THE EIGHTY-THIRD PAGE

It was time for a little general punishment again because the stomach cramps, raw throats, and gastrointestinal disruptions had probably subsided in the weeks since I installed them in the watercoolers. Word was that no one was seriously made ill, although absenteeism apparently was very high for the rest of that week. Who could ask for more? I could.

On to the next.

I’d borne a great deal of animosity toward the publicity department, because it had so ill-handled my novel. I always suspected that they never bothered to send out review copies to reviewers and simply shipped all their material directly to the Strand Book Store, which bought copies from reviewers for resale at fifty per cent off to the likes of me, and the street peddlers, who got their books from god knows where.

It is self-evident in publishing, I believe, that everything works in concert while nothing works in disarray. If the book is intelligently and thoughtfully set up to take off, it does so. If not, it sits there moldering in the warehouse. If follows as the night the day if a book gets no reviews it gets no ads. Of course, there is a twist to the conjecture that if it receives reviews, it doesn’t need further promotion. It is difficult to know if this saves or makes money.