretty easy to identify the “must have” and the “no way” stories. As for the ones in the middle, we reduced conflict by giving each editor an “editor’s choice” option for one story per anthology. It must have worked – both anthologies were nominated for Auroras and Second Contacts won, so Mike got a title and an award for his money. Plus my undying friendship.

Mike wasn’t the only one who stepped up to help the Press. We had a number of people who gave money on a monthly basis through our Patreon account and many more who contributed to the four fund-raising campaigns we conducted for our anthologies through Indiegogo. I was never short of people who would volunteer to help us at conventions, whether it was working at the table or helping to set up launches or clean up after parties. I had several people take on small projects as interns in exchange for recognition and a modest honorarium. I tried to make sure that the latter matched the former and always refused offers of more substantial work if I couldn’t afford to pay.

Lessons learned: Work hard and with integrity and help will arrive in unexpected forms from unexpected places. Accept it graciously but never assume it is owed to you.

It is a common theme that you need to have book reviews and ratings on Amazon to sell books. I suspect this idea is mostly spread by book reviewers, book publications, Goodreads and of course Amazon itself. The evidence that either make a difference is scanty.

The best-selling book we published had exactly one rating on Amazon and it was 1-star. We had several books reviewed in places like Quill and Quire and Publisher’s Weekly as well as some moderately popular reviewing blogs. Some were positive, some less so but none seemed to increase or diminish sales in the weeks or months after they appeared. The one real study of reviews, done some years ago, suggest that the only thing that matters is if the review appears in a prestigious and widely read source like the New York Review of Books where even a negative review will generate book sales (so few books get reviewed there that the assumption is that the book must be noteworthy even if the reviewer didn’t like it).

Of course, we did promote any reviews we did get, at least we did if they were positive because it couldn’t hurt and even if we only sold a few more books as a result, it was a plus. And the good reviews made the authors happy – a bonus to make up for the limited money they got.

On a seemingly unrelated note, I was always gratified when a book or story I had rejected found a home with another publisher. Two of the fantasies for which I had reverted rights got published in new editions by others. Two books that had come close to being offered contracts before I decided they weren’t right for Bundoran wound up with other houses. I also know of 4 or 5 stories, rejected for our anthologies that subsequently sold to good markets.

Lessons learned: Not every book is for every person or every publisher. As long as you believe in your work, you’ll find your audience eventually.

It is important to know that a publishing house is not one person or even a team of three and a few volunteers. Virginia O’Dine, the original publisher of the press, remained under contract to design our books and provided excellent work at a reasonable price (I suspected a family and friend discount but never asked). Whenever I wanted a specific design option, she always found a way to accommodate my requests.

Dan O’Driscoll had been the artist for my three novels published under Virginia’s management and he became the house artist for all our books, demonstrating a range of styles and techniques. Dan always read the entire book before creating the cover art, bringing his own vision to bear while still being open to suggestions from me or the author. He was recognized by winning a number of Aurora Awards

Ryan McFadden maintained our website for years and produced our ebooks as well. I eventually learned how to do the former but he did the latter right until the end (which were his own two novels, The Venusian Job and the ironically titled Corona Burning, which went to the printers just before COVID was a thing).

All three remain my friends and I trust they always will.

But what about my third partner? You mean, my partner for life, my support and foundation? Well, Liz was there by my side for the entire journey, giving sage advice (which I sometimes took) and endless unconditional support. She worked at the tables, charmed everyone in sight, read slush and proofread manuscripts for publication, helped with my sometimes-crazy marketing schemes, calmed me down when I was doing the books and generally made it possible for me to keep Bundoran Press together for eight years. We survived, no thrived, during all that and COVID, too. We even managed to write a few stories together so it must be the real thing. Now, on to the next adventure.

Lessons learned: Follow your heart and do what you love. You may not get rich but you might well make memories and friends that will enrich your life.

One final note. Nothing will ever make you happier that the look on an author’s face when you hand them the first copy of their book.

Photo by Natalie Pedigo on Unsplash

SFContario 2

Recounting old battles and savouring past victories is a pleasant way to spend the evening whether with old friends or new acquaintances. The latter have the advantage of never having heard your war stories before and – even better – can’t correct you when you stray into hyperbole. But sharing stories with those who were there and took part has a sweeter flavour.

Indeed, there is a certain pleasure to listen to people swap stories even if it involves something you were no part of. Watching them jogging each other’s memories and sharing credit (or shifting blame) can be a fascinating dance to watch. Last night, I spent the evening at SFContario doing exactly that. It was great fun.

After a day of panelling both as an audience member – the one on First Contact stood out – and a speaker (I skipped my last one, mea culpa) I slipped out to dinner with some of my fellow con attendees and a few friends who happened to be in town. We shared a few drinks and more than a few stories while we dined on unhealthy but delicious pub food. It was great fun – particularly when stories began to riff off each other as old friends crafted a lovely simulacrum of past events from their own particular remembered perspective. Sometimes I was one of the sculptors and sometimes I merely listened and observed. New friends – or in this case, more recent ones – had their own stories to tell and, if they were at first reluctant to speak out, it didn’t take long before conversations began to dance around the table.

A lot of times it was not a matter of telling shared events but rather recounting parallel stories. That reminds me of… or I had a similar experience/epiphany/fright when… And that’s how friendships are built and maintained, one story at a time.

Later, I went back to SFContario and hung around the Swill party. Swill, as I understand it (I’d had a few glasses by then), was a fanzine that had its origins some 35 years ago among a group of – shall I call them loveable rascals – who took great pleasure in writing outrageous commentaries and satires on the Powers That Be in organized SF fandom of the day. The details don’t matter. What was fun was listening to the stories of various scandalous adventures they had perpetrated and the upset they had caused. Recently, Swill was revived – though whether from nostalgia or a renewed sense of outrage, I was never quite sure.

Eventually, the others gathered there trotted out their own stories of youthful or not so youthful rebellion, lessons learned, mistakes made, victories – however small – won. It reminded me of all the great convention parties I’ve gone to over the years – places where common culture and loves are shared and explored and new initiates welcomed into the great long conversation SF fandom has been holding – sometimes jovially, sometimes with bitter rancour – for nearly a hundred years.

And that’s ten minutes.

 

Perspective

I spend most of my days immersed in politics. It is, of course, my day job as a policy advisor to a Canadian Senator – though there I think less about the gritty day-to-day- of retail politics and more about the issues and policies that politics is meant to – though it often doesn’t – solve. But even then I have to speculate on how one might approach the issues depending on which party or parties form the next government.

When I’m not working, I’m often reading, talking or thinking about politics. I follow the polls almost obsessively while fully cognizant they are never more than a fuzzy snapshot of how the populace is leaning – yesterday. They are of little value in predicting how the people will think and vote three weeks from today. And, having followed politics in Canada all my life I know that there is only a few percentage points between a minority or a majority or a government by one party and another. A few percentage points is generally within the margin of error of most polls.

So it is not surprising that they sometimes get it wrong; maybe it’s more surprising that they usually get it (approximately) right.

But sometimes I take a break and realize that there is more to life than who wins and loses an election. Indeed, while changes in governments do make a difference in people’s lives so do natural disasters or unexpected and often inexplicable shifts in the economy. There is so much that occurs at a high level over which we have limited control that, while we should never disengage from the fray, we should sometimes take a few days off to simply enjoy life and, as they say, count our blessings – if we have any.

This weekend Liz and I spent with our good friends, Rob and Carolyn. We sold books and we chatted with friends. We shared meals and engaged in a wide range of conversation – some of it personal and some more abstract or intellectual. We also shared a few jokes – some good; all elaborate – and generally enjoyed each other. Politics was hardly ever raised. We had more important things on our minds – like our personal futures and the pain associated with dealing with aging parents and siblings and friends. Pleasure and pain, laughter and sorrow – the human experience.

But mostly we simply lived. We breathed in and out and we enjoyed our food and our drink. We waited up to see the lunar eclipse but were thwarted by the clouds. So we talked about next time or about other things we would see and enjoy in the coming years – foolishly confidant that there always would be a next time.

Politics is important – but sometimes it is important to remember that politics is not life.

And that’s ten minute.

The Hugos 3

So here I am poking that sore tooth with my tongue again. I wasn’t going to but when you lie awake at night thinking about something, it creates a certain urgency. It’s my version of “I have to write,” I guess.

The whole Hugo thing is really starting to spin out of control. Revered figures in the field have announced they won’t present at the awards; some say they won’t even attend the convention. Meanwhile, two of the nominees — people who apparently weren’t consulted when put on the Sad/Rabid Puppies slate — have withdrawn their nominations. Not sure what that will do to the ballot but it has to add to the taint that this year’s awards will inevitably have. On the flip side, defenders of the Sad Puppies (most go out of their way to differentiate Sad and Rabid Puppies) produce elaborate — though flawed — data analysis of why there may be some basis for their complaints. {I could deconstruct them — as a policy analyst, it is what I do — but who has time in ten minutes?}

But that wasn’t what kept me awake at night. Really, the Hugos don’t matter that much to me. In the eight World Cons I have gone to, I’ve only attended the ceremonies twice. I like awards well enough — I’ve won a few myself and they always made me happy — but sometimes the process makes me tense and sad for those whose hopes are dashed.

The thing that bothers me most about this is the division it is creating among people who mostly have no ‘dog in this fight’ if you will excuse the expression. On a personal level, I think this kerfuffle taints the whole award process, not just the Hugos but every popular award process in the field of science fiction. Usually at this time of year I’m bringing things to people’s attention for the Canadian Aurora Awards. But in 2015 I’m reluctant to do so. I probably will anyway but it won’t be that enthusiastic.

Then there is the impact on people I know. I see people taking sides — arguing and even de-friending each other on social media. Even the most gentle suggestions that there might be merit in one side or the other, leads to arguments. Most of my friends are definitely outraged by events — especially by Theodore Beale (Vox Day) — but some have raised defenses of the Sad Puppy slate or at least of their stated mission. I happen to think they are wrong but I’m used to thinking people are wrong about their political views. I’m more than happy to debate with them and suspect that, if name calling is avoided and reason prevails, I can more than hold my own. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate those in the field who are trying to have that debate or trying to make something good happen out of it all.

I don’t think that the Hugo controversy of the last two or three years will lead to the destruction of the awards altogether. Most people — believe it or not — are reasonable and a compromise that works for everyone might be found. But if not — if the Hugos simply become another casualty of the endless culture wars that Americans like to wage with themselves, so be it. Institutions have a lifespan just like people. Some things have to die so other things can grow. If the Hugos go away, too bad, but science fiction as a field will survive and probably thrive — even if we are all confined to our respective ghettos and made poorer both financially and culturally by that.

What I do regret is that some people are going to remain enemies forever — based on a matter of opinion. I’m a loyal person and I won’t abandon friends simply because we have a political disagreement (though I might feel sad about it). But because of that some of my friends might abandon me.

And that’s slightly more than ten minutes.

Working It

I was reminded of one of the key lessons of the writing business, really of any business, last night. A fellow was asking another person to help him out with a promotional activity. The latter said, sure I’d love to help. E-mail me the link and I’ll do it right now. I’ll just tag you on Facebook, came the reply. And the person being asked to help said: That’s not good enough.

Why would he do that?

It’s simple. He was willing to help but he wasn’t willing to do the majority of the work. In the first case he has to open his e-mail, click on the link and then do the deed. In the latter he has to wait for the guy to post to Facebook, then find the notification, click to the post, click on the link and then do the deed. Does it seem like a lot more work? No but it is a few more moments of time that maybe this person, who is constantly busy, can’t afford to give.

If you want a favour, you have to make it as easy to do as possible. And if you think of it this way it makes perfect sense. If you aren’t willing to make the extra effort to accommodate those you want to help you for free, why should they make any effort at all?

Of course a lot of people are incredibly generous with their time, their energy and their reputation. They like to help out, largely because others have helped them. Some people will make an extra effort but that doesn’t mean they don’t resent it. Keep demanding them to do more than you do yourself, and after a while they will just stop.

The second part of this life lesson is that as a writer and a small business person (and most people in the arts are both whether they like it or not), you never have an off moment. Even when you are relaxing in the Green Room having one or several drinks, you have to keep your eye on the opportunities as they present themselves. It’s not that you have to be or ever should be a pest or a bore, droning on about your latest project but neither should you avoid mentioning what you do if the other person shows some interest or better yet a willingness to help you (always keeping in mind, safety first – not all helpful hands keep to themselves).

Succeeding at anything is never easy. Succeeding at the intimate arts – you are putting yourself out there, right? – requires extra diligence. It’s not all about you, it’s all about the people you surround yourself with. Hard work, sensitivity, seizing the opportunity and then paying it forward. All part of the road to success.

And that’s ten minutes.

Saying Good-bye

Saying good-bye seems less dramatic than it once did. A quick hug, thanks for everything, see you soon, seems sufficient in the modern age. No great teary farewells, no clinging at the train station or at the foot of a boat ramp. Even airport scenes are less effusive than they were a few years ago.

We are living longer, perhaps, and so our expectations of seeing each other again are greater. We know that everyone is just a plane ride a way, a few hours, a day at the most. If something happens – that niggle in the back of our head – we can be there for one last farewell.

In any case, we have Skype and Facebook and e-mail and texting and all those things that let us keep in touch. Everything except actual touch. We have all these tools to let us transmit words or even pictures. With Youtube we can even send each other movies. But there is no way to send a last caress, a final embrace. We cannot feel the texture of our loved one’s hair, cannot experience the scent of their skin. Even voices are not the same when digitized and transmitted a thousand miles.

We think, nonetheless, that this semblance of togetherness is enough. That it will sustain us. And it does because it must. We need to be sustained in the comfort of knowing that nothing is forever, no good-bye has to be the last. I suspect it is one of the factors that sustains religion; the selfish (or even selfless) urge to never be parted finally from those we love.

But reality is so much different. A life can end in a moment and sometimes you don’t even have the chance to make a symbolic farewell. Seven years ago this week, a friend, George, disappeared from his home. He had been ill, growing worse, dementia was encroaching and, one day, he simply walked into the woods. There was no explanation, no note, he was simply gone. His body wasn’t found for six years. And during all that time, his friends and family wondered; is he truly gone? Our minds knew but our hearts still wondered.

I think of those people who lost friends and family when the Malaysian aircraft disappeared. They will never have the chance to make that last farewell. Pictures and Youtube videos will not sustain them, will not give them what they need to make that last sweet necessary farewell.

So today, when you leave for work or set out on a journey, hold your lover or your children or your closest friend for just a moment longer. Because you never know….

And that’s ten minutes.

 

Drink

I don’t do extreme sports. Or, for the last 15 years, sports of any kind. It’s not that I couldn’t. I could. Though I’d resent every minute I spent training, let alone doing them. I’d almost certainly hurt myself. I would probably kill myself. Sports, especially extreme sports, are not for everyone.

It’s the same way with drinking. I took my first drink when I was seventeen. In fact, I took 9 of them that night – all different. I was at a political convention but I missed most of the debates on the final day because I was too damn sick. You might think I would have learned from that experience. I did. I didn’t take another drink for 10 days. By then I was in university.

I drank a lot in university, usually starting on Thursday. Sunday through Wednesday I seldom took a sip. Well, a beer or two now and then but it hardly counts as drinking. But I never missed a class and I got three degrees. I’d like to tell you that I quit drinking after that but it would be a lie. Not the quitting part but the idea I would have liked to quit. That would be the lying part.

I like drinking. I’ve learned to do it well. Some people might say I have achieved Olympic level competence. But they would be wrong. I never push myself that hard. I don’t get hangovers; I never get sick.

I love the taste of bourbon on my tongue, the bouquet of wine in my nose, the tingle of beer, the sweetness of port. I love the sensation of putting the glass to my lips, letting the flavours and aromas and feelings linger. I like the softness drink gives to my vision, to my thoughts. When I drink I am more myself. I like myself when I drink. I am more jovial, more loquacious, more romantic. I am not a mean drunk.

I am, of course, not an alcoholic – I simply refuse to go to all those meetings.

In all my years, I’ve never missed a day’s work or a deadline. Some might say I could have done more, reached higher. Pshaw! I’ve done everything I wanted. Had a decent career, published four novels and a raft of stories, thought deep thoughts, travelled and loved and made great friends. Drinking was and is a part of that. Soon I’ll lie back and take it easy. Sit on beaches or in palazzos, drink beer and red wine, write more novels, enjoy life and love and friendship.

But it’s not for everyone. Some people hurt themselves with drink. Some are hurt and think drink will make them better. You have to know yourself. You have to know when the mountain is too high or the slope too steep.

Know yourself, control yourself and everything else will take care of itself.

And that’s ten minutes.

 

Our Human Heritage

Yesterday was as perfect a day as one could ask for – almost, if I don’t count the absence of my wife. But still. Slept until I wasn’t tired and then rose leisurely with no prospect of work other than this brief ten minutes. A slow gentle entry to the day with coffee and breakfast consisting of toasted sourdough bread topped with locally smoked bacon, fresh tomato slices and melted cheese served with berries and fresh yogurt. Gentle conversation as we overlooked the calm blue waters of the Salish Sea (aka Georgia Strait). An eagle flew by at eye height (we were on a deck on the side of a hill) while sailboats drifted lazily along.

Later a trip to the market to buy vegetables and meats and bread all locally grown or made, followed by berry shopping at local growers and lunch at a vineyard. We returned to the deck for a few drinks and wide ranging conversation filled with insight and humour and deep felt friendship and love. A home cooked meal and more talk into the gentle evening. Warmth in the air and between old friends. Nothing accomplished; no great works contemplated or carried out but no conflict either. Sunshine and water and fresh air and friendship. What more could anyone ask?

Really, it sounds like the first world existence of the overfed bourgeois and I suppose it was yet it also had a universal quality too. We observed and reveled in nature and our own comfort, we ate food that had been locally grown and prepared, which we gathered from merchants whom my friends knew by name. It was the life of a community. We shared libations and conversation. We laughed, cried a little too from the joy of shared sadnesses. We discovered some small thing about each other and ourselves that we didn’t know before. We soaked in heat and beauty and peace.

This is the commonality that should bind us together. Instead we humans – so magnificent in our intellect, so rich in our ability to understand and to share things both simple and complex – can find no end of ways to fight and disagree, to hate and to hurt. The very tools that should tie us together – language and the sense of wonder at this glorious world – we use to turn life into a hard scrabble of struggle and conflict. How sad.

But that’s ten minutes.