One of my closest friends is a publisher. Whenever we meet or talk, he never fails to mention, with a hint of sarcasm, how some writer is demanding royalties—“This author asked for 10% royalty,” he chuckles, as if it’s a criminal offense to expect fair compensation for one’s creative work.
His philosophy is simple: writers should take a one-time payment and avoid the “headache” of royalty altogether. “Royalties might make sense for school textbooks,” he says, “but for general literature, it’s an unnecessary nuisance.” I’ve tried reasoning with him—if books sell, why shouldn’t the writer receive their rightful share? But he insists literature doesn’t sell anymore unless wrapped in sensationalism. “Libraries take commissions, margins are slim, and after all that, there’s nothing left to pay the author,” he argues.
Strangely, it appears the entire margin of profit vanishes the moment the author’s royalty enters the equation. It's as if the writer's rightful due is the final straw before profits turn to losses.
Another friend of mine, a true literary soul (though I’m unsure if he considers me a friend), recently visited. He always seems uncomfortable in my company—perhaps he wonders why he needs to come to me at all. But, since the favor is his, he comes anyway. He is usually enveloped in the mist of deep literature, but that day, he had left all poetic pretense at home.
With a rather innocent tone, he asked, “Sharma ji, what exactly is this 'royalty' everyone talks about?”
I was taken aback. I looked at him and said, “Where did you even hear that word? I thought your dictionary was untouched by such commercial terminology. This is something reserved for the so-called 'market writers'. What use do you have for it?”
“Come on, stop joking,” he replied, “just tell me how one earns it.”
I explained, “It’s not as easy as it sounds. First, you write the book. Then comes the exhausting task of getting it published. After that, if—by some miracle—it sells, and the publisher is kind-hearted enough, whatever little he hands over while clenching his fist tightly is what we call royalty.”
“But I’ve heard you can get up to 10%,” he persisted.
“I do get 10%,” I admitted, “but you need to gauge your market value first. If people know your name and want to read you, then yes, you might earn royalties. But whatever you do, don’t go asking my dear publisher friend for it. He avoids people who even mention the word. Better try your luck with someone else.”
As I laughed at my own warning, he suddenly grew alert. “Why did you laugh?”
I said, “Hearing the word ‘royalty’ from your lips was just… unexpected.”
“Why? Can’t I claim royalties?”
“Of course you can,” I replied. “But haven’t you always claimed to write for the sake of literature? Why drag yourself into this worldly mess now?”