A vile trade
Mar. 16th, 2007 08:33 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ladyofastolatIt was an innocent comment that started it all. Opening boxes of new children's books, I jokingly commented, "Is there a law that every second children's book must be illustrated either by Nick Sharratt or Tony Ross?"
Ah, I was so innocent then. There were so many things that I did not know. In my naiveté I believed that children's books were happy things, built on light and love and pink fluffy clouds. Little did I know that they are built on suffering, exploitation and pain. It is a terrible story I have to tell, in which I delve ever deeper into the dark and dreadful underbelly of the world of children's publishing.
This joking comment started me thinking, you see. How can a children's book illustrator be illustrating so many books? Barely a week goes by without a new Nick Sharratt. How can one man work so fast? The obvious answer is, of course, that he is in fact a series of clones made by technology harvested from crashed Templar UFOs, and kept secret from the people through a series of dastardly cover-ups. However, I am never one to be satisfied with the obvious answer, so I set out to prove that it was much more than that.
My working theory was that Nick Sharratt did not, in fact, exist, but was a name applied to a whole stable of illustrators working in the same style. A late-night encounter with an anxious-looking young man with ink-stained hands handed me proof that this practice does exist in publishing. "Franklin W Dixon," so-called creator of the Hardy Boys, was not a real person. This truth has never been revealed before. "Lucy Daniels" and "Daisy Meadows," "authors" of several current popular series of little girls, are likewise fictional. Adult publishing is not exempt from this practice, either. "Catherine Cookson" was in fact a co-operative of factory girls, who hired an actress to be the public face of their enterprise, and not long after I started my investigations, the world was rocked with those shocking revelations the trio of nameless soldiers who hid behind the name of Jane Austen.
This was revelation enough, but it was not to be the end. I was just composing my outraged letter to the press, when I got an email from someone who called themselves only "X." I consented to the meeting he suggested, and thus it was that I came face to face with a tall man with a truly shocking tale to tell. Nick Sharratt and Tony Ross were indeed real people, he told me, but people who were shockingly exploited. Their publishers chained them to their desks and forced them to churn out a book a day, or else go without their dinner. These books had to follow a precise formula. "Nick was beaten one day," my informant told me, "when he produced an expressive watercolour, painted from the heart, rather than the bright, child-friendly primary colours he is supposed to use forever. It is not art." He spat. "It is painting by numbers. Leonardo would be turning in his grave."
To this day, I do not know what it was that caused the warning bells to ring. Maybe it was the way the man's eyes were darting around, looking everywhere but at me. Maybe it was the splotches of bright primary colours on his fingers – splotches he was plainly trying to conceal.
Yes. X was indeed Nick Sharratt, and his revelation was a cleverly calculated lie. People were indeed being oppressed and enslaved in the cause of children's book illustration, but it was not the illustrators. The illustrators are the oppressors. The victims, my friends, are the children's book characters.
The alleged exploitation of adult book characters has already been brought to the world's attention, but largely dismissed. No-one has forgotten the famous case of Bond v. Fleming, the result of which I need not mention here. Adult book characters go into things with their eyes open, and sign a contract. Action heroes like Bond have to suffer various injuries in their line of work, but are more than adequately compensated with free access to the most beautiful women an author can imagine, and the adulation of boys all over the world. The last time an action hero job was advertised, more than ten thousand people applied.
Admittedly there are some hazards that come as a surprise even to the most willing of adult book characters. "The worst thing," says one character, who did not want to be identified, "was all those long and angst-ridden interior monologues that I had to indulge in at the most inappropriate times. Soon I found I was doing them off-duty, too. I'd pause for five minutes in the middle of ordering a drink from the bar, because the bubbles in the beer suddenly strike me as a perfect metaphor for my own life. It got me thrown out of more bars than I could mention, and it almost ruined my marriage."
Another character has a similar complaint. "All sorts of things could lead to a wordy flashback to my childhood. Until then, I'd always thought my childhood was happy, but apparently I was wrong. Anything could trigger a flashback – a stray smell, a snatch of music, a glimpse of some broccoli. It was… trying, to say the least."
When we come to minor characters, the story is far more grim, and desperately in need of further investigation. I heard rumours that people are being lured in from Eastern Europe and the Far East, drawn by the promise of a major part in a novel, only to be enslaved into a life-time as a minor character or extra. Even worse, some are being lured into the world of novels only to die on page two, thus setting up the mystery that the highly-paid main character will investigate.
But I will leave this to others to investigate. My concern today is with the plight of the children's book character. Why is there a difference, you are doubtless wondering. The difference is simple. Many children's book characters are animals, and animals are not covered by the laws that protect, in part, the rights of human fictional characters. Harry Potter has to sign a contract, but Peter Rabbit can be forced into a picture book without any contract at all, and indeed without consent. This, and only this, is the reason why so many children's books feature anthropomorphized animals. Pure and simple, it is a way of circumventing the law.
I was reduced to tears when I heard about the plight of poor Elmer the elephant, whose patchwork appearance is the result of dozens of painful operations. Poor little Spot the dog is forever being ripped from his mother, and forced to "get lost" behind cardboard flaps that are too small to fit him comfortably. And as for Kipper… I think this poem should be allowed to speak for itself.
When I was young and innocent,
I dreamed of fame and riches,
I'd save the world, I'd top the charts,
And mate with long-haired bitches,
Now I'm old and bitter,
I have fame beyond compare,
But all it brought was misery.
Does anybody care?
It all began one summer's day
When I was three months old.
A sad-eyed stranger came to stay,
An author, I was told.
He looked at every dog in town,
Then shouted out with glee.
"That's the one! I'm rich! I'm saved!"
The one he chose was... me!
He'd searched the whole world over
For a puppy with "the look" -
Friendly, cute and cuddly -
To star in his next book.
He'd failed to find a single one,
He'd sunk into despair.
I'd saved his life, he told me mum,
And bought me, then and there.
I romped upon the contract,
To sign it with my paw,
But didn't read a single word,
(Small print's such a bore.)
With wagging tale and joyous barks,
I left my childhood home.
(As well as fame, he'd promised me,
Some choccies and a bone)
We reached his house; he shut the door,
And locked it with a key.
He turned to me, "You're mine now, Butch,
You only work for me.
But first the name has got to go,
Butch will never do.
Let's see... Oh yes! You're Kipper now.
I think it's very you."
I started work next morning,
And posed throughout the day,
And then for weeks and endless months,
No breaks, no smiles, no pay.
He sold the book. "I'm free!" I thought,
But it was not to be.
"More Kipper!" cried the children.
More slavery for me.
The book became a series,
And then went on TV -
A hundred daily episodes,
And each one starring me
And Christmas cards, and cuddly toys -
They worked me to the ground.
They raked in cash, they lived like lords,
I never saw a pound.
He gave me drugs to keep me plump,
And drugs to keep me short.
I had to take two baths a day -
The soapy, painful sort.
A doctor with a scalpel
Sewed a smile upon my face,
And chopped off bits I needed
To perpetuate my race.
No-one does appeals for me,
No-one makes donations.
You help the poor and aged,
And famine-ridden nations.
If I were a human
Working twenty hours a day,
The unions would be marching,
And demanding better pay.
But I'm just a cuddly puppy,
In a children's picture book.
I'm nobody, I'm nothing,
Never worth a closer look,
Except to smile and say "how sweet,"
Then buy a book I'm in,
And give it to your children
With a fond and loving grin.
My story's not unusual,
There's hundreds just like me.
Children's books are built on pain,
And cruellest slavery.
Kept young and cute my means of drugs,
There's Maisy, Mog and Pooh,
Preston Pig, the Big Bad Wolf,
And Peter Rabbit, too.
If you care the slightest bit,
I beg you hear my plea.
Recruit your friends and riot
In the local library.
Tell the truth to toddlers,
About how their books are made,
Tear up all the picture books,
Stop this vilest trade.
As for me, it's over,
My time is nearly done,
My dreams have died, I have no hope,
Except this tiny one.
When I am dead and buried,
Would you write upon the stone,
"Here lies Butch, a simple dog,
Who lived, and now is gone."
Today is Red Nose today. Today we will be raising money for people who need help – for people overseas, and for adults and children in our society. So today my plea to you is: Remember the children's book characters. Please give your money to help them. And please lobby your MP to get this vile trade stopped.
[Note: I actually wrote this poem some years ago, when members of the public - and staff - were invited to wrote poems and pin them up on a display in the library. I never did pin mine up, though, because I thought everyone would look at me and say, "You're weird." Yesterday, at work, I made the above comment about Nick Sharratt and Tony Ross, and my mind went off on strange trains of thought, which ended up coinciding with the dimly-remembered poem about poor Kipper. And, yes, people will probably still look at me and say "You're weird", but hey...]
Ah, I was so innocent then. There were so many things that I did not know. In my naiveté I believed that children's books were happy things, built on light and love and pink fluffy clouds. Little did I know that they are built on suffering, exploitation and pain. It is a terrible story I have to tell, in which I delve ever deeper into the dark and dreadful underbelly of the world of children's publishing.
This joking comment started me thinking, you see. How can a children's book illustrator be illustrating so many books? Barely a week goes by without a new Nick Sharratt. How can one man work so fast? The obvious answer is, of course, that he is in fact a series of clones made by technology harvested from crashed Templar UFOs, and kept secret from the people through a series of dastardly cover-ups. However, I am never one to be satisfied with the obvious answer, so I set out to prove that it was much more than that.
My working theory was that Nick Sharratt did not, in fact, exist, but was a name applied to a whole stable of illustrators working in the same style. A late-night encounter with an anxious-looking young man with ink-stained hands handed me proof that this practice does exist in publishing. "Franklin W Dixon," so-called creator of the Hardy Boys, was not a real person. This truth has never been revealed before. "Lucy Daniels" and "Daisy Meadows," "authors" of several current popular series of little girls, are likewise fictional. Adult publishing is not exempt from this practice, either. "Catherine Cookson" was in fact a co-operative of factory girls, who hired an actress to be the public face of their enterprise, and not long after I started my investigations, the world was rocked with those shocking revelations the trio of nameless soldiers who hid behind the name of Jane Austen.
This was revelation enough, but it was not to be the end. I was just composing my outraged letter to the press, when I got an email from someone who called themselves only "X." I consented to the meeting he suggested, and thus it was that I came face to face with a tall man with a truly shocking tale to tell. Nick Sharratt and Tony Ross were indeed real people, he told me, but people who were shockingly exploited. Their publishers chained them to their desks and forced them to churn out a book a day, or else go without their dinner. These books had to follow a precise formula. "Nick was beaten one day," my informant told me, "when he produced an expressive watercolour, painted from the heart, rather than the bright, child-friendly primary colours he is supposed to use forever. It is not art." He spat. "It is painting by numbers. Leonardo would be turning in his grave."
To this day, I do not know what it was that caused the warning bells to ring. Maybe it was the way the man's eyes were darting around, looking everywhere but at me. Maybe it was the splotches of bright primary colours on his fingers – splotches he was plainly trying to conceal.
Yes. X was indeed Nick Sharratt, and his revelation was a cleverly calculated lie. People were indeed being oppressed and enslaved in the cause of children's book illustration, but it was not the illustrators. The illustrators are the oppressors. The victims, my friends, are the children's book characters.
The alleged exploitation of adult book characters has already been brought to the world's attention, but largely dismissed. No-one has forgotten the famous case of Bond v. Fleming, the result of which I need not mention here. Adult book characters go into things with their eyes open, and sign a contract. Action heroes like Bond have to suffer various injuries in their line of work, but are more than adequately compensated with free access to the most beautiful women an author can imagine, and the adulation of boys all over the world. The last time an action hero job was advertised, more than ten thousand people applied.
Admittedly there are some hazards that come as a surprise even to the most willing of adult book characters. "The worst thing," says one character, who did not want to be identified, "was all those long and angst-ridden interior monologues that I had to indulge in at the most inappropriate times. Soon I found I was doing them off-duty, too. I'd pause for five minutes in the middle of ordering a drink from the bar, because the bubbles in the beer suddenly strike me as a perfect metaphor for my own life. It got me thrown out of more bars than I could mention, and it almost ruined my marriage."
Another character has a similar complaint. "All sorts of things could lead to a wordy flashback to my childhood. Until then, I'd always thought my childhood was happy, but apparently I was wrong. Anything could trigger a flashback – a stray smell, a snatch of music, a glimpse of some broccoli. It was… trying, to say the least."
When we come to minor characters, the story is far more grim, and desperately in need of further investigation. I heard rumours that people are being lured in from Eastern Europe and the Far East, drawn by the promise of a major part in a novel, only to be enslaved into a life-time as a minor character or extra. Even worse, some are being lured into the world of novels only to die on page two, thus setting up the mystery that the highly-paid main character will investigate.
But I will leave this to others to investigate. My concern today is with the plight of the children's book character. Why is there a difference, you are doubtless wondering. The difference is simple. Many children's book characters are animals, and animals are not covered by the laws that protect, in part, the rights of human fictional characters. Harry Potter has to sign a contract, but Peter Rabbit can be forced into a picture book without any contract at all, and indeed without consent. This, and only this, is the reason why so many children's books feature anthropomorphized animals. Pure and simple, it is a way of circumventing the law.
I was reduced to tears when I heard about the plight of poor Elmer the elephant, whose patchwork appearance is the result of dozens of painful operations. Poor little Spot the dog is forever being ripped from his mother, and forced to "get lost" behind cardboard flaps that are too small to fit him comfortably. And as for Kipper… I think this poem should be allowed to speak for itself.
When I was young and innocent,
I dreamed of fame and riches,
I'd save the world, I'd top the charts,
And mate with long-haired bitches,
Now I'm old and bitter,
I have fame beyond compare,
But all it brought was misery.
Does anybody care?
It all began one summer's day
When I was three months old.
A sad-eyed stranger came to stay,
An author, I was told.
He looked at every dog in town,
Then shouted out with glee.
"That's the one! I'm rich! I'm saved!"
The one he chose was... me!
He'd searched the whole world over
For a puppy with "the look" -
Friendly, cute and cuddly -
To star in his next book.
He'd failed to find a single one,
He'd sunk into despair.
I'd saved his life, he told me mum,
And bought me, then and there.
I romped upon the contract,
To sign it with my paw,
But didn't read a single word,
(Small print's such a bore.)
With wagging tale and joyous barks,
I left my childhood home.
(As well as fame, he'd promised me,
Some choccies and a bone)
We reached his house; he shut the door,
And locked it with a key.
He turned to me, "You're mine now, Butch,
You only work for me.
But first the name has got to go,
Butch will never do.
Let's see... Oh yes! You're Kipper now.
I think it's very you."
I started work next morning,
And posed throughout the day,
And then for weeks and endless months,
No breaks, no smiles, no pay.
He sold the book. "I'm free!" I thought,
But it was not to be.
"More Kipper!" cried the children.
More slavery for me.
The book became a series,
And then went on TV -
A hundred daily episodes,
And each one starring me
And Christmas cards, and cuddly toys -
They worked me to the ground.
They raked in cash, they lived like lords,
I never saw a pound.
He gave me drugs to keep me plump,
And drugs to keep me short.
I had to take two baths a day -
The soapy, painful sort.
A doctor with a scalpel
Sewed a smile upon my face,
And chopped off bits I needed
To perpetuate my race.
No-one does appeals for me,
No-one makes donations.
You help the poor and aged,
And famine-ridden nations.
If I were a human
Working twenty hours a day,
The unions would be marching,
And demanding better pay.
But I'm just a cuddly puppy,
In a children's picture book.
I'm nobody, I'm nothing,
Never worth a closer look,
Except to smile and say "how sweet,"
Then buy a book I'm in,
And give it to your children
With a fond and loving grin.
My story's not unusual,
There's hundreds just like me.
Children's books are built on pain,
And cruellest slavery.
Kept young and cute my means of drugs,
There's Maisy, Mog and Pooh,
Preston Pig, the Big Bad Wolf,
And Peter Rabbit, too.
If you care the slightest bit,
I beg you hear my plea.
Recruit your friends and riot
In the local library.
Tell the truth to toddlers,
About how their books are made,
Tear up all the picture books,
Stop this vilest trade.
As for me, it's over,
My time is nearly done,
My dreams have died, I have no hope,
Except this tiny one.
When I am dead and buried,
Would you write upon the stone,
"Here lies Butch, a simple dog,
Who lived, and now is gone."
Today is Red Nose today. Today we will be raising money for people who need help – for people overseas, and for adults and children in our society. So today my plea to you is: Remember the children's book characters. Please give your money to help them. And please lobby your MP to get this vile trade stopped.
[Note: I actually wrote this poem some years ago, when members of the public - and staff - were invited to wrote poems and pin them up on a display in the library. I never did pin mine up, though, because I thought everyone would look at me and say, "You're weird." Yesterday, at work, I made the above comment about Nick Sharratt and Tony Ross, and my mind went off on strange trains of thought, which ended up coinciding with the dimly-remembered poem about poor Kipper. And, yes, people will probably still look at me and say "You're weird", but hey...]
