The Cost of a Writing Prize

The Women's Prize for Fiction

In a week that's seen Barbara Kingsolver win the Women’s Prize for Fiction for the second time, this time for her novel, Demon Copperhead, (on my to-be-read pile), I am reminded that to win a prize such as this, you need not only a great book, but luck and money too.

There is no doubt that the work needs to be good, very good. That being said, judges rarely read all the entries in a competition, (though I think they might have in the case of the Women’s Prize.) There is often a sifting exercise performed by 'gatekeepers,' whose credentials are worryingly unknown. Gatekeepers and judges will always have their favourites and will be guided inevitably by their own personal preferences. Occasionally the decision will be unanimous. According to Louise Minchin, Chair of the Judges, this was so with Demon Copperhead, but it is rare. Opinions differ widely. Among my own circle of friends, there was a lively debate as to who should win, one rooting for Trespasses by Louise Kennedy, one convinced that Maggie O’Farrell's Portrait of a Marriage should win, and another that it should be Black Butterflies by Priscilla Morris. It’s as well we don't agree, it wouldn’t do if we all only liked the same books.

Congratulations are due to Barbara Kingsolver who is a stellar writer. Who can forget The Poisonwood Bible, with its five narrators - the wife and four daughters of fierce Baptist preacher Nathan Price? On balance, I doubt she needed a great deal of luck to win, but of course as a former winner, she was awarded a free pass, all previous winners have a free entry to the Prize. And she had the resources of her publisher Harper, behind her.

And so to the money; the Women’s Prize for Fiction is not quite the level playing field we might assume or hope for. To win this prize you need the kind of money and resources only available to the Big Five, Penguin/Random House · Hachette Book Group · Harper Collins · Simon and Schuster · Macmillan. 

Under Terms and Conditions for the Women's Prize, you will find the following:

 Publishers may submit a maximum of two titles for any imprint (big publishers have multi-imprints). Small independent publishers with a list of 10 fiction titles a year or fewer may submit one.

Publishers must agree on entry to contribute £1000 plus VAT for promotional activities. This alone will be prohibitive for some small independents, although there is a clause for appeal here.

If a book is longlisted the publisher must provide a further twenty-five copies (from an original 6) and agree to sell more to the Prize at a 70% discount. Copies must be available in hardback - (this can be very costly for small publishers). Publishers must also provide an electronic version, and an audio version for the RNIB - an audio version will cost upwards of £3,000 - a conservative estimate.

If a book is shortlisted publishers must contribute another £5,500 plus VAT for promotional activities, provide a further 70 copies and also sell copies to the prize at a 70% discount.

If a book wins the publisher must provide a further £6000. Publishers must also agree to cover all travel expenses for associated events and for the award ceremony.

This equates to outgoings, somewhere in the region of £20,000 + for the publisher of the winning book.

Such contractual obligations cannot be entered into lightly and are near impossible for the small independent publisher. They cannot go it alone. That is not to say that indies have not made their mark on some of the big prizes, Galley Beggar Press being the most notable. But when, A Girl is a Half-Formed Thing, by Eimear McBride won the Women's Prize for Fiction, Faber stepped in to publish. More worryingly, when Ducks Newport by Lucy Ellmann, was shortlisted for the Booker, Galley Beggar ended up facing bankruptcy, a truly cautionary tale.

I have to say it doesn’t seem right. I wish we lived in a world where books were not commodities like this - where money didn’t talk. Here is the late, great, William Trevor, on just such a theme:

Some of the prizes that have crept onto the British literary scene have made rather a circus of literature. It’s nice to win them, and all money freely given to the arts is a good thing. But prizes and best-seller lists and fashion tend to tell people what to read, and it’s discovering what to read for yourself that lends reading half its pleasure. Glamor and glossiness are not what literature is about. Literature is Thomas Hardy, who wasn’t fashionable in the least. He ate his guts out in Dorset, and was miserable, and produced marvellous books; in the end, only the books matter. Nowadays, books tend to be shovelled into a chat-show wheelbarrow, more talked about than read ~ William Trevor

That said, enough of prizes - now in a less serious vein- here's me in conversation with my Book:

The Book has gone, fledged, flown the nest, left me bereft. Alone. I saw it coming but now, well now it feels different.

'I’m worried about you,' I say.

'Why? What's to worry about?' says the Book. 'Everything's fine. I’m getting a makeover, I'm being well looked after. I’m in good hands. Looking forward to getting out there, seeing a bit of the world.'

‘It's not easy out there, especially for books like you. You'll most probably be ignored. Besides, I miss you.' I say, 'the place just isn’t the same without you, no one nagging at me to get to my desk, sort out this problem, or that problem, spend some quality time together, a date night...'

'You said you’d be glad to be rid of me,' says the Book.

'I know, it’s true, but I was tired and overwrought. I didn’t mean it,' I say. 'I'm sorry.'

'I’m sorry too,' says the Book, 'but I'm never coming back. You know that don’t you?  You’ll see me from time to time, in my new clothes. We may even go on outings, but as far as you and me together goes, alone in the study, just the two of us, it’s over. You need to face up to it. It’s not as if it’s the first time it's happened.'

'That’s true,’ I say, ‘but it doesn’t make it an easier.’

'You’ll get over it. Find another book,' says the Book. 'Have a fling or two, have some fun.'

'At my age? I forgotten how.'

'It'll come back to you. All in good time. In the meantime, I'm off. It was fun while it lasted. Thanks for everything,' says the Book.

'You’re welcome,' I say, 'just don’t forget me. Remember, without me you’d be nothing, nobody.’ The Book turns and begins to walk away. ‘I taught you everything you know,' I shout after it, but the Book doesn’t seem to hear. It quickens its step and hurries away without looking back.

With thanks to the poet, Anthony Wilson, whose idea of a dialogue with one’s book, I pinched.

Next week the book reveals its COVER!

Thanks for reading

Avril x