Piracy and Heresy

Several people I know recently shared this article about ebook piracy. The basic argument, as made by fantasy writer Maggie Stiefvater, is that you shouldn’t pirate books because it jeapardises authors’ livelihoods and hence ability to keep writing. She makes the point that her own Raven Cycle of novels nearly came to a premature end because of piracy affecting sales.

The argument boils down to this: if you like something, you should pay for it, so you can get more of it.

Now as an aspiring author I’m hardly going to argue in favour of piracy. I am, however, going to commit heresy. Because I don’t actually find this argument that persuasive.

Why not? For two reasons. Firstly, because the stuff-for-free genie is already out of the bottle. There is now so much writing available online for free – even without pirated ebooks, there is loads of fanfic, and loads of self-published writers who’d rather give away their writing than keep it in a desk drawer – that many readers have simply become used to getting stuff they like without having to pay for it. And secondly, because paying for an author’s books doesn’t always mean you get more of them.

Look at fantasy writers George RR Martin, Scott Lynch, and Patrick Rothfuss, and litfic writer Hilary Mantel. What they all have in common is that they’re currently disappointing their fans by failing to produce the promised next instalments in their respective book series. I don’t want to throw these authors under the proverbial bus – I’m sure there are good reasons for the delays – but the fact remains that paying money for books is not a guarantee that the author will write another one.

Here comes the heresy (brace yourself!). If writing really is a business and not a hobby, then shouldn’t writers be obliged to fulfill their end of the bargain? And if for some reason they can’t do it themselves, shouldn’t they subcontract to get the work done on time?

What!? Subcontract the creation of a novel!? How can I suggest such a thing? Well, it seems to work for James Patterson. And yes, I know many people are sniffy about the quality of his thrillers, but he keeps his readers happy. And his publishers. And his bank manager.

Collaborative works don’t have to be low-quality. One of my favourite books I’ve read this year, The Medusa Chronicles, is a collaboration between Stephen Baxter and Alastair Reynolds, based on a novella by Arthur C. Clarke. And let’s not forget that Brandon Sanderson finished off the Wheel of Time book series after original author Robert Jordan failed to complete it before he died. I’m sure Wheel of Time fans are happier with that outcome than with being left hanging. Co-writing books with more established authors can be a way for young unknown writers to learn their craft and build a reputation, as well as for the established writers to expand their own brand. (Yes, I said brand. I can feel the shudders). Collaboration is so common in the world of TV and film script-writing that it’s amazing it’s not more prevalent in the world of books. And fanfic is now so widely accepted I’m expecting to see more and more of it published under licence.

I know, I know, this is all highly heretical. But let’s be honest, authors and publishers need to do something to combat the threat of piracy, and unlike musicians, they can’t really rely on live tours to make ends meet. Whether the future holds more collaboration and licensed fanfic, more Kickstarter-and-Patreon funded books, fewer writers making any money at all, or all of the above, the times they are a-changin’.

Historical fiction: a light on the darkness of the past

Well, I’ve had another crazy fortnight, featuring five cities, two countries, friends, family, customers, my agent and two babies who were supposed to make me broody but actually just made me wonder how anyone finds the time. My novel ‘The Heartland of the Winter’ has been sent to an actual publisher for consideration, but I’m trying not to dwell on that too much, as it’s now out of my hands and in the lap of the editors. I’m still on my break from writing, but I have done some reading – those plane and train journeys were good for something. In fact, freed from the need to produce my own words, I’ve been devouring books at faster rate than I’ve managed for years. My latest reads include intelligent high fantasy (Robin Hobb’s Tawny Man trilogy), hilarious feminist polemic (yes it does exist, and she’s called Caitlin Moran), and magic realism (’The Tiger’s Wife’ by Téa Obreht). But it’s the historical fiction I’ve found the most inspiring, in particular ‘Bring Up The Bodies’ by Hilary Mantel, and ‘The Kingmaker’s Daughter’ by Philippa Gregory. Two books very different in style, but alike in lighting up rich strange worlds.

Mantel’s previous book about Thomas Cromwell, ‘Wolf Hall’, I found interesting but a little frustrating – why can’t she use pronouns properly? Whether she has become a more assured writer, or I’ve just got more used to her, ‘Bring Up The Bodies’ gave me no such problems – it was nothing but a pleasure from the first page to the last. Her prose has a precisely beautiful luminosity, like pale winter sunlight filtering through diamond-leaded windows. She portrays her real-life people with great sympathy and understanding – even when they’re not behaving very sympathetically – and unfolds the intricacies of court intrigue with consummate skill.

In an attempt to fill the Game of Thrones-shaped hole in my life, I’ve been watching The White Queen on the BBC (incidentally, it’s totally okay to think Richard III is kind of sexy, isn’t it? Asking for a friend), based on The Cousins’ War series by Philippa Gregory. I’ve read the previous three books, and decided to catch up on the latest instalment, which tells the story of Anne Neville, daughter of Warwick the Kingmaker and queen of Richard III.

Richard III totally looked like this. Fact.

Gregory shares Mantel’s love of the present tense, although there the resemblance ends: her prose can be clunky, her dialogue stilted, her characterisation basic, and she constantly tells rather than shows. If Mantel is winter sunlight, Gregory is fluorescent strip lighting. But there’s no doubt that she keeps you turning the pages to find out what happens next – even if you already know from history class.

This is, of course, the thing about historical fiction – it’s a genre with spoilers built in from the start. It also inevitably violates the one-Steve limit: as Mantel comments, half the world is called Thomas, while Gregory includes a scene in which her characters discuss the fact that their menfolk are all named Richard and Edward. Despite these inherent limitations, both authors manage the essential trick of historical fiction: to illuminate the familiar strangeness of human experience, the things we share with people from the past, even as their lives seem unimaginably different from our own.

I’ve always loved history, and often been tempted to try my hand at historical fiction; but, since finishing my degrees, I’ve not had the time to do the necessary research. And so I’ve turned to fantasy, a genre with the great benefit that you can just make up whatever you feel like. Will I turn to historical fiction in the future? Maybe. But for now, I’m just enjoying the fact that, with my first novel done, I’ve now got the chance to read some more and remind myself why I love books.