There's a curious contradiction at the heart of the publishing industry.
Without writers, there would be no books. No manuscripts, no stories, no literary prizes, no bestseller lists. Indeed, no publishing industry at all.
You might therefore imagine that writers would be its most treasured asset.
You'd be wrong. Or at least you might be forgiven for thinking so.
For some publishers, the writer is something of an inconvenience. A necessary supplier of raw material who, having handed over the manuscript, is expected to retreat quietly into the background while the important people get on with the business of publishing.
Marketing departments have priorities. Sales teams have targets. Accountants have spreadsheets. Executives have meetings about meetings.
And the writer?
The writer has an unanswered email.
Now, before the publishing industry collectively has almighty fit of collective pique, let me acknowledge something important.
Publishing is a business.
Books have to sell. Staff need paying, printers need paying, distributors need their share and the electricity bill doesn't settle itself simply because somebody has written a particularly beautiful chapter.
Commercial reality matters. Of course it does.
But so does the writer.
And somewhere in the machinery of modern publishing, that rather obvious truth can become surprisingly easy to overlook.
Consider the journey of a typical writer. They may have spent years researching, writing, rewriting, editing and generally wrestling with a manuscript. They've sacrificed evenings, weekends, holidays and possibly a significant proportion of their sanity.
Then comes the moment they've dreamed about. A publisher expresses an interest.
Wonderful!
There are encouraging conversations, enthusiastic emails, perhaps even a suggestion that the manuscript is precisely what the publisher has been looking for.
A contract is signed. Champagne corks pop. Metaphorically, at least.
And then?
Well, sometimes things become rather quiet.
Emails take longer to answer. Publication dates shift. Marketing plans remain mysterious. Decisions about covers, titles and publicity are made with varying degrees of author involvement, all whilst the writer, previously the centre of attention, begins to feel like an awkward relative who has arrived unexpectedly for Christmas.
And yet the writer hasn't changed. The book hasn't changed. Only the relationship has.
There is something else worth considering.
The writer brings more to publishing than a manuscript.
They bring knowledge, credibility, enthusiasm, personal connections and, increasingly, an audience of their own. They attend events, give interviews, maintain websites, write newsletters and spend considerable amounts of time promoting their books.
Indeed, in today's publishing environment, authors are frequently expected to undertake a substantial proportion of their own marketing.
Which raises an interesting question.
If the writer creates the book, helps establish its audience and actively participates in selling it, why should they sometimes feel like the least influential person in the entire operation?
It's a reasonable question.
Of course, publishers invest money, expertise and take commercial risks. A good editor can transform a manuscript. A skilled designer can make a book irresistible. Effective distribution and marketing can introduce an author to readers they would never otherwise reach.
These contributions deserve recognition.
But publishing ought to be a partnership, not a hierarchy in which the person responsible for the original work is automatically placed at the bottom.
One of the most common frustrations I hear from writers isn't necessarily rejection, disappointing sales or even disagreement with editorial decisions.
It's communication.
Or the absence of it.
Writers understand that things go wrong. Publication schedules slip. Covers need changing. Marketing budgets are finite. Sometimes a book simply doesn't perform as everyone hoped. And guess what? Most of us are battle hardened realists who are perfectly capable of accepting these realities.
What we find much harder to accept is being kept in the dark.
A straightforward explanation costs very little. A courteous reply to an email costs even less—and yet both can be surprisingly elusive.
There is a peculiar irony in an industry built entirely upon communication occasionally proving rather poor at communicating with the very people who sustain it.
Perhaps somebody should write a book about that? Mind you, finding a publisher might prove awkward.
I should emphasise that this isn't an attack on publishing as a whole.
Far from it. I've worked with people in the industry whose professionalism, imagination and genuine affection for books and their authors have been exemplary.
The best publishers understand something fundamental: an author isn't simply the beginning of the production process. They're a partner throughout it. They listen. They explain. They consult. They occasionally disagree, quite rightly, because publishing expertise has value and writers don't necessarily have all the answers.
But they never forget whose work they're handling.
And that matters.
Because publishing is not simply about manufacturing books. It's about bringing somebody's ideas, imagination, research, experience or life story into the hands of readers.
That carries a responsibility which goes rather beyond sales forecasts and quarterly targets, a responsibility I am happy to take on and share with anyone who’d care to listen. So when I established Couzens-Lake Publishing, it wasn't because I believed the world desperately needed another publishing imprint.
There are quite enough of those already.
It was because, after years working as a writer, ghostwriter and editor, I had become increasingly convinced that there was room for a more personal approach.
One in which writers know what's happening to their work. One in which questions receive answers, decisions are explained and authors are treated as collaborators rather than inconveniences.
And one in which commercial considerations, necessary though they are, don't automatically extinguish the enthusiasm that brought a manuscript into existence in the first place.
That same philosophy underpins my work at Couzens-Lake Media.
Whether I'm ghostwriting somebody's memoir, editing a novel or helping an author navigate the often bewildering business of getting published, I try never to forget something that ought to be self-evident.
The writer matters.
Not more than the reader. Not more than commercial reality. But certainly no less than the people responsible for bringing their work to market.
Because a publisher without writers isn't a publisher.
It's an office full of people wondering why they've got nothing to do.
