I've been promised "a rowdy, drunken good time." This promise comes from the guest of honor, who, another source says, will be there "to open the floodgates of irreverence." It sounds like a good way to start my weekly column about book industry gatherings, so I head out to Manhattan's Old Town Bar.
Rowdy and drunken turns out to be an exaggeration.
But the irreverence flows as promised.
Addressing her fellow partygoers, guest of honor Wendy Werris describes why she was let go this summer after 20 years as a commission sales rep for Oxford University Press: "I had reached this point in my life where I just could not kiss anyone's ass, and so I got fired."
Around the room, nods of approval. This is not a crowd that goes in for ass-kissing.
The occasion: the twice-yearly party of the National Association of Independent Publishers Representatives, whose members gathered recently to enjoy spicy chicken wings, an open bar and the company of longtime friends who understand how tough their jobs have become. NAIPR is a relatively low-profile group these days, its influence diminished by the demise of so many independent bookstores and the tendency of some surviving retailers to centralize their ordering with a wholesaler rather than deal with reps.
Werris is officially here as an author, not a rep, having recently published her first book, An Alphabetical Life (Carroll & Graf), a memoir of her career in the book business. But in this group, she's not just a writer, she's family. Her narrative celebrates the passion of the commission sales rep, and everyone in this room loves her for it.
The party marks the kickoff to that other semiannual tradition, in which reps and publishers converge on New York for a week or more of shelling out $300-a-night for hotel rooms, fending off sleep deprivation and racing through holiday crowds to get to their next meeting.
"I would say there has to be a better way," says Paul Williams, NAIPR's executive director.
Maybe. But for now, the reps do what they need to do. There's no room in this business any more for the lazy, or the mediocre. No room either for the inexperienced, which is why the people here tonight tend to measure their careers in decades, not years.
In individual conversations, several reps tell me that while it's not an easy time to sell on commission, it can be a good time. "We're having our best year ever," says veteran rep Christopher Kerr. "But I would say it's much more hard-fought than ever. I'm exhausted." It's not enough just to take book orders, says Kerr; more than ever, you have to prove your worth by helping with promotion, arranging for co-op advertising and spending endless hours troubleshooting on fulfillment issues.
The association is working toward doing a better job of showing independent booksellers the advantages of working with reps, says Eric Miller, president of the 300-member group. Some reps also stress to me that independent sales groups do substantial business with national chains, though they sometimes have to cut their commissions to get those accounts.
So in the midst of these challenges, tonight brings a dose of catharsis. A member of the audience asks Werris if she'd like to "say something bad about sales managers." She demurs, maintaining that many of them are smart, decent people. Then she interrupts herself: "Actually, a lot of them are kind of assholes."
Asked to repeat an anecdote from her memoir, Werris tells about repping books for Microsoft Press, referencing "the sales manager at the time, who was a total bitch." Werris, not the sales manager, turns out to be the butt of the story—she once asked Microsoft executives when the company was going to come out with a Macintosh version of its products, a mortifying gaffe. But tonight, aiming her irreverence at herself,
Werris plays it for laughs.
