Weirdoes and nut-jobs

Not too long ago I wrote about publishing being a weird business and that, ‘In none other will one meet so many weirdos and nut-jobs.’ Many of my customers were quite amused by that thinking, perhaps, I was referring to them. None of my them seemed offended (not to with me, anyway). I suspect that people who read books do entertain (and even celebrate) the notion that they are somewhat different from the herd. Truth is, they are. Readers are a minority in any country. The book industry of the past two (or three) decades was just that: an industry. It lived in an alternate reality. Books are not dead, they said. More titles were published every year (though one wonders why). But, nevertheless, books were dying, smothered by the very hands responsible for keeping them alive.

‘Readers’ became mindless consumers herded by cynical, relentless mass marketing pressure. It became all about books that ‘must be read’, complete with midnight queues. ‘Book discovery’ and real reading moved to the fringes. The fanboy (and girl) took over. One customer said she felt manipulated. Indeed, she was, we all were; manipulated to the point where we admitted we liked something when we didn’t -- like believing ‘Coke’ is good for health, or ‘... he can't be a man 'cause he doesn't smoke the same cigarettes as me’. It felt dirty. It was dirty.

Does all this sound elitist? Some use that word, without fully understanding its implications of power, influence and (worst of all) class. ‘Intellectual’ is close but not its implications of superior mental capacities. It’s about knowledge. Since the 80s intellectualism (in this country, for sure) has been taking a beating and has been cowering in ‘shame’ against the onslaught of the ‘common man’, and mediocrity; a swing to the right, of unbridled capitalism that gave nothing back (all, ironically, in the name of democracy). Greed was good, a virtue. ‘It’s not my fault if people are stupid and want to give me all their money.’

(Some years ago, when I first set up shop) I was having a long conversation about the media with a newspaper person ... about newspapers insulting the intelligence of readers ... yada, yada ... when I asked him at what level newspapers were pitched. He hesitated for a moment, and then said that in England the newspapers were typically pitched at 16-year-olds. (I was taken aback and I hoped he was speaking of tabloids, otherwise it would be too depressing.) “How about Malaysia?” I asked. He hesitated again before saying softly, “Lower.” It was scary, but sort of explained the level of intellectual debate (or the lack of it).

Question: “Would you rather have a discussion with someone coming from a position of knowledge, or someone coming from a position of ignorance?” Would you consider the two positions be exactly equal and valid?

Anyway, coming back to weirdoes and nut-jobs, I think I have mentioned (in earlier columns) about the father who wanted his school-leaving daughter to take up writing because JK Rowling made so much money. (The girl was not particularly interested.) Then there was this father who grabbed his daughter and bolted out of the shop and down the stairs when Phek Chin asked if he was going to buy the book the child just tore. (He had the audacity to come back, but still refuse to buy that book.) And we have had so many customers who looked like taxi drivers or Bandaraya workers, who’d quietly browse through every shelf for hours and, just as we think they are not going to buy anything, bring a stack of books to the counter worth RM300.

We once had this customer when we were in Desa Seri Hartamas who, on his first day, spent about two (or three) hours going through our shelves. He came back the next day and spent another two hours. He didn’t buy anything. On the third day I got a little nervous and I decided to talk to him. He said he was a labourer with Tenaga and that he liked books but he couldn’t afford them. I told he could browse as long as he wanted and that he could even sit at our tables and read them. I suppose I must have made him very happy from the way he smiled. He said, “Thank you sir, thank you sir,” repeatedly, until I started feeling a little embarrassed. The next day was Sunday. We were open and he spent eight hours in the shop. (He declined tea) We saw him a few more weeks after that, then he stopped coming.

At the other end of the spectrum is that loud know-it-all customer who will talk your ears off, drop names, try to impress you with his knowledge (God know why) and then leave without buying anything, only to repeat the performance on another day. Some will go through all your shelves and ask you for an author or title they know is not there. (Sometimes I will have it in another place, but when I get it for them he (almost always a he) will say that he prefers the ‘other’ cover -- whatever.)

I am sure I have mentioned the oily ones who'd throw their manuscripts on the table and tell you it is a sure bestseller, and the indignant ones who will shout at you and call you names when you decline to publish theirs (for whatever reason).

Still, when you come across a manuscript that works, you become so delirious it makes everything worthwhile.

The book industry tsunami

When I decided to retire from engineering twelve years ago to open a bookshop, the thought of a world of gentlemen and gentlewomen engaged in intellectual discussions, in soft dulcet tones, about good books, current affairs and ideas over coffee or glasses of red wine was immensely pleasurable compared to all the argy-bargy, the barely legal (and often downright illegal) activities and the thuggery of the construction world I was leaving (despite some severe financial adjustment I had to make). About a year after I opened the doors of Silverfish Books, the invasion of the mega-bookstore in Kuala Lumpur started. With their infinitely deeper pockets, they could order every book in the list, whether they knew anything about it or not.

The first half of the last decade saw the establishment of so many of these giant bookstores in the Klang Valley, that at one point we had more than twice as much book retail space here than in Singapore, an island with twice the population. Every new shopping mall insisted on a mega bookstore of its own. The most coveted name on the list was Borders, the store that had made reading sexy in Singapore where it was established in 1997. Borders was, probably, single-handedly responsible for making books hip-and-happening all over the world.

But that didn't last long. The second half of the decade saw a gradual downsizing (euphemistically called consolidation) of several chain outlets. The romance was over. Borders is gone. Barnes and Noble could be next. And Waterstone’s might be sold. So what happened? It is common to hear people blame the demise of these chain stores on the Kindle and e-books, etc, etc. Really?

Unfortunately, the truth is simpler. The book industry shot itself in its foot, and has no one to blame for it, but itself.

Book buyer fatigue

First, there was this humungous oversupply of books. Anglophone countries were churning out more than 300,000 new titles a year in UK, USA, Australia and India. A report in The Telegraph in August 2007, announcing the Booker shortlist for the year gave figures of copies sold: On Chesil Beach (Ian McEwen), over 100,000; The Reluctant Fundamentalist (Mohsin Ahmad), 1519; Mister Pip (Lloyd Jones), 880; Animal’s People (Indra Sinha), 231; The Gathering (Anne Enright), 834. (These figures were for sales just after the shortlist was announced.) It was a clear sign that book buyers were getting tired, but the industry was not listening and continued to produce books that nobody wanted.

Second, chains and supermarkets started selling books as loss leaders. Everyone knows how small the margins on books are. Supermarkets can afford loss leaders because they sell all sorts of other merchandise with high margins. When bookstores start giving away their profits on their bestsellers, however, one senses something amiss. Bestsellers are where bookstores make the profit to stock up on other titles. Most customers who go into a bookshop to buy a bestseller buy nothing else, unlike people who go to a supermarket. Amazon is able to get away with it because apart from books, it sells music CDs, videotapes and DVDs, software, consumer electronics, kitchen items, tools, lawn and garden items, toys & games, baby products, apparel, sporting goods, gourmet food, jewellery, watches, health and personal-care items, beauty products, musical instruments, industrial & scientific supplies, and groceries. (Instead of recognising this, the industry was more concerned about Amazon calling itself the 'world's largest bookshop'. Amazon is a mega hypermart, get it? The game has changed. Amazon and hypermarts reduced books to the level of soda water, and the industry went along foolishly.)

Third, the book is a monopoly. A book retailer, in most cases, is able to obtain a particular title from only one supplier, the publisher, and on the latter's terms. Period. The bookseller has no option of buying his merchandise at a lower cost from China, Vietnam, Cambodia, or manufacture it himself in one of those places, unlike hypermarts that are able to buy a garment for 15 cents and sell it for 15 dollars.

Million dollar advances

Fourth, poor management. (The internet has many examples of bad management at Borders but I shall stick to my experience.) When Borders opened its first store at the Berjaya Times Square in Kuala Lumpur in 2005, I went to over to see if they had copies of the hardback edition of Freakonomics. Their system showed three copies. I kept myself occupied with their CD collection while the sales staff went about looking for it. After forty-five minutes, they told me they couldn’t find even one copy. (Honestly, I don't know why I waited that long.) Another case:  Border's Singapore used to buy Silverfish publications through my distributor there, but they used to take forever to confirm -- apparently, they had to get the approval of their office in Australia before they could buy a local book. That would take months. Meanwhile other bookstores would have the title on their shelves the same week of publishing!

Fifth, the industry believed its own spin. The last decade was the era of the million-dollar advances and billionaire writers, if you believed the hype (and many did). All one had to do was to pick up a pen (or sit in front of a word processor) to get rich. It was bizarre. I remember headlines in local dailies calling Tash Aw the 'RM3.5 million dollar man'. When I asked him about it, he was totally embarrassed. (Tash said he has never mentioned a figure, so how reporters came up with that number is anyone's guess.) The industry lived on the hyperbole. Big numbers were good. It made good stories, good copies and helped sell books. Publisher, wholesalers and distributors, retailers, the media and the consumers, all loved big numbers (even if they were blatant lies). Reports started coming out that many titles were unable even to recover advances given; still, the numbers kept going up. It was the perfect bubble.

Sixth, over-printing to wallpaper chain shops. There was a report that the first print run of a particular popular book was 35 million. Sales figures released some time later showed 10 to 12 million. What happened? Was the original figure not true? Did the publisher pulp the remainder? Or did the publisher print the additional copies for reasons other than sales? If so, who paid for it? Did they print that number of copies to meet wallpaper demands of the chain bookstores?

Selling potatoes

Seventh, books retailers had no idea what they were selling. One of the reasons given for the demise of Borders in Australia was the way they sold books like potatoes. Taking it from the top, one has to wonder how some books even get published. (The head of Random House said in an interview with Spiegel Online that he had no time to read.) So who makes publishing decisions? Agents?  Then, there is the layer of wholesalers and distributors for whom potatoes, or books, makes no difference. After that, come the retailers. The book is probably the only commodity sold by people with zero product knowledge. (Independents not included.)

Eighth, everyone is now blaming the e-book. The e-book is still new. The Kindle is only three years old, and there are dozens of competitors in the market. The iPad is only a year old. Although many early adopters have downloaded ebooks, there are no real numbers to work on. How many of these books were downloaded for free? How many were paid for? At what price? The favourite number thrown about by device manufacturers is 'millions' (with no substantiation) and the media is lapping it all up and regurgitating it without question. (I have downloaded about a dozen free e-books books so far, mostly classics. Ironically, I find it more comfortable to read them on my little iPod Touch screen than on my iPad. I haven't tried a Kindle, yet.) Right now we don't even know what an e-book is. The Kindle defined one. Then the iPad turned it upside down in just a short while. Things are changing rapidly. Expect many more permutations before something firms up, still a long way to go before forms take shape and a market is established. Until then, many devices already purchased have a good chance of ending up on shelves.

Ninth, lesson not learnt from the music industry. A recent story in The Brave New World says: "... global recorded music sales fell by some USD1.5bn (GBP 930m) last year."

Will anyone learn from the music industry

"The UK music business physical sales dropped by almost 20% with the overall performance down some 11% and although digital sales continued to rise by some 20% it did not offset the equivalent loss in physical sales ..." it continues, and that US economist Joel Waldfogel does not agree with the music industry bodies and major labels that creation of new music has been hurt by piracy, and that with "... new and cheaper recording technologies, digital music outlets and social networks, many of the tasks that were previously fulfilled by the big labels could easily be taken over by independent labels, or even the artists themselves."

… there’s no success like failure

 On 12 February 2011, I woke up to two bits of very exciting news. I switched on my iPad first thing in the morning (at about 6.00am) and read that Hosni Mubarak was no longer president of Egypt.  It took a while for that elation to subside. Then, when I opened my Facebook, there was a congratulatory message from Susan about Rozlan’s 21 Immortals – it had been shortlisted for the (SEA/Pacific) Commonwealth Prize for best first book! Wahhh! This is the second Silverfish publication since 2009 to be on the shortlist of an international award. (Shih-Li Kow was the first, of course).

It has been a bumpy 10 years of publishing for Silverfish Books. I distinctly remember the euphoria when Silverfish New Writing 1 came out in December 2001. I was excited, but I guess not in the same way as the writers who had contributed. I remember the stern review by Antares in Kakiseni: ‘limp biscuits’ and ‘self-indulgent’ were the terms he used. Many, especially writers whose works were included, were outraged. Some of them urged me to respond or, at least, read the review, which I finally did about a week later. In truth, I was amused, more than anything else, by the review and comments, though some of them started getting personal and ugly towards the end. I thought about it for a while and a week later I sent Antares a private email saying that I did agree with his review, knew where he was coming from and that although I was not entirely happy with the book either, it was a start. I didn’t tell the writers anything, though, because I was still hopeful.

I continued with Silverfish New Writings 2 to 7 after that, producing one book a year. The formula was repeated, as was the response. Then, I decided enough was enough, and stopped the charade. Many (especially writers) were disappointed. Why, why why? Many asked, and still do. It was their only chance of getting published, they said. Some suggested that the reason for stopping the series was because it was not commercially viable anymore. While it is true that we sold far more SNW1s (maybe due to Amir’s foreword) than SNW7, that was not entirely correct. Fact is, I considered it a failure. Yes, seven books and more than 250 writers later, we were still not going anywhere; not one Malaysian writer went on to become an author (except for Matthew Thomas, but that is another story), which was the purpose of the exercise.
In 2008, I changed strategy; I decided to start the Silverfish Writing Programme and to work, intensely, with individual authors. Although I was confident that there are Malaysians who are serious about their writing,

I was nervous like hell, and for long periods I thought I’d fall flat on my face. Fast-forward to March 2011: from August 2008 to now, Silverfish has published five individual works of fiction (Rumaizah Abu Bakar’s collection of short stories, Liver Box, will be out this month). Hardly prolific, it is true. It works out to one book in six months, which is about right, considering the amount of work that has gone into each. We are a tiny publisher and we have to make every shot count; there is no point in putting out anything short of our (and our writer’s) best. And, besides, I had to be certain these are not authors who will be resting on their laurels, or wait twenty years for their next book. I had to know how hard they are willing to work.

Results count, talk doesn’t.

Publishing is a weird business. In none other will one meet so many weirdos and nut-jobs. One woman writer of a self-published book asked, “Why Harry Potter can sell, mine cannot?” Another guy came in with two essays he had written (that would have made a chapbook of about thirty pages) and insisted on using the Silverfish imprint, and stormed out after a long argument with me when I tried to explain why we didn't ‘rent’ out our imprint, saying, “You don’t think my work is good enough, isn’t that it?” Another gentleman who threw his manuscript on the table saying that it was a sure ‘best seller’, was so ‘oily’ I thought I’d have to shampoo the carpets and take a shower after he left. Yet another lady wanted me to rewrite all her stories. Many have called me names, accused me of not helping Malaysian writers like I said I would (particularly, when I reject their manuscripts – a mere coincidence, perhaps, although it does look like a pattern) and flamed me in their blogs. I guess it goes with the territory. I am a publisher not a school teacher. While the latter’s concern is (and should be) with those at the bottom of the class (since ‘the top students will take care of themselves’), a publisher can only spend his time on the best -- the rest will take care of themselves.

Still, publishing is such a buzz when you meet writers who are not afraid of hard work, not afraid to be the best, and not too thin-skinned to take criticism. Working with these future cultural torch bearers is such a pleasure; it makes up for all the weirdos.

I have several more manuscripts in my hard disk, but I will not be rushing them. They deserve my best, and that’s all I can give. An editor can make a good story better, but nothing can make a bad one good.

As the good minstrel said:     She knows there’s no success like failure
                                            And that failure’s no success at all

Raman Krishnan

(In response to Polly Szantor's query as to why Silverfish Blog postings have no bylines, I am signing this blog with my name.)

Interlok revisited

I was going to write about something else, but two things happened that made me change my mind. First, was this gentleman I met who asked me what I did for a living? Then when he heard that I was a publisher, he immediately asked my opinion on the Interlok controversy. I started cautiously by saying that I had read the book, both the Malay and English versions, but before I could continue he asked:

“You mean you have read the book?”

I stopped in my tracks. It was a bizarre question and a bizarre moment. Why was he asking for my opinion if he thought I hadn’t read the book? If he wanted a hysterical uninformed opinion, there was plenty going around. Perhaps, he thought I would abandon scholarship for tribal loyalty and salute the flag he was waving, without a second thought. Perhaps, he was surprised that I could read Malay and, worse still, admit it. Perhaps, he was shocked that, in these days of self-righteous chest-thumping, I dared to look at an issue from another angle.

Second, was this email from one person (whom I shall leave him unnamed): DOES A LOYAL MALAYSIAN INDIAN DESERVE THIS KIND OF INSULT IN A COUNTRY HE CALLS MOTHERLAND ?????????? (Yes, all in capitals, 18 point fonts and in red colour, to boot).

My opinion of the book in question is that, though wobbly in (many) parts and a little naïve, it is certainly one of the better Malaysian books I have read. It is, basically, a story of the human spirit. Abdullah Hussain’s empathy with his characters (whether it is Seman, Cing Huat or Maniam) is quite admirable. Read the following, for example:

Kadang-kadang dia masih lapar. Bau roti yang dibakar dan disapu serikaya menimbulkan rangsangan dalam kepalanya untuk makan, bau makanan yang di masak oleh penjual nasi di sudut kedai itu menimbulkan nafsu untuk makan dan kadang kadang dia melihat daging babi yang tergantung dengan lemaknya yang berminyak-minyak itu, menggoda dia untuk makan. (Interlok, page 156)

(Sometimes he (Cing Huat) remained hungry. The smell of bread being toasted and spread with serikaya would stimulate his brain to eat, the smell of rice being cooked by the food seller next door triggered his appetite and sometimes when he saw the  (roast) pork hanging with its fatty oil dripping, it would entice him.)

A Malay writer talking about the smell or lard from roast pork? No, Abdullah Hussain is not afraid to go where no one else dares, if it serves his art. I hugely admire his research, his craft and his courage. And he is, certainly, no racist.

As for the offending “p” word it appears twice in the book:

Satu perkara besar yang membuat mereka senang bergaul ialah mereka itu tergolong dalam satu kasta Paria. Mereka tidak takut mengotori sesiapa kalau bersentuhan dan mereka bebas lepas bergaul. (Interlok, page 251)

(One thing that made it easy for them to mix around was the fact that they were all from the same Pariah caste. They had no fear of polluting anyone they touched and were free to mingle.)

One feels for Maniam. Yes, this is how he would have felt, coming from a background of centuries of oppression and suppression. Abdullah Hussain got it right. (Mulk Raj Anand would have applauded, too.) Taking the “p” word out would be doing injustice to the Maniams of the world. It would have been precisely because of his caste that he would have been considered untouchable and unclean, and he would have had every reason to be nervous.

Di sini, Maniam dapati perbezaan perkerjaan menurut kasta, seperti yang masih berlaku di negerinya, tidak ada.

Pertama kali inilah yang ditanya oleh Maniam kapada Muthu, seorang kawan dari desanya yang sudah lama tinggal di Pulau Pinang. Muthu seorang dari kasta Paria, seperti Maniam juga, dia berkerja sebagai kerani di sebuah gudang orang putih dekat perlabuhan. (Interlok, page 257)

(Over here, Maniam noticed that working according to one’s caste was not in practice.
That was the first thing that Maniam asked Muthu, a friend from the same village who had lived in Penang for a long time. Muthu was from the Pariah caste, just like Maniam, and he was working as a clerk at the godowns belonging to the white people near the port.)

There is nothing negative about this section either. It is a statement of fact. To a person like Maniam, this would have been a big deal indeed. He could do any work he wanted, even become a clerk like his friend Muthu, his Malaysian Dream, his ticket out of hell.  According to an article in the Malay Mail on Monday 24th August, 2009, 65% of MIC members belong to this caste although they now refer to themselves as Namavars – our people. Again, Abdullah Hussain’s research cannot be faulted.

Interlok is the story of three people and their trials. Seman is devastated when he learns from his father on his deathbed that the land they have been tilling all these years does not belong to them but a Chinese towkay, Cina Panjang. Chin Huat leaves his mother to come to Malaya with his father to escape an impending famine in China. Maniam travels to Malaya, the land he keeps hearing about, leaving his wife behind to escape crippling poverty. And in the end, they all get together and live happily ever after (which, in hind-sight, is the actual fairy tale).

The first part about Seman is, probably, the best written. Cing Huat’s section is good, too, though Abdullah Hussain does not say how or why this personable Chinese lad transforms himself into the predator businessman, Cina Panjang. The Maniam section is the weakest part and is riddled with minor and major errors. It is as if the author, tired of research, resorted to watching a few Tamil movies for the right cliches -- complete with the long suffering hero, the unfaithful wife, the totally evil villain (Suppiah), the mandatory rape scene followed by the suicide of the victim, and the long lost son who discovers that the prisoner in his police lockup is really his father. Corny to the max.

Then, the final scene is all Malaysian TV during elections: sugared to the hilt to induce terminal diabetes in the entire population of a small country.

But, one thing remains unclear, though. By some accounts, the version to be used in school is an abridged one (and not the 503-page original). If that is the case then all my comments above could be completely off the mark, because I have no idea what has been taken out and what remains. Knowing the track record of our gomen pen-pushers over decades past, I am aware that they are capable of being quite jahat about it.

Anyway, the cabinet has appointed a committee to look into the matter. This, normally, means that nothing will happen. Some new crisis will emerge and we all forget about Interlok. We are, after all, Malaysians.

The one good thing to come out of this crisis is that many people are reading the book, and Interlok is sold out in most bookshops. Good on you, Abdullah Hussain.