It comes down to this: biography, history, and serious nonfiction take years to research, write, and publish. When books sell to publishers, they do so on proposal, with the expectation that it will take those aforementioned years, if not more, to complete. There are ways to do so with little money, but that generally means the writer needs to be supported by an institution — university, think tank, you name it — or be independently wealthy. Big deal, right? Most writers working in any category are in the same boat. Serious nonfiction is not really a money category, though, but a prestige one. And “prestige” translates even less well to ebook sales. Mosey on over to, say, the Kindle bestseller lists, and how much serious nonfiction do you see there? Caro right now, sure, but that’s because he’s a known entity, a name brand if you will. And he’s working off contracts that are years old and equity that dates back more than 40 years, in a manner of speaking. And last fall, Walter Isaacson and his Steve Jobs bio, but then, Jobs was newly dead. Otherwise, not so much as compared to commercial fiction, romance, mystery, self-help, politics/current affairs, etc.

Why would a bestselling author, capable of garnering a six-figure advance on a book, forgo the money, the media, and the mojo associated with a big publishing house?

Because it would make my book twice as expensive for you, half as profitable for me, less purposefully written, and unavailable until about two years from now. In short, the traditional publishing system is nearly dead. And publishing a book under its rules can mean the death of ideas within it, as well. Until it utterly reworks its method, gets rid of a majority of its corporate dead weight, releases its publishing houses from the conglomerates that own them, and embraces direct selling models, the publishing industry will remain rather useless to readers and writers alike.

"Now, his address and his phone number are in the Rolodex on your desk," Phyllis explained. "People are going to call and ask for his number. You think it won't happen, but it will." She paused to light another cigarette. "Grad students. Reporters. Just … people. They may try to trick you or manipulate you. They may give you some song-and-dance routine." She laughed a throaty laugh, then fixed me sharply in her pale blue eyes. "But you can never, ever give out that address. Or that phone number. NEVER. OK?" I nodded and gave her my most professional smile. "Because it's happened before," she told me. "I've had assistants who just don't understand."

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