Coming from the cuthroat world of film and TV, it’s easy to assume the world of publishing is like nirvana. Books are nice and warm and fuzzy, and comic books are comfort food. In reality, the world of publishing is like being in the mosh pit of a Nirvana show circa 1992. You’re battered about, kicked in the face and occasionally wind up in the “Circle of Pain” where ‘roided up jocks with agression issues pummel each other and anyone who gets in their way. To be more succinct; publishing is like any other creative industry; the “industry” comes first, followed several miles down the road by “creative”. Publishers want to make money. They need to make money to keep publishing. Every writer will have horror stories about their experiences, yet they soldier on, and use those experiences as cautionary tales.
I have yet to experience this first hand in publishing (film is another story — and it takes a few drinks for me to loosen the tongue and spew bile forth). But the other day I read something that left me speechless. It’s a cautionary tale, and a warning to anyone in the creative field; that sleazeballs may come in all shapes and sizes, but all leave the same distinctive slime-trail in their wake.
Poor Kelli Owen … all of the details here. It’s an incredible story.