These comments, first posted in 2015 in response to the activities of a certain writer who was bad-mouthing his publisher in the most toxic terms, deserve repetition and revision in light of some information recently acquired: to wit, the story of Roald Dahl.
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From time to time the following comedic trope appears in movies or television: the totally out-of-control ego monster of a prominent author, who abuses everybody who gets within twenty feet of him, who must be tended by a full-time handler from the publisher, to make sure he gets his latest book done.
I have seen any number of writers, addressing this trope, snot that nothing like this has ever existed, in the entire history of publishing.
Not true.
I happen to know four or five cases where problematic grand eminences were treated exactly like that.
The fact that you can name grand eminences who don’t need it — Stephen King and JK. Rowling, for instance — doesn’t mean that there haven’t been some who did, and publishers who weren’t so desperate to receive pages from them that they indulged them in this manner.
I know of one great eminence who was so respected by the magazine that was running installments of his latest opus in composition that they gave him an office and dispatched one of their lesser young things to take dictation from him, all day long, to then type it up, and in between get him whatever he wanted, while taking his scorn and abuse.
This happened.
However, this guy was an eminence. He was indulged because he was an eminence. (And one of the “respected” sort rather than the bestselling sort.)
The lesser trope, of an author who simply produces popular work while being unpleasant to anybody who ever speaks to him, bears more resemblance to everyday reality. See Jack Nicholson in AS GOOD AS IT GETS. He’s mentally ill, his editor can’t stand him as a person, he reacts to a moment of admiration on the part of a receptionist by slamming her with his scorn, probably driving her to tears.
This exists in real life, but it needs to be noted: Nicholson’s character wrote successful books, one after another, enough to support him in comfort. He was established. The publisher got what it wanted out of him, and tolerated the rest. So, sure, he was an eminence, of a sort, too. Tolerating his awfulness was a business decision.
This happens with TV and movie stars, too; at a certain point, some do exercise their right to become monsters, and the stories of insane entitled behavior and outright abuse of co-workers can be appalling, but what you don’t hear is that many of these guys don’t get away with it in the long run. People stop wanting to work with them. After they destroy one or two movies, they lose their bankability, and find themselves begging for roles and wondering what happened. The guy I’m not making up who won one Oscar, told everybody around him that he was going to become an asshole now, and did, went back to small supporting roles shortly afterward, because he was not as indispensable as he imagined.
For the vast majority of artists, being an asshole to the people who give you money is not a good career move. You are not indispensable unless you’re an eminence of such towering fame that they are willing to bend heaven and Earth to keep you. And sometimes not even then. Fame is fleeting.
Nor are you, necessarily, indispensable.
Witness the story of Roald Dahl, the author of among other things Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, James and the Giant Peach and the world-class, classic short stories “The Man From the South” and “Lamb to the Slaughter;” a literary celebrity if ever there was one. It turns out that he was a truly septic piece of work, arrogant and insulting and bigoted, and that his behavior toward even the minor employees of his publishing house was so awful that, down to the lowest secretary, they ended up hating him.
And he was so awful to them that they told him in writing that they were willing to call his bluff.
In 1980, editor Robert Gottlieb sent him the following advisory.
Dear Roald,
This is not in response to the specifics of your last several letters to me and my colleagues, but a general response to everything we’ve heard from you in the past year or two.
In brief, and as unemotionally as I can state it: since the time when you decided that Bob Bernstein, I and the rest of us had dealt badly with you over your contract, you have behaved to us in a way I can honestly say is unmatched in my experience for overbearingness and utter lack of civility. Lately you’ve began addressing others here—who are less well placed to answer you back—with the same degree of abusiveness.
For a while I put your behavior down to the physical pain you were in and so managed to excuse it. Now I’ve come to believe that you’re just enjoying a prolonged tantrum and are bullying us.
Your threat to leave Knopf after this current contract is fulfilled leaves us far from intimidated. Harrison, Bernstein and I will be sorry to see you depart, for business reasons, but these are not strong enough to make us put up with your manner to us any longer. I’ve worked hard for you editorially but had already decided to stop doing so; indeed, you’ve managed to make the entire experience of publishing you unappealing for all of us—counterproductive behavior, I would have thought.
To be perfectly clear, let me reverse your threat: unless you start acting civilly to us, there is no possibility of our agreeing to continue to publish you. Nor will I—or any of us—answer any future letter that we consider to be as rude as those we’ve been receiving.
Regretfully,
BG
By that point, resentment toward Dahl at Knopf was so widespread that he was moved to read that letter aloud in the bullpen, to general cheers.
And that was Roald Dahl, literary giant.
So one guy I’m thinking of, who has come out and described himself as one of the greatest writers of his generation, who says that his work is reeking with literary virtues that any number of others would give their left tits to be even shelved next to, who has been abusing his publisher in public and attacking his editors as people and in general making himself a horse pill – I think he’s in for a surprise, sooner or later, probably sooner. Writers who can sell the number of copies he sells, or more, are not exactly thin on the ground, and the vast majority of them will not be rallying their readers to send hate mail.
But this is not about him. This is about you, the struggling artist. And to you I have some strong advice.
Be a sweetheart.
Be the kind of artist who, when dropping by the publishing house, brings cookies. Or if not cookies, then at least a warm smile and a gracious manner.
Thank everybody for all their efforts on behalf of your book. When you have a problem, be courteous about bringing it up. Do not make it personal. Explain what the problem is and thank everybody who helps you with it.
Be the person they fall in love with.
Be the person who, when they are asked what you are really like, leads them to say, “Oh, he’s a dream; he’s great; we all love him, over here.”
Be that way not just because they’re also people doing their jobs, and you should, but because there will come a day when the numbers are borderline and your future is on a bubble and they will have long sad discussions in-house over whether they’re going to give you another chance, and it’s better to have them on your side than not; it’s better for them to believe in you, the person, than not.
Do not be the person who, when that decision has to be made, leads them to make the decision that was made about another writer I know of, the guy of whom they said, “Well, his books are still making money; not as much money as they used to, but money; but their earnings have dipped, he’s bad-mouthing us every chance he gets, and nobody wants to work with the son of a bitch, let’s jettison him.”
Be that way even if you wind up as an eminence of such towering genius they offer you a minder.
Be that way about the minder. Because that minder might write her own book someday, and you really don’t want to leave any ammunition lying around.
Really, folks. It’s not rocket science. You’re not going to help yourself, long-term, by being an ass. You’re honestly not.
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