Crabs in the Barrel By Tracy Price-Thompson

By • Jun 8th, 2008 • Category: ArticlesEmail This Post Email This PostPrint This Post Print This Post
 Crabs in the Barrel By Tracy Price-Thompson
I have been in this publishing game for a few minutes now, and while the industry is certainly dynamic, some things just never change. Sure, there has been a major revolution in the way publishers do business with African-American writers and I, myself, have benefited from the emergence of imprints geared toward publishing the contemporary works of black writers.
I originally self-published my first novel, Black Coffee, prior to the wave of major publishing houses who were seeking to capitalize on a growing market. Full of excitement and glee, I jumped on the self-publishing bandwagon of the then-revolutionary system of print-on-demand technology, and before I knew it I had a book in my hands. The cost was nominal, the ease of entry into the market was nearly painless, and the timeframe of getting my story into the hands of my readers was practically instantaneous compared to that of traditional publishing.
There seemed to be a fever burning in many African-American writers back then. In addition to myself, contemporary self-publishing pioneers like Gloria Mallette, Mary B. Morrison, Karen E. Quinones Miller, Timmothy McCann, Jamise L. Dames, Linda Dominique Grosvenor, William Frederick Cooper, and of course, the once mysterious author who wrote steamy black erotica under the pseudonym, Zane, took the bull by the horns and self-published novels in a market that had previously been less than receptive to works of fiction that were quickly becoming popular with black readers.
It was almost like a movement, that surge of energy and creative zest that gave us the fuel to attack from the trenches and launch grassroots guerilla publicity and marketing campaigns. We helped each other tremendously in those days; we gave each other enticing blurbs and wrote glowing reviews of each others work. We shared tips, email lists, and information about potential agents and editors. We worked with whatever was available back then; book panels and conferences in major cities, hand-selling from the trunk of our cars, book groups and chat sessions via the internet, beauty parlor placements in the hood, and of course, book signings at a growing number of African-American independent booksellers such as Sibanye in Baltimore, Basic Black Books in Philadelphia, Black Images Book Bazaar in Dallas, Our Story in New Jersey, Ligorious in Pennsylvania, Reprint in Washington D.C., and Sepia, Sand, & Sable in Maryland.
The atmosphere was feverish as we ‘hawked’ our books at train stations in Newark, New Jersey, and at ‘sign and dine/ events at black-owned restaurants in Atlanta. As a new author, I was welcomed into the fold by the likes of elegant and confident writers such as Kimberla Lawson Roby, Venise Berry, Donna Hill, Francis Ray, Evelyn Palfrey, and many others. These wonderful black women embraced me and made room for me at the literary table because they realized that as long as there were readers, there would always be room for more writers.

Yes, the book sales were wonderful, and the opportunity to reach and connect with our fan base was simply indescribable, but for me, the fact that my fellow authors and I were able to form alliances based upon camaraderie and collaboration instead of competition and cutthroat rivalry made those times all the more special.

Well, things have changed.

The climate of the publishing industry today hardly resembles the literary utopia that I believed it to be back then. There is a war going on these days. A war between authors that has nothing to do with delivering a quality product to our readership, and everything to do with petty jealousies, competitions, insecurities, and literary cliques that perpetrate as online book clubs, reading groups, and bogus book review sources.

Yes, the crabs have mated and multiplied at the bottom of the literary barrel, and hardly a week goes by that there is not a rumor floating around initiated by one writer and aimed at the next one. Everybody wants to be down with the popular clique, regardless of what it costs or how much of their character or integrity they have to compromise. Unholy alliances have been formed by emerging writers who are little more than flunkies, wannabees, and desperate minions who latch onto a popular author in the mistaken belief that if they render blind, utter loyalty that somehow they will become more popular, more successful, simply by the association.

And the popular author is no better. Whether they are insecure in their perceived market position, or afraid of literary competition, they are usually the source of the rumors and the discord, and out of fear they keep the crabs riled up at the bottom of the barrel in the hopes that the sheer weight of the desperate will prevent the success of the mighty and keep the entire community bogged down.

I attribute this phenomenon as a by-product of our post-traumatic slavery syndrome. As a race of people we are quick to condemn each other and to expend valuable energy in trying to keep each other from progressing or becoming successful. We do this by any means necessary, and in the literary world that means we spread rumors about other authors, we use our influence in reading groups to persuade readers not to purchase their books, we hate on them online under fake screen names, we do whatever it takes to ensure that the next author does not rise above us in prominence or in book sales. The motto of a non-profit that Ive formed is, ‘Want For Your Sister What You Want For Yourself,’ which is obviously much more virtue than some of today’s bestselling authors can manage. Well, I choose to align myself with positive, progressive authors of high talent and high character who are interested in the literary growth of others, as opposed to their literary demise.

Sadly, the tactics of the weak and the incompetent can be very pervasive, and readers and sheep who readily jump on these haterade bandwagons and allow themselves to be led astray are amongst us in great numbers. I witnessed this a few years ago when bestselling author Noire’s first novel G-Spot hit the shelves, I suddenly found myself in the midst of a hailstorm as a big load of shit hit the proverbial literary fan. How dare some unknown author burst on the scene with a hard-hitting work of erotica! That market was supposedly sewn up tight! And to have a blurb on the cover that said G-Spot was a cross between one bestselling work and another? What an unusual phenomenon! What a crime!

Almost immediately I began receiving telephone calls from people who had not dialed my number in years. As a military wife and mother of six, I had been minding my own business and living on a tiny island in the middle of the Pacific Ocean for years. I had been busy editing a major anthology and writing my fourth novel, Knockin Boots, and since a body of water stood between me and a book tour or a book conference, I was pretty much isolated and had all but retreated from most of my online book groups.

The calls came at all times of the day, and since most people did not realize that the seven islands of Hawaii have their own time zone, the calls often came in the middle of the night too.

It was almost laughable.

Almost.

‘Girl, I heard you wrote that book, G-Spot. Youre Noire, right? Don’t worry. Your secret is safe with me!’

I was astounded. Here I had been living an isolated existence on a tiny island, alone with my children while my soldier-husband was in Iraq fighting a war that most authors had forgotten was being waged. Not one of these literary people–and they know who they are–had called to see if my husband was okay, or whether he was alive or dead. I had lived through a massive storm and flood that destroyed many homes and businesses, and not one of these authors, book club moderators, readers, or editors had called to see if my children and I were warm or dry. I had lived through two earthquakes in less than a month, and not one of these so-called literary friends or acquaintances or fellow authors had called to see whether or not my children and I still had a roof over our heads, or if we were camped out together under a coconut tree.

But the minute some perceived scandal hit the airwaves the calls came in droves, the emails flooded my account, the unholy alliances were formed, and the fear factor of a popular, but insecure author multiplied exponentially. Yes, the crabs in the barrel sprung into action and started biting and snapping at anything within reach as they attempted, in vain, to pull another author down to their level and suffocate them in the name of competition.

My husband was serving in a deadly area of Iraq at the time, and my stress level was pretty significant. I am happy to tell you that I tolerated very few fools. Especially two hypocritical fools in particular, who write under pseudonyms themselves and made it their life’ work to talk trash about me in online groups –the flunky, out loud–the mastermind, behind the scenes. Some callers got told off real good, (Girl, I know damn well you’re not calling me at three in the morning to get in my business when I haven’t heard from you in three years!) others got cursed out royally, (C’mon, now–I am from Brooklyn!) and others, some whom I had considered literary friends and who were passing themselves off as editors, book reviewers, promoters and genuine supporters of writers (they lost my respect and that was the harshest punishment of all), felt entitled to know whether or not I had written a book, helped another author get published, or made a decision that had absolutely nothing to do with them. They actually believed that if I had a secret to keep from the entire world, that I would share it with them!

Well, you probably already know what I told them.

None of their damned business!

But free publicity is a wonderful thing, and needless to say Noire’s novel took off. Word of mouth, good or bad, is always great for sales, and all the rumors and online hate had the opposite effect of what was intended. But what about the damage that was done to what were previously good relationships? What about the divisions that were caused in the literary community, and the unnecessary destruction that resulted? Shouldn’t the perpetrators of all the ill-will, the crabs who were collaborating at the bottom of the barrel, have a light shined on them and be held responsible for the harm they had caused?

The problem with crabs is they huddle together as though there is safety and anonymity in their numbers. They mistakenly believe that as long as they close ranks and look, smell, and taste alike, you will not be able to recognize them for who they really are.

They are wrong. Not even a crab can hide forever, and in the literary world the quality of your work and your commitment to your craft speaks for itself. There is no need to behave like a crab if your writing is strong enough to allow you to stand on your own words. There is no need to be an author-hater if you are living up to your full potential and allowing your muse to guide your creative spirit. There is no need to dwell at the bottom of the barrel if your pen is locked, cocked, and charged with zeal. You do not have to spread seeds of discord toward other writers that could be windswept right back to your front door and bear negative blossoms for you and your family in the form of addictions, divorces, writer’s block, and many other ills that you sought to propagate on others.

If I ever decided to write under a pen name I would do just that. As long as I did not copy someone else’s work or become a cyber sleuth and steal a manuscript or a story from someone else’s computer, I am free (as are you) to write any damned thing my muse gives me, in any genre, and under any name that I chose. I am a grown woman and a creative writer who exercises full dominion over my literary endeavors. I write what I want to write, when I want to write it. I do not seek or require the permission of popular authors before sitting down to do my thing, nor should they feel obliged to check in with me before doing whatever it is they are led to do. Bottom line is, I do not mingle with the crabs, I avoid the barrel, and I encourage others to do the same.

Hawaii is truly an island paradise and yes, I live near the ocean and I am a seafood lover, but I prefer my crabs steamed and dipped in drawn butter, thank you. I resist the lure of time, energy, and creativity stealing online ‘reading groups/ that are usually virtual barrels in disguise, and instead I devote my time and energy to honing my skills, perfecting my craft, obeying my muse, and supporting other writers.

Like I said, crab-like behavior is for the weak and incompetent. Consistent, powerful writers who are dedicated to the written word and who produce novel after novel each year, know there is nothing to fear except fear itself. And to all the pseudonym-using, hypocritical, non-writing, quickly-becoming-irrelevant crabs of the world who would rather bash the competition instead of embracing it, I say if the barrel fits then you can either choose to keep scurrying around in it, or strive to seek the light.  

I can be reached at tracythomp@aol.com or via my website:  www.tracypricethompson.com

 

 

 

 

 

 

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One Response »

  1. Very interesting post. I think the issue is the concept of community and sisterhood is dying a slow death and it’s a sad thing, because really as people of color, we so need each other. We are stronger when we’re united.