Writers work so hard to get published — we can forget that some publishing scenarios are like bad marriages you spend years trying to get out of.
Case in point: in 2012 I signed with a small Costa Rica publisher to create a bilingual children’s book about a manatee. I was thrilled. I found an illustrator, a talented young woman just finishing up at California College of the Arts. I had the story, set in the lush Tortuguero canals, undergirded by accurate science so the book could be used to teach tropical ecology.
There were challenges. The press owner was a sour man who tore down others to build himself up. He’d been a friend of sorts, and that’s another story — how when you move abroad, alone, at a time when you’re not so grounded, you end up hanging out with people you’d avoid like the COVID back home. Another friend in Costa Rica heard how he spoke to me and couldn’t believe I didn’t tell him off. Later, my husband, within earshot of a few of the interminable conference calls where we worked through drafts, pretty much nailed it: “That guy needs a good old-fashioned face-caving.”
I assured my husband, “It’s all good. Soon I’ll have a book I can be proud of.”
But it wasn’t all good. It wasn’t even partially good.
The contract promised worldwide distribution, but the book was never available anywhere except a few bookstores in San Jose, Costa Rica’s capitol. You couldn’t order it online. To order it by mail you had to send a pre-paid money order to Costa Rica and pay for shipping. Lack of availability means lack of sales, which means the big artistic gamble — all the time and effort you put into making something — isn’t paying any dividends.
Every few years I’d email to ask about sales and availability (both laughable), dreaming of finding the manatee a new and more hospitable home. The book was functionally but not literally out of print, and the publisher wasn’t letting go. When I asked for an update, the press owner would call me difficult and say he never wanted to hear from me again.
Finally fed up, I looked into suing him for multiple breaches of contract to regain rights to the book (National Writers Union can help with such grievances, even with publishers abroad). I had a lawyer in Costa Rica. I was ready to spend time and money to get my manatee back. The owner must have sensed it. He wrote to say because I was such a pill he was officially declaring the book out of print.
What I suppose was meant to be a punishment was actually the best news possible. Now, finally, eight years later, the book belongs to me and the illustrator. It’s not the best time to be shopping around a manuscript. But I am nevertheless giddy with relief and possibility.
You know that line from a Mary Oliver poem that asks, “Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?”
I’ve revised it to speak to my current situation: “Tell me, what is it that you plan to do with your one wild and precious manatee?”
You know that line from a Mary Oliver poem that asks, “Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?”
I’ve revised it to speak to my current situation:
“Tell me, what is it that you plan to do with your one wild and precious manatee?”