ou
Will Not Outlive Your Copyright
(and
Neither Will Your Novel)
by
A.C.E. Bauer
I had this argument, once, with a
writer who insisted that copyrights should last as long as
possible because, as she put it, “My grandkids should get every
penny they can from my work.” That assumes, of course, that her
work will continue to generate pennies long after her death; I’d
wager a year’s salary that it won’t.
The fact is, in any generation of
artists, only a handful are geniuses. Through talent and
perseverance, a large number of non-geniuses will
experience success: they will publish books, garner fans, host
discussion boards, be respected by their peers. A few may even
make enough money to quit their day jobs. But better than 99
percent of them will be forgotten within 20 years of their
death, if not sooner. Writing a book to become immortal is a
pipe dream.
I want to make it very clear that
I’m not dissing the quality of the work produced by anyone—to
the contrary. Most of my favorite reading comes from
contemporary writers, and they are producing fabulous,
innovative stuff. But I also know that after I’m dead, many
more wonderful writers will publish things that their
contemporaries will find wonderful, and whatever I’ve produced
in the field will, most likely, be forgotten. Unless I am a
genius who contributes something extraordinarily new to the
field (and there has yet to be any evidence of that), my work
will be, if I am really, really lucky, read by the children of
someone who happens to have kept an old copy of my book on their
shelves. But I wouldn’t start placing bets on that.
Yet, we have these copyright laws
that, in the U.S.A., last 70 years after the death of the person
who created the work. Seventy years. After death. Think about
it.
If you are a writer, count me
among those on the front lines willing to protect your
copyright—it’ll help you pay the rent, feed the kids, maybe even
get them through college. Who knows, you may even be able to
quit that famous day job. And as the creator of your work, you
should have absolute say on whether it can be used by other
people, and you should be paid for that privilege—it’s your
baby. But here comes the sad part: you will die. I can
guarantee it. “Hey, my book will live on,” you say. Tell me,
how many writers can you name who died about 20 years ago, and
whom you still read? How about 30 years ago? Or 40?
Let’s pick someone who died 40
years ago. Absent an early death, a writer in this category was
probably productive in the 1940s and 1950s. Think of the
thousands of books published in that period, and how few of them
still matter. But now I go to my parents’ shelf and find one of
these beauties, and am totally wowed by what I’ve read. After
all, the reason my parents picked up this particular volume was
because the author had something to say, had talent and
perseverance, and produced fabulous, innovative stuff for his
day. I tell myself, “Wouldn’t it be great to reintroduce him to
a new generation?”
So, I find an editor friend who
agrees that the work is wonderful, an excellent example of
mid-20th century fiction, really, a gem, but tells
me, essentially, “Fuhggeddaboudit.” Why? Because she’d have to
(1) find his heirs, (2) get their permission, and (3) negotiate
royalties. The “finding the heirs” part alone is expensive and
time consuming—if it is even successful. Getting the heirs’
permission may or may not be a breeze, and negotiating
reasonable royalties will depend on whether they have a
realistic view of the literary marketplace. Besides, why bother
when there are all these talented contemporary writers with
something to say who are producing fabulous, innovative stuff,
just pounding down her door?
The real price being paid for our
absurdly long copyright protections after death isn’t a few
pennies to some heirs, but obscurity for a large number of
artists. The true geniuses will not be forgotten—but the rest
of us have been condemned to ever faster oblivion because no one
will be allowed to use our work for 70 years after we die.
Immortality isn’t just a pipe dream, it’s one without matches.
As for the writer’s grandkids?
Well, they can still read her book . . . if the family kept a
copy on their shelf.