Mysterious Matters: Mystery Publishing Demystified

The Book Marketing Business: Sheer Bullshit

Yesterday I walked into a local bookstore (indie) that I like, to do some browsing. I was immediately confronted with a full stack of Stephen King's latest collection of short stories, The Bazaar of Bad Dreams. Great title and great cover - and while I'm not particularly a fan of King as a novelist, I do think he is a terrific short story writer.  So I bought the book, along with a few others, and went on my merry way.

But ... there is a dark side to all of this (fitting, because we're talking about Stephen King, after all). My initial reaction upon walking into the store and seeing that book was, "Why didn't I know about this?" After all, I'm pretty up on what's going on. I get all the emails, am on all the major listservs, read all the industry rags. And somehow the fact that this one was coming passed me by. I don't even remember seeing it mentioned in Library Journal's emails, and I read every one of those start to finish.

It made me start to wonder if we, as an industry, have given up. Yes, Harper Lee's GO SET A WATCHMAN was released with the kind of fanfare that we should see more often (I can only imagine what it cost -- then again, I bet a lot of the publicity was free due to the media loving the mystery of Harper Lee and her one best-seller). But so many books come and go with no publicity, no fanfare ... on the shelves today, gone tomorrow, before anyone's had a chance to look at them or discover them. I know for a fact that I've found some great books solely because I was in the bookstore at the right moment. A week or two later, those books were gone, and I never saw any further chatter about them. Which means that if I hadn't been in the bookstore at that exact moment, the book would have completely passed me by.

The publishers may not be publicizing books - maybe because it does so little good and costs so much money, in an era where most of our major publications no longer bother to review books. That depresses me -- that we realize that our only hopes of a big success are a book going viral (a la GG--and everyone who reads this blog will know which book I'm referring to), so we just sort of sit back and pray. With writers like Stephen King, we know the sales are guaranteed, so again - we sit back and let it happen.

I get depressed, too, because I feel like we, as an industry, aren't taking chances on great writers and books. So many books feel so safe, as if written by committee. Reading the flap copy in that indie bookstore, I felt like I was reading the same thing over and over again.

Of course, as anyone will tell you, it all comes down to money. The publishers aren't making any money, but I know who is--all of these book packagers and marketers, like Amazon, who sell writers (some talented, many no-talent hacks) a dream that they can make millions and hit the New York Times best-seller list. I've lost track of all the emails we get from This One, That One, and The Other One telling us that they'll market the hell out of our books and make us a household name. We know better--but most people don't. Every day I see ads on Goodreads and Amazon--clear product placements that have been paid for by the writer. Many writers are fond of posting all over the Web about how many copies they've sold or how much money they've made, but the truth is: I think most of them are lying.

In this modern era, you have to be selling something that people want to buy. Most people -- and certainly the people who control the media -- don't want to buy Murder Book X by Jane Doe. They haven't heard of Jane Doe and couldn't care less. They're not going to give her any free press. Jane Doe pays good money to get her book placed on Amazon, Goodreads, and all these other "review" sites that promise the moon and the stars--and by the time Jane is done, she's deeply in the red. Meanwhile, nobody has bought her book because it sucks. Yes, my friends, that is the sad truth: There's more money to be made in these advertising and self-publishing Ponzi schemes than there is in publishing fiction in an era of piracy, book thieves, and general apathy.

Sorry. 

Should Favorite Books Be Reread?

I pose the question in the title -- Should favorite books be reread? -- after a few disappointing experiences.

Like a lot of readers, I find the quality of my reading materials to ebb and flow. Sometimes I hit a stretch where it's one great book after another, which only makes me hungry for more. Then I will hit a patch where it's one piece of crap after another. Like death, bad books come in threes. By that third book, my coping mechanism kicks in: I pick up a book by a writer who I know is reliable and trustworthy. I have my own ranking system in my head (it's more of the A, B, C, D, F variety than the 1-5 stars variety), and I find that, interestingly, a lot of my go-to novelists are solid B's. By that I mean, they rarely turn out something breathtakingly stellar, but they can always be counted on to deliver something good, suspenseful, entertaining, and well written.

I won't even mention these writers by name because doing so would be damning with faint praise, and they deserve much better than that.

After my most recent bad patch, I started feeling nostalgia for some books that I'd read and loved, and that had made a strong impression on me, 20 or 30 years ago. I went back to them, looking to relive the joys ... and found them lacking. One was a book that I remember as being one of the most exquisitely suspenseful novels I've ever read. This time around, it wasn't so suspenseful -- indeed, the middle of the book drags quite a bit, and the climax wasn't nearly as thrilling as I remembered.

Another book was one I'd raced through back in the day. Upon re-reading it, I found it full of psychobabble that made me roll my eyes. Back in the day, I considered it edgy and daring. This time around, I found it distasteful.

This all makes me wonder if the experience of a reading a book is indelibly connected to a time, a place, a mindset. Can it be better, I ask myself, to live with the delicious joy of a favorite read, rather than attempt to repeat an experience that can't be repeated and is doomed to end in disappointment? Maybe all of this has to do with the idea that a second reading is almost by definition a more critical reading--one in which the reader sees the patchwork; questions ideas, characters, motivations; and, as a more experienced reader, is better able to evaluate the quality of the writing.

I suppose this gets at one of the key distinctions between escapist genre fiction and literature. Literature often improves upon re-reading (the key exception I can think of is Wuthering Heights, which seems to me more ridiculous every time). Genre fiction--well, maybe, not so much. If my pile of books weren't so high, I'd love to go back and re-read some of the things I've loved, as recently as a year ago, to see if I still love them quite so much. Maybe I wouldn't.

I had to check on all of this with Mrs. Agatho. So I asked her to choose a favorite book and re-read it. She narrowed her eyes, knowing I had an agenda of some sort, which of course I refused to share with her, as doing so would have been the equivalent of a spoiler. She chose a favorite of hers from her 20s and reported that it seemed awfully dated and she couldn't believe she'd been so fond of such a vapid and mindless heroine. We commiserated a bit over a nice cup of coffee and crumbcake--two things that, for us, have stood the test of time.

First Line Mania

Every so often I hear about these rumors or words of wisdom that get passed from writer to writer. Like, "Don't write in the first person - editors want third person" or "Don't write in present tense - editors don't like it." (Full disclosure: I never used to like present tense, but I bought and published a present-tense book a couple of years ago, it did pretty well, and now I'm more open to it. So, never say never.)

Lately I've been hearing that a manuscript has to have a "killer" opening line, that you "have only one chance to make a first impression." Now everyone seems to think that the first line of a manuscript has to be an exercise in Jane Austen-like perfection.

Yes, it's true that a good opening line is important. But I don't dismiss a manuscript if the first line is less than perfect. I DO need to see something interesting, different, attention-grabbing, odd, off-kilter, unexplained, or unexpected in the first three pages -- AND the writing has to be good. 

In other words, a good opening line is important, but it's not ENOUGH. And if it's all downhill after that opening line (I can actually think of several books I've read lately for which that condition holds), the fabulousness of the first sentence doesn't matter much, does it?

Let's look at some opening lines:

GONE GIRL (Gillian Flynn): "When I think of my wife, I always think of her head."   -- Decent opening line. Doesn't blow my socks off. But by the third paragraph, I'm hooked. I know something really creepy is going on.

LIFE AFTER LIFE (Kate Atkinson): "A fug of tobacco smoke and damp clammy air hit her as she entered the cafe."  - Meh. Most notable for use of the word "fug," which one doesn't hear much. By the end of page 2, though, I want to read more.

THE GIRL ON THE TRAIN (Paula Hawkins): "She's buried beneath a silver birch tree, down toward the old train tracks, her grave marked with a cairn." -- Pretty good. But this is a mystery/thriller, and this first line can't be considered unexpected or particularly attention grabbing. However, the two mini-prologues get the book off too a good start. In the end, though, the book itself is just OK, marred by undifferentiated characters and a pathetic narrator.

THE GIRL WITH THE DRAGON TATTOO (Stieg Larsson): "It happened every year, was almost a ritual." Good. Makes me want to keep reading. Not exactly literary; no humor, wit, word play. Nothing bizarre, no author trying to impress me with an opening line. By the end of the first page, I'm hungry for more.

WHAT THE DEAD KNOW (Laura Lippman): "Her stomach clutched at the sight of the water tower hovering above the still, bare trees, a spaceship come to earth." Perfectly fine but not earth-shattering. But by the end of Chapter 1, I want to know more, and Lippman's superb writing has kept me interested from the start.

I guess this is what I'm saying: If you have to choose between writing a fabulous opening line and a mediocre book (meaning that the rest of your manuscript doesn't fulfill the very high expectations you have set with your opening line) OR writing a good opening line and a good book, choose the latter. 

 

 

 

 

Speaking in Superlatives!!!

I just got done writing the flap copy for one of my fall books. I never delegate writing that all-important copy to a junior person, because I know it will end up on the Web page, in the catalog, on Amazon ... pretty much everywhere ... so it has to be perfect.

Here's what I realized. Of course the flap copy and marketing/publicity copy have to build the book up, using superlatives and other much-overused words and phrases like "thrill ride," non-stop suspense," "fast-paced." Lee Child, blurber extraordinaire, often comes up with superlatives that outdo anything I could write, like "psychological suspense as elegant as a Swiss watch but as powerful as a locomotive" or "sensationally good psychological suspense.... Exactly what a great thriller should be" or "a proven master of suspense" (yes, those are real blurbs).

There are tens of thousands of novels published every year, each making similar claims. But can they all be that good? Common sense tells us that they cannot and are not. I just finished reading a hardcover published by St. Martin's and it was downright execrable, one of the worst things I've read this decade. But front and back jacket are covered with glowing quotes, and of course the flap copy made me think it would be wonderful.

But that's my job -- I have to convey my enthusiasm for the book in a way that helps get at least some attention for it. In our overcrowded, information-overloaded world, nobody would pay the slightest attention to a book (or movie, or CD, etc.) that advertised itself as "pretty good" or "moderately suspenseful." Thus out comes the thesaurus to find synonyms for fabulous.

Now, about this particular book for which I just wrote the flap copy. It's very, very good. Do I think it's the best book of the season? No, it isn't. But it's much better than a lot of what's out there ... better than recent work by a lot of stalwarts whose names sell a lot of books. But I can't say, "This book has a good plot, not great. It has good characters that you'll remember. The writing is good pulp writing, but not truly literary. All in all, it's a good book by a good writer." That would be an accurate description, but I doubt that it would make anyone stand up and take notice. So I have to fall back on superlatives.

I don't think these superlatives do us any favors when it comes to the reader experience, though. They set up tremendously high expectations for a book that can be difficult (or impossible) to live up to. I think this has a subtle effect on readers. From blurbs and flap or cover copy they think they're plopping down their $15 and getting the greatest mystery since ... oh, I don't know, let's say Gone Girl, since everyone and their mother is pitching their books as "the new Gone Girl," or "in the tradition of Gillian Flynn," etc. So of course we end up with a bunch of reader reviews saying "This is NOT the new Gone Girl, and I'm really pissed off that people are saying it is." In other words, we get our own marketing-speak thrown back in our faces, and we probably deserve it. 

The fact that I can't say this particular book that I'm writing about here is the greatest novel ever written doesn't mean I don't love it. Unpublished writers, take heart: This is the third manuscript that this particular writer submitted to me. The first two had very good qualities and ideas, but some flaws in execution that made them not work. Author went back to work on new manuscripts, learned from mistakes, submitted latest work -- and I took it. We had very good back and forth during the editorial process. And now, each time I see the book (first draft, second draft, third draft, ARC, final pages), I love it even more. It's fast-paced, well written (with a good, dry sense of humor), with a terrific lead and excellent supporting cast. It uses some standard elements of the genre, but that's OK - I don't think anyone will mind. And, I am very happy to say, it isn't too goddamned long. It's just the right length and the story doesn't wear out its welcome.

But now our marketing/publicity department will start trying to get attention for it by claiming it is in the tradition of [X], or for readers who love the work of [Y], etc. We do it because we have to do it ... it's the only way to get anyone's attention.

This brings me back to a funny story from years ago. One of the first series I bought when I came to this house did quite well, with a couple of popular and critical successes, but one clunker that nonetheless remains one of my favorite books. (It was before its time, and I got so wrapped up in it that I didn't think about the way reviewers would react to it. Mea culpa.) When the very first book in that series came out, I saw a few reviews that said it "didn't live up to the hype." I thought "Hype? What hype?" I mean, we didn't have large marketing or advertising budgets, and it's not like the book title was on everyone's lips or had gone viral. I think the "hype" simply came from the jacket copy, which I'd written and which, reviewing it now, I realize made it sound like the Great American Suspense Novel--which, of course, it wasn't. It was a good story, well told, not a literary feast that will be read by future generations. But that hype did get it a lot of good reviews in a lot of good places, so the great hyping machine continues to crank out those one-liners....

 

Secrets of a Small Press

Can it really be two months since I blogged? Wow. Well, I always said I wouldn't blog unless I have something to say, so I guess the last couple of months have been pretty thought-free.

The idea for today's post came to me after reading about the death of Ruth Rendell, one of mystery's luminaries. This isn't something I'd necessarily say in public, but I didn't like her work. Nor was I a fan of the late P.D. James, either. I found Rendell's work to be cold, and James' to be unbearably snobbish. Both had a tendency to write books that were much too long, and I suspect both women liked the sound of their own voices (words on the page) a bit too much.

Are you clutching your heart, gasping in horror that an editor who publishes mystery fiction should dare say such things? I should say that I love any writer who has a loyal following and whose name sells books; I'm not snobbish that way. But I recognize that an effective brand name doesn't necessarily mean that I have to like the brand myself. Would I buy stock in Pepsi? Sure I would, but I never touch the stuff. I'm a Coke man.

Anyway, this crazy desire to admit that I think both Rendell and James are overrated made me think about the other "secrets" that we small publishers keep close to the vest (but not any longer).  Here are a few:

1. I don't care how many friends you have on Facebook. I've long thought that writers on Facebook/Twitter/blogs is one big Ponzi scheme.  It's writers following other writers, hoping to use connections to get an agent, get a contract, get published themselves, get blurbs from other writers. Of course I want your book to sell, but I'd be surprised if even 1% of your Facebook friends buy your book. What I care about is the quality of your work. I want you to write well, to give me a good plot and characters. Everything else follows from there. If you're a hermit and the way we get the manuscript done is through email alone, that's fine with me. 

2. I think blurbs from other mystery writers are ridiculous.  I never, ever put blurbs by other writers on my books. When I look at the back of a book jacket and see a bunch of blurbs from "New York Times Best-Selling Writers" whom I've never heard of, my first thought is, "This book must suck."  The only blurbs I ever put on a book are from reputable review journals, newspapers, or somewhat well-known magazines. 

3. I really don't want to take any crap from an author. I love working with writers, and there's nothing quite so satisfying as feeling that I've partnered with a writer to bring a superb book to the reading public. But the only writers who get away with acting like jerks are best-sellers ... by which I mean people who can sell 10,000 copies or more of a book. For that, I can put up with diva fits, nasty emails, and dismissive comments about editors and the publishing industry. For anyone else -- you will undoubtedly be unhappy when I ask you to please take your work elsewhere.  

4. I'm not interested in anything that's been previously published or self-published. Please understand, one of the reasons for doing this job is to discover the next great writer. I'm sorry if your publisher is going out of business, but I have no interest in republishing books that probably didn't sell that well to begin with. As far as "traditionally publishing" (a term I detest) a book you have already self-published, I don't have any interest in that, either. 

5. I'm not going to overprint or underprice any book.  I know you want your book in bookstores--you really do. But we can't go bankrupt taking in returns. Libraries, Amazon, and other online retailers that closely control their inventory get first dibs on our stock. I'd rather have a few people buying the book used (we know that's going to happen) than waste money on additional printings that then sit in the warehouse and get remaindered or destroyed. I'm also not going to sell your book for 99 cents on Amazon. That's a signal that it's crap, and I don't publish crap.

 

 

What Happens When Dumb People Read Your Book?

The question I am asking myself this week is: How much do I really take readers' IQ's into account when signing and then publishing a book?

The truth is, I do, quite a bit. The average IQ is 100, and that's the level I aim for. Of course, I want the book to be well-written, with a good plot and great characters. But even though my own tastes run to the avant-garde, I rarely sign up such titles. Many, many times I've thought, "Wow, I like this. But people won't get it. It's too challenging, too demanding. That's what literary fiction is for."

Interesting, though, that so many of the most wildly successful mysteries straddle the line between genre fiction and literary fiction. Gone Girl took chances and succeeded. Those who adore Louise Penny, and they are legion, are drawn to the characters and the setting, but most often you hear them gush about her writing. Kate Atkinson, a mystery writer, moved out of the mystery genre into something more literary with Life After Life, and she hit it big (though I think her books had been trending toward more literary for several years beforehand). As I read that one, I saw all the little indicators that she'd trained in writing mysteries.

Looking at reader reviews on books that are clearly superior (if not perfect), I usually divide the 1- and 2-star reviews into two categories. About 10-20% of them are written by very good critics who found reasons to dislike the book. I'd go so far as to say valid reasons that any good critic would understand (if not agree with). For example, a key criticism of Life After Life - and one with which I happen to agree - is that the lead character, Ursula, is too blank. But I see why Atkinson did this: Ursula is in essence a canvas on which historic backdrops are painted. It didn't bother me too much, but I know a lot of very good readers who felt disconnected from her throughout the book.

The other 80-90% are by dumb people. By readers who clearly have no idea what the writer intended or accomplished. Or who have an idee fixe -- one of the characters was over the top, so the whole book's a wash. Or, literally, one sentences challenges them or their beliefs, and the entire book is dimissed because of it. A couple of years ago the members of a Stupid Persons' Book Club decided to go all over the Internet and savage a book I'd read (but did not publish). It was amazing to see how deeply they got into the Internet to bad-mouth that book. Now, the book was far from a masterpiece, but it was harmless and fun. I did pause to wonder how much those truly dumb people affected the sales or success of that book. I guess I'll never know.

Let me say that dumb people write really good reviews, too, gushing about writing that is awful; plots that are ridiculous; authors whom they have met, which permits them to use the writer's delightfulness as a reason to love a book. Combine these two phenomena -- dumb people loving bad books, and hating good ones -- and perhaps you can understand why editors and publishers make some of the decisions that they do.

If you're a writer, I think it's safe to assume a few things: (1) Dumb people will read your book, and comment accordingly; (2) Smarter people may read your book and say nothing; (3) You don't necessarily have to be a good writer to be wildly successful. That last one should be quite motivating to many; then again, nobody thinks s/he's anything other than a stellar writer.

 

 

Small Presses: The Future?

A couple of days ago I had to have a conversation following the completion of one of those forms you have to fill out in your life. One of the questions was about occupation, so I listed myself as "editor/publisher." The form had nothing to do with business life at all, but when people hear that I'm a publisher, they often ask questions about the business.

This particular woman told me that her husband had recently signed a contract with a small press after several years of frustration with "getting noticed" by the establishment. I sympathized with her because, of course, we all know how hard it is.

But I felt good after that call, because I thought to myself: This is one of the reasons that smaller and independent presses may be the future. I'm not saying that the big publishers will ever go away -- and I don't want them to. I don't see them as competitors, really; and I have a lot of respect for them. But I've worked for them, and I've seen how editors' time gets sucked out of them, with the never-ending series of meetings and so on. And are they even publishing companies any longer, or are they the written-word aspect of the media/entertainment industry? I think the latter, and that's not necessarily a bad thing. Society needs big, important, and/or popular books to discuss, rally around, and/or hate -- and the big publishers do publish so many really good titles.

But writers who don't have 100,000 followers on Facebook, don't already have big names, don't have a huge platform--these people deserve a chance, too. And that's where we come in. I know that people have submitted to me when they've reached the end of their rope with the big boys. I'm not offended. It's an opportunity for me, for the press, to find those voices that get drowned out among the noise and competitiveness of contemporary publishing. I'd say the overall quality of manuscripts I get now is somewhat lower, on average, than those I got when I worked at other companies. But the books I've published here are as good as any of those published by the biggies-- and, IMHO, often better.

What bothers me, though, is hearing writers dismissively described as "small press authors" or their work described as "small press books." Um, that is actually an honor, not a mark against someone. Small presses get a lot of submissions, and our standards aren't any lower than those of the biggies. And how many slots do the biggies have each year? Writers need us, we need them. On the bright side, I've seen many reviewers and bloggers who are open to and embracing of small presses, and I thank them for it.

But back to us being the future, or at least a big part of it. The key thing is that we don't have the overhead. A lot of these presses are in suburban locations, run out of basements or home offices. Why should that be a bad thing, as long as quality works result? Office space, especially in the big cities, is tremendously expensive. Isn't it better to put the money into good publishing - to spend the money where it counts - than to have expensive office space? Small presses do it for love; we have the passion. I'm not say the bigger publishers don't; I'm just saying that we have it, too, and can lavish our attention on the relatively small number of titles we publish.

For all these reasons, I wish that writers wouldn't see us as their last, not-very-good option when everyone else has turned them down. I suppose some of that is inevitable, but HINT: Don't say it in your query letter, please. And remember that even the mega-corporations often started out as small publishers.  

 

 

 

So Much Revelation! So Little Space!

I just finished a classic mystery published by The Crime Club in 1931. The title: The Midnight Mail, by Henry Holt. I like to dip my toes into classic waters a few times a year, and I'm usually happy with the choice I've made. I've always liked Holt and have read quite a number of his books. So I expect them to be good, and this one was.

Holt does something in this book that I find remarkable every time I see it done. What's more, I see this particular thing done so rarely, it becomes all the more remarkable for that reason.

So what is this thing, you ask? Let me explain.

Have you ever been reading a book that hurtles along, keeping you interested throughout, teasing you with new revelations, new twists, and new mysteries throughout? The author keeps adding layers, piling one thing on top of another, and then you suddenly realize, with dawning horror, that there are only about 5 pages left in the book. And you think "How on earth is the author going to tie ALL OF THIS together in the last 5 pages?" And you begin to fear that you will be left hanging on at least a couple of plot points, and some of the resolutions will be silly or pointless, and you prepare yourself for a disappointment.

But then ... something miraculous happens. The author does it. S/he ties everything up - answers every question - reveals all those red herrings you fell for - in those last five pages. What seemed so complicated and multilayered turns out to have been quite simple and logical, if only you'd thought it through. But no - the author put a ring in your nose and led you around like a bull, took you where s/he wanted you to go, and then left you feeling grateful for the captivity you experienced.

Isn't this phenomenon marvelous? I am gushing about it today because I realize that in the last few books I've edited, plots and subplots have gotten resolved over several chapters at the end of the book - perhaps over 20 or 25 pages, not those tight, elegant 5 pages. I think this is absolutely fine - I'm not sure readers notice or worry about these things too much, though I do think that an ending that's too drawn out would be tiresome - but maybe those five perfect final pages are a nice goal to aim for. Certainly Margaret Millar, one of my all-time favorites, accomplished it time and time again.

 

 

Let's Hear It for Pulp

I am in the middle of editing a manuscript that I really like. It's fast-paced, with a good lead character, some well-defined supporting people, and plenty of twists and turns. It's a mystery, but it's pushing into the thriller category.

I just hit the halfway mark and it hit me: I'm editing pulp, and I'm loving it.

I can't say I've ever made a study of pulp. A quick scan of the Internet shows me that there are sites devoted to worshipping it. Just from some fast reading, I think the term originated with magazines and short stories (alas, a dying art due to lack of a market, or marketing), but I think we can safely say that some of the mystery greats proudly and unapologetically wrote pulp. 

The thing is, pulp is fun. The in-your-face hero(ine), the exotic setting (often of the seamy underbelly variety), the plot turns, betrayals, and dramatic deaths: These elements combine to tell a good story that keeps the reader turning the pages. 

I've heard the term "pulp" used dismissively, but I think that's a mistake. Maybe the stories (novels) are a little over the top, but the pulp I like is well written and nicely executed. There's a spareness to pulp that prevents a book from seeming padded or overstaying its welcome. In the manuscript I'm editing, I'm marveling at the way the writer has kept the pace going, chapter after chapter, with no flights of fancy, no self-indulgence (well, maybe a little, but that's getting edited out), no literary aspiration. And I'm having a lot of fun with it.

I realize that a lot of the writers I've recommended here on Mysterious Matters in recent months, including people like Wallace Stroby, are a bit pulpy, in the best way. Of course, when this particular book gets published, I doubt we'll use the word "pulp" anywhere in the publicity. The connotations, I think, are just too old-fashioned and would cause the mass market to dismiss it with condescension. 

But I'm having a renewed appreciation for pulp... and wanted to share it.

 

 

Helvetica: Please Go Away

One of the things that is both wonderful and frustrating about our industry is the fact that each book is an individual product with its own look. Of course, series books are designed to look the same (both in term of their cover and their interiors - look at any David Baldacci or James Patterson book, as an example), but for the most part, the vast number of fonts, artists, and styles has led to what can appropriately be called "the art of the book."

So why, I ask, with tens of thousands of fonts available, are so many cover designers going with HELVETICA?  Even if you're not a font person, you know what Helvetica is. It's the blocky, boring font that seems to be used on about 75% of the thrillers and mysteries today, often in ALL CAPITAL LETTERS with A   L O T    O F    S P A C I N G between the letters, not only in T H E    T I T L E but also in T H E   A U T H O R' S   N A M E.

Often, Helvetica will sit on top of a somewhat blurry photograph that shows nothing in particular, not blending in with the scenery but looking as if the type has been dropped down from the sky onto the cover image.

I know what's happening. Publishers don't want to spend a lot of money on anything. The best designers cost good money. At the larger publishers, the design staff just doesn't have the time to design every cover. So, decisions are made and a lot of stuff goes to junior people or freelancers who will work on the cheap. The smaller houses don't have on-staff designers and rely on people who aren't trained artists to design their covers. In all instances, you get what you pay for. 

I'm not sure if the typical reader notices this sort of thing, but it's really starting to bug me. Most of ourcover designs are freelanced, but we hire only artists with a vision for what a really strong cover should be, not people who are instructed to choose a royalty-free photo and slap some type onto it.  

So, Helvetica, you have done your duty with regard to mystery fiction. You may try to hide your identity as Helvetica Neue, or Helvetica Inserat, or any one of dozens of variations  - but you're still Helvetica, and you can now go back to your proper place in business reports and allow other fonts a chance to shine.