Writing Life

Kentucky Fried Lyga

Last week, I was honored to attend the Kentucky Library Association/Kentucky Association of School Librarians annual conference in Louisville, where I was presented with the Kentucky Bluegrass Award for I Hunt Killers. The award was great, the ceremony was great, the librarians were great, but even before all of that, I spent a few days in Northern Kentucky (so far north, the natives call it “Southern Ohio”), where I visited a bookstore, two schools, and a library.

Blue Marble BooksFirst up was Blue Marble Books, pretty much as soon as I got off the plane! A quick stop at the hotel and then I was at Blue Marble, where I talked about I Hunt Killers and After the Red Rain and answered questions and signed books and admired some appropriately bloody cookies.Deadly cookies

Goodnight Moon roomBlue Marble has a very cool room modeled after the classic Goodnight, Moon. Apparently every single item in the room comes from the book. That’s attention to detail!

Library display at Campbell County HighThe next day, I spent the day at Campbell County High School. I spoke to the entire senior class, then the entire junior class, then spent some time with a small group of about a dozen kids who were aspiring writers. In every case, I had a blast. The big groups were incredibly enthusiastic, and the kids in the small, focused group had some terrific questions. It was a lot of fun.

Newport Branch newsletterThat night, I spoke at the Newport branch of the Campbell County Public Library, where a twelve-year-old girl asked the most incredible, mechanical question about paragraph transition. I almost never get technical questions at these things — people always want to know big picture stuff. I was amazed and impressed that this kid was so deep into writing already, and I blurted out, “You’re kick-ass!” Her father was sitting right next to her. Fortunately, he laughed.

The next day, I awoke at the ungodly hour of 5:45am (seriously, even the sun was asleep) to make the trip to Boone County High School. Again, I spoke to two large groups (this time mixes of all four grade levels), then hung out with a smaller group in the library. This group had had to produce pieces of art inspired by I Hunt Killers, so I got toMe w/kids from Boone County High see some cool artwork and listen to some very, very gruesome poetry! They were a great bunch and we had a lot of fun.

That afternoon, I traveled to Louisville, where I had dinner with a group of librarians. The following day, I attended the KASL award luncheon, where I was formally given the Kentucky Bluegrass Award. I gave a talk on why I write what I write and why I take the risks I take, a talk made more amusing than it deserved to be when we discovered the projector was showing my presentation upside down!

As the luncheon wended towards its end, I was called to the podium again, much to my surprise. This time, I was presented with a certificate from the Governor of Kentucky, naming me a Kentucky Colonel.1 Now I’m in the same club as George Clooney, Muhammed Ali, Betty White, and Elvis Presley. How cool is that?

Needless to say, I was quite surprised — I didn’t expect two honors in the same day!

It was humbling to receive both awards, but I have to admit I have a special place in my heart for the commission from the Governor, mainly because now I insist all my friends call me “Colonel.”

Kentucky Colonel certificate

Thanks, Kentucky!

  1. Yes, just like Colonel Sanders. Read the link.

Something Else I Should Have Confessed To…

After yesterday’s post, I heard from some other authors. They said things like this:

Other folks chimed in, as well, with similar sentiments, making me realize that in my confessional zeal, I neglected to mention something good in all of this.

Namely, that, for all the chaos and upheaval in publishing, the fact remains that it is still a field in which any random day can possibly bring a staggering life- and career-changing moment. Your book can be plucked from obscurity to be mentioned on a TV program. A hot actor can be glimpsed with a copy tucked under his arm. A movie producer can happen upon your book and decide that this will be her next big project. Suzanne Collins wrote other books before The Hunger Games, y’know.

These things don’t always happen. They don’t happen to and for everyone. And they don’t happen often. But they do happen. And they can be game-changers.

I have a book coming out in the summer. And another coming out after that. And I am confident that I will sell more after that one. The apocalypse isn’t here quite yet, and while I can write, I will write.

So, I’m not going anywhere. Every book is a new opportunity, and I’m gonna take as many of them as I possibly can.

The End of My Career


Anyone who knows me well will tell you that I have a general and ingrained distaste for what I think of as our “confessional culture.” Which is to say, people very publicly (and often quite loudly) spilling their guts about their fears, misgivings, mistakes, and daily dissatisfactions.1 It’s just not something I’m comfortable with.

Maybe it’s just the New England stoicism of my forebears. My grandmother, dying and in unimaginable pain, once received a friend who also possessed a constellation of health issues. Thinking they could bond over their mutual ailments, the friend proceeded to reel off a string of her own horrors, then waited for my grandmother to reciprocate.

My grandmother, with infinite calm, said, “Sometimes, dear, it’s good not to let people know how much it hurts.”

Then again, I descended from New Englanders, but not WASPs. So maybe it wasn’t hearty Puritan stoicism so much as old-school Catholicism. Confession is between you and your priest (and God, if He’s eavesdropping). If you’ve shaken off that old-time religion, then confession is between you and your therapist. Your spouse. Your best friend. Confession is not something for the Internet and any number of strangers.

But here I am anyway. Sorry, Gramma.

And when I push “Publish” on this piece, I will probably suffer an enormous wave of self-loathing and regret. But so be it.

Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. This is my confession: I’m a little scared.

No, wait, let’s backtrack. “Scared” is misleading and overly dramatic, but it probably did its job and got you to keep reading.

I’m not so much scared as…concerned. Wary. Because the times they are a-changin’ and the tide it is a-turnin’ and whether I drop the gs on my participles or not, there’s nothing I can do about it.

The last decade or so has seen massive structural changes and disruptions in pretty much every industry you can imagine, but the ones most devastatingly hit are the ones that traffic in the arts. With the exception of something like, say, sculpture (where the value of a work of art lies in its physical presence), most industries that sell art are in the business of selling copies of an original. With the advent of digital, it’s become cheap and easy to make and distribute such copies, to the point that piracy and downward pressure on prices have — perhaps oxymoronically — improved both signal and noise, resulting in changing demands, changing payment, and changing capacity.

In short: Publishing — like most industries — is undergoing tectonic shocks, and the post-tremor landscape doesn’t look promising to me.

I always figured my career would end on my timetable, at a time of my choosing, but I’m not so sure any more.

I recently read Ben Thompson’s piece about differentiation at his Stratechery blog. The nut of it is this: In order to succeed as an artist, you have to be massively differentiated. You have to have something no one else has and it has to be highly desirable. Thompson talks a bit about Taylor Swift’s recent decision to pull her music from Spotify, pointing out that it’s a viable strategy for her because “for her (many) fans, Swift is ‘the one.’ She is, to put it in economic terms, highly differentiated.”

In other words, there is incredibly high demand for what Swift produces (her particular kind of music) and she is the only source for it. Consequently, she can dictate terms. “It’s a tough standard, to be sure,” Thompson admits, “but as a consumer, it’s actually pretty great news. Only the best will succeed.”

Extrapolate out from Taylor Swift to art in general and you can see the trend: The big will get bigger and more popular, but the smaller folks will fade away; they’re simply not in demand enough to be able to dictate viable terms. Thompson says that “only the best will succeed,” but — with no insult intended to Ms. Swift — I think it’s not too difficult to envision a future in which not necessarily the best succeed, but rather the first. Or the loudest. Or the richest.

But hey, let’s stipulate that — despite historical evidence — only the best will succeed. What percentage is “best?” Is it the top 1% of artists? Or 10%? Or 0.1%? Who knows? An interesting abstract question, to be sure, but it’s damn personal because I’m pretty sure I don’t fit into whatever percentage you pick.

If you’re reading this BLog, then it’s because you know who I am. You may know me personally or you may be a reader. In either case, there aren’t very many of you. Not enough to sustain a Taylor Swift-level of differentiation. And that’s what worries me. I wonder what place I will have in the New World to Come. What will my career look like? Or will it just peter out?

Now, at this point, some people will say that I’m writing this not necessarily in a confessional vein, but more as a self-pitying cry for love and attention, that I anticipate the comment thread filling with people proclaiming their adoration for my books: “I love your work, Barry!” “I’ve bought everything you’ve ever written and plan to buy everything you ever write!” “You’re my favorite author!”

Yeah, no. I’ve turned off comments for this post. So there. This really is just me indulging in the very uncharacteristic act of public musing. I don’t know what the future holds. I don’t know what comes next or where the off-ramp is.

No matter how big a fan of mine you are or no matter how fond of me you may be personally2, you have to admit: If there’s a Taylor Swift of publishing, it ain’t me.

The world is changing. The industry — my industry — is changing. And just because things used to work a certain way and work that way right now, as of this moment, there is no guarantee that they will continue to do so.

Philip Kaplan recently wrote:

Those who made a killing from the record business of yesteryear, should count their lucky stars that it ever happened in the first place.3

Now, once again, like Thompson, Kaplan is talking about the music industry. But the music industry, for purposes of our discussion today, is the canary in the coal mine. As goes music, so too go TV, movies, and books. Music just got there first, is all. But the problems and the opportunities4 of the digital age come to all of us, eventually.

Kaplan continues:

The record business as most people know it, was just a short hundred-year blip in the 40,000 year history of the music business. A stopgap to solve a temporary problem that existed between the invention of sound recording (1890’s), and the invention of the internet (1990’s).

Few other art forms lets artists get rich off copies of their art.

I don’t particularly care about being rich. “Rich,” to me, always seemed like a hell of a hassle. And I know some rich people and they don’t seem much happier than I am. A little less stressed, maybe. But no happier. And the stresses I see in myself that I don’t see in them are most likely masked or replaced by stresses the wealthy have that I can’t imagine.5

What I care about is this: I write a book. You read it. Somewhere in there, there is enough economic alchemy that I can keep a roof over my head and adorable footie pajamas on my daughter. That’s it.

Seems simple, right? And for almost ten years now, it’s worked pretty well for me. But given the herky-jerky of the economy (global, national, and local), as well as the constant disruptions and upheavals wrought by the incursion of the digital into the analog, I fear that this very simple model will not last for long. In fact, I’m convinced that within the next five to ten years, it will be impossible to make a living doing what I’m doing, with the sales I currently command.6

I’m not saying that publishing will end, mind you. I’m saying that the model that has allowed people at my level to make a living in this business will transform enough that we won’t be able to do so any longer. Your major figures will still do quite well. Like Taylor Swift, they are hugely differentiated; their popularity and history of sales will buoy them up through and beyond the transitional disruptions.

Who are these people? You know them, of course. There are signs, I believe, that indicate you will have a career as long as you’d like. You know these signs, even if you’ve never really internalized their meaning.

If your books routinely debut on the bestsellers lists…

If you win one or more of the big awards, the ones that people pay attention to…

If you regularly have your work adapted into movies and/or TV shows…

If any one of these or any combination of them apply to you, the odds are that you will be able to publish books for as long as you choose to do so. And should you choose not to do so, people with money will come to you and show you that money and ask you to please reconsider.

Absolutely none of those criteria apply to me. Hence my wariness, my concern. Because in five to ten years, what the hell am I going to do with myself? I mean, sure, I guess I could put on a tie and dust off my résumé and look for real work, but who’s gonna hire a middle-aged dude who’s been out of the workforce for a decade or two?

And besides — selfishly — I like what I do. I like being creative. I’m good at it. And it’s nice that I can make a living at it. But even though I feel like an old, old man (and Leia makes me feel older every day), the fact of the matter is that — barring sudden illness or a decline in my mental faculties — I probably have another four decades of productive writing time in me.

How much of that will I get to exploit?

So… Movies? TV? Videogames? Comic books? Well, sure. Maybe. But all of those are intensely collaborative efforts, and I’m not the most collaborative guy in the world. (Ask poor Peter Facinelli and Rob DeFranco what it was like to work with me on After the Red Rain. Or ask any of my editors, who no doubt have gnashed their teeth down to the gums after going ten rounds with me over the disposition of a semi-colon.) Plus, there are people already doing those jobs. I can’t just say, “I used to make a living writing novels. Now shove over and give me some of that sweet, sweet TV cash!”

“Self-publish,” people say, as if it solves anything. Well, I tried that. And I’m happy that Unsoul’d is out there in the world, but its sales aren’t anywhere near my sales on my books published by the dreaded “big New York publishers.” If I had to rely on self-publishing income, I’d be eating cat food. The dirty little secret that successful self-publishers won’t tell you is this: Success at self-publishing is just as much a crap-shoot as success in “real” publishing.

This isn’t an indictment of self-publishing. It’s just the facts as they pertain to me. My fan-base is not large enough to support me without the help of a big publisher. And in the New World to Come, I’m not sure that big publishers will continue to help authors of my…stature? Rank? Type? Level? I’m not sure of the right word, but you get my point. As publishers continue to strive for relevance and stability, they will inevitably hew to the Taylor Swifts of the publishing world. Small publishers will continue to thrive through dedicated fans and lower expenses…meaning smaller advances that authors can’t live off of.

Being an author not in the top tier of earners will mean that “writing” is something you do on the side, as an adjunct to your “real job.”

I’m not saying anyone owes me (or those like me) anything at all, up to and including book sales, a reliable income, or eyes on my books. I’m simply saying that I look at the current landscape, I look at the historical trends, and I look at the most obvious future permutations of the industry, and what I see worries me.

My grandmother was right, as she often was: Sometimes, it’s nice not to let people know how much it hurts. Then again, sometimes you take to your keyboard and spill your guts anyway. Because you feel compelled to say something and you figure no one reads your blog anyway and hey, we live in a confessional culture now, like it or lump it, so maybe it’s time to join the crowd.

That’s my confession, Father. Whatta you got?

  1. I am not, for the record, talking about people who are declaiming various social injustices. That’s not the same thing, so please hold off on the “Barry Lyga thinks victims should stay silent!” outrage.
  2. Hi, Mom!
  3. Bold in original.
  4. And make no mistake: The opportunities are legion!
  5. I know, poor rich people, right? But hey — money brings its own set of problems. Let’s not pretend otherwise.
  6. I could be overly optimistic. It might not even be five years. I’m a writer, not a prophet.

Peter Brown on the Amazon Mess

“Now Amazon is holding my books hostage.”

I have much to say on the Amazon mess, but my buddy Peter Brown has said so much, so well that it would be a crime not to point you in his direction: Amazon Is Destroying My Favorite Things! | Peter Brown Studio.

Writing Life #17: Hamlet Was a Douchebag

I’m back!

Sorry I was absent for so long. As I indicated previously, I recently took a long-overdue vacation. But right before I left, I got sick, so some blogging stuff went undone. And when I returned, my internet service decided to play hide-and-seek, and it’s only been about 24 hours since I’ve had a reliable connection. Hence the absence.

But now I’m back, to thrill or bore you with more tales of the Writing Life!

Every now and then, I think about character likability. Specifically, the likability of the protagonist. I have occasionally been dinged in reviews and comments for writing protagonists who are not “likable.” In fact, the very first blog review for my very first book savaged The Astonishing Adventures of Fanboy & Goth Girl because Fanboy was unlikable. Notably, this person did not say that the book was bad, just that he/she couldn’t enjoy it because he/she didn’t like Fanboy.

Now, tastes are different and I don’t harsh on anyone if they genuinely don’t enjoy a book. This isn’t about me settling a score. Many of my fellow YA authors have lamented the same phenomenon, so I’m not just talking about myself or my work.

I am, however, talking about being puzzled.

Puzzled because… Really? Does the likability of the protagonist matter so much? I mean, yeah, I get that all things being equal, we’d generally rather read about pleasant people. But I can’t think of any time in my life when I’ve read a book and thought, “Wow, that book sucked because I didn’t like the main character.”

“That book sucked because the main character was boring?” — Sure.

“That book sucked because the writing was terrible?” — Sure.

“That book sucked because the main character was inconsistent/unconvincing/ill-suited to the tale?” — Sure and sure and sure.

But what matters to me as a reader (and as a writer) is that the main character is well-written and interesting, not that he or she is “likable.” (I vote for Presidents the same way. We had eight years to see what happens when people vote for the likable guy.)

Likability, of course, is a spectrum disorder (for lack of a better term). Fanboy to some people is a whiny, obnoxious, self-absorbed brat. To others, he’s a put-upon, wounded, insecure and tormented victim.

Kyra is a tough, take-no-prisoners empowered girl to some. To others, she’s a stone-cold bitch with no redeeming qualities.

Kyle Camden (from my upcoming Archvillain) is arrogant and cruel. Or maybe he’s just too smart for his own good, in a world where people don’t often look beyond surfaces.

As you can see, I have no problem ascribing negative traits to my own characters. I acknowledge that they’re there, and while I obviously come down on the side of “these characters are worthwhile” (else why write about them?), I can see how some people would be turned off by them.

And yet, I still wonder: If you’re turned off by a character, does that really mean the story’s bad? Maybe the author just did a really good job writing about an unpleasant person. And maybe that’s an opportunity to read about and learn about a kind of person we usually don’t usually get insight into.

Not everyone had a gooey center. Not everyone has a heart of gold. There are people in the world who are angry and defensive and arrogant; sometimes they have good reasons for it. Sometimes they don’t. But they usually believe that they do, and sometimes we can learn from their pain, even if it’s only to learn, “I don’t want to be that way.”

Sure, Kyra’s a stone-cold bitch for most of Goth Girl Rising. By the end of the book, she has matured tremendously. If she’d started out mature…there wouldn’t be a story. There’d be no point to writing it. Characters have to evolve if fiction is going to mean anything.

I don’t care if a character is likable or not. I just want to be entertained and — maybe — educated by that character.

The notion that a protagonist is unlikable and, hence, unworthy isn’t a new one. It even prompted YA rock band Tiger Beat to pen and perform an original song with the continuing refrain, “Holden Caulfield is not an asshole.”

It’s a terrific song, with an infectious beat (and spoiler-laden lyrics), but I beg to differ: Holden was an asshole. Not always, but often. And you know what? That’s OK. Because even when Holden was an asshole, I was still captivated by him and his journey.

That’s what matters: Being captivated.

Hamlet was, as the title of this blog indicates, a douchebag. There’s no two ways about it. Critics have argued for centuries over Hamlet’s state of mind — is he insane or merely too crafty for his own good? — but I think that even a charitable reading of the play shows that regardless of his mental hygiene, he’s pretty much a dick. And yet people read and perform and watch that play all the time. Why? Because Hamlet is mesmerizing. He’s fascinating to watch, even when he’s being a dick to his friends, even when he’s screwing over Ophelia, even when he’s arranging for the deaths of Rosencrantz and Guildenstern (whom he could have merely exiled).

Hamlet: Unlikable. How many people say that ruined the play for them?

Similarly, let’s talk about a hero of mine from childhood: Luke Skywalker.

Thanks to Luke Skywalker, I can peg almost exactly when I began to develop my notion that likability was not necessary in a protagonist. It dates to 1980, when I was eight years old, watching The Empire Strikes Back in the movie theater with my father.

There’s a moment where Luke is training with Yoda on Dagobah. He attempts to use the Force to levitate his downed X-Wing fighter from the muck of a Dagobah swamp, but fails, claiming the fighter is too large. When Yoda chides him for lack of faith, Luke snarls, “You want the impossible” and stomps off into the swamps to sulk.

I was enrapt by this scene, and then my father interrupted, murmuring as though to himself, “Luke has a lousy attitude.”

I was shocked! How on earth could my father say such a thing? Luke was the hero! And since he was the hero, that meant he was always right…right?

Moments later, Yoda levitated the X-Wing with minimal effort, to the amazement of Luke Skywalker and eight-year-old Barry Lyga, and I began to realize: Just because Luke was the hero, didn’t mean he was always right.

Furthermore, just because Luke was the hero didn’t mean he always had to be pleasant. He could have — in my dad’s words — a lousy attitude.

This realization led me to a new appreciation of the movies and the character. When I re-watched Star Wars, I saw Luke’s dangerously callow attitude early on. His whining about not being hang out with his friends. His fruitless daydreaming. Even his self-centered complaint in Return of the Jedi, as Shuttle Tydirium closes on the Death Star: “I shouldn’t have come; I’m endangering the mission.” Delivered in a plaintive, annoying tone by Mark Hamill, and immediately shut down by a snarl from Han Solo.

All of which made Luke’s eventual maturation — throwing away his lightsaber rather than raising it against  his father — more powerful.

But what I also realized was that Luke was still the hero. I didn’t like him quite as much as I once had, in the days when I’d thought him perfect and infallible, but I still enjoyed his story and his journey.

So, how about it, readers? Do you have to like a character in order to enjoy his or her story? Where is the line crossed for you? Best of all: Who’s your favorite character that the rest of the world just doesn’t seem to “get?”