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IT IS SO hard to be a small time writer. You spend most of your free time typing away, but cannot easily find a publisher for your work. You write, submit, and keep writing and submitting as the rejections trickle in. There is the occasional sale, but seldom to a place with a large circulation or a budget to promote authors, and in my case, never for a book. At least that was the way it was for most of my ‘career’
After years of struggle, I began to see rays of hope. I found a small press publisher who was willing to print any book manuscript that I sent her. That was good for my ego, but produced no income. Miss Radison had no budget to speak of. For her, publishing books by authors that she liked was a labour of love. She did six books by me in a three-year period. Each had a microscopic run and no advertising. Still, I was fairly satisfied with the arrangement. I was a published book author. I scrimped and saved to buy as many copies of my book as I could, gifting them to friends and fellow writers for the most part. I also managed to sell a few at book fairs.
All good things come to an end, as they say. After my three-year association with Miss Radison she shut down her press. Kaput. Out of business. She told me it was for financial and health reasons. I knew she could not have been making much money from her efforts. I was not totally surprised when I was told the press was dead. I was surprised to learn of her health issues. Nasty business. The kind of stuff you hope never happens to you or someone you love.
Within two years of closing down her press she was gone. I had hoped she might recover enough to publish a few more of my books. Miss Radison had said she would do that if she got better enough. She told me that out of all the writers she had published that she had thought my work was the best. Too bad she had to die. Every writer needs a publisher that is also a cheerleader. News of her departure from this world hurt deeply. It ended any lingering hope that I had of her putting out more of my books. Pity I never met her in person. All of my contact with Miss Radison had been by email. I often wondered what she was like. Then again, it was probably for the best that I did not meet her. She had been fighting whatever it was that killed her for a long time, and, as I now have reason to understand, was contagious.
With the death of Miss Radison’s press I was more or less back where I started, writing, sending out manuscripts, and getting rejected. It was four years before I had another offer to have a book published. My new publisher was a smaller outfit than Miss Radison’s deal. Mr. Minch only put out twenty five to fifty copies of each book that he did. However, he claimed that his books were works of art that were quickly snatched up by collectors after their release.
Mr. Minch owned a small hand cranked press. He made his own paper and inks. He designed the covers and layout, and drew any illustrations that he thought appropriate for the book. Each book had a hand sewn binding, which he did himself. Perhaps the most fascinating claim that Minch made about the books he produced was that all the covers were made from human flesh. Stretched and dried of course, and decorated by him with quill pens and his homemade inks. Ever cover was different, he told me, for each number in the run. Each book was a unique work of art.
Upon first hearing about the covers, I was a little put off, but, in the end, the thought of getting another book published meant more to me than what the covers were made of. Besides, Minch told me that it was the covers that made his books so prized by collectors and enabled him to demand exorbitant prices for them. When he told me what my share from sale of the press run might be, how could I object further? It would be the most money I had ever made from writing, enough for me to argue that I had transitioned from being an amateur to a professional. (Or at least semi-pro.)
Initially, my understanding was that Mr. Minch had a supply of skin in stock for the covers. While I was reviewing proofs of the text of my new book Minch gave me bad news. He had used up his supply of skin doing another book project that had been scheduled for publication. The interest in advance sales had proven much greater than he had expected, leading to him increasing the press run, thus the resulting shortage.
I could not begrudge the man trying to make a profit. If he did not make any money, he would wind up going out of business like Miss Radison. I told him I did not mind if he used a material other than skin for the covers.
Mr. Minch told me he could not use a different material for the covers. His entire business model was based on the use of human skin.
The project was too near to completion. I wanted my new book to come out. I offered to help pay for the cost of a new supply of human skin for the book covers.
Mr. Minch appreciated my offer, but told me it was not so simple. Supplies of human skin were not easy to come by. There were only so many mortuaries that were willing to engage in the skin trade. There was competition for skin that was available. This drove up the cost. The easiest way to acquire the skin that was needed was to go out and get it from people who were currently using it. This could mean raiding other businesses that used human skin, or, in his words, ‘taking it in the wild.’ Mr. Minch was willing to do his part if I would do mine. If I could supply half of the skin that was needed, he would find a way to get the rest.
I could not see myself cutting the skin off someone’s back. I had no experience doing it. I feared I might mess it up, or worse, get caught while trying.
Minch suggested asking friends and family to each donate some skin in order to complete the project. The trouble with that was that I was not much of a people person. I did not have many friends, certainly none I was close enough to ask them to let me peel off their skin. As for relatives, I had not talked with anyone in my family in years, nor had I heard from any of them in years.
It looked like the book might not happen. Minch would not budge on having covers made of human skin. I did not want to come so close to having a new book and see the prospect slip away. I asked Minch if he could think of any other way to complete the book.
After a long pause he told me, ‘We could shrink the press run to twenty copies and use mostly your skin for the covers. That is if you are willing to donate it.’
I had some trepidation about this. I asked him about the risks. ‘Will I die from having my skin removed? Will I bleed to death? Will I get a terrible infection? Will it hurt too much? Will I be scarred for life?’
Mr. Minch assured me it was a simple process. He could do the flaying himself. Antibiotics and pain killers could be provided. He would not have to take all the skin at once. It could be a gradual process, allowing time for my skin to heal between removal sessions, although this would delay the publication date.
Every writer understands the desire to be published. It is a burning need. You are willing to suffer to see your book in print. How much you are willing to suffer depends on the individual writer. How hungry are you? How much do you want it?
We reached an understanding, me and Mr. Minch. My first flaying session is scheduled for tomorrow.
I will leave an envelope with you before I present myself to be flayed. It is in case anything goes wrong. It is a list of my computer passwords, the location of my backup drives, and the names of the files containing all of my unpublished writing. I do not expect the worst to happen, but if does, I am putting my trust in you. As one of my more familiar acquaintances, if not quite a friend, I am asking you to take on the responsibility of making sure that all of my work gets published after my death, in the event I do not survive publication of my latest book. I do not require you to contribute your own flesh, only some of your time. My life insurance policy should be enough to pay for the rest, as well as compensate you, at least a little, for your efforts.
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