The semantic field of editorial marketing is that of hyperbole. The pages of books are filled with sentences loaded with adjectives repeated ad nauseam: “moving”, “addictive”, “fast”, “brutal”… The cover letters of new releases are promotional texts whose mission is to convince the public that they should buy this novel and not the one in the competition, which is right next to it, on the new releases table in the bookstore. But sometimes the summary of the competing novel is crowned with a paragraph of practically identical form to that of all the others, and there comes a time when it is difficult to get over the idea that in reality we are being sold clones of novels.
Distinguishing one book from another is as difficult as distinguishing a replicant from a human with the naked eye. I have wondered many times if it were possible to escape it, almost as often as I have wondered to what extent we have given up the ability to reinvent ourselves. Among so many publishing phenomena – I do not know how many are presented to us each year – dozens of sentences that report hundreds of thousands of copies sold, and piles strategically placed in the hot spots of bookstores, magic happens on very rare occasions.
I believe in the idea that smart marketing is precision marketing. The one that designs a specific advertisement for a specific work. When this is combined with an exquisite product, it opens up a very small possibility that a miracle will happen. And the editorial miracle of this 2024 is called Black water. The Blackie Books ad campaign worked like a discreet drop of water seeping into the ground. This mine that is being born there without you even knowing it. And before we knew it, the runoff turned out to be the flow of the rivers of Perdido and everyone was soaked.
The initial promotional material for the series consisted of two black cards with virtually no text. One of them read: “BLACKWATER. A novel in six episodes. An unprecedented publishing phenomenon. Grand launch 7.2. 2024.” On the other, the word BLACKWATER printed in gold on black in giant letters. On the obverse, the following sentence: “The epic saga of the Caskey family. A novel in six parts, from February to April. It prospectus It was an invitation to discover the world of Blackwater with a razor-sharp idea: “The serial novel by Stephen King’s master.” In King’s words: “Michael McDowell: my friend, my teacher. By far the best of us all: the best writer in popular literature. BOOM! It’s already done.”
And here is the editorial marketing that brings things full circle by defining Michael McDowell (1950 – 1999) as a true literary monster and launches several ideas in his biography: screenwriter, Beetroot juice, Nightmare Before Christmas, Alfred Hitchcock presentsauthor of gothic horror novels, under a pseudonym… I’m already there. I want to know how this man wrote. But I especially want to read these novels in paperback with these perfect covers by Pedro Oyarbide, become amphibious and dive into the waters of Perdido.
The simultaneous launch of the first two novels, knowing that there were four more in the publisher’s warehouses with a release date set, made me think that this was a muscular exercise on the part of Blackie Books. Had they printed the entire saga in paperback? Was this decision linked to MacDowell’s own choice, who had chosen the pocket book as a means of disseminating your works? Again, the information prospectus throwing darts at me: “In 1983, he published what is undoubtedly his masterpiece: BLACWATER. And he insisted that it be published in six installments, one per month. It was a huge success.” But,overwhelming in the sense that it blew up the sales charts of the time, or overwhelming in the sense that you have a nerve that contracts in your chest and says, “Come on, start reading now”?
This is how Blackie Books planted the seed. How it made many of us want to start reading the saga. The rest – which is actually what is crucial to move from one book to the next – was done by McDowell. And then I understood why Stephen King called him a master, why the publishing house called him a literary monster, why he was so successful in France and Italy. And here again, the noses of Blackie’s editors and they stay alert and do not lose sight of how the books behave in other markets, and where lies what differentiates one literary work from another. The search for the miracle.
I started The flood, the first of the volumes of the saga, with expectations in the sky. But my passionate temperament plays tricks on me. There are so many occasions when I have felt frustrated because a literary work does not meet what I expect of it, that it could happen to me again and I would not blink. I would close the first volume with a disappointing “meh”, and something else. But it happened that in The flood I discovered that the waters of Perdido and Blackwater, the two rivers that mark the character of an Alabama town, had overflowed, flooding everything.
Bray Sugarwhite rows a boat led by Oscar Caskey. They search for all the survivors. The scale of the disaster suggests that almost everyone has lost all their belongings and that they have to start over. Then they find a woman named Elinor sitting on a bed in the Osceola Hotel. The water trail reaches almost to the ceiling and it happened a few days ago. How did this stranger survive? What did he eat? Why didn’t he drown? To all the questions Oscar asks her, Elinor answers with answers that make the mystery of her presence in Lost and her past mark this narrative tension that will settle throughout the saga like a tenant who breaks in and never leaves.
Because this is what is proposed in the first chapter of The flood. From there, the saga just keeps growing. The atmosphere that MacDowell creates makes you hold your breath, everything always seems about to explode, but it never does. Or so you think, until suddenly something happens that makes you get up from your chair, put your hands on your head and repeat to yourself: “Indeed, you are a monster.”
I was captivated by the supernatural element that runs through the saga, the matriarchy that MacDowell proposes, the character of Elinor, her very tense relationship with Mary-Love, the relationships between the inhabitants of Perdido. The city witness to all the intrigues that intersect, overlap and follow one another. A family that multiplies and where roles are established, vices are inherited, relationships are contaminated because the human being is an inexhaustible source of defects and betrayals. And the ghosts, which manifest themselves when we consider that perhaps justice was not done to them when they were on the other side.
I rushed to Blackwater, repeating under my breath: “Let it be exactly as it seems, please.” And it was. And now what? Now orphaned, because I said goodbye to the Caskey family and Perdido months ago, but how wonderful it is to be able to spread the passion for a saga that is a fucking prodigy.
