The Cynical Career Counselor Explains Your Future as a

Publisher

Publisher, huh? Probably go something like this:

You'll graduate from a writing program and take an entry-level job at a reputable publishing house. Long hours for little reward will pave your slow climb to the middle. You end up in the reader pool; learning to quickly peruse a manuscript to determine whether it's worth a serious look. After a while, though, you realize it's like looking for a needle in a haystack; 99% of those you label "interesting" still get rejected.

You slip into a routine, and fear that you may become lost forever in this unsatisfying, predictable job, instead of getting the chance to publish blockbusters and make careers. Then, through a moment of inspiration, you get your break. You create a new revenue stream for the company while solving an expensive problem at the same time.

Even though your publishing house, like most, accepts submissions online, many others feel it's too easy to just ignore an email attachment, and instead choose to send a hard copy of their work. It may well be true that the real thing in hand gets a better look than tired eyes can offer yet another story on your computer screen.

This creates tons of waste paper--you don't return manuscripts due to handling costs, even if the author includes return postage. Rather than paying for disposal of the rejections, you work out a deal with Duraflame to convert the manuscripts to fire logs, and the company gets a small income while eliminating recycling fees.



Your supervisor promotes you to head of the reading team, and you get to pick and choose the scripts you read. You also now appear on the company's internet employee list, which means you have to get an unlisted phone number and take your personal security seriously. Those who work in areas people feel passionately about are always at risk from wackos, and publishing company employees are sandwiched between poodle groomers and child pageant judges in the top ten death threat recipient list.

Still, things are lining up to earn you that coveted promotion to management when suddenly, it all comes crashing down.

On national television, your company is named by the author of a wildly successful new series about teen leprechauns as one of the big publishers who rejected her work. Her first novel, Ginger McGillicutty and the Shamrock of Doom, was what everyone had been looking for--the successor to the Harry Potter and Twilight series, the next great magical teen story. The financial windfall for the company that published the series pushed them into first place in your industry, and led to an investigation at your publishing house to find out who passed up the golden goose.

Your name is found when the paperwork revealing the story's rejection is uncovered. You're fired with no more than the obligatory severance package, and know with your epic failure quickly becoming a water cooler legend, you stand little chance of being hired elsewhere.

You use your severance money to start up a vanity publishing house. You know a printer that works cheap--your company quit using them after their substandard glue led to customer complaints--and you know that there are enough deluded but solvent writers around to give you a shot at success.

You buy annoying ads on sites like Facebook and Twitter, and you also buy a stolen list of Nanowrimo novel-writing contest entrants for a direct-email campaign. Sure enough, your business succeeds and you're earning enough to live comfortably.

As you rebuild your self-esteem you start to think about creating a legitimate publishing arm for your company. You've just hired your start-up staff when the second great disaster takes place.

Yet another tough copyright law gets passed, and this one goes beyond everything previous in protection of all kinds of intellectual property. It also allows for stiff penalties for those who publish stolen ideas, even if such mistakes are made innocently. Suddenly, emails from people who've spotted plagiarism in a variety of your clients' works start showing up in your inbox with annoying frequency. Most ask for a payout to keep quiet about your company's complicity in these situations, but you're unable to find the hush money required.

Soon legal fees, fines and court awards have driven your company to bankruptcy. You declare personal bankruptcy yourself a year later, and end up in a ratty rooming house in the rough part of town, where a draft and poor diet ultimately contribute to your death by pneumonia.

Almost no one attends your funeral because, ironically, the newspaper doesn't publish the obituary sent in by your former assistant when the payment cheque bounces.