by Terry Fallis
Three days later, Ghostly opened at or near the top of virtually every bestseller list in the country. There were multiple reviews, all of them positive and some ecstatic. And her publisher reported that the first week of sales was off the charts with no sign of slowing. The U.S. launch the following week showed a similar trajectory, including a very favourable review in the New York Times Book Review and a place on their extended bestseller list. Hollywood could not have scripted it better. Speaking of Hollywood, a big studio optioned the novel’s film rights for a healthy sum. It didn’t get much better than that.
Edison Hull at ProsePump kept me apprised of how my collection was doing on its journey into the published land. In summary, our market penetration was modest at best. Not all bookstores are so keen to stock story collections, as they seldom sell as well as novels. The Birthmark was stocked in about 30 per cent of bookstores. In the first two weeks, five copies were sold. As for sales in the U.S. and other countries, well, that was easy. Zero. The collection was only published and available in Canada, at least for now. ProsePump was doing its best to promote the book, but that really amounted to some social media posts, a giveaway of one copy on Goodreads, and a launch news release that nobody picked up.
But I did like the cover they came up with. No, it didn’t feature an Elvis birthmark. That would have been too literal. It was more of a contemporary and colourful collage of shapes that really caught the eye. There were two blurbs on the back, with a partial of one of them on the front, offered up by two other ProsePump authors I’d never heard of. But I was grateful and emailed them both in my MacGregor Wilson persona to thank them.
There were a few reviews in more obscure publications. Based on the critical reaction to the collection, I was happy there weren’t more reviews. There were some positive comments in the critiques, but it was hard to find them amongst the ambivalent and negative comments. As usual, when I read them I ended up agreeing, at least to a certain extent, with the criticisms. I clung to the most laudatory comment I could find in the reviews: “Wilson is a competent stylist.” I assumed it was related to my writing and not my fashion sense. ProsePump added it to my sparse bio page on their website.
Alli took in stride all the attention her book was getting, and was even somewhat reserved about it at home.
“You seem utterly unaffected by all of this,” I said one day as she was about to leave for the airport for another stop on her book tour. “Aren’t you thrilled by what’s happened? I certainly am.”
“Adam, of course I’m thrilled. Inside, I’m over the moon and quivering twenty-four hours a day. But I try not to get swept up in it. When I write the next novel, I want to be the same person who wrote this one, because that seemed to work well. So I’m just keeping it chill.”
“As long as that’s the only reason,” I replied.
“Now, what do you mean by that cryptic comment?” she asked.
“I just wouldn’t want you to be tempering your enjoyment of all this because you’re worried about how I might be feeling, given that my humble collection isn’t exactly flying off the shelves—not that it’s on very many shelves in the first place,” I replied.
“Well, I just don’t want all this to change anything with us,” Alli said, holding both of my hands. “Your book is wonderful, and soon people will realize it and it will start to sell more and more. Remember, collections are always tougher, and you’re hobbled right out of the gate by remaining anonymous. I get why you did that, and I respect that, but it does make it harder to market the book.”
“This is not about us. We’re fine. I’m so proud of you I could pass out at any moment. Not only are we fine, but I’m fine. I’m really happy to be a published author. And I’m even happier to be in a serious relationship with the newest literary rock star.”
While she was on the road, I worked hard on my novel. It hadn’t turned out to be quite as painful a process as I’d feared. After I’d fully outlined the story, I actually really enjoyed writing the manuscript. Guided by my outline, I found I could write with purpose and confidence simply because I knew the story so intimately. I figured I’d be in a position to send ProsePump the manuscript early in the new year, if the editing and polishing went well. Edison Hull had expressed a desire to see the novel when it was ready and had even included a first-right-of-refusal clause in the publishing contract for The Birthmark. So I was on a mission to move from short-story writer to novelist. I hoped my collection’s lacklustre reviews and sales wouldn’t prompt a change of heart in Edison Hull.
I checked my email and found a message waiting for me from Google. I’d set up Google Alerts on the name MacGregor Wilson to monitor the online world for mentions and reviews of the book. Yes, I ego-searched my own pseudonym. I clicked on the link in the email notice and was taken to a book blogger’s website. It seemed she had read and reviewed my collection for her blog, known as LitLog. My heart started racing as I recognized the cover of my book at the top of the most recent post, published just an hour before. I quickly read through her review. I then contemplated cancelling Google Alerts. It was not a favourable review, though I did discover another damning-with-faint-praise line I could use on my website alongside “He’s a competent stylist.” The line was “He’s an okay writer…” I left out the second half of the sentence, which began with but.
Then, feeling the need to torture myself, I made the horrible mistake of visiting Goodreads, where I looked up my book. I had a momentary surge of pride when I saw that in the three weeks since it had been released, twenty-three readers had finished the book. I say momentary because I almost immediately noticed that the average rating for The Birthmark was 2.49. To be clear, the rating is out of 5. I briefly considered rating my own book with a 5 to try to nudge the aggregate score above the 2.5 threshold. But it just didn’t feel right. Wisely, but with some effort, I decided not to read the comments reviewers had left.
I checked in on BookRanker, a site that listed all current titles in the Canadian market in order of sales. On the home page, I saw that Alli’s novel was still ranked number one in the Canadian Fiction category. Fist pump. I typed my name, or rather, MacGregor Wilson’s name, into the search bar and up came my book. Then I shut down my computer. My ranking was 189,765. Go Team MacGregor!
Chapter 17
FEBRUARY 2022
I CLICKED ON the email from Edison Hull, and I was not calm as I did it. The subject line read Your fine novel.
Dear MacGregor,
Thank you for sending your manuscript a few weeks ago. I can genuinely report that the only relief I’ve had lately from the stress of running a small press in this economy was reading your novel, Star or Stars. It has some parallels to the title story in your short-story collection but digs much deeper. I think the novel form might be in your wheelhouse. Your writing is stronger in SoS and the characters more fully realized. I also like that your sense of humour seems to emerge more often in the novel. I know I’m keeping you in suspense here, but I did want you to know how much I enjoyed the story.
So, to end the suspense, we’d like to publish it. We’re dealing with a few issues here that may delay our production schedule, but we’d like to aim for a fall release, this year. We think we can make that happen. The sales of The Birthmark were not what we’d hoped, but there were extenuating market factors in play unrelated to your collection. We have faith in your writing. We can offer a $1,000 advance against royalties at a rate of 10 per cent of the cover price. Like The Birthmark, the novel will be published as a trade paperback.
Well done, MacGregor. Hearty congratulations. If this is acceptable, please let me know so I can forward the requisite paperwork.
Edison Hull
Publisher
ProsePump
As you might imagine, I replied in the affirmative almost before the pixels of Edison’s offer had fully materialized on my screen.
APRIL 2022
Alli was still doing quite a bit of travel to promote Ghostly. There
were several spring launches in quick succession, including London, Edinburgh, Berlin, Paris, and Rome. The novel was very popular in translation and was still selling strongly in North America. Alli seemed to be in her element. But I missed having her around. I was a month away from finishing my master’s, and my thesis was not only in the hands of my supervisor but would be published in the fall. So both Alli and I had reason to feel very good about our writing lives. Okay, maybe Alli had more reasons than I, but I was happy.
Six-month sales of The Birthmark were 253, including the 24 copies I’d purchased online. I didn’t really know much about the publishing world, but even my rudimentary math skills told me ProsePump was taking a very big bath on my very small book. There were over 2,700 copies of the collection still out there in bookstores across Canada. I just had to figure out how to move them from the fiction shelves to the checkout counter.
It was while Alli was touring in Calgary, Edmonton, Vancouver, and Victoria for a week that I heard again from Edison Hull. I read his email as the sun sank behind the Toronto skyline.
Dear MacGregor,
I am truly sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but alas, I am the only one here. ProsePump has always existed on, or just above, the line that separates viability from insolvency. It is a familiar story for small presses everywhere. Well, I regret to inform you that a confluence of unfortunate events has finally pushed us below that iconic line for the first time. Moreover, there is next to nothing I can see in the future to restore our fortunes and keep our doors open.
Rooted in this reality are at least two implications for you. Firstly, the entire 3,000-copy print run of The Birthmark is in the market. But should there ever be a need for a second printing—and I hope one day there might be—I’m afraid another publisher will need to step in. Secondly, and more importantly, I’m so sorry but I must tell you in good conscience that ProsePump cannot honour the contract we signed with you for your novel, Star or Stars. In fact, we will cease to exist—much like the famous dead parrot in that Monty Python sketch—in a matter of weeks. The die is cast, save for a Hail Mary miracle.
So I hereby officially liberate you from our existing contract so that you can take your novel to other publishers and get it in the hands of Canadians. They deserve to read it. Please keep this email as formal notice that our contract is null and void.
I regret that we were never able to speak to one another, but I respect your desire for anonymity. I truly hope our paths cross again.
Edison Hull
Soon to be ex-publisher
ProsePump
Shit. And things had been going so well. I felt terrible for Edison. He’d taken a chance on me, invested in publishing my collection, and had not earned back anywhere near what he’d put in. I doubted the dismal performance of my book was solely responsible for pushing ProsePump into the lower reaches of the red, but I still felt like at least some of this was on me.
Ideas ran through my head. Since my book had hurt ProsePump’s bottom line, what could I do to help save them? Well, there were options, and I was certainly in a position to move on them.
One idea was to buy ProsePump, clear their debts, and inject adequate cash to keep them going. I could do this as MacGregor Wilson, a silent, anonymous partner, or I could even do it in my own name. Money wasn’t the issue. I suspected the required investment was denominated in six figures rather than seven or eight. No, the problem was that I just didn’t want to buy the company that was publishing my own novel. It was tantamount to self-publishing. I have nothing against self-publishing. But I’d worked hard to earn my ProsePump publishing contracts and I didn’t want to take what seemed like a step backwards.
That’s when the big idea circled and then landed. I kicked it around for an hour or so, getting used to it and thinking through the implications. It would not have been my first choice. But unfortunately, it seemed like my only choice. I stepped out on our balcony in the twilight to clear my head. Twenty minutes later, when I had thought it all through, the big idea still worked but seemed even more unpalatable than it had a first glance. But I felt an obligation to act. Best of all, the plan would help the situation quickly—perhaps even resolve it completely. My course was clear. It was also unfortunate and unwelcome, but unavoidable.
I didn’t call Alli. I didn’t call Lisa or my parents. I didn’t even call Susan, who was probably in a position to help. I knew what had to be done. I started by creating another fake Gmail account: [email protected]. Then I created a fake Twitter account: @BreakingBookNews. There, the infrastructure I needed was in place. I scrolled through the contacts in my mobile phone and made a list of sports reporters I’d dealt with while I was on the PGA Tour. I was surprised that the list numbered twenty-three. Then I spent about an hour online gathering email addresses for book columnists, book editors, book reviewers, and a few prominent book bloggers who might be considered literary influencers.
Then I wrote the following short email message:
Dear ___________,
This is too juicy to keep to myself. I have just learned that the author of the recent short-story collection The Birthmark, published by ProsePump, is none other than Adam Coryell. Yes, that Adam Coryell. He used the pseudonym MacGregor Wilson to protect his anonymity. Don’t believe me? I’ve attached a scan of a poem Adam Coryell published in the Stanford Daily newspaper in 2017, using his collegiate pseudonym Adam James (his first and middle names). I’ve also attached a scan of page 172 of The Birthmark, where the poem makes a return appearance. Also, compare the lead story in the collection with that famous ESPN interview Coryell did just before the Dubai tragedy. See any parallels? And let’s not forget that for the last two years, Adam has been doing his master’s in creative writing in Toronto. See how it all fits? Finally, wouldn’t you agree that Adam was a little too cute choosing the names of two golf equipment manufacturers as his pen name? I mean, really.
Just thought you’d want to know. You’re welcome.
A friend
That should do the trick. I sent the same message and two scans to twenty-three sports reporters in Canada and the U.S., and ten Canadian book reporters. By that stage I felt no hesitation. As Edison had said, the die was cast. Then I did call Susan, to tell her what I’d done. As I’d expected, she was thrilled. She was programmed to support anything that elevated my profile. And this surely would. We agreed on key messages and talking points to use when reporters called. The idea was to not cave early, but rather to drag it out, to build anticipation and public interest. Finally, I picked up the phone and for the first time dialled Edison Hull.
“ProsePump, Edison Hull.”
“Hello, Edison, my name is Adam Coryell.”
“As in the golfing great, the gold medallist? That Adam Coryell?”
“Yes, sir. And I can assure you, this is not a prank call. I actually am Adam Coryell.”
“Well, it’s great to speak with you, though I confess I can’t figure out why you might be calling.”
“Well, you also know me as MacGregor Wilson,” I said, and then waited.
“Really! Seriously! Good lord, that is just incredible,” he gasped, apparently stupefied. “You, Adam Coryell, famous golfer, wrote The Birthmark?”
“I did, and I remain so grateful that you stepped up to publish it when no one else seemed interested in the least.”
“It deserved to be published,” he said. “I can hardly believe it.”
I briefly explained what I’d done and how I proposed to handle what came next. We also agreed on some lines he could use when the media inevitably called him. In short, Edison would only confirm that MacGregor Wilson was a pseudonym but would not reveal the identity of the author. That would give the story enough air and fuel to keep it crackling for a while.
Edison sounded like a great guy. I was not surprised. He was quite excited by the end of our chat as the implications of my big reveal began to come into focus.
About thirty seconds after I ended my cal
l with Edison, my phone rang. I didn’t usually answer reporters’ calls, but today was a very big exception. It was ESPN. I took a deep breath. This would have to be played carefully.
“Sean, is that you?” I opened.
“None other,” he replied. “Thanks for taking my call, Adam. It’s been a while.”
“Well, I was surprised to see your name flash on my screen after all this time,” I said. “So what’s up?”
“Someone is peddling a pretty convincing case that you are the author of a collection of short stories called The Birthmark, published last October by a small press known as ProsePump. Is it true?”
“Ridiculous. Who’s pushing that story?”
“It came in over the transom anonymously, but a lot of what was in the message checks out and seems plausible. So is it you?”
“You’re following up on a single anonymous source? Sean, it’s a ludicrous notion.”
“So you’re denying it.”
“It’s a crazy idea.”
“So you’re denying it.”
“I’m not even going to dignify it with a response.”
“So you’re denying it.”
“I seem to have a lot of calls coming in, Sean. I’m going to have to let you go. I think you’ve been taken in by someone who isn’t playing with a full set of clubs. Gotta go.”
Similar exchanges unfolded with two-thirds of the reporters I’d surreptitiously contacted. They all called within an hour of my email. I spoke with Edison and Susan to compare notes. They’d both responded to several calls. Edison seemed in favour of coming clean and getting the truth out there. But I argued that we could make the story bigger and the impact greater if we didn’t fess up for at least another twenty-four hours. Susan agreed, and together we persuaded Edison to stay the course. It would be worth the wait.