Patricia Harrelson

On August 17, 2010, the Writer’s Almanac reported:

On this day in 1993, Random House offered Colin Powell $6 million for My American Journey — the largest advance ever for a celebrity memoir — and it became the fastest-selling book in the publisher’s history. Since then, the largest advance for an autobiography — and for any book ever — was for Bill Clinton’s My Life (2004), at $15 million.

I have to say I find this bit of information nauseating in its inequity. I angers me as much as the response to Dan Brown’s The Symbol, a truly lousy book that received all kinds of advance press and sold like wild fire the minute it came out.  I’m surely envious as my first book has barely cleared $2000, but beyond that I know that talented writers, prize winning authors like Geraldine Brooks and Joan Didion, are not making this kind of money. Women especially are rarely afforded this kind of recognition. I wonder of Hillary and Sarah received such huge advances for their books?

Yes, I’m ranting and fuming. I realize a simple blog post is not sufficient to rectify this inequity, this lopsided, capitalistic appraisal of a good story. However, I could not contain my frustration nor access any equanimity in response to this phenomenal idiocy.

My recourse will be to go to my local independent bookstore and buy a well-written, worthy book by an obscure author, preferably a volume of poetry, for poets are the most under-appreciated, under-valued, under-paid writers of all. Want to join me?