We don’t have to suffer

Growing up in Accrington, visiting “indie bookshops” was an alien concept. It was a whole other world from the local library that I frequented religiously every weekend with my father. I’ve fond memories of bundling books home to read under my duvet, losing myself in the worlds of authors such as Jeremy Strong, Malorie Blackman and the late Cathy MacPhail, to name just a few.

Being the youngest of five children, hand-me-downs were commonplace. My dad worked in the local factory of a former textiles mill town, creating parts for Japanese cars in the 1980s and ’90s. Though books were a superb way to pass time, it was my multilingual father reading to me as a child that made mine a joyous upbringing and meant that the world of books was central to my childhood.

Later, as an undergraduate at the University of Kent, I went on my own journey of discovery by embarking on a year abroad in Prague. I then leaped across continents to study Mandarin on a scholarship and secured my first internship for a corporate publisher. My life opportunities were due to a hard work ethic instilled by my immigrant parents.

I never thought I’d obtain the secret pass required to walk the illustrious corridors of the publishing industry. For a start, my university careers advisor felt I wasn’t the type of person who would be welcomed by and in the industry. They warned, “you’ve no connections so it will be difficult if not entirely impossible.” Perhaps to save me from my own inevitable disappointment. Spurred on by their words, I rolled up my sleeves and thought, “challenge accepted”—I eventually landed my first role a mere 14 months later. Only, it required obtaining an internship in another continent and taking a year out of my life in the UK to prove I was worthy to join the ranks of publishing greatness. However, it was everything I didn’t want from a role. Being at a large corporate publisher, it was the constant belittling and being made to feel inferior from fellow colleagues at every given opportunity that made me want to leave sooner rather than later. I was mocked and demeaned for my accent. I was made aware almost instantly that alcohol would be a central feature of workplace social occasions and celebrations. A Top 10 Sunday Times bestseller achievement? You bet it required celebrating with “bubbles and cake”. As a teetotaler, it was just another thing alongside constant interrogation about why I didn’t drink and expectations from my peers to meet outside of work in environments plied with free booze.

The phrase “pay yourself in books” became a routine ringtone in one’s ear. “You don’t work in publishing for the money,” said one assistant when explaining that with a month’s salary you would be lucky to pay rent and afford anything other than baked beans on toast. If you didn’t already have a direct contact, there is no way you would be able to make it. I am grateful to the Spare Room Project, and my hosts that took me under their wing. Without the kindness of industry folk, I’d never be where I am today.

Recently, the talented folk that have taken a step back—be it due to mental health reasons or to travel—have prioritised their health and realised their worth

We know that there’s an issue around underpaying staff. It’s this expectation to “put up" and shut up, because-we suffered so now you must too. Although we would tell ourselves (and others) that the product is one we are all emotionally connected to and revere, was it worth being on this career path for? I had enough tumbles in my early career to wonder if, in this homogenous-by-design industry, anyone who didn’t adhere to the norm would be deemed too much of a loose cannon, or wanting to change too much too swiftly. That the process takes time, and we ought to wait, to suffer, for a few years more.

Recently, the talented folk that have taken a step back—be it due to mental health reasons or to travel—have prioritised their health and realised their worth. It is something I am in awe of. Some have spoken about mishandling by bigger corporates; a life of misery, loneliness and being reduced to a payroll number in inhuman practices that infiltrated every element of the publishing ecosystem. Why is it that talented folk, often those on the margins, are driven to leave? We must interrogate the way we present ourselves to those not often seen, or allowed access, beyond a frankly flawed “BAME scheme”.

We mustn’t knock those who have made strides: Hachette and HarperCollins have set up regional offices in a plethora of cities across the UK. Collectively, more must be done to ensure that we aren’t simply importing cushy folk who want to move away from the capital for a lovely new lease of life to raise children “away from the [insert London stereotype of horrifying violence]”. I would like to see more employment of local talent in regional areas and, vitally, a demystified industry that employees want to work in, as opposed to assuming it is for a privileged handful.

Finally, the #BookJobTransparency campaign to state salaries has challenged the upper hand that hiring companies have in recruitment. We must not continue to treat money as a dirty word in our industry; we should be creating an environment not of secrecy and awful practices (as explored by the Publishing Tea/xoxopublishing social media accounts), but one of nurturing people to work for years, if not decades, in a place where they can spread the message and love of books we all have instilled in us—and which has led us all to work in this wonderful world of books.