June 22, 2001 Tokyo, Japan
Publishing without Publishers
Hata Kohei (Writer)
I am a writer. I write novels, essays and literary criticism. I think the best way for me to
contribute to this dialogue is to describe the evolution of my career as an author and
show how my experience relates to the theme at hand.
So far, the contributions to this dialogue by Jason Epstein, Kato Keiji, et al., have failed
to address the position of the writer in the current publishing crisis. Nor do they discuss
the plight of the reader. How can you have a debate about publishing and ignore readers
and writers? Of course, that’s part of the problem right there. For some time the bigwigs
of the publishing world have arrogantly treated their writers like so many part-time
employees while depriving their readers of books of substance, offering froth and broken
promises instead. It’s no wonder these publishers are now on the verge of doing
themselves in. Indeed, the new century may prove to be the age of payback to the old
publishing regime by the writers and readers who have suffered at its hands.
The instrument of revenge is, of course, digital technology. A new kind of publishing is
now possible, undertaken directly between writers and readers: publishing without
publishers. I know because I have been doing it myself for the past 15 years. It has been
a lonely battle, and I have often felt like the proverbial voice crying in the wilderness,
urging publishers to mend their ways. An acquaintance likens my effort to the guerrilla
tactics of the medieval Japanese military strategist Kusunoki Masashige. Whether this
mission against the odds has any significance for anyone besides me is for others to
judge. All I can do is tell you what it means to me and how it came about.
My Story
In the 1960s, before becoming a full-time writer, I published a number of my own works
in very limited quantities for a tiny audience of readers. My fourth self-published title
won the Dazai Osamu Award for Literature in 1969. At the time I was a complete
unknown, but that award proved to be my admission ticket to the club of published
authors. From then on my books were published at a rate of four to six titles a year. I
was diligent in my work and tried as best I could to accommodate the wishes of my
editors and publishers. As a newly published writer, I knew I was incredibly lucky: nearly
every one of the 2,000 manuscript pages I churned out every year ended up in print. In
the span of a dozen years I had over 60 titles published.
But my priority was not to get published for its own sake. The important thing was having
the freedom to write what I wanted and getting it into the hands of readers who would
appreciate it. I was always blessed with the support of a small but devoted readership and
with editors and publishers who responded by continuing to print my books. To be sure,
not one was a bestseller. I never got rich, but for 20 years I was able to make a living as
a full-time writer. Between manuscript fees, advances and royalties, I was earning more
for a time than my friends who worked for large, prestigious corporations.
Even so, in the early 1970s, hard times began falling on the humanities publishers with
whom I had the strongest ties. (Jason Epstein has already described in detail the collapse
of the backlist that sustained such publishers.) The memory is vivid and still painful in my
own mind. I heard the same knee-jerk litany at every planning session at the publishing
house where I was still working as an editor: “Increase output by X percent over last
year.” My employer was fortunate in that, as a publisher specializing in medical texts, it
enjoyed a captive readership and could maintain profit margins simply by raising prices.
But the humanities publishers described by Ryusawa Takeshi, with their “broad range of
offerings” to a diverse readership, had no such guarantees. His description is exactly
right:
Pressured by the relentless push for more new titles, more units sold, and lower
prices, editors at these houses were compelled to double their annual output of
new works just to break even. Book planning and production became less creative,
more rote. Editors and publishers quickly lost sight of that solid core of serious
readers to whom they had always felt intuitively connected. As book planning grew
more predictable and unvarying, so inevitably did the target readership.
In-house editors became an endangered species, replaced by staff functionaries who
didn’t read — couldn’t read — manuscripts, farming out the real editing to overworked
subcontractors whose task was to churn out more titles for less money. Once
humanities publishers started down that slippery slope, chasing the chimera of
ever-rising output, the outcome was inevitable. They clearly failed to understand what
was happening when it might have made a difference. All I could do was look on as their
fortunes declined.
During my subsequent years as a self-employed writer from the ’70s to the ’90s, this
deterioration and ultimate collapse of conventional publishing appeared increasingly like a
self-fulfilling prophecy. Conscientious editors found themselves without a voice in these
corporations, eventually giving in to the constant exhortations of management to goad
their writers into producing books that would sell. It grew painfully obvious to me that
writers, too, were little more than part-time employees of these publishers, pawns in the
corporate drive for higher output at any cost. I could produce a hundred books, but what
did it matter if none had a shelf life of more than six months or a year? Serious readers
could no longer find the books they wanted to read; if publishers insisted on ignoring
their plaintive cries, what was a writer to do? I pondered this question for a long time.
Let the Publishing Industry Collapse
In 1986, I took a stab at an answer. That year I launched Umi no Hon (Lake of Books), my
own private imprint. When the writer Kikuchi Kan founded the Bungei Shunju publishing
house in 1923, rival publishers took umbrage at his temerity — a writer trying to
become a publisher! Unlike Kikuchi, I am no politician, just a solitary novelist. I was driven
by one desire: to do whatever it took to preserve my ties to the precious audience of
“good readers” I had accumulated over the years. Umi no Hon is primarily a means of
reprinting and selling works of mine that are out of print or out of stock, getting them
directly into the hands of the readers who want them. I produce new works in addition to
reprints. In 15 years I have published 67 titles this way in a simple but attractive format.
With 100 titles now a viable goal, I think I have managed to create a “literary
environment” with a long life expectancy. My readers are intelligent and devoted, and
they usually pay me within a month after delivery. My long-suffering wife and I do all the
production work. It has not been easy, but the support of a loyal audience gives me great
joy and satisfaction. “So no one wants to sell my books, eh? Fine, no worries, I’ll sell
them myself.” That’s the sense of freedom this project has given me. During the same
period I have also had some 20 titles published through conventional outlets, so it has
been a busy time.
However, it was not all smooth sailing. When you continue to self-publish for five, ten or
more years as I have, you are subject to many kinds of pressure, both from without and
within. At one point I began to wonder if I was destined to die penniless. Then, in 1993, I
was unexpectedly blessed once more, as I had been by the Dazai Award. This time the
good fortune was a professorship in literature at Tokyo University of Technology. What
appealed to me most about this arrangement was not so much the teaching job as the
sudden opportunity to play with computers — computer science being a forte of this
particular university. I felt just like Edmond Dantes making his escape from prison in The
Count of Monte Cristo. My discovery of electronic publishing promised to add a whole
new dimension to the freedom I had already achieved as producer of my own books on
paper. I vowed to enjoy and exploit the Internet to the hilt, using digital media to expand
and enrich the literary environment I had created in print with my readers.
Now I am retired from my academic duties, but my adventures with the Internet
continue on. I launched my Website, “Literature and Life of Hata Kohei, Writer,” in 1998.
With over six million Japanese characters [approximately three million words — Ed.] and
still growing, I like to think of this site as a massive literary archive. It includes
electronic editions of the Umi no Hon series as well as new works of fiction, essays,
reviews and lectures. I charge my readers nothing, so they are free to read whatever
they like and to order printed copies of any of the Umi no Hon titles if they’re so
inclined. That quite a few of them do so testifies to the undiminished appeal of books on
paper.
This “lake” of mine may not be very wide, but it is deep, as evidenced by the number of
contributions to Umi, the “e-literary magazine” I have set up on the site. In the six
months since its launching, Umi has featured the works of over 100 writers. My goal as
editor is something in the neighborhood of “a thousand works by a thousand authors.”
Most of my contributors are readers of the Umi no Hon series, and more than half are
writers of some repute. But increasingly, the site is attracting younger, unknown writers
inspired by the high quality of work found there. I don’t pay my contributors anything, but
neither do I charge them for the privilege of seeing their works published online. What
they also get in the bargain is me as final arbiter and editor of what is posted. Before
becoming a writer I made my living as an editor, so I am no stranger to the editor’s
supporting role of honing and promoting the talents of writers other than himself. This
experience proved invaluable to my subsequent career as a writer, and is, in fact, the key
to the future of editors in the new publishing age.
I think it’s high time for the editor-publisher alliance, which Mr. Ryusawa tacitly supports
in his article, to break apart. Instead, editors must ally themselves directly with writers,
or their raison d’etre will disappear. Suppose small groups of talented writers and editors
join forces, working closely together with both print and digital media on a small-scale,
cottage industry level. Suppose this trend then begins to grow. If this new form of
publishing achieves critical mass, it could easily spell the end of the old regime. Digital
media and the Internet will have eliminated the need for a middleman who serves only to
keep writers and readers apart.
If this is to happen, we need writers with the ability to criticize and edit themselves, and
editors who will support them. In short, both writers and editors must be dedicated to
the quest for good writing. The key to creating a literary environment in cyberspace is
for writers to become active, conscientious editors themselves. Then, and only then,
will we see if there is really a new age of publishing in the offing. Now is the time for
writers and editors to band together and make their break from the old publishing
companies. They must remember one thing, however: it is not merely good writing but
good readers who will lead us into the new age.
Related sites
Literature and Life of Hata Kohei, Writer (Japanese)
ネットの時代へ、作家として編集者として 秦 恒平
わたしは「書き手=小説家」だ。批評もエッセイも書いてきた。どのように作家として出発し、現にどのようにこの議論との接点をもっているか、それを知ってもらうのが、議論の趣旨にいちばん適う気がする。なぜか。
エプスタイン氏に始まり加藤敬事氏らの対話に到る議論が、ほとんど「書き手=作家・著作者」を、「出版」の問題にしていない。「読者」への評価もまるで無い。こと「出版」を語って、作者と読者への視野や評価を欠いた議論というのは、何なのか。久しく作者を出版の「非常勤雇い」として?使し、読者から「いい本」を取り上げて多くの泡をくわせ、待ちぼうけを食わせてきた、出版社主導ないし独善の「出版」なるものが、いま自己破産に瀕しているのは、けだし当然のように見受けられる。新世紀は、そういう作者や読者から、旧出版へ反撃の時代とも位置づけられる。反撃を可能にするのが、デジタルテクノロジーであることは、言うまでもない。「出版」抜きの出版、作者と読者とで直接交しあう出版が、今日、可能になっている。わたしはそれを、十五年、成功させてきた。出版よ変われと願い孤軍奮闘してきた。その実践を人は楠木正成の赤坂城に喩えてくれる。愚かしい真似であったか、意義があったかはみなさんの判断に委ね、他人のことでなく、あえて自分のことをこの場で語ろう。
1960年代、創作を職業にする以前に、出版社に頼らず、私家版を少部数ずつ作って、ごく少数の読者に作品を手渡していた。その四冊目の表題作が、作者の知らぬうちに太宰治文学賞の最終候補に推されていて、受賞した。1969年である。文学賞は、この業界からの「雇い入れ」招待状になった。
以後、年に四冊から六冊ほど、毎年本を出版し続けた。折り合える限りを出版社・編集者と折り合い、勤勉に書いて書いて著書を積み上げていった。一年に書く二千枚の原稿のほぼ全部が右から左へ単行本になって行くほど、この新人作家は出版に恵まれた。十数年といわぬうちに各種六十冊を越えていた。ただし、どの一冊もベストセラーにならなかった。わたしには出版が大事なのでなく、心ゆく創作や執筆、その自由と発表の場が大事であった。「いい読者」が大事だった。少数だが熱い読者に常に支持されていると、編集者も出版社も本を出しつづけてくれ、蔵は建たなかったが、職業としての作家業は、受賞以来五年の二足わらじを脱いでからも、十数年、二十年、なお十分成り立った。原稿料・印税その他で、一流企業の友人たちよりもわたしは当時稼いでいた。
ところが、お付き合いの濃かった人文書出版社が、つぎつぎ具合悪くなった。筑摩書房、平凡社、最近では中央公論社。意外とは思わなかった。優秀なバックリストに満たされての破局は、エプスタイン氏の批判に言い尽くされているのかも知れない。龍澤氏の反省がまるで当時機能していなかったのは明白である。
痛みとともに想い出すが、すでに1970年代前半にして、わたしが勤めてきた出版社の企画会議・管理職会議での合い言葉は、強圧は、「前年同期プラス何十パーセント」という機械的な生産高設定であった。医学専門書の出版社でそうで
あったし、読者確保の利く専門書であるがゆえに高価格設定でそれもなんとかなったけれど、龍沢氏のいわれる「幅」のある、それだけ見通しの利かない人文書出版社で、生産高本位の「前年同期プラス」に歯止めなく走り始めれば、そん
なバブルが、うたかたと潰えるのは目前であった。作家として独り立ちしてからの7-8-90年代を通じ、わたしは「出版」の自己崩壊または異様な変質は、あまりに当たり前のことと眺めていた。良識ある編集者の発言力が社内で通用せず、むしろ進んで変質し、「売れる本を書いて欲しい」としか著作者に言わなくなっていたのだ。龍沢氏は言われる、「書籍編集者は年間出版点数を倍に増やさなければ売上げを確保できず、企画は次第に画一化されてゆく。その過程で編集者・出版社は、かつて強力な流通網の向こう側に確実に実在していたはずの、ある『幅』をもった多様な人文書の読み手であった『読者階層』の姿を急速に見失ってしまったのである。企画の画一化は、結局のところ画一的な読者を生む以外にないのである」と。この通りであった。「編集者」はいなくなった。原稿もろくに読まない・読めない「出版社員」だけが下請けを追い使って生産高を競った。
そんな中で、作家・著作者とは、バブル化する出版資本のかなりみっともない「非常勤雇い」に過ぎないとわたしは自覚し、イヤ気もさして、このままでは、百冊の本を出しても、売り物としては半年から二年未満の寿命に過ぎないし、読
みたい本が手に入らないという「いい読者」たちの悲鳴に出版が見向きもしない以上、作者である自分に「できる」ことは何だろうと、考えに考えた。
そして、1986年に創刊に踏み切ったのが、絶版品切れの自分の全著作を、自身の編集・制作により復刊・販売・発送し、作品を、作者から読者へ直接手渡すという、稀有の私家版シリーズ「秦恒平・湖(うみ)の本」であった。辛うじて自分
の「いい読者」を見失うまいと手を伸ばしたのだ、詳しく話していられないが、今年の桜桃忌(太宰治の忌日)までに、満十五年、六十七巻の著作を簡素に美しい単行書として、自力で出版し続け、百巻も可能な見通しで、なお継続できる「文
学環境」が確保できているのである。読者の質は高く、支持は堅く、代金は一ヶ月でほぼ回収している。復刊だけではない、新刊も躊躇なく刊行し、ただし実作業はわたしと老妻との二人で全て支えてきた。苦労そのものであったが、読者と
いう「身内」に恵まれ幸せであった。「本が売れないって。泣き言を言うな。自分で売るさ」と、実に自由であった。むろん市販の本も、各社から二十冊ほど増やした。忙しかった。
大事なのは、ここからだ。かつて菊池寛が文藝春秋を創立したとき、作家が出版社経営に手を出すのかと中央公論社長らに大いに憎まれ、喧嘩沙汰もあった。菊池寛のような政治家ではないたった独りの純文学作家・秦恒平の自力出版が、五年しても十年しても着々続いていては、陰に陽に凄い圧力がかかる。文壇人としては野たれ死ぬかな、ま、赤坂城のあとには千早城があるさと粘っているうちに、1993年、東京工業大学の「文学」教授に、太宰賞の時と同じく突如指名された。大学教授の方はとにかく、理系の優秀校、コンピュータが使えるようになるぞと、わたしは、牢獄を脱走するエドモン・ダンテスのような気分になった。紙の本で得てきた創作者の自由を、電子の本でさらに拡充し、紙と電子の両輪を用いて、「いい読者」たちとの「文学環境」をもっと豊かにもっと効果的にインターネットで楽しもうと、奮いたったのである。
定年で退任したいま「作家秦恒平の文学と生活 http://www2s.biglobe.ne.jp/~hatak/」は、その途上にある。途上とはいえ、文学・文藝のアーカイブに徹して、コンテンツはすでに600万字に達し、電子版「湖の本」の他に、新たな創作もエッセイや批評や講演録も多彩に取り込んでいる。課金しないから、読者は自由にすべてが読めるし、気が向けば印刷版の「湖の本」へ自然に注文が入る。紙の本の魅力はまだまだ当分失せはしないのである。
わが「湖」は必ずしも広くはなっていない、が、深まっている。その証拠ともあえて言おう、わたしのホームページは、さらにその中に「e-literary magazine文庫・湖umi」を抱き込み、わたしが責任編輯して、弁慶の刀狩りではないが千人・千編の各種の文学文藝を掲載発信すべく、すでに創刊半年で、百数十人の作品に満たされているが、書き手の大方が「湖の本」の読者であり、大半は立派に知名の書き手なのである。その水準の高さに惹かれ励まされて若い無名の書き手も次々に参加してきている。原稿料は出さず、掲載料もとらず、ただわたしの「編集と取捨」とに委ねられている。実はわたしは、作家以前に、弁慶のような「編集者」として牛若丸の「書き手」を追いかけ回し、そして最後には勝たせてあげていた。その「体験」が、わたしの「作家」三十数年を支えてきたのだ、ここが、もっとも肝要な「これからの編集者」論ということになる。龍沢氏の文中にもある「編集者・出版社」という一括はもう崩れていい。「作家・編集者」という根源のチームに立ち帰らねば「編集という本質」は瓦解するのだ。
もし、力ある作家と編集者とが、小さく緊密に、コッテージ・インダストリーふうに紙とデジタルで信頼の手を組めば、そういう「新出版」が各処に渦巻き働き始めれば、老朽した「旧出版」という北条政権は、遂には傾くだろう。インターネットに、読者と作者を引き裂く「中間」存在など無用なのだから。
この場合に必要なのは、作家自身の誠実な自己批評の能力、編集力、だ。作家自身も、それをサポートできる編集者にも、何よりもつまりは良きものを求めて「読んで」見つけだす力が必要なだけだ。インターネットで文学環境を築こうと
すれば、作家自らが誠実な意欲的な編集者になれるかどうか、その結果時代が真に新しくなるかどうか、が、鍵になる。弁慶と牛若丸のように、今こそ編集者は作家と、作家は編集者と組んで「旧出版社」から脱出せよと言いたい。その際、力ある「いい読者」たちの存在をけっして無視してはならないのである。 2001.6.17