Narrative Poetics Dances A Tango With Publishing Technology

The narrative poetics of comic books are driven by the stories relationship with the physical page. Everything must be in a particular page-count, with each scene allotted a certain number of panels and pages, and certain narrative beats work better at the bottom right of a two-page spread just before we flip the page.

Prose seems like the writing process exists oustide the demands of the page, but that’s a function of distance and changing technology. Consider the description of writing a ten cent library, 20,000 word “nickel novel” from John Milton Edwards’ The Fiction Factory:

The libraries, as they were written by Edwards, were typed on paper 8-1/2″ by 13″, the marginal stops so placed that a typewritten line approximated the same line when printed. Eighty of these sheets completed a story, and five pages were regularly allowed to each chapter. Thus there were always sixteen chapters in every story. (Edwards, John Milton. The Fiction Factory)

Edwards is one of the pen names for William Wallace Cook, a pulp writer active around 1910 to the early 1920s, responsible for a prodigious output in the twenty-odd years he worked as a full-time writer. A pulp era where the cost-per-page and printing technology meant word counts were constrained to fit the pages available in the publishing format. 

While I’ve never worked in an environment where the relationship between page and prose was quite that explicit, I got started as a prose writer back in 2007, trying to write short stories of 6,000 words or less. Novellas and novelettes were harder to get published, because so few markets wanted to devote the page count to them (or risk alienating a screen-reader with long walls of text).

Here in 2021, the novella is making a big-time comeback in both digital publication and print, courtesy of ebooks and print-on-demand technology. And so the industry shifts on its axis, and the poetics of SF storytelling adjusts itself in subtle ways.

The Back Cover Synopsis in the Backlist-driven world

We used to sell books by telling you how exceptional the story was. The whole back cover synopsis pushing you to invest in the character journey and atmosphere of the story contained within. Selling you on the author was a secondary concern, because the author was an invisible presence nine times out of ten. Your primary relationship was with the book, the bookseller, and the story, not the person who wrote it.

Then blogs came along, and then Facebook, and then Twitter. YouTube and TikTok and Tumblr and Snapchat and Patreon and gods know how many others that I’m ignoring in that list. Find an author and like their work? Odds are you’ll be following them on one platform or another, the first step in a long-term relationship.

Which raises an interesting question for marketing books: do we now sell readers on the author and the contents of the book? Make them sound like the kind of author that needs to be followed and engaged with beyond this one story?

Inviting a long-term commitment from a reader might not sell the current book as efficiently as the traditional conventions around the back cover synopsis, but the long-term relationship sells books in two directions: through the backlist, as readers realise there’s more there; and in the future releases the author may make. 

Selling the individual book is a solid choice in the velocity model of publishing, where everything focuses on the now, now, now, but the transition to backlist-focused business models makes the second option far more palatable. 

The Choke Points in the Entertainment Business (and Wrestling)

One of the recurring refrains in Todd Henry’s The Accidental Creative is the importance of unnecessary creating or back-burner creating. The creative work that you do that’s not on spec or on demand, but something that’s done because you’re curious, refining new skills, or simply interested in the subject.

My accidental creating often revolves pro-wrestling, where I’ve done the occasional fanfic project for the Total Extreme Wrestling game and take deep dives into the mechanics and business of wrestling storytelling. This has often spawned insights here on the blog, the occasional paid writing gig, and countless ideas that have informed my practice as both an author and a publisher.

This week, I listened to one of my favourite wrestling storytellers, Paul Heyman, being interviewed by the 90s pro-wrestling cultural phenomenon known as Stone Cold Steve Austin. A huge part of the interview revolved around why Heyman’s 90s wrestling project, Extreme Championship Wrestling, ultimately folded and got bought out by the industry leviathan WWE, and Heyman broke down not just the wrestling industry, but the whole damn entertainment industry, into a three-chokepoint system where a failure at any single point will doom your enterprise.

For Heyman, a successful entertainment company needs Content, Financing, and Distribution. If you don’t have the content, you don’t have a company, and in a balkanised industry like TV where different providers traditionally provided one component of the triad, there’s a hunger for content that we’re seeing play out in new ways via the new distribution systems like streaming channels. 

If you don’t have the financing to produce your content, then you’ve got no way to forward your vision to the world. There’s a reason superhero films and fantasy epics became way more popular as CGI made them cost-effective to produce, and this applies on both the blockbuster scale (where the CGI is good) and the low-budget arena (where you can do sub-part to serviceable CGI on a home computer now if you’ve got enough time and patience).

The third chokepoint in Heyman’s model boils down to distribution: if you can’t expose your audience to your product and give them access to your work, it doesn’t matter how much content you have or how much you invested in it. Exposure and access are what pay your bills and deliver a return on your financial investment. The more exposure you have, the more options that open up for you beyond your original concepts.

THE THREE CHOKEPOINTS IN PRO-WRESTLING

Heyman’s three choke-point model makes for an interesting way of looking at the history of pro-wrestling, which has routinely gone through big shifts in the landscape as new players or options changed assumptions around one or more chokepoint.

Heyman’s company, ECW, frequently gets positioned as great content with a terrible business owner at the helm. That framing arose largely because the company, as a content provider, lost its distribution, which meant they finally closed owing 7 million dollars to various stakeholders, wrestlers, and employees. 

Intriguingly, their pay-per-view provider owed ECW over three million by the time the company folded, but the provider held back once ECW lost their TV deal. The assumption was that the provider would pay pennies on the dollar of what they owed while the company was in bankruptcy, and thus it was better to let them die (although, as Hayman note in the interview, that same pay-per-view company was hungry for content a few months later, and got held over a barrel when negotiating with new providers).

In contrast, a wrestling company that launched in 2002—TNA—could happily lose the same amount of money in a month because they were funded by millionaires, and are seen as something of a success despite making a loss for nearly two straight decades before finally being sold (unsurprisingly, after losing their TV deal, which led to distribution problems).

Meanwhile, the WWE made its name by embracing new distribution models and becoming the first truly national wrestling company by broadcasting on coast-to-coast network TV. WWE consolidated its dominance by providing an industry-standard, company specific digital network to handle its own distribution of shows and pay-per-views on a worldwide scale, although in the US those same shows are now moved over to NBC’s Peacock streaming service because (dun dun dah!) the new streaming service was hungry for content to make it competitive.

Meanwhile, the internet—which enables cheap distribution and dramatically lowers the financing costs of producing a show—has created a new wave of “big” indie wrestling companies that are cult hits among fans, many of which created names that were capitalised on by plucky newcomer All Elite Wrestling when it launched in 2019. Like TNA, AEW is funded by a millionaire, which has opened up many options for them, although unlike TNA their content has improved as they’ve gone along instead of becoming a tedious chore to follow.

The history of wrestling companies are basically an endless chain of companies booming, busting, and evolving in response to those three chokepoints and changes that take place around them. 

Which leads me to an interesting thought: 

Aren’t Books Entertainment?

Which connects us back to the talk of Unnecessary Creating, and why it’s so valuable. After thinking through the implications and history of those chokepoints in wrestling, I immediately started looking at the things that will kill a writer or publisher. Despite being very different industries, they’re still entertainment…and the chokepoint is still the same.

But this post is already quite long, so that’s the topic for another day.


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