Twenty-two years ago.
As a young first-time author, I sat nervously before my publisher with a hard copy of their contract on my lap. I was excited, as this was going to be my first book.
Before going to see the publisher, I carefully read the contract (several times) and even armed myself with comments and suggested edits (in the margin).
I was led into the gleaming office of the CEO of the publishing house by his wife (and partner in the firm). As I sat down before him, I pulled the contract out of my bag and placed it on my lap, under the table. My attempts to keep my written comments away from his wife’s prying eyes were futile, as she peeped over my shoulder at each one of them during the discussion.
“Discussion”, did I say? There wasn’t much to discuss, as the contract – one-sided as I later realised all publishers’ contracts are – could clearly not be changed at all. It was by the publisher, for the publisher and of the publisher. All I succeeded in doing was clarifying the meanings of certain legal terms. I needn’t have bothered to scrupulously enter my suggested edits in the margin. None were likely to be entertained, anyway.
Like so many other authors, I signed the one-sided contract and came away happy that my first book was going to be published.
Over the years, I gave up all hope of a fair and just agreement with publishers, as I found none. It became patently clear that the most an author could hope out of a book (or a chapter in an edited volume) was visibility and some readership of her work. Royalties (if they trickled in) were minimal, and sales figures in their end-of-year balance sheets could never be verified. By and large, all sales were declared to be minimal, and as an author, I grew accustomed to this familiar verdict for book after book.
As each of my publications came to the fore, I dutifully sought the permission of the concerned publisher before posting my own work on my social media. Some of them allowed me to post extracts only, and I obeyed. After all, they owned my work; I had only worked on the content. Hadn’t they brought it out into the field of vision of their immense readership? If they permitted me to post my entire work freely, how would they recover their investment? Like every other author, I accepted this fate.
Several books and research papers later, I received a jolt – a couple of days ago. As a contributor of a research paper to an edited volume – to be published by a leading International Publisher – I went through the CRT (Copy Right Transfer) Form before signing it. For what it’s worth, or so I thought. Little did I know …
As I mechanically read familiar sentences like:
The Author hereby grants to the Publisher the perpetual, sole and exclusive worldwide, transferable, sub-licensable and unlimited right to publish, produce, copy, distribute, communicate, display publicly, sell, rent and/or otherwise make available the Contribution in any language …”
the following clause leapt out of the screen at me:
Without limitation, the above grant includes (a) the right to edit, alter, adapt, adjust and prepare derivative works.
An even more explicit clause followed:
The author agrees that all editing, alterations or amendments made by or on behalf of the Publisher or its licensees for the purpose of fulfilling this Agreement or as otherwise allowed by the above rights shall not require the approval of the Author (italics mine) and will not infringe on the Author’s “moral rights” or any equivalent rights. This includes changes made in the course of dealing with retractions or other legal issues.
I rubbed my eyes. Was I reading right? In my over two decades of writing and being published, I had never come across such a clause!
I read it and reread it. Yes, it was there. In black and white, and uneditable form.
If the Publisher could edit, adjust, adapt and derive alternative forms of my writing without needing to seek my approval, then who would that work be credited to? Certainly not to me!
The very last straw – the author’s right to alter her own work – was now being blatantly taken away by the publisher. Knowing it would lead nowhere, I wrote to the Editors requesting that the Publisher revisit this clause. Predictably, I received the following reply: Kindly ask the author to sign the Contributor Agreement and return the signed agreement. I’d also like to iterate that there shouldn’t be any changes made in the contributor agreement by the authors.
Well, the next step was only too inevitable. I respectfully withdrew my paper from this compilation as I could not bring myself to agree to such a blatantly unethical clause.
Not surprisingly, every other contributor to that edited volume agreed to the clause – or seemed to, as the Editors confirmed that all others (including the Editor) had signed the CRT form. Had they read the fine print? Did they not find it unethical? Or were they just willing to take the chance that no changes would need to be made in their work? I have no way of knowing – and nor does it matter.
What’s left for an author now? Anything at all except the hard work that goes into the original version of his work?