A Bookish Broad

A career in book publishing requires two things: eternal optimism and realism. Is this combination quizzical? Yes, absolutely.  But it simply means that while you may know in your gut that a book won’t perform, you will project the complete opposite to the individuals staring you down in sales conference. Sometimes, you get lucky and against all odds, the book works. Other times, you’re left with some explaining to do, which is precisely where Borders finds itself these days.

To say that it has been a precarious few months for Borders is an understatement. The superstore chain has been in a tenuous position for years. Their management team was forever shifting, events at their stores have been (mostly) frustrating, and they have lagged behind in building an online presence. In late 2009, they began slicing orders for some titles, while skipping others all together. The publishing industry knew there was trouble brewing, and soon began witnessing the unraveling of what had once been a major player. In February, Borders filed for Chapter 11 bankruptcy protection. They are in the process of closing 226 stores, and will probably close more locations as things play out.  The nail, as they say, is in the coffin.

This week, executives from Borders presented restructuring plan to its creditors (read: publishers), that promised a more efficient, profitable company by the end of this year. In addition, Borders also believes that by 2015, most of its revenue will come from online sales. This is awfully optimistic for a company that has been in the dumps for so long. Still, the question remains: can anyone fix Borders? The answer is complicated and short: no, they cannot.

The problem with Borders is one that seems to be contagious; Barnes & Noble has the same quandary. Their inventory is largely non-book merchandise like toys, cards, journals, pens, and a space dedicated to the café. There are books: co-op will pay for front-of-store placement, new releases table, seasonal promotions, and stepladders (those book displays you see for one title that looks like a stepladder). Publishers spend thousands of dollars to promote their titles in these much-coveted spots. What about the books waiting to be discovered by a browsing customer shelved in superstore oblivion? What if someone doesn’t want to buy an e-reader, but just a good old-fashioned hardcover? Or, what if a harried mother just needs to stop in quickly with her brood and escape without buying another toy? Apologies, dear customer, but in order to get to the actual books, you have to first muddle through lots of other products. Welcome to the counterintuitive world of the superstore.

The solution seems simple: reduce inventory, stop expansion, merchandise better, and allocate more resources to the online portion of the business. Unfortunately, Borders isn’t in a position where they can recover so neatly by doing the aforementioned. They are a super-broke superstore. But they aren’t the only ones at fault for their painfully slow demise.

The math is simple: publishers continue to increase the number of books they publish, so bookstores have had the challenge of expanding their inventory, selling it, and buying more. Add a recession, a transition to lesser priced e-books, constricted marketing/publicity budgets, and you have a lethal business cocktail. No one really wants to say that fewer books should be published, but fewer books should be published.  The movie and music industries have adapted the “less is more” philosophy, not by choice, but necessity. The publishing industry needs to stop, look, and listen—really listen—to the swift changes in the marketplace and make some tough adjustments. This won’t be the saving grace for superstores, but it would certainly help stop the bleeding, and possibly prevent others from joining the record store and video rental store in their entertainment graveyard. Let’s hope it does.

Yesterday, Twitter was abuzz with the news that novelist Barry Eisler had turned down a $500,000 2-book deal to publish his own work.  On the opposite end of the spectrum is self-publishing darling Amanda Hocking, who, according to The New York Times, is close to inking a book deal with a traditional publisher worth $1 Million.  Has the book world gone bonkers?  Yes and no.

Traditional publishing is constantly getting cornered in the boxing ring of books. Just when you think a knock-out is inevitable, publishers somehow redeem themselves and survive. Have publishers made mistakes? Sure they have. But so have authors, agents, publicists, and readers.  It is important to remember that publishers do not set out for a book to fail—though it seems the perception is that they do just that.

While I respect Mr. Eisler’s decision to self-publish, I would also like to see his Bookscan numbers. If his titles were trending down in sales, chances are the “get out” number (# of copies publisher prints) would be far less than perhaps he would accept or expect.  There are, of course, retailer issues in existence: Borders is closing stores, so they will naturally take less copies of everything; Barnes & Noble is trying to scale down so their buyers are conservative; e-book prices haven’t leveled out; indie bookstores are struggling.  All of the aforementioned factors can reduce a book’s chance to succeed. However, so can a bad cover, unprofessional editing, lack of marketing and publicity, and the idea that “if you write it, they will buy it.” The truth is, you can publish a book in any format you want, but people still have to want to read it. 

Mr. Eisler may be an exception to self-publishing: he has a built-in audience, he will control the destiny of his books, and he may very well succeed. However, for every Barry Eisler, there are countless writers who are trying to navigate the great unknown of the publishing process. It isn’t as complex as it may seem.

Traditional book publishing is in a great time of flux. Hardcover sales are down, e-book sales are up, and no one is quite sure where the next big hit will come from. Discovery is a wonderful aspect of publishing, and it is the thing that keeps most of us in the industry. I will never forget working on Diane Setterfield’s debut novel “The Thirteenth Tale” when it claimed the top spot on The New York Times bestseller list. The thrill felt by a publishing house when one of its authors takes off is unmatched.  I have been lucky enough to work with several authors from the beginning of their careers, and seeing them succeed is the only reminder I need of why I remain in a business that puzzles so many people.

The economics of publishing are this: most of the “big five” houses are owned by large media conglomerates that generate most of their revenue from other business units and do not inject more cash than necessary into book publishing. Therefore, budgets are tight. When sales are down, budgets are eliminated for some books—a decision no publisher takes lightly. Some authors may cry foul when other books get star treatment, but the truth is, if they didn’t, editors wouldn’t be able to buy some of the projects that they love. The same could be said for music and television: the big fish allow the smaller fish to survive. 

I understand the frustration from writers who feel they could publish a book on their own rather than wait for a publisher to ask them to the proverbial prom. There is something to be said for being bold enough to self-publish: you get to call all the shots, take full ownership of your work, and don’t have to deal with those pesky publishing people. However, having been one of those pesky publishing people for many years, I can tell you that in those great big buildings in New York City reside numerous individuals who truly care about the future of books.

Kathleen Schmidt

CEO, President

KMS Public Relations 

When I meet people for the first time, I often wonder what lies beneath their surface: Are they really this happy? Are they in love? Do they get angry like I do? I find myself asking those same questions when I see status updates on Facebook and try to decipher whether what I’m reading is reality…or a projection of the reality someone wants others to see. In either case, I constantly question the way I project myself. Is it the real me? Well, yes and no.

My struggle with clinical depression is no secret and I have no regrets about discussing it online or in the “real” world. I’m not ashamed to admit that I take medication, or that it isn’t working as well as it should lately. These facts are the hardware of my life, the mechanics that make my brain run a little better.

What most people don’t realize about me is that I constantly play a game of “hide and seek” with myself. There are days I know a better, happier version of myself exists, but no matter how hard I try, I can’t find her. Most of my winter has been spent this way. Frankly, I’m tired of it.

Some people will tell me to cheer up, others will remind me that I am not the curmudgeon I think I am. It won’t help. Instead of feeling like I can conquer the world, I often feel like the world is conquering me. There is a part of me who is  begging for a chance to kick butt. The other part of me feels vulnerable and scared. I don’t want to fail, I don’t want anyone to think I am a basket case. I don’t want anyone to know that I cry because I get so frustrated by depression. I don’t want anyone to know that some days I think it would be much easier not to be here than to keep fighting. I don’t want anyone to know, but now they do. I was never that good at playing “hide and seek” anyway.

This was not an easy post to write. My hope is that by reading it, you will take away something for yourself, or perhaps for someone who needs that extra phone call.

No matter where I go or what I do, I have a companion. It’s not a stalker, though it would be rather nice if it would go to jail and leave me be forever and ever. You see, my constant companion is a little condition they call clinical depression, and though you may not see it in my face or hear it in my voice, it’s there…for better or worse.

When I was a little girl, I was very introspective. At the age of 8, I would hide in my Holly Hobby clubhouse in the middle of my family’s tiny apartment with a composition notebook and write poetry. As I entered adolescence, I kept journals. I wrote about the crushes I had on boys, the horrible things people said to me about being a bit chubby, and the dream I had of becoming (what else) a writer. When I was a freshman in college, there was a shift inside me. I would experience “dark” periods where it was extra hard to get out of bed and it took more energy than usual to go about my day. A close friend of mine at the time noticed this, and urged me to see a therapist. Thus, the journey to piece together the puzzle of myself began. Four therapists, one psychiatrist, and three medications later, I think I have some insight.

What I can tell you is that I’ve been to the depths of depression. I’ve had what some women call “the shower breakdown,” where I would stand under the water, lean against the wall, and wail. After my son was born, I sat catatonic in a rocking chair for an entire summer in the throws of post-partum depression. I thought for sure that I would be better after my daughter’s birth 2 1/2 years ago. I was worse. I would cry and start thinking about the steak knives in the kitchen, and that maybe, just maybe, being gone would be better than being here. Somehow, I managed to pick myself up from the floor and got help.

If this were a commercial, perhaps you’d see rays of sunshine surrounding my head. In reality, I struggled. I struggled to function at a high-level executive job, and I struggled to make sure my children never saw me the way I saw my mother so many times through the years: laying on the couch, staring blankly at the televison, unwilling to try and live her life. It isn’t easy, and my thought process tends to be very different than others. What has frustated me the most is learning that depression is a disease. In my case, it is genetic, and it has taken a long time to stop blaming myself for the extreme ups and downs people close to me experience. I find myself apologizing for who I am instead of working on the parts of myself that could be better. 

At my best, I am a 38 year old woman who loves to laugh, exudes confidence, and feels like she can conquer the world. At my worst, I am someone trying to unlock a door that will never open. In between, I am just me. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.

When Good Twitter Happens to Bad People (or, When Twerps Tweet)

Tori Spelling’s three year-old son Liam launched a Twitter page earlier this week.  It is chock-full of cutesy quotes the tot dictates to his mom (more likely her personal assistant, or an intern at a PR firm). I don’t know about you, but I already have 2 kids, so reading tweets about snakes and wieners from someone else’s toddler does nothing but make me cringe.  And I am not alone.

When I tweeted about this very newsworthy event, it garnered the following responses:

“I’d rather follow a monkey”

“BARF!!!”

“Not okay”

“WTH!!”

Now, I can’t totally blame Tori Spelling for allowing this to go down. There was probably a marketing team, a manager, and a television executive involved. However, does a three year-old need his life splattered all over social media? Does he have a choice? Not really. I’m not sure how this experiment will help the “Tori” brand, but I am sure of this: I think I’d rather follow a monkey, too.

Lindsay Lohan is in big, big trouble. Again. I admit, I didn’t quite understand the chatter about the possibility of her going to jail…this time. A few quick clicks and I discovered that La Lohan (or Lilo, as many call her) hadn’t shown up for a whole lot of alcohol education classes, and therefore violated probation.  Now, call me crazy but I do believe Ms. Lohan has had quite the advanced education in matters relating to alcohol.  She knows how to order drinks, consume them, consume more of them, and even throw them on a waitress or two. But I digress.

There she was on July 6, dressed appropriately, nails shiny with a fresh coat of “F*** You,” awaiting her sentence from a judge in Beverly Hills. And so was her mom.

As celebrity moms go, Dina Lohan is somewhere between Jade Barrymore (Drew’s mama) and Lynne Spears (mother of Britney)—which isn’t saying much. These ladies managed their daughters’ careers at one point or another, saw their stars rise, and effectively watched as their kids came undone and did nothing about it. Nothing constructive, that is.

Dina Lohan sat in the same courtroom as her eldest daughter on Tuesday, but I’m not so sure she was on the same planet as the rest of us. As her daughter scribbled illegible notes, cried crocodile tears, and claimed she “did her best” to follow probation rules, Dina Lohan was spinning her self-promotion wheels. Reality show? Check. Interview on Entertainment Tonight? Check. Laying the blame on everyone but herself? Absolutely. There she was, Mama Lohan, in all her glory, stating on Entertainment Tonight that she and Lindsay were “completely blindsided” by the sentencing. Oh, I don’t think so. I also don’t think Lindsay Lohan is clean and sober. Not all the time, anyway. What I do think is this: Dina Lohan has driven her daughter to the brink and she’s not going to do anything about it. She is only interested in being the quasi-celebrity that she is, and if her kids happen to come along for the ride, great.

Any of us who are mothers would defend our kids to the death—or at least pay an attorney to do so. What I wouldn’t do, though, is stand by while my son or daughter continued to self-destruct. There comes a time when tough love is the only option—Dina Lohan has proven that her love of fame takes precedence over all.

Instead of a reality show, Dina Lohan needs a reality check.

While most people are celebrating today with their fathers, some of us cannot see our dads today. We lumber through the day, trying to remember them: the men who influenced our lives, made us feel special, and called us “son” or “daughter.” For those people, and for my father, William Matthews (or Bill, as we liked to call him), this is for you.

Dear Dad,

I know if you were here, you would hate that I’m writing this. On the other hand, you’d be glad that I was actually writing something. I won’t lie, the past eight years that you’ve been gone have been, well, hard. There has been loss and heartache. But there have also been great, wondrous events like the birth of your grandchildren. How I wish you could meet them. Noah, who is 6, has your smile and sense of humor. He’s whip-smart and a sweet, generous boy. Sophie is 2 1/2, and I know she would have been the apple of your eye(besides me, of course…but don’t tell the others).

Every Father’s Day, I almost forget that you’re gone. Then it hits me. I find myself staring at endless rows of cards “To My Father,” “Dad, I Love You,” “To Dad, From Your Daughter.” Eight years later, it never feels easier—it just feels different. That’s a fact.

You were the best dad a girl could have asked for. No one is perfect, but you showed me that even through someone’s faults, there is a diamond in the rough. Sometimes you just have to dig a little harder and longer to find it.

That said, there are some things I need to thank you for—because I never got the chance to before you left us. Thank you, dad, for:

-Taking me to see all the Star Wars movies (and Airplaine)

-Picking me up from Kindergarten every day

-Letting me watch Dance Fever

-Teaching me how to ice skate

-Picking me up when I fell and hit my mouth before we left for the beach(I was 5, it was pretty bad)

-Taking me shopping for my Jr. prom dress

-Encouraging me to follow my dreams, and not the paycheck

-Teaching me everything I ever wanted to know(or didn’t want to know) about WWII and the Civil War

-Watching scary movies with me

-Walking me down the aisle, when it wasn’t easy to do so

-Coming to see my plays

-Making me realize that you have to give people a second, and sometimes a third, chance

-Teaching me about baseball

-Throwing me in the snow

-Making me dinner every day, even when I was in college

-Being proud of me

I’m sure I’m missing some things, so let’s just leave it at that. Later, I may drink a can of Miller Genuine Draft in your honor.

Love,

Your Daughter

The “mother” of Hallmark holidays is upon us. I thought about writing a sentimental blog entry, but that seemed so…sentimental. Instead, I shall offer my sister wives some simple, elegant, and wonderfully snarky words of wisdom. I present to you, The Ten Commandments of Motherhood. Enjoy!

1. Thou shall get a manicure and pedicure as frequently as possible. No one likes nasty mommy toes.

2. Thou shall not worry about socks on the floor. They aren’t going anywhere unless you move them. It can wait until tomorrow.

3. Thou shall not try to be perfect. We all know you’re not. Really, we do.

4. Thou shall embrace the frozen food section of the grocery store. Elio’s pizza was created for a reason.

5. Thou shall stop signing up the children for too many activities. How is being a cab driver good for anyone’s sanity, especially when no tips are involved!

6. Thou shall preserve the sexy. If I need to explain this, things are worse than I thought.

7. Thou shall not be over-enthusiastic at school drop-offs. No one can be THAT happy before coffee.

8. Thou shall not assume the dishwasher will be empty when you come back. Accept this and move on.

9. Thou shall not write a confessional about being a mommy. Please. Stop.

10.  Thou shall do something nice for yourself at least once a day. Go ahead, no one is looking. Well, we all are, but we won’t tell.

Happy Mother’s Day, ladies.

Before I graduated college, I was walking through midtown with a friend and stumbled upon the offices of a major publishing house. I was in awe. I had loved books my whole life and seeing an actual publishing company in New York City made me feel like Jackie O.(she was a book editor, you know). All I could think was, “I will work there. Oh yes, I will work there.”

Ten years and 3 publishing jobs later…I worked there.

As the mother of a baby boy, I had been torn with feelings many of us working parents have: should I stay or should I go? At the time, I was the Publicity Director at a publishing house downtown. As fate would have it, an opportunity presented itself to me. I would be able to run my own publicity department, and I would have the two initials I had always wanted: V.P. The best part? The position was at THAT publishing house in midtown.  A big office! A big paycheck! A dream come true! Until…

My daughter was born on February 4, 2008. She is beautiful, funny, and I love her to pieces. She was also a big surprise.  My doctor at the time told me that because of various complications, the odds of me getting pregnant again were nil. I was okay with that because my life was full…or so I thought. It wasn’t an easy pregnancy, and as someone who suffered through an awful bout of post-partum depression with her son, I was petrified. Not only was I looking at the possibility of being severely depressed again, but how would I manage two small children and this big, shiny, new career? I would burst into tears spontaneously while the scenarios played out in my head: me, exhausted; me, fat and depressed; me, frazzled at the end of each day.

I didn’t give myself enough credit.

Somehow, I pulled it together and returned from my maternity leave with a vengeance. I was now a Working Mother of Two. I took my new mommy badge of honor, along with some anti-depressants and a new outfit, and staged my comeback. I traveled to Los Angeles for a fabulous celebrity-studded party, I organized a concert in the meat-packing district, I changed diapers, and I kept my sanity (somewhat) intact.

It was exhausting.

My son entered Kindergarten during the fall of 2009, and my world suddenly changed. He needed me so much more than he did when he was an infant, when it was: bottle, bath, bed. Now it looked more like: dinner, homework, read a story, shower, bed, sign forms…sign more forms…and…wait, do I need to sign a form? While all this was happening, my daughter, now 2, would be coloring on the walls. And, oh, yes, I musn’t forget the attention my third child, The Blackberry, needed.

Something had to give.

The decision to leave my job in New York City was a heavy one. I loved working there—the energy, the people, the shopping(!). I had no idea what I was getting myself into, working from home in a basement office. What I did know, was that I would never get this time back with my kids. So I took a leap of faith in myself, turned off the lights in the big office I inhabited for 4 years, and said good-bye to the city I love. I have no regrets.

I hope you stay tuned for a chronicle of my adventures as a working-at-home-mother. I’ll occasionally write about books, publishing, PR, and of course, celebrities. I may even throw in some fashion and beauty entries for good measure.

Enjoy!