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ABSTRACT The nature of work is changing, from secure, full-time jobs to a ‘risk regime’ characterized by alternative work arrangements and a pervasive sense of insecurity [Beck, U. (2000). The brave new world of work. Polity: Malden, MA]. While these conditions resemble those long endured by cultural workers, scholarly exploration of these similarities has stalled: Digital optimists extoll the value of self-enterprise, while critical cultural scholars decry such claims as a smokescreen for deteriorating labor conditions, which inevitably promote insecurity (or ‘precarity’). This paper attempts to end the stalemate by proposing three measures of insecurity and applying them to a group of cultural workers—romance authors. Through a survey of 4270 romance authors, I show their median income nearly doubled after the rise of digital self-publishing, while other authors’ incomes dropped. Interviews with 78 authors and editors suggest this resilience relates to professional tactics developed in the 1980s amidst pervasive gender bias. Specifically, romance authors developed an ‘open-elite’ network, an arrangement historically associated with innovation, which was later amplified by interactive communication technologies [Powell, W. W., & Owen-Smith, J. (2012). An open elite: Arbiters, catalysts, or gatekeepers in the dynamics of industry evolution. In The emergence of organizations and markets (pp. 466–495). Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press]. This research contributes to debates around self-employment, cultural work and precarity. It shows increased insecurity is not inevitable in the risk regime, but rather that specific professional practices, enhanced by ICTs, can increase workers’ resilience.].
Introduction
The nature of work is changing. For most of the twentieth century, a decent job meant a secure, long-term position. In recent decades, however, more workers have come to depend on part-time work, temporary gigs, second jobs and consulting projects, constitut-ing ‘portfolio careers’ (Handy, 1991). Labor economists Katz and Krueger tracked a small but steady rise in ‘alternative work’ between 2005 and 2015 (Katz & Krueger, 2019), and Lowe found that traditional markers of steady employment (such as government work) were now, surprisingly, associated with increased perception of job insecurity (Lowe,
Open Networks, Open Books: Gender, Precarity and Solidarity in Digital
Publishing
by Christine Larson
University of Colorado, Boulder
2018). Such developments characterize what Beck called the ‘risk regime … a political economy of insecurity, uncertainty and loss of boundaries’ (Beck, 2000, p. 73). A growing literature associates this regime with ‘precarity,’ defined as work with unpredictable pay, little access to health benefits, individualized working conditions and scant guarantee of continued employment (de Peuter,2011). As more people experience insecure conditions, the figures of the artist, writer and musician have become emblematic of the future of work (Florida, 2002; Pink, 2002). Such creators have long lived within a risk regime, performing sporadic, unpredictable gigs for uncertain returns. Paradoxically, however, these creative cultural workers, whom Banks defines as ‘responsible for the productions of symbolic commodities’ or ‘texts’ such as books, music and movies (Banks, 2007, p. 7), have come to signify two opposing sides in a deadlocked debate over labor in the digital economy. On one hand, for digital optimists like Richard Florida and Daniel Pink, creative cul- tural workers represent the ideal post-industrialentrepreneur, enjoying autonomy through self-enterprise, while driving economic growth (Florida, 2002; Terranova, 2000; Pink, 2002). On the other, for critical cultural scholars, cultural workers signify something much darker – the growing precarity of labor (Banks, 2007, p. 29; Duffy, 2017; McRobbie, 2015, p. 42). This camp argues that digital technologies, combined with trends toward globalization and deregulation, have allowed firms to shift the costs and risks of employment to workers, replacing secure positions with precarious jobs defined by inevitable ‘financial, social and existential insecurity’ (de Peuter, 2014, p. 266). These scholars, and the precarity literature in general, tend to view the rhetoric of digital entrepreneurism as a smokescreen obscuring oppressive and unfair labor con-ditions, which especially disempower workers outside the white male paradigm (Duffy & Pruchniewska, 2017). The stalemate between these two camps occurs at an unfortunate moment, given grow- ing awareness of the contemporary risk regime. To deny the dark side of insecure employ- ment seems disingenuous and short-sighted (Banks, 2007; Duffy, 2016; Gill & Pratt, 2008; Ross, 2009); to dismiss the potential opportunities of self-entrepreneurism, however, pre-cludes the potential of resistance and resilience in the face of new economic structures (de Peuter, 2014). The more the structure of employment in general comes to resemble cul-tural industries’ working patterns, the more critical it becomes to resolve this deadlock and arrive at a more nuanced understanding of these fields and the lessons they offer for independent digital workers. As Banks put it, it is now ‘an empirical necessity that we learn more about the working lives of creative cultural workers’ (Banks, 2007, p. 8). To do so, three specific shortcomings in the discussion must be addressed. First, argu- ments about the relative insecurity of creative workers generally lack quantitative evidence. Such data would augment many outstanding ethnographic studies of cultural industries (Duffy, 2013, 2016; Hesmondhalgh & Baker, 2011; McRobbie, 2013, 2015; Neff, 2012; Neff, Wissinger, & Zukin,2005). Second, both sides tend to overgeneralize about the nature of cultural labor, failing to discriminate between specific industries (Banks, 2007, p. 27; Gill & Pratt, 2008, p. 13; McRobbie, 2015, p. 106). This limits the ability of scholars to identify specific practices that may improve working conditions for some groups.
Finally, both sides often overlook gender differences in labor (Gill,2006; McRobbie, 2015, p. 93) As Fantone notes, much of the precarity literature presumes a male worker
Ultimately, the data presented here challenge a key assumption of cultural industries scholars that digital conditions necessarily render cultural workers more precarious. How- ever, this research does not wholeheartedly support digital optimists. Rather, it shows that certain social tactics have the potential, though not the certainty, to improve working life even under insecure conditions.
Book publishing as a cultural industry
Book publishing offers a case study of a centuries-old industry transformed by ICTs. It neatly exemplifies key features of other cultural industries, including, (1) a high level of risk; (2) a tension between creativity and commerce (Coser, 1979; Thompson, 2012);
and, (3) high ‘first copy’ costs, but low reproduction costs (Hamilton, 2004; Hesmond- halgh, 2007).
Like other cultural firms, publishers cope with these challenges by building product portfolios where hits compensate for misses; by ‘formatting’ (using well-known genres or authors to signal a book’s qualities (Hamilton, 2004; Ryan, 1992); and by loosely con- trolling creators, but tightly managing distribution and marketing (Hesmondhalgh, 2007). Like other cultural industries, books have experienced a rapid rise in do-it-yourself pro- duction and circulation, thanks to ICTs which have lowered production, distribution and marketing costs (Lobato & Thomas, 2015). And, like other cultural industries, the new logics of web-based production and distribution have reshaped the way authors develop and market their cultural products (Nieborg & Poell, 2018). Oddly, however, cultural production scholars have rarely studied the labor of authors,
instead focusing on ‘hot jobs’ in fields like music, TV and film, fashion, blogging or dot- com work (Baym, 2018; Duffy, 2016; Hesmondhalgh & Baker, 2008; McRobbie, 2013, 2015; Neff, 2012; Neff et al., 2005; Ross, 2004). Radway’s classic Reading the Romance pro- vides invaluable insight into the business of romance, but focuses primarily on readers, not writers (Radway, 1991). More recently, Striphas’ The Late Age of Print analyzes the con- temporary book ecosystem, but emphasizes ‘book culture,’ not labor (Striphas, 2009).
Bridges’ outstanding study of book editors illuminates the gendered inequalities of flexible labor, but does not address authors (Bridges, 2018). And while media economists (Elberse, 2013; Greco, 1997; Waldfogel & Reimers, 2015; Whiteside, 1981) and organizational the- orists (Coser, Kadushin, & Powell, 1982; Powell, 1985; Thompson, 2012; Thornton, 2004) have dissected the inner workings of the book industry, these writers, too, typically gloss over authors’ labor.
Yet authors have long occupied the position that many workers find themselves in today: self-enterprising producers, dependent on powerful intermediaries (in authors’
cases, traditional publishers) to finance their projects, market their services, find customers and, generally, broker their piecemeal labor in return for an unpredictable payout. These conditions resemble those of many precarious workers, from Uber drivers to social media consultants to high tech contractors (Barley & Kunda, 2006; de Peuter, 2011; Malin &
Chandler, 2016; Scolere, Pruchniewska, & Duffy, 2018). All these workers – including authors – exemplify key facets of precarity (de Peuter, 2014; Gill & Pratt, 2008): often,
though not always, poorly paid, they have little access to health benefits. Even if well paid, they cannot predict how much they might earn from one month to the next. They are ‘fractalized’ and ‘mobile,’ working independently, typically with little peer
contact (de Peuter, 2011). They work flexible hours, but since their income depends on their hours, they feel constant pressure to work more. Unlike many newly precarious workers, however, authors have a long history coping with such conditions; thus, they may have lessons to teach workers in the risk regime.
Within book publishing, romance writers offer a compelling case because of their dis- proportionate success. Once a highly stigmatized genre, romance novels are now recog-
nized as a significant cultural force (Gill, 2006; Gill & Herdieckerhoff, 2006). Since the 1980s, romance has been one of the most economically powerful sectors of the book indus-
try. In 2015 romance generated 25% ($72 million) of the $286 million adult fiction market, far more than any other genre (Meyer & McLean, 2016). In addition, romance has led the way in digital publishing. From the launch of the Kindle in 2007 and the iPad in 2010,
romance e-books have significantly outsold other genres (Coker, 2015; Meyer & McLean, 2016). One popular, but specious, explanation for this disproportionate success suggests that because e-books do not display book covers, they tap new readers previously
put off by racy romance covers. While this explanation evokes the well-documented shaming of romance readers (Lois & Gregson, 2015), it relies on faulty assumptions and outdated clichés about contemporary romance covers, which today are far less likely to feature Fabio look-alikes in the clinch with buxom beauties. The cover of Fifty Shades of Grey, for instance, simply shows a silver tie on a black background. Another explanation argues that e-books allow voracious romance readers to download
a new read immediately after finishing a book (romance readers read more than four times as many books annually as the average American (Meyer & McLean, 2016; Per- rin, 2018)); however, this only brings us back to the same questions – how do they generate such enormous demand? What do romance writers know that other authors don’t?
Finally, romance writers offer an excellent opportunity for addressing gender omissions in cultural industries studies because romances are overwhelmingly written by women. A study of romance writers necessarily centers female workers and challenges androcentric
definitions of work or solidarity. In centering gender in creative labor discourse, I follow recent scholarship including Duffy’s study of social media workers (Duffy, 2017), McRob- bie’s work on the Berlin fashion industry (McRobbie, 2015) and Bridges’ work on editors (Bridges, 2018).
In summary, the high-profile success of romance in the age of e-books raises questions central to debates around ICTs, self-enterprise and cultural industries. Why did digital dis- ruption improve working conditions for romance writers, but not other authors? How can we measure changes in security? And how can we identify factors that may improve work- ing life under digital conditions?
Research questions and methods
To explore these issues, we must address two questions:
(1) Are these writers more or less precarious than before the digital disruptions of e-books and self-publishing?
Representativeness. RWA does not represent all romance writers: Analyzing four ran- domly-selected bestseller lists from USA Today in 2015 showed that only 44% of bestsel- ling romance authors listed belonged to RWA. In addition, those responding to the survey were more likely to belong to RWA’s internal networks for published authors; likewise, a smaller subsample of respondents who reported two years of income had written more manuscripts and pursued publication longer than other respondents. Thus, results cannot be generalized to the entire romance genre, but rather to those romance writers who join professional networks and have some degree of success (see Tables 1 and 2). In recognition of this limitation, this survey was supplemented by qualitative interviews with 41 romance authors (30 participated in and were drawn from the survey; 11 were
selected off self-published or traditional bestseller lists) and 37 editors and other publish- ing professionals. While this does not increase the representativeness of the survey, it does help include perspectives from outside the sample.
To develop a sample for income analysis, filters screened for authors who reported non- zero income for 2009, and any income – including zero income – for 2014 (n = 668). Excluding zero income earlier for 2009 (n = 186) ensured a population that was actively publishing before 2010, when e-books and digital self-publishing grew sharply; including zero income earners for 2014 (n = 23), allows us to follow this entire population, even if they cease to earn income. Respondents who reported zero income for both 2009 and 2014 were excluded (n = 63), on the assumption that they were not active during this period.
Survival bias. Discouraged authors may have failed to enter data for 2014, declined to complete the survey, or dropped out of RWA altogether. Thus, the sample may be biased toward more successful or optimistic authors. To help allay this concern, I obtained com-
parable income figures from a survey by the Authors’ Guild (2015). The Authors’ Guild survey was conducted in 2015 by research firm Codex and admi- nistered to all Authors’ Guild members; as in the romance survey, members were invited by email to take an online survey; respondents were entered in a drawing for $25 gift cards. As in the romance survey, respondents were asked to recall and report their book-related income for 2009 and 2014. In both surveys, ‘book-related’ income included advances, roy-
alties, subsidiary, film, audio and international rights and book prizes or awards (Hildick- Smith, 2016).
Table 1. Comparison of RWA survey response to RWA population. RWA member population (total population) n = 10,24 (RWA
Survey respondents Mean length of RWA membership 9 years 8 years (SD 8) n = 4110 Members of PAN (Published Authors’ Network, an RWA network for published authors)
30% 42% n = 4150
Members of PRO (a network for unpublished members who have completed one or more manuscripts)
21% 27% n = 4150
State of residence n = 4116 California 11% 13% Texas 9% 9% New York 7% 5% Florida 6% 7%
Table 2. Comparison of income subsample to all respondents. Analysis set All survey respondents Mean length RWA membership (SD) 15 years (8) n = 649a^ 8 years (8) n = 4110 Mean years pursuing publication (SD) 18 (9) n = 637a^ 10 (8) n = 4084 Mean number of manuscripts completed (SD) 15 (8) n = 649a^ 11 (17) n = 4014 Median income from romance writing 2014 (IQR) $10,100 ($1200, $52,812) n = 668 $3500 (IQR: $300, $25,000) n = 1977 aNot all members of the income sample set responded to this question.
The Codex survey included 111 questions, on income, marketing, and Authors’ Guild programming. 74% of those who began the survey completed it, yielding a sample of 1, respondents. On average, Authors’ Guild respondents were older and more educated than RWA respondents and were more likely to be male (see Table 3). At my request, Codex
applied the same filters used for the romance survey, looking at book-related income for authors who earned nonzero income in 2009 and reported either zero or nonzero income for 2014; the income analysis set included 1,095 writers. Given the similar methodology and analysis, it seems plausible to assume survival bias is constant between groups and that resulting income trends are meaningful.
Analysis. All 2009 figures were adjusted to 2014 dollars. Tests of significance comparing median income used the Wilcoxan signed rank test for paired nonparametric data. Tests
of significance comparing increase in percentage of authors earning benchmark amounts or holding day jobs used two-sample tests of proportion.
Section II: Romance writers became less precarious on all measures
All measures showed a decrease in insecurity after the rise of digital self- publishing.
Measure 1: Median income rose for all writers. Hybrids did best.
Median income from romance writing grew 73%, from $5828 (IQR $1135, $33,358) to $10,100 (IQR $1200, $52,812) (p < .001) (Table 4). In startling contrast, the Authors’ Guild survey, described above, showed an income decline of 42% during the same period, from $6924 in 2009 to $3750 in 2014 (Hildick-Smith, 2016). Thus, at a time when most authors became more economically precarious, romance authors became more secure. To be sure, romance writers’ median incomes were far lower than the US median income ($39,000 for women in 2014). But this is exactly the point. Authors and other cul- tural laborers have come to represent insecure workers precisely because most have never earned sustainable incomes from their cultural work. Rather, like a growing number of contemporary workers, they have long relied on multiple gigs and income streams to make ends meet.
Table 3. RWA vs. Authors’ guild respondents. RWA Authors’ Guild Age 50% older than 50 89% older than 50 Gender 98% women 62% women Graduate degree 61% 36%
8 C. LARSON
Traditional authors who added self-publishing tended to have different types of con- nections within the romance network than traditional authors who did not. Elsewhere, I have shown that traditional authors who became hybrids tended to seek advice from industry newcomers more often than did traditional authors who did not become hybrids (Larson, 2017). These observations raise further questions about the interaction of concentrated legacy
media firms and dispersed, independent media producers (Jenkins, 2004). Although beyond the scope of this paper, such questions suggest fertile directions for future work.
In any case, the data presented here point to the effectiveness of romance writers’ tactics in exploiting new ICTS to reduce precarity (specifically, dependence on old media firms) and develop resilience.
Measure 2: Romance writers became more likely to exceed US median income and $100,
Between 2009 and 2014, a greater percentage of writers exceeded two key benchmarks (Table 7). The ‘Virginia Woolf’ Index. In 1928, Virginia Woolf wrote that a woman author needs a room of her own and ‘ 500 pounds a year’ – a modest but stable income (500 pounds in 1928 equals about $34,000 in 2016). Today, the US median income provides a strikingly similar measure of modest security (the US median for women was $35,549 in 2009 and $39,621 in 2014, according to the US Bureau of Labor Statistics; because 98% of survey respondents were women, the US median for women is a more appropriate benchmark than overall median). From 2009 to 2014, the percentage of women romance writers exceeding this benchmark increased from 22% in 2009 to 31% in 2014 (n = 659) (p < .001) (Table 6). $100,000 a year. The percentage of respondents earning more than $100,000 a year nearly doubled, from 9% to 17% (p < .001).
Measure 3: More romance writers quit their day job
Between 2009 and 2014, the percentage of romance writers reporting ‘no other source of income’ rose from 39 to 45% (n = 660) (p < .05) (Table 5). During the same period, Authors’ Guild members saw no change in percentage of day-job holders (39% for both years) (n = 1095). (Table 7) Thus, for romance novelists, but not other authors, a career
Table 7. Percent of authors exceeding key benchmarks. 2009 2014 % (95 CI) % (95 CI) P value Female authors exceeding women’s median income (bounds) N = 659a
22 (19, 25) 31 (27 34) <0.
Authors exceeding $100,000 (bounds) n = 668
9 (7, 12) 17 (14,20) <0.
Authors with no source of income other than romance writing (bounds) n = 660 b
39 (41, 49) 45 (41, 49) p < 0.
a (^) Because 98% of survey respondents were women, the U.S. women’s median ($35,549 in 2009; $39,621 in 2014) provides a more accurate benchmark for this sample than the overall U.S. median. Therefore, respondents not self-identifying as
b women (n^ = 9) were excluded from this subsample (but included in all other analyses). Eight authors did not answer this question for both years and so are excluded.
as a modestly paid, full-time writer seems to be more available now than before the digital disruption.
Section III: Open-elite networks: Solidarity for the digital age?
On all measures, romance writers appeared less precarious in 2014 than five years earlier. But why? It would be easy to dismiss such findings as merely the popular tri- umph of ‘silly novels by lady novelists’ (Eliot, 2010), driven by romance readers’ rave- nous appetites.^1 But that would not explain why romance gained in market share over other genres after the digital disruption (Meyer & McLean, 2016). Rather, my inter- views with romance writers suggest that their gender-related status as literary outcasts in the 1970s and 1980s played a role in the creation of an unusual professional association – an ‘open-elite’ network that fostered the digital success of romance writers. In the 1970s, romance exploded as a bestselling genre. Canadian publisher Harlequin’s development of cheap mass-market paperbacks, sold in grocery and drug stores, boosted
romance sales past other genres, including westerns and science-fiction (Davis, 1984; Rad- way, 1991). US publishers launched their own paperback romance lines in the late 1970s; the genre quickly became a cash cow for the industry.
Despite the financial success of romance, its writers received – and still receive – little respect (Krentz, 1992; Lois & Gregson, 2015; Rodale, 2015). Major publications never reviewed romances; scholars dismissed romances as ‘non-books’ (Coser et al., 1982, p. 265), and other authors viewed romance writers with disdain. ‘In the 1970s, we would go to writing conferences, and other writers would say, “You don’t really belong here,”’ said Rita Clay Estrada, a founder of Romance Writers of Amer-
ica (interview, 20 October 2015). In 1979, Estrada attended a meeting of a genre fiction coalition which met regularly with New York publishers. The coalition’s authors rep-
resented mystery, thriller and science-fiction: Estrada asked the group to include romance writers. She was rebuffed: ‘The guys weren’t going to let us in. They said, “We’re here to discuss things that you girls don’t do.”’ Estrada enlisted the support of romance editor Vivian Stephens, one of the few African- American women in New York publishing at the time. They rallied dozens of other
authors to launch Romance Writers of America (RWA) in 1980. RWA’S first conference, held that year in Houston, drew 680 authors from around the country. This was an impressive turnout for a brand-new writers’ organization, exceeding the roughly 500 authors who attended the Mystery Writers of America annual dinner during that era (Hubin, 1970). Even today, the Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America draws only 300 – 400 to their annual Nebula weekend conference and awards (Cat Rambo, SFFWA president, interview, 24 February 2016).
After that first conference, local RWA chapters quickly formed and organized regional events. Initially, these writers maintained ties through letters, phone calls and in-person meetings; over time, new digital information and communication technologies (ICTs) became the dominant means of contact. More than half of survey respondents reported networking with peers online ‘at least once a month.’
From the start, RWA embraced a different model of professionalization than other writing associations. While only published authors could join other genre associations
viewed as a virtual guarantee of landing a publisher. Such practices created multiple channels for knowledge exchange between elites and newcomers. RWA was also
among the first writing conferences to institute author-editor appointments, where the RWA leadership – mostly established writers – would use their social capital to per- suade editors to meet with attendees. Although such ‘speed dating’ events are now commonplace at writing conferences, RWA instituted their event in 1984, long before many other conferences even existed (Allison Kelly, personal communication, 20 March 2019).
Open-elite networks and innovation
With its emphasis on fostering new writers, the founders of RWA unintentionally created what network theorists call an ‘open-elite network.’ Such networks provide open channels of access between elites and newcomers. Padgett points to intertwined marriage and business networks in renaissance Florence as an open-elite system allowing for social mobility (Padgett, 2010); Powell and Owen-Smith argue that open-elite relations among
biotech firms in the 1990s helped foster innovation and knowledge transfer after techno- logical disruption (Powell & Owen-Smith 2012). Members of such networks did not
become ‘ossified gatekeepers’ because they formed ‘multiple independent pathways’ link- ing newcomers and elites (Padgett & Powell, 2012, p. 271). An important part of RWA’s founding purpose was for experienced writers to teach the ropes to aspiring newcomers. Not surprisingly, then, RWA’s annual conference featured
published authors, speaking on panels and offering their guidance. Programs from RWA conferences show that as late as 2008, almost all conference speakers were published authors (Romance Writers of American, 2008, 2014).
In 2010, however, something surprising happened: the advice flow became two-way. That year, Apple and Amazon both announced that self-published authors would receive
70% of each sale (while traditionally published authors typically received 10 – 20%). At first, well-established romance writers paid little attention. But unpublished writers were intri- gued. Thanks to RWA’s emphasis on mentoring and contests, many had complete, well- edited manuscripts languishing on their hard drives. With nothing to lose, these authors self-published on Kindle or other platforms – some with astounding success. ‘I’d been trying to get published for 20 years,’ said Teresa Ragan of Sacramento (inter- view, 19 November 2014). In March 2011, she self-published six of her rejected manu- scripts. A year later, she’d sold 300,000 books and signed a contract with an Amazon imprint. As of 2015, she had made more than $2 million. Because Ragan and other newcomers enjoyed open channels of communication with elite writers, news of their success quickly spread to traditional authors. ‘I wasn’t taking self-publishing seriously until I saw a friend at the conference. She grabbed my arm and said, ‘I’m making money at self-publishing. Real money,’ said one bestselling novelist (interview, 26 April 2016). The open channels that had initially allowed newcomers to access elites now became two-way conduits. In 2013, RWA added a self-publishing track at its annual convention. By 2014, traditionally published authors no longer monopolized RWA conference panels; instead, about 10% of speakers were relative newcomers who had started out in self-pub- lishing, compared with none in 2008 (Romance Writers of America, 2008, 2014).
Today, the two-way information flow continues. ‘teach new members about craft, and how to plot, and pacing. They teach me about technology, about advertising and promot- ing myself online. It’s a give-and-take,’ said Macmeans.
Conclusion
The data presented here show that, contrary to the assumptions of cultural industries scholars, romance writers became less precarious after a digital disruption. I argue that the unusually close and diverse network formed by romance writers, working in an inten- sely gendered industry, helped accelerated knowledge transfer in a way that later poised the group for success. This network combined in-person and ICT-facilitated networking to strengthen ties among writers and facilitate knowledge transfer in a period of acceler- ated innovation. These data are necessarily limited: This is a voluntary, self-selected sample. Results do not represent non-RWA authors or less experienced RWA members. Future work more
deeply probing differences between romance and other genres would add nuance to these results. Differences in respondent demographics between RWA and the Authors’ Guild survey may explain some of the income differences. Most importantly, this paper presents only a snapshot of a disruption in progress; it is impossible to say if romance wri- ters’ upward trajectory will continue.
Nevertheless, this research offers the most in-depth survey to date of the professional practices and income of US fiction writers before and after the rise of digital publishing.^2 This paper adds to feminist discussions of digital labor by connecting women’s search for
solidarity in the face of bias to specific work practices. It also contributes to cultural indus- tries debates by proposing methods to quantify and explicate precarity, and by demon-
strating that cultural workers are not necessarily worse off after digital disruptions. To the contrary, the research presented here suggests that specific social tactics, enhanced by ICTs, can increase workers’ resilience, and create a more satisfying balance of creative and economic rewards, even under digital conditions.^3
Notes
- This paper adapts Hesmondhalgh’s definition of cultural industries as those dealing with “production and circulation of texts” (Hesmondhalgh 2007, p. 12).
- I generally employ “insecurity,” but use “precarity” when referring to literature that specifi- cally addresses the combination of unreliable pay, benefits, work assignments and pervasive insecurity rising from the risk regime.
- Other author studies include the Survey of Authors’ Income by the Authors Licensing and Collecting Agency in the UK (n=5500), and the forthcoming 2018 authors’ income survey from the Authors’ Guild of America (n=5067). Also, the ongoing Authors’ Earnings survey scrapes Amazon book rankings quarterly, and extrapolates income based on a reference table reported by self-selected authors.
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