“It’s just—it’s been a while, June. People are getting impatient.”
“Donna Tartt spends a decade in between novels,” I sniff.
“Well.” Brett doesn’t state the obvious: that I’m not Donna Tartt. “Circumstances are different.”
I sigh. “What’s the IP? Marvel? Disney?” I could go for a Star Wars novel, maybe. I mean, it sounds very difficult, and I’d have to really dig deep into my nerd past to make myself care about whatever bit character they fling my way, but I could make something work. At least well enough to fool the average, undiscerning fanboy who buys those books.
“Actually, it wouldn’t be for an existing franchise. Have you ever heard of Snowglobe?”
The name rings a bell. I’ve seen that word floating around Twitter—perhaps their account followed me recently—but otherwise I can’t connect it with anything important. “Are they some kind of book packaging company? Like, a vanity press?”
“Well, they do all sorts of things. The founders have connections with both publishing houses and film studios. They work with editors to develop ideas that suit the market’s current needs, and then they work with writers to create them. It takes the guesswork out of what editors at big publishers are looking for. And you’d have plenty of creative flexibility to really take on the idea, you know, and make it your own.”
“I wouldn’t own the copyright, though?” I don’t know much about IP, but from what I’ve read online, it’s usually a rough deal for the creator. Unlike original properties, for which you own the copyright and receive royalties, IP writers are typically only paid a flat fee up front. A novel for a popular video game franchise, for example, might sell tens of thousands of copies. But even if it was a runaway bestseller, the hired writer might never see more than ten thousand dollars. That’s not incredible pay for six to eight months of work. “And people don’t take IP seriously, do they? Like, it’s not serious literary work.”
“Many beloved titles are IP,” says Brett. “It’s just not common knowledge that they are. And anyways, it wouldn’t be a permanent career move, just something to help you get over this slump. It seems like you might do better if you have . . . some preexisting scaffold.”
I hate the way he puts that. Like it’s a joke between us, like he knows the truth about The Last Front. Wink wink, hint hint, Junie. We know you can paint by the numbers. Let’s find you a new coloring book.
To be fair, it’s not the worst idea in the world. But my pride rankles at the thought. I’ve been in the running for some of the top literary prizes in the country; I can’t imagine going from that to doing work for hire. “I’m assuming the pay would be awful.”
“Well, they’re willing to negotiate, especially for such a high-profile author. But yes, the royalties wouldn’t be as high as you’re used to.”
“Then what’s the point?”
“Well, you’d have a new book out. So you’d have something new to talk about. Something to move the conversation along.”
Well played, Brett. Fair point. I can’t help but ask: “And what’s the pitch?”
He can’t tell me right away. I have to sign an NDA first, but fortunately he has one ready, and he just needs to send me a DocuSign link. While he’s getting that sorted, I look up Snowglobe and browse through their company website. The founders are all young, sleek-looking white women; the kind I see prowling around industry functions all the time, chardonnay in hand. On their “Current Projects” page, I see production deals listed with Amazon, Hulu, and Netflix. I’ve actually heard of a few of their titles—Brett was right, I really had no idea how many popular projects were actually IP. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad. Maybe it would be easier to let someone come up with what the market wants, so that I can focus on what I’m good at, which is writing beautifully.
“Okay.” The NDA is signed; Brett is back on the line. “So they’re really interested in tapping into your expertise on Chinese social issues, right?”
I feel an inkling of dread. “Okay . . .”
“And you know about the one-child policy, right?”
“Uh, the one where they forced women to have abortions?”
“No, I mean the population control policy in China introduced in 1978.” He’s reading this off of Wikipedia. I know, because I’ve just pulled up the same Wikipedia page.
“That’s what I said, though. They were forcing women to have abortions.” I do a quick search for the word “abortion” to check that I’m right, and I am, sort of. “They want a novel about that?”
“Well, they want a sort of modern twist on it. So the problem with the one-child policy is that there are way too many men in China, right? Because of selective abortions. Parents preferred to have boys, because it’s a patriarchal culture, and all that, so there are lots of missing girls and women. Therefore it’s hard for Chinese men to find wives, or to have children of their own. See the stakes so far?”
“Uh, sure.”
“That’s where the dystopian twist comes in. Imagine a world similar to The Handmaid’s Tale. Women are raised in institutions, born and bred to be baby-makers, and they’re sold to their husbands as house slaves.” Brett gives a nervous chuckle. “Pretty sharp commentary, right? You could even broaden out the themes to make it a subtle critique of Western patriarchy, if you wanted to. Up to you. Like I said, you’d have lots of flexibility to play with the concept. What do you think?”
I’m silent for a long time. Then, because one of us has to say it out loud, “Brett, that’s idiotic. No one in their right mind is going to want to work on that.”
(I’m wrong, in fact. Two weeks after this conversation, I will open Twitter in my browser to read the following announcement: “Simon & Schuster in partnership with Snowglobe, Inc., is so excited to have signed with renowned author Heidi Steel for the publication of The Last Woman in China, a thrilling romance set in a dystopian world inspired by the one-child policy!”)
“I mean, I really think this could work,” says Brett. “It’s a cool concept. It gets you the feminist crowd. That’s your book club market. And there’s a lot of film potential here—I’m sure networks will be hunting for the next big thing once The Handmaid’s Tale wraps up.”
“But the story idea—I mean, that’s conflating so many different . . . like, are they serious? The one-child policy meets The Handmaid’s Tale? They’re not worried we’re going to offend, like, all of China?”
“Well, the book’s going to be published in the West, Junie. So who really cares?”
I can see Adele Sparks-Sato and Xiao Chen sharpening their claws. I’m not that up to date with Chinese politics, but even I can spot the land mines just glowing around this thing. If I write this, I’ll be eviscerated for hating the PRC, or Chinese people, or men, or all three.
“Absolutely not,” I say. “This is a nonstarter. Don’t they have any other ideas? Like, I’m not opposed to working with Snowglobe per se, I just really hate this one pitch.”
“Well, they do, but they’re tailoring their pitches to authors of the right . . . backgrounds. They’re making a big pivot toward diversity this year.”
I snort. “Baffling that they want me, then.”
“Come on,” says Brett. “At least take a look at the treatment. I’ve just sent it over. And you did get your start in speculative fiction, so you already have a built-in fan base . . .”
I’m not sure that Brett understands that the people who are into magical realism are so not into near-future science fiction of this sort. “Okay, but you’ve got to admit a dystopia set in Beijing is pretty far out of my wheelhouse.”
“A few years ago, I would have said a project like The Last Front was pretty far out of your wheelhouse. It’s never too late to broaden your horizons. Just think about it, Junie. This could rescue your career.”
“No, it won’t.” I’m not sure whether I want to laugh or cry. “No, Brett, I’m pretty sure this is the sort of thing that ends careers.”