Here, in a nutshell, is what happened. A few years ago, James Frey (author of “A Million Little Pieces,” the book that was claimed to be a memoir, was picked by Oprah, then turned out to be fictional, ending with an appalling session on Oprah’s couch) decided to put together a company in order to grind out YA books. The writers who sign up to this company sign mind-boggling contracts that essentially pay them more or less nothing and offer them zero protection. They might be legal, but they certainly aren’t moral. This story was busted wide open this week. You can read the full expose here, and you can read the actual contract here.

I think that for a lot of people, the initial reaction will be horror at the idea of this “fiction factory.” These sorts of things already exist, and they’re not ALL bad. I speak from experience here. This contract is completely beyond the pale.

Aside from being a huge sloppy mess, this contract is quite specifically designed to hose the writer. The only people who would sign this contract would be people who a). have no knowledge of contracts, or lack the appropriate representation to prevent them from signing such a contract, or b). are simply so desperate or desirous of signing ANYTHING that will get them published that they’d willingly hang themselves out to dry.

How bad is this hosening? Let’s look.

The contract says that the company can give you credit or not give you credit, as it desires. They can force you to write another book, or they can drop you like a hot potato, for no reason.

The contract has no audit provision. What does that mean? It means that they can pay you ANY AMOUNT OF MONEY and you just have to accept that the percentage you’re getting is the percentage you are due, and that you are getting an accurate reporting of the number of books sold. And let me tell you, even on good and honest contracts, human error is common. Companies make mistakes on their reports all the time. It’s not necessarily malicious—things just get messed up. So in James Frey world, his company could provide you with statements saying the book sold one thousand copies and that the advance was fifteen dollars, and you might know that the book has sold many thousands of copies and the advance was a hundred thousand dollars, but there would be nothing you could do about it. You will literally never be able to verify the advance the book sold for, the foreign rights deals, or the sales.

There’s a weird clause about expenses. If James Frey and Co. want to charge you $25 for every staple they use on your documents, they can do it!

I’m not a contract specialist. A contract specialist would probably go on ten times as long. I’m just giving you a few highlights.

I was asked on Twitter: “FatBaldFrank Why do u take offense at Frey’s contract? It’s one-sided, but nobody is forced to work for him, right? Just say no.”

I know where you’re coming from, Frank. I understand that no one is being forced to sign this contract at gunpoint. However, I do take offense at someone who is blatantly and knowing taking advantage of his own people—writers. People whose desire to work in publishing might blind them to the risks involved in signing on the dotted line. Or they might not understand the consequences.

There’s no point in just hand waving about how awful James Frey is, because I seriously doubt he cares. But we can draw some lessons.

The first is for aspiring writers. Don’t sign things you don’t understand. There are plenty of organizations that can help you, such as the Author’s Guild. For people who know the risks but are tempted to sign anyway . . . I’ve been in your position. I know it’s a hard call. But agents can help protect your from predators. There were times, back when I was getting started, when I was offered arrangements that were clearly awful, but they paid, and they offered “a shot.” The person who would later be my agent encouraged me to turn them down, and I did. It was hard at the time, but I have never once regretted those decisions. I celebrate them. Seek good counsel and listen to that counsel. Things that look too good to be true usually are, and uncredited projects with shady paperwork . . . well, those things don’t generally end well. Read this article and take notes.

The second thing is directed at those who run MFA writing programs.

MFA students have probably been hosed already. I’ve written about this topic before. I went to Columbia, where he pulled many of his writers, including the writer of “I am Number Four.” I know how much it costs. I know the sacrifices people make to go there. I still pay Columbia about $800 every month in student loans. I’m one of the few people I know paying off my MFA by working in the profession for which I was trained. If you’re in an MFA program, you’re probably already on the hook for a lot of dough, so if you see a job opportunity in writing, you’ll take it.

I’m going to go one step further and call Columbia and all writing MFA programs on the carpet here—if you don’t offer your students a class or seminar in the business of writing, you should be ashamed. They didn’t offer them when I was there, and I don’t think that’s changed. (If it has, please correct me at once. I’d love to be wrong about this point.)

Look, MFA programs, stop being so snobbish. You’re not making your students better artists by sending them out into their fields with NO KNOWLEDGE of the business side of things. You’re leaving them vulnerable to bad deals, and putting them into a position where they can be taken advantage of. You set up the conditions in which your artists end up slaving away because they didn’t know any better than to sign on the dotted line. You make this James Frey situation possible. Devote a few weeks to teaching your students some survival skills. After all the money you’ve taken from them, they’re going to need to know how to make some more.

In the article, James is quoted as saying, “Andy Warhol’s Factory is an example of that way of working. That’s what I’m doing with literature.”

You’re no Andy Warhol, James. He liked his money as much as you do, and he would probably have had a good and appreciative laugh over the comparison, but you haven’t got his style or his wit. Andy Warhol said cool stuff like, “I like boring things” and “It would be very glamorous to be reincarnated as a great big ring on Liz Taylor’s finger.” He got why it was funny to make paintings of money and then sell them off. The old shyster had class. You got yelled at by Oprah.

He also said, “I’ve decided something: Commercial things really do stink. As soon as it becomes commercial for a mass market it really stinks.” And when you find a Nico or a Lou Reed or a Candy Darling or a Billy Name or even a Valerie Solanas, then we can revisit the issue.

I realize that a lot of people will say, “But look at all the money he is making! Surely, he must have talent!” Talentless people make money ALL THE TIME. Do you know who’s writing a book now? Snooki. Money is no measurement of talent—it’s a measurement of money. This system isn’t James Frey’s fault. He’s not that important. And unlike Andy, he’s not going to develop the new Velvet Underground—more like Milli Vanilli.

But because he set out to deceive and abuse, on behalf of the YA community, I’d like to politely invite him to blow it out his ear.

Certainly, it is a wonderful age in which we live, what with this whole “internet” thing where everyone can say whatever they want—and the problem of course, is that everyone can say whatever they want, which leads to things being wrong on the internet. Sure, you get reviews that say things like, “tihis book was so boring it had no vampirs u don’t know how to rite!” and you have to take it on the chin. You don’t answer back. What on earth would you say, even if you did? “I can TOO rite (WITH A W!)” These don’t really present a problem.

And I’m not talking about “official” reviews either (though you REALLY, REALLY shouldn’t respond to them). Not that official reviews are so far removed from reader comments on forums or Amazon, really. I think there is sometimes the notion that any review that has ever been printed is some kind of Official Word—not actually proclaimed by God, but possibly by someone in his office, and most likely on letterhead. Like in order to become a reviewer you have to pass a series of important tests and physical challenges . . . reciting The DaVinci Code backwards, perhaps, entirely from memory. Or maybe you have to coax a chicken away from an alligator through song and dance. And only when you have passed these many tests will you be allowed to Review, and the mantle of Ultimate Rightness will be placed over your shoulders.

This is most certainly not the case. I know this because I was a reviewer for a Big, Fancy Publication, and let me tell you something—I cranked those reviews out hard and fast, often at three in the morning, because they paid me fifty dollars each and ALL I did was write negative reviews. Why? Because you get to crack better jokes and sound smug and smart. This, as it turns out, it a very common behavior, so it’s not just me. There is nothing quite as fun as writing something an evil, snarky critique.

Reviews are just opinions. Some reviewers and publications are better than others, and all have their good and bad days and their personal preferences. One of my favorite writers in the world was a reviewer by trade. I worship the man, and he wrote a DEVASTATING review of something I love. I have learned to reconcile this in my mind, but it took time. If you go back and read reviews of books that everyone accepts to be Good and Important Books that Everyone Has To Like, there will be a reviewer who hated it when it was published, or who hates it now. So that’s not anything to freak out over either.

Does this mean all reviews are meaningless? God, no. It just means that there are a chorus of voices in the world, and you have to pick which ones you are going to listen to. This, as it turns out, is more or less the point of Writing School. In my writing program, you had to go through two years of writing and presenting your work to your class or thesis group. In a room of, say, ten reasonably smart and talented writers, you are going to get ten totally different opinions. And for those two years, you had to train your ear to listen for things that rang true—comments both good and bad—things you could build on.

So, I listen still. I have to admit, I don’t sit and read every comment written about me, because I would go insane, but I scan through every once in a while to see what’s what. In general, the experience is pretty lovely (which is part of the reason I don’t do it that often because I will get a BIG, SOFT HEAD). In doing this, I’ve noticed something in a few reader comments that has me worried. I’ve seen versions of this comment time and time again, both for my books and for similar “realistic fiction” books.* The comment usually goes something like this . . .

I read this book and it was okay but why would this happen? It is just totally not probable. I mean I liked the story and the writing but I just don’t think this would happen in life.

This makes me quiver. Not with outrage, but with fear and concern, because I am terribly worried that a lot of people are growing up with a slightly mixed-up idea of how stories work and what they are meant to do.

Stories are not meant to be probable.

Probable means the thing that is most likely to happen. There would be little point in reading about the thing that is most likely to happen. So I am confused about the expectation here. Is the problem that the reader thinks the story isn’t about something common enough? Of course, amazing stories can be written about very common, everyday things, exposing deeper meanings and levels of communication. The first example that leaps to mind here among thousands of possible examples is A&P by John Updike, one of the first short stories I remember reading as a tiny mj. It’s literally about a guy working the cash register at an A&P when a girl comes in dressed only in a bathing suit and bare feet to buy some jarred herring snacks. The narrator (a teenaged boy) admires the girls (in many ways), but the manager wants to throw the girls out, so the narrator takes off his apron and quits. That’s it. That’s the plot.

A&P is a probable story, I guess. It’s quite possible to walk into a grocery store in a bathing suit and buy some herring, if that’s how you roll. But in 1961, when it was written, it was a bit more of a shock to see a girl in a bathing suit walk into a store. It was unlikely. It was a statement. It meant something.

So I guess A&P isn’t probable at all. It was about an exceptional moment—certainly one that falls within the boundaries of physical possibility, but still, a moment that stood out and provoked a strong change. And that was the most probable story I could think of.**

Possibly, there is a confusion here with logical. Stories should be logical. You can write the most far-fetched story in the world but it must make sense within itself—it has to obey its own rules. As I sit here typing this, I have the Alfred Hitchcock movie The Birds on in the background. That’s another short story I remember reading as a kid, and another possible but not probable premise: one day, all the birds decide they don’t like people, and they attack. “This isn’t usual, is it?” one of the characters just said, after a flock of birds destroyed a picnic. No, it is not usual at all. But it is a story with nice, simple rules, which it follows carefully: birds are normal, birds get squirrelly, birds &*@# everybody up, birds get progressively better at breaking into houses and running people off roads, birds take over town. It’s bad bird behavior, but it follows a logical progression.

But since I keep seeing this comment in so many places and for so many books, and since the phrasing is often so similar, I am very worried that these readers mean exactly what they say—that they are expecting something to roll out in a certain way, that they think there are ways that stories are supposed to go. You’re either fighting off the space leopards with your rainbow sword or you are buying a pair of jeans and making a call on your cell phone (brands included, natch!) . . . and there is NO MIDDLE GROUND. If the book is “realistic,” then the coordinates have been predetermined. Weirdness is not encouraged and will not be tolerated. This bothers me both as a writer and as a weird person.

I write fiction. I make things up. To date, I have not included many space leopards or their ilk (though that is going to change soon), but I’ve never felt this is in any way a limiting factor. There are many strange and fantastic things that are quite real—and any number of styles or techniques can be employed when telling “realistic” stories. Many of the “realistic” writers I admire write complete lunacy, and this is a very good thing in my opinion.

So the kneejerk “this isn’t probable” reaction seems to me quite similar to the “this place is weird” reaction to foreign travel, or “this tastes funny” when eating something new. It suggests that there are people who think they know what normal is. And if I can impart any wisdom at all*** I would like to impress this little nugget: there is no normal. You are not normal. No one is normal. And if you think there is a set way a story (or life) is supposed to go, you are mistaken—and happily so. Because there is a lot of fun to be had and things to be learned be had when you shake off those preconceptions.

Now if you will excuse me, I have to go do some riting (WITH A W!). If YOU would like to add to this discussion, please do so in the COMMENTS!

* My friends who write Sci Fi and Urban Fantasy and all of that good stuff don’t get this comment, but they get lots of others, usually along the lines of “Why did you kill so-and-so?” or “Why haven’t so-and-so made out yet?” even if so-and-so are related.

** And I have absolutely no doubt that someone out there has written some critique that says, “I guess this story is okay but it is so boring and why would you quit your job just because a girl in a bathing suit came in to your store? That is just not probable.”

*** Unlikely, but roll with me here. I have a cold. Cut me some slack.

Today’s post was inspired by the lovely ladies at Trashonista, who quoted my beloved agent, Daphne. Let’s talk Chick Lit. Why not? Everyone else has done it!

The first and most important thing about this blog post is the TOTAL LACK OF RESEARCH that went into it. I have worked hard on not researching this entry, so don’t go spoiling it for me by sending me links to intelligent articles and posts. My hands are unsullied by the virtual ink of information, and I plan to keep them that way.

When I was both a tiny and a medium-sized mj making my way through writing school, I had two handy categories:

1. Things I thought were useful for writing
2. Things I did not find useful for writing

My two category system has worked like a charm in my professional life.

I like books by writers that are written well and say interesting things about writing. I like books that point out, in lovely, concrete ways, why other books are good and how to make your writing strong. I tremble in awe before essays like “Politics and the English Language”by George Orwell. I enjoy Edmund Wilson explaining his thoughts on why people read detective stories. Vladmir Nabokov’s essays on Russian and English literature will cause your brain to melt in delight.** These things are useful.

Generally, as soon as I see an “ism,”I go and curl up on the carpet for a nice nap. “Ism’s” are not useful to me. I write every single day, and never once has an “ism” helped me to put together a better sentence. “Ism’s” seem useful only to people who like to talk to other people about “ism’s,” which I don’t, so it all kind of works out.

And same goes for labels. I pay zero attention to labels for books. I prefer not to know how a book is classed. I had no idea what Urban Fantasy was when I read an Urban Fantasy that I thought was terrible. Luckily, I had no idea what I’d done . . . because I might not have read more! I might not have known that I love Urban Fantasy! I might not have read Holly Black, Scott Westerfeld, Justine Larbalstier, or Cassie Clare (to name just a few).

So when everyone was debating about “Chick Lit,” I was probably off eating a sandwich somewhere and missed the whole thing. Which was fine by me. Except that I kept getting these interview questions over and over again, people asking me about my favorite “fellow Chick Lit writers” or how I felt about something “as a Chick Lit writer.”

And I was all . . . “I’m a Chick Lit writer? What the @&#$^ is that?” I am always the last to know.

My true confession is . . . I was kind of insulted. I mean, I went to a Fancy Ivy League University Writing Program and everything. I have shelves full of Serious Books. I had only a vague idea what Chick Lit was, but as far as I could tell, it dealt with three things: marriage, romance, and shoes. And I had a strike against each.

Romance: When my first boyfriend showed up at my door with flowers, my first response wasn’t to swoon. I believe what I said was, “What are these for?” He said our one month anniversary. And I just started laughing at him . . . because, one month anniversary? What? ***

Shoes: As I have revealed in the past . . . I kind of hate shoes. I pointedly look forward to the day when we can get rid of feet entirely and just have cool hoverboard-like things welded to our ankles.

Marriage: I have only ever owned one book on marriage. It was called Loving: Marriage and Family Lifestyles and it was one of my required textbooks for senior year religion, and all I did all year long in senior year religion was deface my copy of Loving: Marriage and Family Lifestyles.

The only thing I really did know was that a lot of people spoke derisively of Chick Lit, basically using it as a synonym for trash and often connecting it to the word “mindless.” I heard there was a whole book dedicated to NOT being Chick Lit, and that Gloria Steinem was quoted on the cover and everything.

Why was everyone lumping me in with this? What a conundrum! I figured I’d better ask around and get more information.

“It’s your covers,” someone told me. “It’s because the girls have no heads. Well, they have heads, but they don’t have tops of heads.”

I wrote this down.

“It’s the romance,” someone else said.

I wrote this down.

“It’s the light, breezy tone you adopt,” said someone else. “Humor.”

I wrote this down.

“You should just put zombies in your books,” Justine Larbalestier said. “I don’t care about your question. Just put in zombies. Zombies make everything better.”****

Someone else told me that Chick Lit is about shopping, but I don’t write about shopping. And yet . . . I am Chick Lit. Yet another person told me it was about sassy young women in the city, which I never wrote about until Suite Scarlett. And yet, I am Chick Lit. Person number fifty-seven told me it was something about women who work for magazines, which I have never written about. And yet, I am Chick Lit.

“Oh, most important,” said the last person. “You’re female. Guys don’t write Chick Lit. They tried to make up a male equivalent term, but it never really took off.”

The only real defining characteristic is that it means books written by women.

Literary terms and theories are pretty jelloid at the best of times. Unlike scientific theories, they can’t be tested or proven—not in any cool ways. You can’t, for example, “prove” new historicism by putting it in a hyperbolic chamber with a weasel. (I assume that this must be the scientific test for something. It sounds very scientific.)

When you write about books, you can talk about of your butt a lot and no one can do anything about it. If you’re wrong, no one will die. Nothing will explode. Being busy/lazy, I am generally all for this kind of thing.

If established literary terms are stable as jello molds, then Chick Lit is a soufflé sitting on a fault line. It only means whatever the latest and most effective argument says it means. Or whatever you guess it means. Or whatever Wikipedia says it means. Whether the books under the banner are in any way similar (except for the sex of their authors) . . . well, that’s another question. I’ve seen all kinds of weird and wonderful books that have gotten stuck with the label. It’s very arbitrary.

Normally, this issue would instantly fail my “is it useful?” test. By rights, I should be curled up in my favorite spot, ignoring it. I do, after all, have many fears to cultivate and shiny things to covet. My time on this earth is not infinite, you know. Besides, I don’t mind being classified with other Chick Lit writers. Meg Cabot, for instance, is the queen of YA Chick Lit (or so I hear). And if you want to lump me in with Meg, GO RIGHT AHEAD.

Some people are adamant that I am not Chick Lit, which is fine too. The only problem I see is . . . there is so much negativity around a term that can really only be pinpointed as meaning female-centered. The rest is just waffle. And that does bug me.

You know, there was a very good reason that Dorothy Parker wrote (or at least was rumored to have written) “Please God, let me write like a man.” She was a great writer, but as long as she wrote about women as a woman, as long as she cracked her jokes, as long as she made her sly observations about female society . . . she wasn’t creating literature. Or so it was often perceived. Many of her male friends thought she was and promoted her relentlessly. Dorothy Parker was one of her own harshest critics.

And so it seems to be with Chick Lit. The harshest words about this term seem to be coming from other women, often under the guise of promoting the work of women. *****

Ladies, why the loathing? Do we really have nothing better to do than slap each other around over some bogus umbrella term?

Anyway, if you want to call me Chick Lit, that’s fine. I’ll just take it to mean that I write like a woman. And there ain’t nothing wrong with that.

It’s when you start calling me “Jellyfish Lit” that we’re going to have a problem.

* and lazy

** I put in these fancy names to make it sound like I know what I am talking about. This is a sure sign I have been to graduate school.

*** If any of you have read The Key to the Golden Firebird, I basically give May my response when Pete shows up at the door with flowers. Poor Pete.

**** She is right.

***** Make sure to reread that first paragraph about not doing any research. It is really quite critical to my argument.