Mark Hodkinson writes about Pomona on the Me And My Big Mouth website 30 January 2008
My mum’s the worst. Or best, depending on how you look at it. She isn’t
au fait with the vague vagaries of the publishing industry. So, she
goes into WH Smith’s in Rochdale and asks for a copy of my book, which
is set in Rochdale and largely about its local football team. Such naivety!
They only stock books of local interest if they are predominantly photographic.
Or it might be down to the manager’s discretion and, arm up his back,
he could be persuaded to bend the rules here and there. Unfortunately the
manager is in Llandudno for the next fortnight and everything’s sort
of, kind of, on hold, really. Unless head office has changed the guidelines
and, for two days only, they’ve gone mad and implemented a ‘local
books-rule-OK’ policy, so long as the pages are infused with mill dust
and rain – Rochdale branch only.
Imagine an assault course undertaken while blindfolded and after a bagful of LSD. At times getting books into stores can feel like this. So many rules, constantly changing too: what the shops will stock, what they won’t. How much notice they need, when they will see the reps, when they won’t. How the advance information sheets have to be laid out and presented, whether the sample covers are printed on glossy or matt paper. And all the technical stuff: B format, ISBN, barcode. Oh, and keep an eye on the calendar. The reps want the advance information six months up front; the distributors’ meeting is on the sixth of every month unless it falls on a Bank Holiday or Yom Kippur; the printers need the disc eight weeks before publication and don’t forget your dentist’s appointment next Tuesday, 10:20am.
I am one of a long line of writer-publishers. I occasionally publish my own work and that of other writers I admire via my company, Pomona – Barry Hines, Hunter Davies, Clancy Sigal, Boff Whalley, Ray Gosling, Fred Eyre, Trevor Hoyle etc. Like many who’ve meandered down the same path (skipping doesn’t feel appropriate here), I love words but hate numbers, deadlines, admin etc. This means I am faced with a routine push me-pull you between the fundamental elements of publishing. I love talking with writers and shaping their work, but hate selling it.
Pomona has had various ‘partners’ these last few years who have tried to make life easier and get our books into the shops. I really feel for them. They are on the front line of all the daft rules and demands. The chains, bless ’em, justify their standpoint by saying it is consumer-driven. See, the good, normal folks who walk up and down our town centre streets want cook books or celebrity memoirs or Harry Potter, and to hell with ‘books from the heart’ – which was our motif for three days until I decided it was too poxy and idealistic by half.
We plough on, of course, because people who love books love a good struggle.
Our trust in hope remains steadfast, damn. My latest plan to sidestep the
shop cartel is to mail-shot lots of people by e-mail. Nothing new here, but
the difference is that I’m not selling donkey sex or hand-painted Nigerian
bank notes. I’m hoping (that word again) that people won’t mind
being told that a very-lovely independent publisher creating beautiful, interesting
books is having a sale – £5 per title while stocks last. I have
a belief that if we all join up – those of us to the left of celebrity
nukedom – we can create a counter-culture all loved up on literature,
music, art – anything you like, man. What next, duffel coats and National
health glasses?