Someone Must Be Tracking This Stuff...
Today I have the honour of welcoming wonderful writer, Angel Martinez onto my blog. Angel is going to be discussing the growth in the romance novel industry and sharing an excerpt from her latest book Fortune's Sharp Adversity. So, without further adieu...
Someone Must Be Tracking This Stuff…
All right, fine, I'm a wordsmith. I don't often deal in statistics if I can avoid them. But writers are also independent contractors and entrepreneurs to one degree or another, so running into hard numbers from time to time becomes unavoidable.
Romance is booming, both in raw sales and in market share. RWA states that romance outstrips every other category of book out there, devouring a staggering 49% of the fiction market share and 13% of the overall publishing marketplace. While sales of romance novels in sheer dollars have remained static over the past six years, (in the 3.8 to 4 billion dollar range annually) this may have more to do with the dropping costs associated with e-markets than recession pressures. Sales volumes have certainly increased since the number of Americans reading romance has nearly doubled in the last ten years. (http://www.rwa.org/cs/readership_stats for the chart)
We also know, if only through the proliferation of titles and the sudden willingness of mainstream publishers to accept submissions, that the GLBT romance market, and particularly gay fiction, is growing at an astounding rate.
But wait, Angel, you had all sorts of hard numbers before – can you get any more specific?
Not really. I'm having a terrible time finding solid statistics on the growth of gay romance novels. Someone must be tracking this stuff, but it's not an easy find. Yes, you'll find stats on readers (women vs. men, how old, where they live, etc.) You'll find stats on how many writers are women and how many men. But the year over year comparison sales charts are missing, the annual figures, the growth in readership vs. dollars. I had hoped to include something for this article and found…nothing.
RRW must have something, I thought, or Lambda Literary, or some stat geek on Wiki-something? Nope. Not that I could find, which had me sitting here blinking in shock. This is one of the most talked about and, to all indications, swiftly growing pieces of the market. Where are the numbers?
So. Perhaps I'm just impatient and it takes a few years to gather the data. Perhaps the charts and graphs are out there and I'm merely search-blind. Wouldn't be the first time. If anyone out there sees them, let me know. My inner stat geek yearns for it – and I'm willing to bet I'm not the only one.
Angel Martinez writes (what else?) M/M Romance in several sub-sub genres. She can be found in the dark recesses of her brain and at Angel Martinez: Erotic Fiction for the Hungry Mind. Her latest, a M/M Historical Fantasy set in 1288 Amiens, released 8/14/11 at Amber Allure:
Fortune's Sharp Adversity http://www.amberquill.com/AmberAllure/FortunesSharpAdversity.html
Blurb:
A young nobleman living atop an unfinished tower is odd enough. One who talks to stone gargoyles is truly strange…
Excerpt:
Philippe rose with the priests at Matins and joined them in their prayers. Spring was nearly over and the sun left his bed early. Some of the priests grumbled, but for Philippe, it meant more hours of daylight to work.
After Father Anseau brought him a round of good, hard rye bread and a flask of ale for the day, he debated going to work in only his linen braies and tunic. The morning still held a definite chill, though. Reluctantly, he pulled on the woolen hose as well. He could always remove them in the warmth of the afternoon; even if getting them untied and pulled off on the scaffolding was clumsy.
"You should work on the quatrefoils today, my boy," Father Gervais urged him when he reached the great doorways that morning. "Give the leg some rest. See here, there is the Pisces relief, which should be done in cerulean and verdigris, or the Leo, for which you could use the saffron you so adore."
Philippe nodded, lips pursed. "True. But they will still be here when the weather is hot, eh? I should finish the scaffold work before it gets so hot that I suffocate up there."
"A single day would make little difference."
"One would think you worried over me," Philippe said with a grin and won a half-hearted swat from the old man.
Despite his careful arguments, or perhaps because of them, the day turned unseasonably hot. By mid-afternoon, he had struggled out of hose, shirt, and tunic to work in nothing but his braies and work apron. He lost one of the chausses over the side of the scaffold in the struggle. It fluttered to the ground like a banner ripped from the battlements by a conquering army.
At sunset, he climbed back down, shaking from exhaustion and shivering from the sudden evening chill on his sweat-damp skin. Father Gervais had been right about taking a day's respite from the scaffold, but he wasn't about to tell the old priest that. He stripped off the apron and pulled his tunic back over his head, the weight of wool heavenly against his skin. Too tired to bother with the hose, he limped barefoot inside to put away his bag.
Tired as he was, he found his gaze drawn down the nave toward the altar. The man in the scarlet cloak knelt farther in this time, leaning against one of the huge columnar bundles at the meeting of nave and transept. He had managed an appearance of peace the previous evening, but now he projected only abject misery. His back bowed, he seemed to have his face buried in his hands. Father Gervais had said he had never seen the man's face. Perhaps it was disfigured, a result of accident or pox or plague.
Even from a distance, Philippe thought he saw the broad shoulders shaking.
He weeps?
With a frown, Philippe approached cautiously. He tried to remind himself that this was none of his business. But how could he simply walk by a man in such obvious pain.
"Monsieur?" He reached out to touch the man's shoulder, fingers hesitating over the fine cloth. "Are you well, monsieur? Do you need help?"
The soft baritone that answered him crackled with icy rage, "Leave me be, païsant. My affairs are none of yours."
Philippe withdrew his hand but refused to retreat. "I'm no country farmer, monsieur, but a painter working here. You seemed in distress. It only seemed right to offer assistance."
The head turned, giving Philippe a hint of a strong, straight nose. Eyes glinted from deep within the hood's cowl, flicking up and down his frame. "And how would a crippled painter help? Go away. There is no assistance the likes of you could offer me."
The cold dismissal stung. Would you discount me so quickly if I were a whole man? "As you wish, monsieur."
He nearly added that the refusal need not have been so rude, but such things were best not said to noblemen. With a deft turn around his crutch, he moved back up the nave and left the surly man alone in the confines of his beautiful scarlet cloak. Someone with such fine clothes surely has funds aplenty, and someone with such wealth can't truly understand suffering. He's probably never gone without a meal or a roof. Most likely sulking over some woman who won't have him.
Philippe shook his head to banish such unkind thoughts. Who but the man himself knew the nature and depth of his suffering? And if it was merely love gone wrong, what of it? Love could be crueler than any winter wind, cut sharper than the worst hunger pangs. Especially certain kinds of love…
He hobbled down the stairs under the cathedral's south tower to store his tools. Construction had begun on the tower but funds ebbed and flowed for the project. At the moment, a monetary drought was in progress. The tower had only reached the level of the gallery of kings, but someday there would be two completed towers, soaring and magnificent, to flank the glorious rose window.
As he climbed back up the winding stair, he heard booted footsteps on the stone steps above. Up the boots went, toward the top of the unfinished tower. When he turned onto the landing of the main floor, he caught a flash of scarlet before it vanished up the curve of staircase.
Oh, no…
He could imagine only one purpose for which a man might venture up an unfinished tower after dark. Ignoring the pain in his leg, he hurried after, his heart pounding, hoping against all sane reason that he would not be too late.
Wow doesn't that sound great? Fortune's Sharp Adversity is on my to-read list and I have no doubt it will be as great a read as Angel's other books.
Thanks again Angel for taking the time to be here today!
Someone Must Be Tracking This Stuff…
All right, fine, I'm a wordsmith. I don't often deal in statistics if I can avoid them. But writers are also independent contractors and entrepreneurs to one degree or another, so running into hard numbers from time to time becomes unavoidable.
Romance is booming, both in raw sales and in market share. RWA states that romance outstrips every other category of book out there, devouring a staggering 49% of the fiction market share and 13% of the overall publishing marketplace. While sales of romance novels in sheer dollars have remained static over the past six years, (in the 3.8 to 4 billion dollar range annually) this may have more to do with the dropping costs associated with e-markets than recession pressures. Sales volumes have certainly increased since the number of Americans reading romance has nearly doubled in the last ten years. (http://www.rwa.org/cs/readership_stats for the chart)
We also know, if only through the proliferation of titles and the sudden willingness of mainstream publishers to accept submissions, that the GLBT romance market, and particularly gay fiction, is growing at an astounding rate.
But wait, Angel, you had all sorts of hard numbers before – can you get any more specific?
Not really. I'm having a terrible time finding solid statistics on the growth of gay romance novels. Someone must be tracking this stuff, but it's not an easy find. Yes, you'll find stats on readers (women vs. men, how old, where they live, etc.) You'll find stats on how many writers are women and how many men. But the year over year comparison sales charts are missing, the annual figures, the growth in readership vs. dollars. I had hoped to include something for this article and found…nothing.
RRW must have something, I thought, or Lambda Literary, or some stat geek on Wiki-something? Nope. Not that I could find, which had me sitting here blinking in shock. This is one of the most talked about and, to all indications, swiftly growing pieces of the market. Where are the numbers?
So. Perhaps I'm just impatient and it takes a few years to gather the data. Perhaps the charts and graphs are out there and I'm merely search-blind. Wouldn't be the first time. If anyone out there sees them, let me know. My inner stat geek yearns for it – and I'm willing to bet I'm not the only one.
Angel Martinez writes (what else?) M/M Romance in several sub-sub genres. She can be found in the dark recesses of her brain and at Angel Martinez: Erotic Fiction for the Hungry Mind. Her latest, a M/M Historical Fantasy set in 1288 Amiens, released 8/14/11 at Amber Allure:
Fortune's Sharp Adversity http://www.amberquill.com/AmberAllure/FortunesSharpAdversity.html
Blurb:
A young nobleman living atop an unfinished tower is odd enough. One who talks to stone gargoyles is truly strange…
Excerpt:
Philippe rose with the priests at Matins and joined them in their prayers. Spring was nearly over and the sun left his bed early. Some of the priests grumbled, but for Philippe, it meant more hours of daylight to work.
After Father Anseau brought him a round of good, hard rye bread and a flask of ale for the day, he debated going to work in only his linen braies and tunic. The morning still held a definite chill, though. Reluctantly, he pulled on the woolen hose as well. He could always remove them in the warmth of the afternoon; even if getting them untied and pulled off on the scaffolding was clumsy.
"You should work on the quatrefoils today, my boy," Father Gervais urged him when he reached the great doorways that morning. "Give the leg some rest. See here, there is the Pisces relief, which should be done in cerulean and verdigris, or the Leo, for which you could use the saffron you so adore."
Philippe nodded, lips pursed. "True. But they will still be here when the weather is hot, eh? I should finish the scaffold work before it gets so hot that I suffocate up there."
"A single day would make little difference."
"One would think you worried over me," Philippe said with a grin and won a half-hearted swat from the old man.
Despite his careful arguments, or perhaps because of them, the day turned unseasonably hot. By mid-afternoon, he had struggled out of hose, shirt, and tunic to work in nothing but his braies and work apron. He lost one of the chausses over the side of the scaffold in the struggle. It fluttered to the ground like a banner ripped from the battlements by a conquering army.
At sunset, he climbed back down, shaking from exhaustion and shivering from the sudden evening chill on his sweat-damp skin. Father Gervais had been right about taking a day's respite from the scaffold, but he wasn't about to tell the old priest that. He stripped off the apron and pulled his tunic back over his head, the weight of wool heavenly against his skin. Too tired to bother with the hose, he limped barefoot inside to put away his bag.
Tired as he was, he found his gaze drawn down the nave toward the altar. The man in the scarlet cloak knelt farther in this time, leaning against one of the huge columnar bundles at the meeting of nave and transept. He had managed an appearance of peace the previous evening, but now he projected only abject misery. His back bowed, he seemed to have his face buried in his hands. Father Gervais had said he had never seen the man's face. Perhaps it was disfigured, a result of accident or pox or plague.
Even from a distance, Philippe thought he saw the broad shoulders shaking.
He weeps?
With a frown, Philippe approached cautiously. He tried to remind himself that this was none of his business. But how could he simply walk by a man in such obvious pain.
"Monsieur?" He reached out to touch the man's shoulder, fingers hesitating over the fine cloth. "Are you well, monsieur? Do you need help?"
The soft baritone that answered him crackled with icy rage, "Leave me be, païsant. My affairs are none of yours."
Philippe withdrew his hand but refused to retreat. "I'm no country farmer, monsieur, but a painter working here. You seemed in distress. It only seemed right to offer assistance."
The head turned, giving Philippe a hint of a strong, straight nose. Eyes glinted from deep within the hood's cowl, flicking up and down his frame. "And how would a crippled painter help? Go away. There is no assistance the likes of you could offer me."
The cold dismissal stung. Would you discount me so quickly if I were a whole man? "As you wish, monsieur."
He nearly added that the refusal need not have been so rude, but such things were best not said to noblemen. With a deft turn around his crutch, he moved back up the nave and left the surly man alone in the confines of his beautiful scarlet cloak. Someone with such fine clothes surely has funds aplenty, and someone with such wealth can't truly understand suffering. He's probably never gone without a meal or a roof. Most likely sulking over some woman who won't have him.
Philippe shook his head to banish such unkind thoughts. Who but the man himself knew the nature and depth of his suffering? And if it was merely love gone wrong, what of it? Love could be crueler than any winter wind, cut sharper than the worst hunger pangs. Especially certain kinds of love…
He hobbled down the stairs under the cathedral's south tower to store his tools. Construction had begun on the tower but funds ebbed and flowed for the project. At the moment, a monetary drought was in progress. The tower had only reached the level of the gallery of kings, but someday there would be two completed towers, soaring and magnificent, to flank the glorious rose window.
As he climbed back up the winding stair, he heard booted footsteps on the stone steps above. Up the boots went, toward the top of the unfinished tower. When he turned onto the landing of the main floor, he caught a flash of scarlet before it vanished up the curve of staircase.
Oh, no…
He could imagine only one purpose for which a man might venture up an unfinished tower after dark. Ignoring the pain in his leg, he hurried after, his heart pounding, hoping against all sane reason that he would not be too late.
Wow doesn't that sound great? Fortune's Sharp Adversity is on my to-read list and I have no doubt it will be as great a read as Angel's other books.
Thanks again Angel for taking the time to be here today!
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