William Kienzle - Deadline for a Critic

Koesler, well remembering how much Charlie and Lil had wanted children, was painfully aware that, on the one hand, they would have made excellent parents and on the other, in all likelihood, they never would be.

“If you don’t mind—” Koesler stood, “—let’s get out of here before I turn into a lobster.”

They showered and started dressing.

“I’ve never talked to you about this—” Koesler had feared he might be prying, “—but what about your books? It’s not everybody who’s a published author. I’ve got all three of them—autographed, of course.” Koesler smiled.

“Yeah, you and not enough others.”

“Not enough others?”

“None of them sold more than 5,000 copies.”

“That’s bad?”

“Think of Michener with well over 100,000 hardcover copies, book clubs, paperback, foreign sales, big screen movies or a TV mini-series. That’s success.”

“That’s a bit extreme, isn’t it?”

“Granted. But if I were going to make a living at this sort of thing, my books would have to sell at least 25,000 copies in hardcover, along with some of those auxiliary sales. And, as you can see, I’m a long way from that.”

“But they were good books.”

“I thought so. And so did a couple of thousand readers. But that’s just not enough.”

Koesler pondered for a few moments. “I don’t understand. They were good books. Why didn’t they sell?”

Hogan shrugged.

“If memory serves,” Koesler continued, “they got good reviews in the News and the Free Press . . . didn’t they?”

“As a matter of fact, the reviews were mixed. Actually, I guess I was lucky to have them reviewed at all.”

“You were?”

“Bob, there are about 400,000 book manuscripts submitted every year. About, roughly, 40,000 of them get published. And only a very small percentage of that number are even reviewed, let alone get a favorable review. Take a look at the Free Press and the News. Each paper uses a single page on Sundays for books, with, once in a while, another review or two during the week.”

“You’re right . . . I guess I never gave it much thought. When you consider the number published, I guess comparatively few do even get reviewed.”

“It doesn’t really matter that much. Most authors seem to feel that reviews neither sell books nor discourage people from buying them. A few readers, maybe, but not many . . . certainly not enough to make a difference.

“From my relatively narrow experience, I didn’t mind so much when a reviewer simply didn’t like my book. What bugs me—and I suppose most other writers—is when the reviewer is just flat-out wrong—incorrect. It happens. You knock yourself cold researching—and you’re accurate. You have experts in the field read and okay your manuscript. Then some reviewer, based on nothing but his or her own ignorance, right off the top of his or her head, says you’re wrong.” He grinned ironically. “If I had my way, reviewers would have to be licensed.”

“Licensed?”

“Use whatever criteria you want. But insist they have licenses. And, as in driving points, once they make X number of factual errors in reviews, they lose their license. “What do you think?”

“You’re kidding?”

“No.”

“Okay, but you said reviews are not all that important in selling books. So what happened to you? How come your books haven’t done better?”

Hogan bit his lip, seeming to weigh explanation. Finally, he said, “There’s a word for it—actually, two words . . .” He paused. “Ridley Groendal.”

Koesler felt he should not be surprised. Still, he was. “Rid? But, how—?”

“He’s powerful, Bob . . . at least he was. Especially when he was at the New York Herald. He reviewed my first book—although by his criteria he shouldn’t have. My publisher wasn’t that significant. Anyway, he went way out of his way to rip hell out of it. He even went so far as to question the motives and intelligence of my publisher. I think it was easily the worst review of anything I’ve ever seen.”

“But I thought you said reviews were not all that important when it came to book sales?”

“His carried more clout than maybe any other. Besides, the review was not only grossly negative; it was symbolic. The review predated publication by several weeks. So he was sending a message to other reviewers.

“But much more importantly, he was going out of his way to influence the bookstores . . .” Hogan stood before the mirror combing his hair. He smiled, but there was no joy in it. “I’ll have to give him that: He went to one helluva lot of trouble.”

“Trouble? What—?”

“This wasn’t just any ordinary vendetta. He went way out of his way to get me. He made sure his review was seen by influential editors.

“The thing that really gets me is the job he did in the stores. He managed to get his negative review reprinted in a publication influential on booksellers—that sort of thing. He really did a job!”

“This is all Greek to me. I thought all you had to do was write a good book.”

“Ha! Even without the determined opposition of a Ridley Groendal, that’s not even in the ballpark. If you’re a nobody like me, in addition to a damn good book you’ve gotta have promotion, publicity, packaging, marketing, distribution—and a helluva lot of luck.”

“Holy crow!”

“People like me don’t get big advances. So the publisher is not going to lose a lot of sleep trying to recover the millions he didn’t advance me. If he runs into a big enough brick wall—in this case one built by Rid—he’s just not going to bother. And word gets around.”

Koesler had difficulty getting his shoes on. Not unexpectedly for him, with all the exercise and steam, his feet had swollen. “How long have you known about this, Charlie?”

“How long have I suspected is a better question. A long time. It was a combination of strange happenings. Why couldn’t I get a job at one of the metropolitan papers? Why did I have so much trouble—at least in the beginning, selling my stuff as a free-lancer? And most of all, why all this determined opposition from critics and editors and book chains?

“Of course the initial supposition is: It’s my fault; I can’t cut it; I should be out digging ditches. But it just didn’t wash. I knew I was better than that. I knew it. And some friends I could rely on—including you—reinforced my confidence.

“No, it was something else, some third person or force or something. I must confess I didn’t suspect Rid until fairly recently. And then only because I had investigated and dismissed almost every other possibility.”

“But you did find out, Charlie. From what you said, you know it’s Rid now.”

“Yeah, I know.” Again the joyless smile.

“Then, how . . .?”

“It happened a few months ago. I was doing a piece for the Suburban Reporter. I’ve done lots of stuff for them.”

“That’s the same paper Rid writes for, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, only he’s never there. Or he’s there so infrequently he might just as well never be there. I don’t know how many times I’ve been in that editorial office, but lots. He’s hardly ever there. It’s like a throne the king never sits in. It’s just there. And he isn’t.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“Not many do. He mails most of his stuff in. About the only time he ever comes in is when he’s covering something like a concert and he’s on deadline. Then there’s almost no way out; he has to come in and bat out the copy. But he doesn’t stick around . . . just goes through his mail and leaves.”

“You seem to know an uncommon amount about Ridley’s comings and goings.”