Clowing Around with Slim Returns
Written byPosted on December 7, 2005
Filed Under Publishing Industry, Rushdie, Salman
As the Literary Saloon points out, Salman Rushdie’s Shalimar the Clown has sold only 26,000 copies, despite a massive publicity blitz. M.A.O. suggests that this is because nobody is really interested in reading Rushdie.
But I think the answer is simpler. Who, outside of hard-core literary geeks, can really remember a title like Shalimar the Clown? And are clowns really all that sexy? Perhaps in small doses, such as between acts at a circus. But not throughout the duration of an entire novel. (Which is not, incidentally, how Shalimar is structured, but we’re talking about impressions here!)
If I were Rushdie’s publisher, I would have urged Rushdie to come up with a title that didn’t involve clowns at all or that included words with no more than two syllables. Midnight’s Children? Sure. The Satanic Verses? Absolutely. Rolls off the tip of the tongue and cements itself into your head. But Shalimar the Clown? Not really a lot of enigma there. You may as well call the book Joe the Barber.
Besides, name a book or a film with the words “the clown” in it that has actually sold well. Not even a Robin Williams cameo in 1992 could save Shakes the Clown from losing dinero.
The moral of the story: If you want to make money, don’t include the words “the clown” in your title.
[UPDATE: OGIC notes that the Times may have the figure wrong and that the actual number is closer to 80,000. If this is indeed the case, then this is a serious journalistic mistake that deserves more than a mere "correction," particularly since the article went out of its way to suggest that Rushdie sales fell dramatically short of publisher expectations, imputing that fiction sales were in a slump. (An image of the specific paragraph, if the Gray Lady corrects it, can be found here. Perhaps someone with a Bookscan account can contribute Shalimar's true sales here.]
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Beyond Heaving Bosoms by Sarah Wendell and Candy Tan. The famed writers behind
Alice Fantastic by Maggie Estep. This wild and highly enjoyable narrative involves two sisters (presumably, the third one was still being rented out by Chekhov), a hippie ex-junkie mother who lives with seventeen dogs, a murder, gambling, and libidinous Hollywood actresses who live in Woodstock. But this is the wonderful Maggie Estep we're talking here. And what seems at first like a quirky yarn becomes something unexpectedly moving about connectivity. What I love about Estep's work is the way that she'll juxtapose an extremely astute observation (now that you mention it, why do cab drivers always have somebody to talk with on the phone past midnight?) with an often outrageous story development.
Generosity by Richard Powers. It doesn't come out until September 29th, but Richard Powers's latest will have anyone committed to books reconsidering their literary fervor. I foresee some animosity from the vanilla critics hostile to idea-driven novels, but book bloggers, YouTube chroniclers, and MFAs would do well to plunge into this chance-taking narrative, which introduces vital questions about what the reader's relationship is with media, scientific dissection, and "creative nonfiction." Are we rats fleeing to happy cities? Or can we find the humanism within the purported plague?
Pieces for the Left Hand by J. Robert Lennon. Lennon is one of the most underrated fiction writers working today. Much as On the Night Plain proved that Lennon had a lot more in the toolbox than heartfelt (and often very funny) suburban satire, this slim but fascinating volume juxtaposes 100 small-town anecdotes -- arranged by category -- in a manner that reads, at times, like Nicholson Baker's passions for minutiae and, at other times, Stewart O'Nan's concern for psychological detail. The result is fiction that makes us wonder about whether one person's subjective view of particulars can entirely be trusted. This book never found a publisher in 2005. But thankfully, Graywolf has released it in the United States, along with Lennon's latest novel, The Castle.
Wonderful World by Javier Calvo. This wonderfully raucous volume has been completely ignored by the Washington Post, the New York Times, and the Los Angeles Times. But it's probably one of the most delightful reading experiences I've had this year. Calvo cavalierly mashes up multiple genres and manages to mix up familial subtext with larger-than-life, almost cartoonish characters. (Indeed, one might argue that one mobster's penis is a character of its own in this sprawling novel.). This is not an easy thing to pull off, but Calvo makes it work. And it's helped immeasurably by Mara Faye Lethem's idiom-specific translation. (
The Means of Reproduction, Michelle Goldberg This thoughtful book tackles the complicated (and little discussed) subject of reproductive rights from numerous angles, which includes a number of unpleasant but necessary ones. The upshot is that there isn't a quick fix solution for declining birth rates and fundamentalist abuses. Just about every political faction has contributed to the friction. But you'll want to read this book anyway to refamiliarize yourself with the topic, but also to understand just what's occurred during the past several decades to get us where we are today. (
I don’t care that it wasn’t a big hit. Shakes the Clown was the best. clown movie. ever.
But the good part of the title is “shakes” — far better than “shalimar,” which makes me think of cheesy 70s perfume commercials.
What about the day Shalimar the Clown cried?
Hey, I liked “Shakes the Clown” too. But then I’m a sick bastard. Besides, we’re not talking about artistic merit here, but payola. Since that’s ostensibly what the Gray Lady’s concerned about.
Good point. And it’s not for nothing that controversy sells books too. So perhaps Rushdie would have been better off having titled the book “Shalimar the Faux Jihadist Who Is Driven by Satan” or somesuch. Which would have been perfectly demonstrative of the story within. But then all of us litbloggers would have to type that whole title into our hyperlinks and perhaps we wouldn’t have blogged it’s impending realease so much. Of course, by blogging it, we drove impressive sales of 26,000 copies, to your point. And since there are 24,365 litbloggers out there, that translates to an actual 1,635 copies sold to the reading public, or somesuch. Hmm. Problematic at least.
Guess I won’t be naming my first novel “Fondle the Clown” after all.
What about that infamous never-released Jerry Lewis movie about the clowns in the concentration camp? Surely now is the time, no?
I have it on good authority that 26,000 is in error & the actual number is closer to 80K. Look out for a correction from the Grey Lady.
Wasn’t Shalimar the Clown that guy in Breakin 2: Electric Boogaloo?
One night I was recruited to pick a movie and, I can’t say why except that maybe when I was a kid I liked M*A*S*H, I chose “To Kill a Clown,” starring Alan Alda. Oh god that was embarrassing. It really really sucked ass.
But Shalimar the Clown, as a title — is it really that bad? I mean, maybe the clown part, yeah. But it kind of reminds me of Gimple the Fool.
26,000 is correct. All the numbers they quoted were from Bookscan, and Wyatt’s rule of thumb on what Bookscan misses is boradly the industry consensus.
The one thign he failed to do was note that the Didion number of 200K was the publishers’ estimate. The Bookscan number is 140K units. (Though the publisher was applying the correct rule of thumb metric to estimate actual sales…they weren’t massaging the number…it was just Wyatt being a little inconsitent with his apples and oranges)
So if the Times does issue a correction, it won’t be because they misstated the Bookscan numbers.
Maybe I just have low ambitions, but I would love to sell 26,000 in hardcover.
[...] has over 200 hold requests for her new book. Its 300,000-copy first printing is reportedly from four to twelve times the sales of Rushdie’s last book, depending on which figures you believe. No [...]