spinofflive
Reminder: you don’t need an ereader to read ebooks. Cat and cuppa definitely help though. (Image: hocus-focus, Getty Images)
Reminder: you don’t need an ereader to read ebooks. Cat and cuppa definitely help though. (Image: hocus-focus, Getty Images)

BooksApril 25, 2020

Nicky Pellegrino on libraries and ebooks and the very real need to make a buck

Reminder: you don’t need an ereader to read ebooks. Cat and cuppa definitely help though. (Image: hocus-focus, Getty Images)
Reminder: you don’t need an ereader to read ebooks. Cat and cuppa definitely help though. (Image: hocus-focus, Getty Images)

Libraries pay a lot for their ebooks, and each copy ‘expires’ after a certain number of loans. Here’s why that’s fair.

There are times I feel as if some librarians don’t like authors much. Last week, for instance, when I read Rebecca Hastie’s Spinoff piece, which began as a guide to making the most of public libraries during lockdown and turned into an attack on publishers for trying to earn an income for their writers. This is CAPITALISM, according to Hastie (her upper-case not mine). Well, if so then it’s not a particularly dazzling example.

For a start we’re not talking big money. A novel published in New Zealand might sell 10,000 copies if successful, but may only shift 1,000. The author receives a percentage of the cover price, which varies depending on the format, but can be as little as 7.5%.

Most New Zealand writers of adult fiction have a paying job, even the well-established ones. Many teach – Catherine Chidgey, Paula Morris and Emily Perkins. Danielle Hawkins combines producing bestsellers like last year’s hit When It All Went To Custard with working part-time as a vet, farming and family life. Greg McGee writes TV and film scripts.

I have supported myself largely with magazine journalism although post-Covid that’s not looking like such a great option. My novels sell internationally and my last book, A Dream Of Italy, was the top selling NZ fiction title of 2019 yet that part of my career pays less than minimum wage. And I’m doing better than many others – at the last count the average earnings for an NZ writer was $15,200 a year.

It is true that some authors receive funding through arts grants and residency programmes, but typically the literary ones. We writers of commercial fiction have to be our own patrons.

To be clear this isn’t a whinge. I love telling stories and am grateful I’ve been able to design my life to have the time to do it. But it’s a lot of work dreaming up those characters and plots, it involves many hours crafting hundreds of thousands of words, it’s a job, not a hobby.

Nicky Pellegrino’s latest novel, Tiny Pieces of Us, was set to release in March but has been postponed to September.

Books are an investment for publishers too. They have to fund highly skilled editors, designers and proof-readers, publicists, marketers and sales reps, as well as pay for printing and distribution. If a book doesn’t sell well enough, it might not return that investment.

People need libraries. Libraries need books. Publishers need to make income. Writers need to be paid for their efforts. Somehow we have to find a fair and practical way to make that work.

This is the system at the moment. Libraries buy physical copies of books, sometimes direct from publishers but often through Australian distributors. Writers benefit thanks to the public lending right scheme, an annual payment that is based on the number of copies of our books held in libraries rather than how often they’ve been borrowed. That only applies to paper copies, not ebooks and audio, although this is currently under review.

For ebooks there is a different, subscription-based system. Libraries purchase a license, many from an American distributor Overdrive, rather than an NZ company (wouldn’t it be nice if “buy local” prevailed post-Covid). This license means the ebook can be loaned a certain number of times within a fixed period then it must be renewed.

Over lockdown, with stores and libraries closed, more ebooks have been borrowed and people have discovered how easy it is to get them for free. This will mean more expense for libraries, as licenses will have to be renewed sooner, which is tough because they operate on tight budgets, but then so do local publishers.

In her article Hastie argued that if people can’t get ebooks for free from libraries then they will pirate them, implying that publishers might as well allow unlimited access. Would she tell Peter Jackson that since people are bound to download his films illegally, he might as well give them away? Or stores facing a shoplifting problem that the solution is making the products free for everyone? No, of course not.

I love libraries. When I was a child they fed my voracious appetite for fiction, and my mother took me to our local one every Saturday morning. I want my books to be on their shelves and find new readers. But to carve out the time to create stories, all those hours and hours, I need to derive some income from them. Capitalism isn’t the driver here … copyright is.

Ironically, despite a mandate to provide free reading, many public libraries charge a fee for borrowing the more in-demand titles. Last year I was sent a photo of my novel A Dream Of Italy, on a library shelf with other new releases and a sign alongside that basically said, “Don’t spend your money on the latest books, rent them from us for less instead.” Well that may be how capitalism works, but it’s not the way copyright is meant to.

A Dream of Italy by Nicky Pellegrino (Hachette, $34.99) can be ordered from Unity Books


A note from Rebecca Hastie: I wanted to share with people the many online resources that are available through their library and encourage people to find comfort in their local library during this difficult time. I discussed the lending model behind ebook borrowing to let people know why they will sometimes have to wait in a queue for very popular titles. I would like to make clear my deep appreciation and love for the arts, especially our very talented local authors in Aotearoa – I believe strongly in supporting them and encourage the public to purchase their works directly if you have the means to do so. I should have made it clearer that my comments were a broad global opinion on some publishing structures whose models don’t always fairly compensate authors, even when they have the means to, and unnecessarily restrict accessibility for library users at no benefit to author compensation.

A display on a fence in Titirangi, Auckland (Photo:  Fiona Goodall/Getty Images)
A display on a fence in Titirangi, Auckland (Photo: Fiona Goodall/Getty Images)

BooksApril 25, 2020

Lockdown letters #30, Fiona Farrell: There is no going back to normal

A display on a fence in Titirangi, Auckland (Photo:  Fiona Goodall/Getty Images)
A display on a fence in Titirangi, Auckland (Photo: Fiona Goodall/Getty Images)

Anzac weekend has always been a time for thinking about our country and during this one, in the quiet that has fallen during lockdown, we can contemplate a new kind of New Zealand.

Read more from the lockdown letters here.


Yesterday I put on a fire, the first one this autumn. Dragged a newspaper from the wood basket, glanced at it the way you always do when you’re scrunching up paper for the fire. January 31, 2020. Front page news was the closure of the Octagon. A council planner had come up with an idea. They would close the city’s centre to vehicles between January and March. It would make the Octagon “vibrant”. It would attract tourists from the cruise ships. A sand pit was installed at its heart, and a couple of ping pong tables. White picket temporary fences blocked off streets along with wooden boxes planted with scrappy coprosmas. It was called “The Octagon Experience”. It feels like ancient history. 

It’s Anzac weekend. The day for poppies and wreaths. When I moved to this house I planted the chrysanthemum. The one with little bunches of rust red flowers and that smell that always makes me think of cutting the cardboard cross from the Kornie packet, then laboriously stitching each flower in place till it was ready to hang with all the other wreaths on our school gates. That was our sole observance as a family. My dad, who had been wounded at Alamein, refused to march. “Pack of wooftahs,” he called the RSA, and worse, as they lent their support to wars in Korea and Vietnam. He left them to their marching and speeches and headed down to the 2nd NZEF club rooms, a gritty roaring male place next to the foundry, to get royally drunk with his mates. He’s still with them, buried in the soldier’s section in the Ōamaru lawn cemetery. 

What mattered to him wasn’t the war. That was over and done with. What mattered was what came after the war. Those streets of sunlit houses ridiculed as boring in the oh-so-exciting neoliberal revolution of the 90s were not boring to him. They were a sign of triumph. The peace and plenty of an orderly western democracy, the health and education delivered by a functioning welfare state, the glorious opportunity he and his mates had been able to deliver to me and my sister and an entire generation – they gave meaning to his lifetime of acute pain, paralysis and early death. 

Now we’re caught up in another struggle. We use the language of war to describe the effort to control a virus. We are “fighting a battle”, or “losing the battle”, medical staff are “on the frontline”. Yesterday the ODT led with a crimson headline, “BLOODBATH!” to describe the collapse of tourist numbers in Central Otago. It followed the previous day’s front page photo of hundreds of rental cars parked up in Queenstown, like the aeroplanes and the cruise ships we’ve seen parked up around the globe. 

On Tuesday we emerge from lockdown onto the mezzanine of level three. Before too long we hope to go down a flight to the softer lights of level two, and eventually level one, ground floor and exit. Whatever it is we will emerge into, it will not be the past. There is no “going back to normal”. Normal isn’t a fixed place. It’s not a destination. Those five million tourists will not be flying in from Shanghai and Sydney and LA to take up their rental Corollas and Barinas any time soon and the millions spent under the Key government to persuade them to do so now seem a bit futile. 

The Octagon Experience dates from that same distant era when the cruise ship passenger and the overseas tourist briefly held the heart of our cities and our plans. We supplied them with rides, on gondolas and jet boats and helicopters, we gave them 20 different kinds of coffee, we gave them wine. We gave them a sandpit. We built hotels and casinos in our cities, and suburbs of Airbnb houses, and we proposed an international airport over the beautiful bare brown acres of Central Otago. We seemed set on turning ourselves into a kind of Bangkok, a South Pacific playground for Asia’s newly rich. We got caught up, as island people can, in some kind of cargo cult, dancing to entice John Frum to our shores with all his lovely money. 

Well, now we can think again. Anzac weekend has always been a time for thinking about our country and this one, in the quiet that has fallen during lockdown, is one where we can contemplate a new kind of New Zealand. I don’t know how it will be, but I have confidence we are being led by people who do have good ideas. I hope after all this upheaval that it will be a masterpiece of creative thinking. Something of which we can be proud. A triumph. 

And in the meantime, as I wait for Ardern and her ministers to show us what that might look like, I shall pick some chrysanthemums, those little Anzac flowers, and I shall put them in a jar on the table. And I shall think about my dad.