Today in People With Book Deals Who Aren’t You
Sylvia Day, who’s written 20 novels in her (10 year) career but only achieved sales success after her last title got a contact high from Fifty Shades of Gray, just inked an eight-figure contract for her next series. (Everything is a series now.) The following paragraph is the novelist version of a fancy sports car pulling up to a members-only club:
“We sat down for drinks, and she said, ‘Let me just put it on the table: I want to publish you,’” said Ms. Day, who lives in Las Vegas but keeps a pied-à-terre on the Upper West Side of Manhattan.
Rough life. The Times article, which all but states that her check should be written to E.L. James (whose checks should be written to Stephanie Meyer), goes on to remind god and everybody that the whole 50 Shades thing took a U-turn to the dump a while ago: charities are literally overflowing with unwanted copies, while chop shops have been churning out knock-offs for over a year now at a minute fraction of Day’s paycheck.
Hey, Sylvia Day could be our generation’s Elizabeth Bowen for all I know. But the $10 million-plus is explicitly responding to the trend, not her writing. That seems like an extraordinary amount of money to plunk down in the hope that lightning strikes the same tree twice, especially given the number of other trees it could have bought.