Richard Charkin
By Richard Charkin, Columnist
You may (probably not) remember that in a previous column I was a bit rude about using the word ‘learnings.’ I preferred ‘lessons.’ However, I now think ‘learnings’ might be useful in discriminating certain experiences from ‘lessons.’ This distinction came to me while working on my new book, All Rights Reserved, aimed at newcomers and not-so-newcomers to the publishing industry.If you want to understand publishing, everyone should read books (there are plenty more options than mine!); devour the trade press (this journal and many others including nationals, specialists, academic ones and global ones such as The New Publishing Standard). Where possible attend conferences such as the recent IPG conference in the U.K., and book fairs such as the upcoming Frankfurt Book Fair.
You might also contribute to trade associations (publishing, bookselling, and reproduction rights organizations, for example). And, of course, read the general press to keep abreast of technological and cultural developments; and immerse yourself every possible social media outlet to do with books, writers, and readers. This will broaden your education beyond whatever is your particular job. In publishing, all things connect.
‘All Rights Reserved: Lessons in Publishing,’ Richard Charkin’s follow-up (with Tom Campbell) to his memoir ‘My Back Pages’ is out today, from Marble Hill London.
But when I look back at my career, any material ‘learnings’ came not from these sources, but from other people working as competitors or colleagues in the industry.
‘Promptitude’
An example comes to mind. In my very early exposure to scientific journal publishing at OUP, we were invited to pitch for the publication rights to the prestigious journals of the International Union of Applied Physics and Chemistry (IUPAC). I duly wrote a detailed paper on how we would improve publication speed and global distribution while offering an excellent financial package which would go to supporting the society and their scientific aims. I was invited to make a presentation to their governing body in their offices. This was my first such effort, and the deal would be a valuable one, both commercially and scientifically. And it wouldn’t do my hopes of promotion any harm either.
I was given a precise time to arrive (at 3.00 p.m.). But when I did I discovered I was second in line. I knew this because, on entering the rather narrow corridor leading to their board room, I was more-or-less knocked over by the enormous (and brilliant but deeply flawed) Robert Maxwell, Chairman of Pergamon Press (now part of RELX), the then current IUPAC publishing partner. He uttered some words about my infinitesimally low chance of success, leaving me nervous, and despondent.
The presentation went better than I had feared, and the scientific board were both friendly and intelligent. They, of course, asked for better terms and better marketing, both of which I promised. I was then dismissed, only on the way out to meet in the same narrow corridor the equally bulky head of Blackwell Science (now John Wiley), the Great Dane Per Saugman. He was less rude to me than Maxwell, but I realized I was up against two giants of the industry. I was not optimistic.
Nonetheless, I returned to the office and dictated a letter confirming in writing the additional points I had verbally promised. My secretary (yes, I had a secretary in those days) typed it up brilliantly. I read it, signed it, sent it to the post room to catch the first post the following day. Job done. The outcome was in the lap of the Gods, or to be precise the governing body of IUPAC.
Early next day I was rung by the chairman of IUPAC to say how much they had enjoyed my presentation but that we had not won the contract. He told me that Maxwell had threatened to sue if the journals were moved from Pergamon, a suggestion that had alienated the whole governing body (‘we’d rather be sued than work with that bully.’). There was not much to choose between our offer and Blackwell’s. However, Per Saugman had his letter written and hand-delivered the previous day (while mine was waiting for the post office). They were so impressed with this speed and efficiency that he won the contract, and I did not. I think the best way to describe this I as a “learning” regarding the importance of promptitude (a rare but precise word).
A second example, less commercial and more managerial, was a letter my then boss received from the head of another distinguished publishing company, complaining that I had approached one of their best authors with an idea for a new book series.
This rival publisher explained how I had broken an unwritten rule of publishing. Gentleman publishers don’t steal authors from other gentleman publishers (those were the days). There were ethical standards in publishing.
My boss handed me the letter, and I cringed with embarrassment and shame. He took the letter from me, tore it up, and binned the fragments. “The man is a fool,” he said. I might have overstepped the mark, but my boss was standing by me. I have always tried to stand by my colleagues as a result.
In both cases the ‘learnings’ were about promptness and decisiveness of actions, and these still apply even in the more complex and stratified world of publishing today. It would be an idea to bear these two lessons in mind as (some of) you prepare for Frankfurt.
Back your colleagues. Respond fast. Oh, and enjoy the Fair.