The Newsletter of
The Council for the Literature of the Fantastic
Volume 1, Number 4 (1997)
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Literature: Culture's Most Valuable Resource

by Elaine LaMattina
Managing Director, White Pine Press
Copyright © 1997, by Elaine LaMattina

When I was first immersing myself in the world of poetry, one of my greatest pleasures was to go to our local public library and browse through the shelves. How clearly I remember standing in the aisle and holding in my hands a chapbook of poetry by a writer who was, at that time, almost completely unknown. This glorious, letterpress-printed little volume was truly a work of art, and I had to take it home to delight in it at my leisure, to run my fingers over the slight indentations caused when the type pressed into the page. I could actually feel the words. The delicacy of the leaves imprinted on its cover gave little hint at the strength of the words contained within, and I soon decided that this was a book I had to own. Our local bookstore told me it was out of print, and it was my quest to contact the publisher that first introduced me to the world of small press. Now, years later, that poet, John Haines, is one of the most well-known and respected writers of his generation, and I have become part of the independent, literary press world where he, and many other great writers, first got their start.

Many of the independent publishing houses in this country were started in the 1960s and '70s in response to what was perceived as a lack of diversity in the literature that was being published in this country. The canon consisted largely of the literature of white, European males, and the major publishing houses were doing little to expand this. Technological advances in the boom years that followed World War II, however, enabled us to see more and hear more from other parts of the world. Soon the great classic writers of Asia were being translated into English and published by small, independent presses--and it didn't stop there. It seemed that suddenly an entire world of voices poured forth. The Beat writers gave new vibrancy and a new direction to American literature, and we recognized the value of literature as a mirror for the great social issues we faced. The mission statements of many of the fledgling independent presses were rooted in these social issues: civil rights, feminism, human rights. What they all had in common, however, was a commitment to enriching our culture and our literary heritage through every possible source. "Literature," as Salman Rushdie so eloquently states, "is the one place in any society where, within the secrecy of our own heads, we can hear voices talking about everything in every possible way."

Throughout the 1970s and '80s, small publishing companies saw tremendous growth, and as recently as 1991 the future of small press publishing looked rosy, indeed. The large, New York publishing houses were being taken over by huge conglomerates whose main interest was in making a profit. Consequently, mid-list authors who didn't generate huge sales were dropped, first-time authors were rarely given consideration, and poets stood barely any chance at all. Independent publishers soon found themselves with a goldmine of material. And according to marketing consultants, the timing couldn't have been more right: the superstores, committed to offering a diverse selection of materials, were going to open new markets to us. The not-for-profit literary presses benefitted from major new funding initiatives, including major Mellon Foundation support. The Lila Wallace-Reader's Digest Fund's Marketing Development Program made available the largest amount of money ever directed toward literature. Yet today, most small publishers stand at the brink of bankruptcy. Quite a few have already been forced to close. What went so horribly wrong?

Yes, superstores did offer more shelf space than ever before, and the best of them were truly interested in supporting the small press, which is where many of the most innovative and diverse books were being produced. The down-side was that they kept stock on their shelves for only two to three months and then returned it for credit. And as superstores moved in, independent booksellers--real book people who know literature and have long championed the independent presses--were suffering. Unable to offer the discounts typically given by superstores, they saw their business dwindle. Many closed due to cash flow problems, and the rest had to rethink the way they were doing business. They had to return books on their shelves for credit with which to buy the new seasonÕs books. And of the books that were returned for credit, 20-25% were returned as 'hurts,' a ludicrous term that defines a book that is accepted for credit despite the fact that it is so damaged as to be unsalable. Returns are presently running at a record pace. Fifty percent seems average, although many presses are seeing returns well beyond--some even double-- that. The major publishers, too, are being hit hard by these unprecedented developments, but they are far better capitalized than the majority of independent presses and, thus, better able to weather this storm. The consensus is that over the next year, at least half of the independent presses in this country will be forced to close.

Adding to this already critical situation is the changing nature of funding for the not-for-profit literary presses. These presses, like public radio and television, bring forth some of the best--and least commercial--work being produced. Consequently, they rely on partial funding from the National Endowment for the Arts, state arts organizations, corporations, and foundations. Now, however, the future of the NEA is tenuous: Congress has already cut funding by 40%, and the House has recommended elimination of the arts and humanities endowment in 1998. Fear of alienating this more conservative congress has tended to make many publishers think long and hard about what they are going to put in their grant proposals, and has become, in a way, a subtle form of censorship. Organized philanthropy currently donates a totalof forty million dollars annually to literary programs, which is less than half of the budget for the New York Philharmonic Orchestra! Corporate support for the arts continues to erode and has already slipped from twelve percent to just nine percent. The Chronicle of Philanthropy recently speculated that the cause of the drop in funding is the attack on the arts in Washington.

And as if we need additional complications, the past six months have seen the official start-up of Vendor of Record (VOR) programs by both Ingram and Baker & Taylor. These distributors are aggressively seeking chain and independent bookstores to become part of their programs. The stores then select a group of publishers and agree to buy their releases only through the VOR. It's easy to see why this would appeal to booksellers. The program enables them to order books from a variety of publishers from a single source, and offers them a strong discount schedule, free freight on orders of a specified number, and next-day delivery. The publishers' sales representatives, however, have little incentive to call on stores who sign up for these programs: the commission they make on sales through the VOR program is a fraction of what they make with a direct sale. What this means is that so many of the small, independent publishers who are unable to afford costly marketing efforts and thus have relied on their distributors' sales representatives to make the bookstores aware of the new season's books will no longer be represented in these stores. The visibility of independent publishers in chain stores is already minimal since, in addition to going through the VOR program, all buying for the entire chain is done at one central location. This can only lead to a further distintegration of the market for literature.

For two thousand years, literature has carried the ideas and cultures of our world. "Writing," according to famed astronomer Carl Sagan, "is perhaps one of the greatest of human inventions, binding together people, citizens of distant epic who never knew one another. Books break the shackles of time, proof that humans can work magic." Poised at the brink of a new millenium, our horizons continue to expand, opening vast new possibilities for making magic. The fall of communism and new economic agreements with former political enemies has allowed us access to previously inaccessible cultures here in our world. The Internet has put the cyber-world at our fingertips. The space program has taken aim at Mars and the secrets of the universe. Yet the world of literature--that great repository of our interior world, where we record what we were, what we are, and what we hope to be--has begun to shrink.

The implications for literature in this country are staggering. Small presses have always been at the vanguard in growing our literary heritage; the large publishing houses have simply followed our lead. For example, the recent interest in Latin American literature by the major publishers stems from the success independent publishers have had in bringing this work to the English-speaking audience. With the demise of so many of the small presses, who will discover the world's new voices? Who will show us that the profits we derive from literature cannot be measured in cold, hard cash? Where will new and unknown authors get a start? And of those presses that somehow survive, how many will be willing to take a chance on a book that will be given only a two- to three-month shelf life? With less funding available for not-for-profit publishers, fewer books will be produced, and the demise of independent bookstores will further reduce our access to real literature. Libraries, too, will inevitably feel the pinch as our literature and our culture narrow. There will be fewer books from which to select, fewer options for enlarging collections, less literature with a multicultural bent. Readers will be denied what has for centuries been one of the greatest pleasures of browsing through a library: the ability to choose from a myriad of possibilities the eyes through which to view the world.

I think back to that day I first discovered John Haines and wonder if future generations will have any idea as to what that moment was like. Will they be able to stand in a library aisle and be awed by an unfamiliar voice in a book of which no more than five hundred copies were produced, or will their options be limited to what huge conglomerates have determined will sell? Will the legacy of the twentieth century be the destruction of culture's most valuable resource