Kurt R.A. Giambastiani

I am a terrible businessman.

Last week, I submitted my outline for the proposed Fairbanks biographical novel. Along with the actual outline/synopsis, I sent a letter explaining some of the decisions that went into its creation. The family only has experience with writing non-fiction works about the life of their patriarch, sculptor Avard Fairbanks, so I felt it prudent to provide them with some insight into the differences between that and a work of biographical fiction. I also provided them with a quote of costs and timelines that was more realistic than the ball-park estimate I provided them early on. Along with this, I strongly encouraged them to do some research into ghost-writers, to confirm that my quote was not out of line.

The response was good, but measured. They were very pleased with the outline, but the details of costs and timelines introduced a strong dose of reality to the discussion.

This is as I believe it should be but, as I said, I am a terrible businessman.

In my youth, I worked in retail, and I hated it. I have no problem selling someone the exact thing they want, but I seriously dislike “up-selling” a customer into spending more than they can afford on more than they need. Example: Ages ago, I worked in a fabric store. One day, the lead guitarist from Jefferson Starship came in; he wanted a two-fold, three-panel screen with a silk-screened fabric print of Hokusai’s Great Wave. Though this was not a usual service we provided, I worked up a quote, charged him a premium for labor and costs, constructed the screen, and he went away extremely happy. Later, a newly married couple came in with questions about reupholstering a sofa. They were unsure about which type of fabric to choose, but it was obvious to me that, for them, money was indeed an object. Management had instructed me to up-sell such folks, pushing them toward the expensive fabrics like brocade, but I did not, steering them instead to a more modest, more affordable jacquard. They, too, left happy.

And so here, when dealing with the family on the Fairbanks project, I didn’t want to dupe them into an expensive purchase that they would later regret.

We had a frank discussion about what they could reasonably expect as a possible return on their investment. They have already dipped a toe into the self-publishing world—some of their non-fiction titles about Avard have done pretty well, selling a couple thousand copies—so they’re not complete naifs. This project is a different beast, though: their costs will be significantly higher, and the possible return is not likely to be greater.

A traditional publisher, if they are able to interest one, would have better infrastructure, staff, and marketing reach than the family will have on its own. It’s also possible that a traditional publisher will provide an advance, offsetting some of their costs. I offered to assist them in querying publishers, including some that I think are tailor-made for this project.

Still, though, it’s a gamble, and the odds that they will make money (or even recoup their costs) are not good. Publishing is a tough business, and main question boils down to this: Is the goal of the project to make money, or to tell a story of their patriarch?

Naturally, they were disappointed, though thankful for my being frank. For me, this project would be a year-long, part-time contract, and my quoted fee reflected that reality. I have advised them to shop around; I know there are experienced freelance writers who can do it faster and cheaper than I can, and one of them might be able to work within their budgetary constraints.

I have the luxury of not needing this job, and this allowed me to be completely honest with them. I am thoroughly cognizant of the huge compliment they paid me, trusting me in this initial phase, but that only solidified my desire to honor that trust. While I have indeed talked myself out of a contract, it was a contract to which I couldn’t in good faith agree unless they truly understood the realities.

On the bright side, it’s been an interesting month or so, and the work I did for them was educational. In reading the transcripts of Avard’s and Maude’s memories, I learned a great deal about characterization. I essentially took a crash course on memoir-writing, and really got to exercise my outlining chops. I also learned a lot about myself as a writer, and as a person.

Most importantly, this gave a much-needed boost to my own confidence, which has been sagging of late. Though response to my recent short story was decidedly lackluster, I’m enthused to get back to my own writing.

Onward.

k