
An operetta in five acts – with lyrics by Mr WS Gilbert.
‘Publishers cannot pay higher royalties because the money has to go to fighting piracy’ – TeleRead: April 12, 2011.
When Alain was a little lad he proved so brave and daring,
His father thought he’d ‘prentice him to some career seafaring.
If you’d known me as a youth, you’d hardly recognize the wretch who stands before you today. With a stout heart and an unyielding arm, I fought piracy with the best of them. When someone offered to lend me a book, I steadfastly refused to accept it, preferring to buy my own copy. When our school started handing out photocopied pages from text-books, I poured sugar in the toner – and it wasn’t long before I could dismantle the drum and make off with it in less than 30 seconds.
From my lofty moral plateau, how far I was to fall!
Oh, better far to live and die
Under the brave black flag I fly
How did I become a pirate?
Was it a thirst for freedom and adventure? Was it my love of words, the sensuous thrill of ‘swashbuckling’ as it surged forward in my mouth to break on my lips, then fell back exhausted? Was it Johnny Depp?
I’d served my apprenticeship and was an articled writer with a book of my own, written and reader-ready. It was then that Pirate-King Mark Coker came marching into town, recruiting for the bad ship Smashwords. His rallying-call had a beauty and purity I found irresistible. “God is dead.” Ah, Nietzche! “Big Publishing is built upon a broken business model.” And he pressed me to answer a question, neatly bringing the old JFK proposition into tune with the times.
Ask not what you can do for your publisher – ask what your publisher can do for you.
A few days later I was camped at the mouth of the Amazon with the motley Smashwords crew. Every morning we set sail, me and ten thousand other ragged writers with the wind in our faces, bent on mutiny and mischief. We hacked at prices, strangled the old trade-routes, thumbed our noses at authority and tradition. Pirates, of course, but good pirates, only intent on the redistribution of opportunity. Every evening newcomers flocked into the camp, ready to serve under the skull and crossbones.
I can tell undoubted Raphaels from Gerard Dows and Zoffanies,
I know the croaking chorus from the Frogs of Aristophanes! …
In short, in matters vegetable, animal, and mineral,
I am the very model of a modern Major-General.
Unperturbed, the ships of the great publishers continued their stately progress, laden with the works of fine writers and Tony Blair. (No sir, ‘laden’, not ‘bin Laden’ – they’re still working on the terms.) Let Coker and his mutineers slash prices, and cut their own throats into the bargain. Quality and influence would win the day, as it always had. The croaking chorus would soon be silent.
And besides, there were more important battles to fight, against the age-old foe of my youth – the copy-pirate. Now he was digital and doubly dangerous. But with so many years of experience, this was a battle publishers knew they could win. What’s more, they knew who would pay: their own loyal authors of course, on whose behalf the battle was being fought.
Although we live by strife,
We’re always sorry to begin it,
For what, we ask, is life
Without a touch of Poetry in it?
I have a vision.
In dark Amazonian alleyways, heroes rub shoulders with villains. The New Pirates are now the New Publishers. There are no readers, only writers, and on every corner, they plead with one other:
- Read my book, guv? Please read my book. I’m sure you’re going to like it. OK, don’t read it. Just Like it. Or maybe you could just Like me.
What of the Old Publishers? They’re still fighting the Old Pirates, and they’re still winning. Copy-protection’s easier now they no longer work with living writers. And dead writers are far less likely to mutiny.
I have seen the error of my ways.
Resume your ranks and legislative duties,
And take my daughters, all of whom are beauties.
Is it too late to say I’m sorry? Too late to renounce my boorish behavior, and fall back into line with the good and the great?
Ever since ‘independent’ became fashionable, I feel like I’ve been losing my independence. A few days ago, word came round that we’re not to call ourselves pirates any more, we Smashwords people. We’re ‘Smashers’ – official! Institutionalized nihilism! I didn’t get into this to be an institution. Or to smash. Just to change, and to have some fun.
And another thing, it’s slim pickings these days, being a writer-pirate. With all the competition, you have to work so hard.
So, what about it publishers, you who are trying so hard to help writers by maintaining the old order? Won’t you take me back? I’m not even asking for much, not like that audacious Hocking woman. A few thousand would suit me just fine.
Ah yes. Yes, of course – I’d forgotten. This is where we came in.
If you expected to see me revealing the secrets of how to hypnotize your readers today, well I’m sorry to disappoint you. But my lips are sealed – as I said they would be unless we had at least 10 Likes for the post. No likee – no tellee. You’ll need to speak to a few of your friends if you want the lowdown.




WHO’S TALKING?