[NEWS PROGRAMME INTRO MUSIC — suitably important and unnecessarily dramatic]

ANDY ROBINSON:

Good evening.

I interrupt your regularly scheduled internet scrolling to bring you a really important development from the world of literature.

A new book has been published!

Authorities are describing the situation as “fairly normal, actually,” although the author has asked us not to dwell on that for too long.

The book in question is The Book’s a Lot Better Than the Movie, a novel about Localad, a sixty-four-year-old bookseller who spends twenty years writing his masterpiece.

Which is admirable.

It is also an extremely inefficient use of twenty years.

I mean, the Sydney Opera House only took fourteen.

His novel, Purradise, is a sweeping fantasy involving cats, fallen knights, singing mountains, grief, courage, a brave warrior named Jasmine and a mysterious Wound in the sky.

Then Hollywood discovers it.

And this is where conditions deteriorate rapidly...

A producer loves the manuscript.

The studio buys the movie rights.

Localad goes to Hollywood. Just like Frankie did forty years earlier. 

And several highly paid people immediately begin 'improving' his story until almost none of the original storyline remains.

There are meetings.

There are notes.

There are rewrites.

There is market research.

There is an all-action hero star.

And somewhere along the way, the delicate emotional heart of Localad's twenty-year masterpiece is apparently beaten to death with a demographics report.

The resulting movie is released.

It is enormous.

It is expensive.

Things explode.

Critics use words such as a “spectacle”, which is frequently what critics say when they are trying very hard not to say “Oh dear.”

But then something rather unexpected happens.

People discover the original book.

And they like it.

Quite a lot, actually.

Which leads to an increasingly dangerous idea spreading fast across the internet:

The book’s a lot better than the movie.

[ANDY PAUSES. AND LOOKS TOWARD SCREEN.]

Which, rather conveniently, is also the book's title.

Marketing experts have described this as either “excellent branding” or “an author getting away with something.”

The novel is mildly funny, warm, occasionally ridiculous and just possibly has something to say about creativity, success, failure, Hollywood, books, the whole writing process and what happens when people with PowerPoint presentations are allowed anywhere near art.

[ANDY NOW LEANS SLIGHTLY TOWARD CAMERA.]

And, in a relatively disturbing development for journalism, I should now really fully disclose that I actually wrote it.

So truth be known, this entire news report has been nothing more than a shameless advertisement for my latest novel.

Of course, there will be an inquiry.

And I intend to cooperate fully.

And in the meantime, The Book’s a Lot Better Than the Movie is available now on Amazon.

Buy yourself a copy.

Read it.

And if Hollywood calls afterwards...

for heaven’s sake, don’t answer the phone.

[SERIOUS NEWSREADER NOD.]

I’m Andy Robinson.

Good reading and...

Good night.

[NEWS OUTRO MUSIC]

https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0645493953

IT'S SO MUCH MORE THAN A BOOK...

It's a deceptively rectangular shaped object containing several thousand carefully arranged words, created when a person voluntarily sacrifices their sleep, sanity, social interaction, and a perfectly serviceable amount of their remaining lifespan in order to manufacture imaginary people with imaginary problems, set in imaginary exotic backgrounds, before spending four further months correcting all the commas.

A book is communication, traditionally constructed from paper, ink, caffeine, self-doubt, existential dread and one inexplicably troublesome chapter of blood, sweat and tears. A book exists primarily to transport the reader into another world while its author remains behind, staring nervously at sales figures and wondering why nobody has left a review yet.

Books are instrumental. They have toppled governments, started religions, ended relationships, inspired revolutions, educated civilizations and provided humanity with something impressive-looking to put on shelves behind them during video calls for years now.

In its most advanced form, a book may also be adapted into a major motion picture, at which point approximately 63% of its plot is savagely removed, 22% is re-written, and somebody who never had one previously, is given a sword prior to a gender reassignment. Along with an explosion or two being added to Chapter Three for good measure.

And it's probably at this stage when the audience eventually mutters:

“THE BOOK'S A LOT BETTER THAN THE MOVIE.”

Available Now at Amazon

The Dangerous Moment When Somebody Says, “We Can Make This Better”

There are few sentences more terrifying to a creative person than: “We love it.”

This sounds a little counterintuitive. You would imagine the frightening sentences would be things like: “We hate it.”, “We're passing.”, “We've decided to go in another direction.”

Or, if you're an author: “We've read the manuscript and would like to discuss page 147.”

Nobody wants to discuss page 147.

Page 147 already knows what it did.

But we love it is different. Because we love it is rarely allowed to travel alone. It usually brings a friend.

“We love it. We just think…”

And there it is. The beginning of improvement.

Improvement is a dangerous business

Before I begin, I have nothing against improving things. Human civilisation would be considerably less comfortable if nobody had ever looked at the first toilet and thought:

I believe there may be room for development here.

Improvement has given us antibiotics, refrigeration, air conditioning and coffee machines that can produce seventeen different varieties of coffee while requiring only a master's degree in engineering to operate.

But creative improvement is different. Because eventually somebody has to decide what better actually means.

Now for this bit, I want you to imagine you've spent twenty years writing a novel. Not twenty weekends. Twenty years.

You've lived with your novel’s characters for longer than some marriages last. You've removed paragraphs you loved because they didn't belong. You've rewritten chapters at two in the morning. You've changed a character's name seventeen times because somehow Bernard wasn't right.

And eventually you think you have something. Not something perfect. But something that’s undeniably yours.

Then someone arrives carrying a clipboard. “We love it.” They proclaim.

Wonderful.

“Absolutely love it.”

Even better.

“There's just one thing…”  <<<  Ah, there it is, WE LOVE ITs best friend.

And this is where Localad gets into trouble

In THE BOOK'S A LOT BETTER THAN THE MOVIE, Localad has spent twenty years writing his novel Purradise. It is an enormous fantasy novel about a land ruled by cats, fallen knights, singing mountains, courage, grief and a mysterious Wound in the sky.

Nobody has read it and this bothers Localad enormously.

Then Hollywood reads it, which eventually bothers him considerably more.

Because Hollywood loves Purradise. They love the world it has created. They love the characters. They love the emotional depth and the originality. They love absolutely everything about it.

But WE LOVE ITs best friend, would prefer that most of those things were different. The quiet moments could perhaps be less quiet. The complicated characters could perhaps be less complicated. The grief could perhaps become vengeance instead.

The Wound could be bigger. There could be more action. There could be a franchise. There could be merchandise. And could somebody please explain why none of the cats has yet ridden away from an explosion without looking back?

Localad begins discovering something every creative person eventually learns:

Nobody ever destroys your work by openly announcing: “I intend to destroy it!”

They try to improve it.

Nobody means any harm

And this, I think, is the interesting part. It would have been very easy to write the people surrounding Localad as villains. Men in expensive suits sitting around a table saying: “How shall we ruin literature today?” Possibly while stroking a white cat.

Although in this particular story the cat would probably demand points on the backend. But that's not really how these things happen.

The producer wants a successful movie. The studio wants its investment protected. Marketing wants something it can market. The lead actor wants something he can act. The lawyers want everyone to stop talking immediately.

Everyone is just doing their job. And every individual decision made in the process can make perfectly good sense. But somehow, after enough perfectly sensible decisions, nobody can quite remember what the original thing was.

That's what fascinates me.

The death of originality doesn't necessarily require an executioner. Sometimes all it needs is a committee.

The graph has entered the room

At some point in almost every modern creative enterprise, somebody produces data. This is generally considered a serious moment because the data has a graph. And graphs are extremely persuasive.

You can say almost anything while pointing at a graph and people will hesitate before challenging you.

“Our research indicates that audiences respond positively to emotional authenticity.”

Graph.

“Viewers demonstrate stronger engagement with recognisable archetypes.”

Graph.

“Adults aged thirty-five to fifty-four are particularly receptive to emotionally damaged, 64- year-old writers.”

Graph.

Nobody knows exactly how the writer became emotionally damaged. There wasn't time because the meeting ends at four.

And this is where something created because one person desperately wanted to say something, encounters something designed to appeal to the greatest possible number of people.

Those two objectives aren't always enemies. But they aren't always friends either.

Creation is an absurdly personal act

Whether you write books, paint pictures, take photographs, make music, build furniture or construct tiny replicas of railway stations in your garage while insisting to your family that this is perfectly normal behaviour, you eventually put something of yourself into it.

That's unavoidable.

You make choices. This word instead of that one. This colour. This angle. This character lives. That one doesn't.

And sometimes you can't even explain why. You simply know.

Then eventually your product leaves you. A reader reads it. A viewer sees it. Someone listens to it.

And something rather wonderful happens.

They make it partly theirs.

That's the bargain.

The creator doesn't control what the audience feels. Nor should they.

But there's a difference between allowing someone to interpret your work and allowing someone to dismantle it looking for more commercially useful components.

That's the territory Localad stumbles into. He thinks he's selling Hollywood permission to make his story into a film.

Hollywood thinks it has purchased something rather more interesting: potential.

Potential sequels. Potential audiences. Potential merchandise. Potential markets. Potential intellectual property.

Localad, inconveniently, continues thinking of it as a story.

Which brings us now to ownership

Who owns a story?

Legally, that's often fairly straightforward.

Emotionally? Good luck.

A writer might sell film rights. A studio might buy adaptation rights. A publisher might own particular publishing rights.

Contracts can tell everybody precisely who is allowed to do what, in which territories, using which formats, until which dates and probably, under what circumstances someone is permitted to manufacture a commemorative lunchbox.

But none of that answers the more interesting question. Who owns what the story means?

That's harder.

And that's really what THE BOOK'S A LOT BETTER THAN THE MOVIE became about for me.

Not Hollywood. Not filmmaking. Not even books... Ownership.

The peculiar human need to protect the things we create from becoming something we never intended. And the equally peculiar fact that once we release those things into the world, we cannot entirely control them anyway.

Localad eventually has to learn the difference. So does Hollywood. And neither enjoys the lesson particularly much.

And that's why independent creators do matter

There is something gloriously inefficient about independent creativity.

A person can spend years making something that market research would have killed on a Tuesday morning.

Nobody asked for it. No focus group approved it. There was no strategic gap in the market. Somebody simply thought:

This should exist.

And I love that.

Not: Our analysis indicates significant demand.

But: I've got an idea. And those may be the four most dangerous words in commerce.

They're also responsible for most of the things worth having.

Of course, there is still one tiny problem

Having written an entire novel satirising what happens when creativity collides with commerce, I am now attempting to commercially sell said novel.

Yes, I recognise the contradiction. And I have decided the healthiest response for this is to ignore it completely.

THE BOOK'S A LOT BETTER THAN THE MOVIE is, after all, a product.

It has a price. It has an ISBN. It is available now from Amazon and here’s the link to prove it.

There are keywords. There are categories. And somewhere in the land of Bezos, an algorithm is currently deciding whether you are the sort of person who might properly enjoy it. So perhaps none of us escapes the machinery entirely.

But maybe that's not the point. Maybe the point is simply remembering, underneath all the algorithms and markets and platforms and graphs, why the thing existed in the first place.

Someone had something they wanted to say and somebody else wanted to hear it. Easy as that.

Everything between those two people is just infrastructure. Useful infrastructure, certainly. But infrastructure nonetheless.

And if Hollywood ever does get around to telephoning me for my manuscript, of course I'll answer them. I'm an author not an idiot. I'll listen politely. I'll thank them for their interest. I'll remain calm and professional all the way through. And when they eventually say:

“We absolutely love the book. We just have a few changes…”

I'll know exactly what to say.

“That's wonderful, I just have a few clauses.”

Why I Wrote a Novel About Hollywood Ruining a Novel

There is a particular fantasy shared by writers everywhere.

Someone from Hollywood telephones.

They have read your book.

They love your book.

They understand your book.

More importantly, they would now like to give you an irresponsible amount of money for your book.

At this very point, according to the prevailing fantasy, champagne appears spontaneously.

But nobody ever continues the fantasy far enough.

Because eventually somebody from Hollywood says:

“We absolutely love what you've done.”

And shortly afterwards:

“We just have a few suggestions.”

And this is where THE BOOK'S A LOT BETTER THAN THE MOVIE begins.

At the centre of the story is Localad, a sixty-four-year-old bookseller who has spent twenty years quietly writing Purradise, an enormous fantasy novel involving cats, fallen knights, singing mountains, courage, grief and a mysterious Wound in the sky.

Nobody has read it.

For most of his life, this has been something of a problem.

Eventually it becomes his greatest advantage.

Because when Hollywood discovers Purradise, Localad experiences every author's impossible dream.

His manuscript is wanted.

Money appears.

Los Angeles beckons.

There are meetings.

There are executives.

There are people whose professional contribution appears to consist largely of saying things such as “audience accessibility” while pointing at a graph.

And slowly, almost politely, Purradise stops being Purradise.

The quiet parts disappear.

The complicated parts become a lot simpler.

Grief becomes vengeance.

Characters become market segments.

And anything that might once have required the audience to think very hard develops a reasonable chance of exploding.

I specifically wanted to write about that collision.

Not simply Hollywood versus books.

Something bigger.

Creation versus ownership.

When does a story stop belonging to the person who created it?

What happens when something deeply personal becomes nothing more than a commercial asset?

And what happens when the person everyone assumes is powerless in all of this, discovers that perhaps he isn't?

Those are reasonably serious questions.

Unfortunately, I am legally and constitutionally incapable of asking such serious questions without somebody falling over a piece of furniture.

So the book became a satire.

Hollywood certainly receives some attention.

Publishing receives some.

Writers receive some.

Independent booksellers in run down stores receive considerably less though because I quite like them and they know where all the books are kept.

But beneath all the jokes is something I genuinely believe.

Stories matter because somebody cared enough to tell them.

Not because they can become franchises.

Not because somebody can put them on a lunchbox.

And not because an algorithm has determined somewhere, that adults aged 35–54 demonstrate quite promising engagement with emotionally damaged writers.

But because one human being made something and another human being connected with it.

That's the relationship Localad spends the novel trying to recover.

The irony, of course, is that I've now written a whole book about the dangers of turning books into commercial products…

… and here I am, asking people to buy it.

I choose not to examine this part too closely.

So, The Book's a Lot Better Than the Movie is available now.

And if Hollywood telephones?

Yes, I'll answer.

I'm not a complete idiot.

I'll just be sure to read the contract first.

“Congratulations on your book!” ‎ ‎

“Your book's cover immediately caught my attention, it has a really great and compelling, cinematic feel.” ‎ 

‎

“I really like the direction and atmosphere you're going for. It already sounds engaging.”

‎‎”Your book caught our attention! And we'd love to learn more about the story and inspiration behind it.”

“We’d love to feature your book on our page, as well as in our Amazon and Goodreads discussion communities, helping you connect with more readers and gain greater visibility.”

“We'd be delighted to feature you in an Author's Q & A with our reading community, giving our readers an opportunity to discover the person behind the book, hear about your creative journey, and learn what inspired you to bring this story to life.”

“We’re currently inviting authors to participate in our (Enter month of choice here) Author Spotlight. Your book could be a great fit for our reader community. And it's a great way to introduce your work to new readers while creating a more personal connection with your audience.”

And now, bearing in mind my book’s title, for a bit of irony:

I’m actually taking and using a quote from a movie to answer you guys with: Taken from the movie Pulp Fiction where Jimmie (played by Quentin Tarantino) snaps at Jules (Samuel L. Jackson):

"I don't need you to tell me how fucking good my coffee (book) is, okay? I'm the one who buys (wrote) it. I know how good it is (I spent months blood sweat and tears…ing over it). When Bonnie goes shopping, she buys shit. I buy (write) the gourmet expensive stuff because when I drink (read) it, I want to taste (believe in) it."

“But authors rarely get a second chance to make a first impression with new readers.”

“Now that your book is live, the biggest challenge is getting it in front of the right readers.”

‎‎”What you need next is:

A cinematic book trailer

An Audio Book version

A full marketing and launch strategy

A KDP Specialist to optimise your listings and bring them to the fore

Letting loose on all our followers for added exposure

‎‎Interested in being featured? “They’re all great ways to turn attention into actual readers. Would you be open to seeing a quick example of how this could look for your book? Capture attention, spark curiosity, and make people want to learn more about your story.”

No, No, No, No, NO!

What I really want, is for you guys to actually go buy and read a copy of my book before you start telling me what it needs.

You know, the book that holds the story about the writer who thought he needed exposure for his book regardless of the consequences but quickly learned how wrong he was. The story about how a barrage of compliments (just like those at the top of this post) regularly preceded further direction and cost to the original manuscript. The story about how Hollywood was blindly guided by what they thought the story needed. The very same story that has been referenced on the last 40 posts of this very blog. Yes all the TLDR posts that came before this one. Notice any parallels yet?

And now let me tell you what your cut and paste (something even I can do, as proved right here) complimentary comments are really telling me:

Dear Author,

I saw your post (or my computer did through an alert system) just now on whatever channel it was and immediately assumed you must be desperate for exposure and or sales. So, I am now sending this, auto-responder based, cheap punt on you wanting to buy into my lazily offered, I really can't be bothered services, DESPITE the fact I have shown no real interest in your product at all. I take great pride in knowing that any future relationship we may build together isn’t even worth an initial investment of $20 on my part.

And then, you have the audacity to ask me to chase you up. So maybe I will one day. Maybe I won't. But let me first warn you, I’ve been self-employed since leaving school fifty years ago and have probably forgotten more about marketing, sales and promotion than you could ever learn me (he says feigning his ignorance like you already feigned an interest).  At 64 years of oldness, my writing is just a hobby I enjoy sharing and not a stand alone source of income. 

In fact, I think I can honestly say…

"When I want your opinion guys, I’ll give it to you."

And in the meantime, anyone out there with a serious agenda of their own to push, If you can recite, word for word, the full contents of the second paragraph on page ninety-seven of my book:

The Book’s a Lot Better Than the Movie

Then and only then, when we both have a vested interest in said book and its future, I’ll be more than happy to then seriously consider your pitch for you. You can accept your receipt for said book purchase as an official invite to do so.

Please feel free to DM me for more elaborate details (Email address can be found on copyright notice page). Buy the bloody book!!