It is not
easy being Joanne, as in Joanne—J.K.—, Rowling. In 2008 Rowling was named as the
twelfth richest woman in the United Kingdom. She is also, in all probabilities,
world’s richest author, with her fortune estimated at more than 500 million
pounds, thanks to her phenomenally popular Harry Potter series of books, the
first of which was published in 1997. Rowling went on to publish five (or is it
six?) further squeals of the novel, all of which became super-duper hits, were
made into films (where a wooden faced boy played the lead role, an ugly boy was
his side-kick, and a pimply girl was his love interest) which, too, became
hugely successful.
The Harry
Potter books were phenomena. Children and their parents would queue outside the
high street bookshops overnight to get their hands on the novels as soon as
they were available. The target audience of these books was young teenagers.
However, the novels also became hugely popular amongst many adults, at least in the
UK. An ex-girlfriend and a long-term friend of mine were obsessed with the
Harry Potter books and films, and would read and watch them (respectively)
repeatedly. I would be repeatedly exhorted to give the books a try and labelled as snobbish for my persistent refusal to accede to the requests. In
the end just to shut them up I read one of the books, which, it was put to me,
was the “darkest” of the series, the implication being someone like me (even someone like me), who was a bit
limited in his imagination, would find something of interest in this novel. The
novel was Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban. Don’t ask me what the
novel was about; I don’t remember. If you belong to the legion of Harry Potter
fans you’d probably know it already. The book was a waste of time. The
story-line was not riveting. I guess all the books in the series follow the
same theme: Harry has great powers of magic; he is some sort of messiah except
that he does not know it (yet); the villains are after `him and he gets into
some sticky situations; however, just as things begin to look a bit grim for
him, he unleashes one of his crackerjack magic tricks and saves the day (yawn).
If the subject matter was not enough to deaden the brain, the monotonously, hypnotically
dreary prose put me into a trance; my brain just couldn’t work. When I informed
my ex-girlfriend and friend that I found Harry Potter and the Prisoner of
Azkaban less exciting than Antique Road Show I was accused of
being prejudiced. “Prejudiced about what?” I asked. “You are prejudiced against
children’s literature,” the ex-girlfriend hissed. (She was a good hisser. She
also liked to read, in addition to Harry Potter novels, fantasy fiction in
which a twelfth century Zen master, who is adept at Kung Fu techniques Jackie Chan would give his right arm to learn, time-travels and lands in twentieth
century Stafford-on-Avon; or underworld novels; or erotica of busty middle aged
housewives in rural Norfolk who dream of rolling in the hay with the local
pig-farmer while rubbing themselves senseless in the bath.) Not daring to voice
the opinion that calling children’s books “literature” was a bit like describing
eating in your local MacDonald’s branch as a Michelin star gourmet experience, I said,
“That’s because it is written for children, and I am an adult.” “I rest my point,” the
ex-girlfriend hissed adjusting (without much difficulty) her face in a position of sneer.
I haven’t
read another Harry Potter novel, since. ‘Life is too short to read Harry
Potter,’ I say if anyone asks me (no one does) if I have read "Harry Potter". (I
have found that it is a good strategy to start any confession about omissions
with ‘Life is too short to . . .’ It suggests that while you are ignorant, it
is by choice; you are choosing to stay ignorant because the matter does not
interest you; it is beneath your consideration; not because you are too thick
to understand and therefore appreciate the matter; there are better, more
important and more interesting, things clamouring for your attention.) These
novels were written for young teenagers for a reason, which adults would do
well to remember.
In 2007
Rowling published the last of the Harry Potter novels, and soon declared her
intention to write novels for adults (which suggests that even she thought that the
Harry Potter novels could only be enjoyed by those adults whose mental
development was arrested at the age of eleven.)
In 2012 Rowling
published Casual Vacancies, her first adult novel and the first novel
since the Harry Potter series, under her own name. The book sold over a million
copies despite the mauling it received from critics (what do they know, eh?)
and has apparently been adapted by the BBC for a television series. I remember
reading that Sikh religious leaders in India announced that they had received
complaints from unhappy readers (presumably Sikhs) about Rowling’s portrayal of the character of a Sikh teenage girl in the novel. The girl is apparently described as a hirsute and with large mammaries. I do not
know what it was that the Sikh religious leaders found offensive. (Maybe it is
a physiological impossibility that Sikh women are big busted, or hirsute, as
stipulated in the religious scriptures.) The Sikh religious leaders announced
that they would carefully read the novel and determine whether the novel insulted
their great religion; and, if it did, petition to the Indian government to ban the book in India. I don’t remember reading anything more on the matter
(which suggests one of the following possibilities: (1) the Sikh religious
leaders were satisfied that Rowling did not insult Sikhism despite the Sikh
girl in the novel having big tits and abundant facial hair; (2) the Sikh religious leaders
began reading the novel and became suicidal themselves reading about the bleak
England with myriad social problems such as drug abuse, rape, child abuse and
poverty, and were advised to abandon the reading in the interest of their
mental health; they were, therefore, unable to reach a decision as to whether
their religion was insulted; (3) the Sikh religious leaders can’t read English
and are waiting for a Punjabi translation to become available.)
In 2013
Rowling published a crime fiction novel, The Cuckoo’s Calling under the nom de plume Robert Galbraith. Why did
Rowling decide to publish her novel under a pseudonym (and a male one at that)?
It is tempting to think that after the global success of Harry Potter novels
Rowling wanted to find out how a novel of hers which did not boast her name would
be received. There is something in this theory. When a new novel by a successful author is published the hopes and expectations soar which, the author might think,
conspire to the novel being unfairly treated, being (unfavourably) compared
with the previous works of the author. (Apparently Casual Vacancies was unfavourably
compared by some critics to Harry Potter novels, although quite how an adult
novel dealing with grim and weighty social issues be compared with a fantasy
children’s novel depicting the exploits of a boy wizard is unfathomable to me.)
Maybe Rowling wished The Cuckoo’s Calling to be viewed on
its own merit and not be hampered by its author’s world-wide reputation.
(Perhaps Martin Amis could take a clue from this. It has become fashionable
these days to pan a new Martin Amis novel, the consensus amongst the critics
being Amis has not written anything worth reading since The Time’s Arrow.) It is
also possible that Rowling wanted to find out how a new novel of hers under a
different name would sell. I am sure many novelists would dearly wish to be in her
position. You have earned so much money, you have become so wealthy, that you want to find out whether your new offering would sell without your name. You
would want to find it out when you are in that happy position where it does
not matter a jot, financially, whether your novel sells or not.
Occasionally a
writer might adopt a pseudonym when he writes a novel in a different genre. The
2005 Booker Prize winner John Banville published a crime thriller under the
pseudonym Benjamin Black after his Booker victory. I heard Banville a few years ago in a literary
festival. He said that he decided to write under a different name because he
did not want his readers (both of them) to look for the same thing in his crime novel as in
his literary novels, which, I thought, was a slightly overblown way of putting
things. (Banville came across as a nice bloke; a little pleased with himself
and utterly convinced about his place in the literature (top rung), but nice all the
same.) In Banville’s case the pseudonym was announced publically (I think)
around the time of the publication of his crime novel, and, if I am remembering
correctly, the novel (Christine Falls) also mentioned that
the name of the author was a pen-name of Banville (which, if you think of it,
defeated Banville’s stated purpose of
using the pseudonym to manipulate readers’ expectations.) I suspect Banville,
despite his numerous literary triumphs, is not in that happy position of not
being bothered about whether or not his new novel sells; and the public
announcement of his nom de plume, soon
after his booker triumph, could have been an (understandable) attempt to cash
in on the publicity.
So Rowling
wrote a novel under a pseudonym. Why a male pseudonym? I read in WikiPedia that
she was advised to drop Joanne from her name before the publication of the
first Harry Potter book, apparently because it was felt that teenage male
readers might not wish to read about a teenage boy wizard if the author was a
woman; hence the gender-neutral initials J.K. It could be that the genre of
crime novels is dominated by men, therefore Rowling chose a male pseudonym
(which suggests that she was interested in the book selling; alternatively, she
was taking every precaution that she would not be associated with the nom de
plume).
Be that as
it may The Cuckoo’s Calling was published earlier this year under the pseudonym Robert Galbraith, and, not
associated in any way with the author of the Harry Potter novels, attracted
decent (if lukewarm) critical reviews, and sold very modestly. I
read on the net that the novel was offered by Rowling’s agent, initially, to a
different publishing house (from one that published Casual Vacancy). The
publishing house rejected the novel. After this rejection the novel was offered
by Rowling’s agent to Rowling’s own editor, who, thus, must have known about the identity of its author and, therefore, was unlikely to reject it. (Why
did Rowling choose not to submit the novel anonymously to another publishing house instead of going straight to her regular publishers?
I guess there is only so much rejection
one’s ego can take; and the thresholds differ.)
Last month
it was announced in The Sunday Times that Robert Galbraith, the author of The
Cuckoo’s Calling, was none other than J.K. Rowling. Overnight the novel, promoted by Rowling’s
publishers (Little Brown) as a “classic crime novel in the tradition of
P.D. James and Ruth Rundell”, which had sold a few hundred copies in the UK and
America until then (which apparently is a respectable number for a debut novel), jumped
up 5000 places on the Amazon list and became number one best-seller on Amazon’s
Kindle list; it also reached the number one position on other lists such as the
print books list and the Barnes and Noble’s print list.
It would
appear that Rowling was not planning to announce that she was Robert Galbraith
when she was exposed by The Sunday Times, and was not hyperventilating about the fate of her detective novel, which until then—there isn’t a kinder way to put
this—had barely made a ripple. There was no conspiracy behind the outing of Rowling
(famous author writes a book anonymously—sales are crap—author’s real identity
is dramatically revealed). The truth was prosaic. A lawyer working in the law
firm that represents a number of celebrities (Rowling amongst them) told the
best friend of his wife, an idle housewife in Surrey, in a private conversation,
that The
Cuckoo’s Calling was in fact written by J.K. Rowling. The idle
housewife then spilled the beans on twitter. (Why did she do it? She did it
because she is an idle housewife. That’s what idle housewives do. They gossip;
they babble; they spill the beans for the empty thrill it offers. Expecting
idle, gossipy housewives and mothers to keep a secret is like asking Dawn French to look after your pie; it’s not going to happen. George Osborne, the loathsome British chancellor of Exchequer, said recently that women who choose to be
housewives are making a life-style choice and should not be in receipt of child
benefits. In light of the evidence provided by the idle housewife from Surrey I
am inclined to think that there may be something in what this pasty, podgy,
arrogant turdbag says.)
J.K Rowling
was apparently upset (picturize her, if you can, slapping her hand on her
forehead, as if the waiter had f**ked up her cocktail for the seventh time in a
row); she was distressed; she was disappointed (picturize her, if you can,
clucking her tongue, as if the John Dory she ordered was roasted a tad too
much so as to render it a tad too dry); she was furious—more furious than an
American footballer who has been called a pussy; she was very angry—madder than
a factory full of hatters on acid. Here she was, luxuriating in the knowledge that, without the back up of her celebrity name, The Cuckoo’s Calling had sold less copies than a V.S. Naipaul novel; and now she was faced with the dreadful prospect of the
novel becoming an overnight best-seller. Oh, the horror of it! The poor woman
had no choice but to sue the lawyer, who had made the fatal error of letting
the idle house wife from Surrey on the true identity of the author of The
Cuckoo’s Calling, believing that she would keep the secret (more likely
he was bragging, as they all like to do, I imagine, about their celebrity
clients), and the idle housewife from Surrey. The firm, the lawyer and the idle
housewife from Surrey apologized unreservedly; the firm agreed to meet Rowling’s
legal cost (no bonus for the lawyer this year) and also pay damages to Rowling.
Rowling announced that the damages received would be donated to a soldier’s
charity as would be the royalties for the next three years (which is very
generous, but shouldn’t she have donated the money to the victims and families of the victims, of countries,
which happened to be rich in natural resources, to which Britain along with her
master, America, decided to export democracy, which meant that British soldiers were forced to kill (very unfortunate) hundreds of
thousands of civilians in collateral damages?).
In a
statement Rowling said: “To say that I am disappointed is an understatement. I had
assumed that I could expect total confidentiality from Russells [the lawyer’s
firm], a reputable professional firm, and I feel very angry that my trust
turned out to be misplaced.”
One
expects that the publishers (Little Brown) share Rowling’s sense
of betrayal and outrage and are frothing at the mouth now that they have to
commission 300,000 extra copies to keep up with the demand. A real kick in the
teeth. (
You
might wonder why Rowling thought she was entitled for compensation. She suffered
no material loss as a result of this disclosure. If anything the sales of her
novel received a boost when the idle housewife from Surrey
babbled. (The idle housewife received no thanks for her kindness; into the bargain
she—rather, one expects, her very annoyed husband, seeing as the woman is idle—has to
cough up money to pay another idle woman (OK, she writes novels, but is that
real work?) who is already worth hundreds of millions of pound and does not
need the money. That should teach the idle housewife, the one who does not
write novels, that is, a lesson. I’d suggest she find herself a job in the local
county council library.) But, I guess, this is not about money. It is about
Rowling’s entitlement to privacy, which was breached by the bragging lawyer and
silly housewife. Imagine if you can the distress this revelation caused to the millionaire writer. It is not easy to recover from such a setback. It is very appropriate that Rowling received compensation.
What
the whole affair proves, if proof be needed, is that being a writer of fiction
is a very brave (or foolish) career choice. Chances are your work will not be
accepted by publishing agencies if you are not an established author. If it
does, chances are the book won’t sell .This is probably more true of literary fiction than genre fiction. (I find it significant that Rowling chose
to publish the literary novel under her own name, but the crime fiction under a
pen-name.)
To
summarize: a famous author publishes a crime novel under a pseudonym. The novel
sells moderately. Until the author’s name is leaked. The novel’s sales rocket. More
publicity for the author (and her hitherto moderately selling novel).Then the
author sues the persons who leaked her name and wins damages (more money). The
author donates the money to a charity (the chief executive of which, I expect,
will give himself (or herself; let’s not be gender-biased, here) a salary rise)
and earns more brownie points.
