Welcome to Part I of a series where I pull back the curtain on both the mechanics of publishing a book and the ways I’m processing it all from the perspective of being over doing. 

My commitment is to stay imperfectly grounded in my relationship with myself and my work — no matter how many spreadsheets, contracts, or marketing meetings get tossed into the mix. It’s like a behind-the-scenes tour, but instead of just gazing at the machinery, we’ll also pause to reflect on what it’s all doing to the soul of the thing. Let’s go.

Releasing a big project into the world has made me question what I truly expect from my work. Not just what I want — though that’s pressing too — but the covert demands I place on myself and my work and the world. As in, “I do this. Then you, universe, will give me that.” This is transactional thinking.

I had big expectations: “Surely if I play by the rules, I am owed a ticket to the next level!” I am looking squarely at that belief, which I came by honestly by existing on this planet, and letting it slowly dissolve in front of me by giving it my undiluted attention.

Another part of me wants to deny I want anything at all, adopting a falsely modest posture of, “Who me? I don’t even care, man. I am but a humble craftsperson who subsists on air and fallen crumbs.”

To state the obvious, the publishing industry is just as much of an industry as cars, healthcare, coffee, and alcohol. That’s not part of its brand, though; one of the publishing industry’s currencies is aspirational prestige. (A book still feels culturally important in a way a YouTube video that reaches far more people does not.) The vibe is that you do it for the passion, the image, the sense of Bestowed Realness. But that’s just as much of a trap as doing it for the money. Which isn’t to say it’s not worth doing. It’s complicated.

I want to share as much as possible about the transactional nature of my most recent big project, the book Making Time.

Why? Because:

1. The publishing industry is pretty mysterious from the outside, and that does not serve artists or audiences.

2. It’s kind of like gossip — and who doesn’t subtly lean in to hear gossip?

3. Most importantly, in being as open as possible about this part of my process, I aim to deepen the relationship between you and me, and me and my work.

Relationality is the opposite of transactional thinking.

The following are snippets of my book contract, annotated:

PUBLISHING AGREEMENT
Contract ###### (there was a real number here, but I don’t know what it refers to, so I won’t share it)

I signed with an agent (Hi Rachel!). We signed with a publisher. The transaction begins! Expectations are set. What was secret scribbling in my notebook is now described by lawyers. This is not wrong — I appreciate the firm framework — but now I am toggling between two minds: Book as Object and Book as Living Entity.

If you’re reading this, you’re making work for reasons that have nothing to do with what you can get for your work. You make to keep doing the work of making — because without being involved in the process somehow, you feel not quite yourself.

Of course, you want something to happen when you’re done; maybe you also want attention, money, the approval of your boss, the ability to continue working in bigger ways. But your relationship to your creativity, whatever form it’s taking now, began long before you were professionalized.

I want what professionalization can give me: more opportunities to write. But I don’t want professionalization to become the thing that makes me not want to write or makes me write like someone who isn’t me.

THIS BOOK PUBLISHING AGREEMENT is made this 28th day of February 2023, between Maria Bowler (the “Author”) and Baker Publishing Group (the “Publisher”) a Work tentatively titled, BEYOND PRODUCTIVITY (PID ######)

“Beyond Productivity” did not end up being the title. When I started writing it before there were any agents or publishers involved, I was calling it “Against Productivity,” and it was a lot sharper in tone than the book ended up being. (It turns out I don’t enjoy writing in that one tone for too long.)

After the writing was complete, there was a Zoom call followed by an email thread between me, my agent, my editor, and a marketing manager to narrow down title ideas. Everyone had guesses about what would make sense to a stranger on a book shelf.

I questioned, “how much should I push for my initial preference, and how much should I take in advice on this?” In this case, I didn’t think my initial idea was The Thing It Must Be, so the title ended up being somewhat of a compromise that was better than what I originally came up with.

ADVANCE. Subject to the terms of this Agreement, Publisher will pay to Author an advance against all amounts accruing to Author under this Agreement…

The publishing industry gambles on a first-time author like me. I don’t have a sales record for past books that tells them, “This is how much we can expect a book from her to sell, so this is how much we put into it.” Publishers looked at my “platform,” assessed the engagement, projected how that might grow or shrink in the time it takes to get the book out, and slid a number across the table (metaphorically — we met over Zoom).

This number is called an “advance,” and it’s like a loan-salary for writing the book — though no one expects you to rely on the money as your sole source of income. They deduct this amount from future book sales. My agent gets 15% of this advance. I pay taxes on it. They are paying it in three installments. It’s a gamble for everyone involved.

Part of the gamble is that if this book doesn’t meet expectations (so many expectations!), that will play into how the next book is received by publishers, and so on. You can see how easy would be to get attached to the numbers.

For most writers (or creatives in general), the point is to get to keep creating. Even though a commercial “failure” (again, this is relative) doesn’t literally stop you from creating anything again, the temptation is to relate to your own work based on how the industry relates to it. So I have to be on guard for that or I will cling to each sales transaction like a life line.

My first impulse is to tell you the exact number I received as an advance because I like to be very transparent, but I think that would be a distraction from my broader point. To some people, the number will seem tiny; to others, it will seem huge. It’s all relative. That’s the nature of “value” in this economy — subjective based on who is doing the betting. If we met in person, I would probably tell you if I thought it would help in some way.

Author agrees that the following describes the Work to be delivered to Publisher: This book will be a sharp and inspiring manifesto, in which the author will invite readers to release the pressure to “produce,” arguing that productivity disconnects us from our authenticity, our best ideas, and our ability to build the world we need.

I don’t think this description is wrong, but the book grew longer legs. It’s equally about the opposite of productivity: creativity.

But it’s a strange task to say what something is going to be before it exists, but that’s how it works in the nonfiction world. You sell an idea, then execute it.

When I was talking to publishers, I asked one which section of the bookstore he would place this book in. Creativity? Cultural Criticism? He said, “It could go in many places…” I think it crosses genres, making it a bit of a Trojan horse in the self-help section. Maybe it’s like a mythical beast with wings and paws. It’s not a literal how-to guide, though it aims to offer a new perspective. It’s not just cultural critique, though that’s there. It’s spiritual, but I tried very hard not to be preachy. Its experimental nature feels pretty vulnerable.

At certain points, I got worried the thing was getting away from me. My writing would expand in scope (more ideas!), then contract, get pruned a little while retaining its overall growth. If I had remembered that the process is SUPPOSED to expand, contract, then expand and contract again, I would have gotten less freaked out when it was happening.

I did get freaked out that the publisher would receive it and go “HUH? WHAT IS THIS?? WE’VE MADE A HUGE MISTAKE.” That didn’t happen, but it could have! And that would have been a break in the transaction — though hopefully not a break in the relationship between me and the unwieldy word creature.

That’s enough for now. This is just Part I. I’d love to hear your questions — whether they’re about the nitty-gritty mechanics of publishing, the emotional rollercoaster of the process, or something else entirely.

My hope is that opening up this part of the journey doesn’t just demystify publishing, but also sparks an honest conversation about creativity, value, and how we hold onto the heart of our work while navigating the systems that surround it. Ask away — I’ll do my best to answer in the next installment.

Spiritually, transactional thinking shuts down your heart and narrows your imagination. At the same time, we live in a transactional world. If we get very honest with ourselves what we’re doing and what’s happening in us, those terms of engagement don’t need to get the final word.

Love,
Maria

P.S. Preorders make the publishing gods’ algorithms pay attention. On a more human level, they help books find their people, and remind writers they didn’t just hallucinate the whole thing.

Preordering gets you:
1. The audiobook (for all your walking and existential pondering needs).
2. Early chapters (a glimpse behind the curtain).
3. A workshop (about chaos and creating).

It means a lot to share this with you.