Why I can't donate a book to your kid's school auction

Some misconceptions about authorial book supply

They arrive in my inbox with some frequency: emails from someone I don’t know in another state who wants me to donate a signed book to their school’s fundraising auction.

Sometimes they ask for a specific book. More often, it’s a form email which has probably been sent to dozens of authors via their websites. Recently, someone wanted me to donate 30 copies to their cause! Apparently they think I’m in much better physical shape than I am, because even if I had 30 books sitting around, lugging that box down my stairs and to the post office would land me in physical therapy for months.

The thing is, I can’t fault a school for trying. As the child of a mom who spent a chunk of her inadequate teaching income on supplies for her ESL students, as an author who has visited profoundly underfunded schools, I know very well that schools don’t have money to spare. It’s a crime that we apparently have plenty of funds for billionaire tax breaks and detention centers, but not for school supplies or arts education.

And still, I say no (never without a twinge of guilt). And this is why.

I believe these requests are based on several misconceptions:

1. The idea that all authors are rolling in dough.

2. The idea that all authors have hundreds of books sitting in a garage just waiting to be shipped off to deserving schools.

3. The idea that books can magic themselves across the country.

Let’s look at each of these in turn:

1. We’re not. A very few are, but most of us are not. I will likely do another post about The Financial Thing, but just as a frame of reference: As a traditionally-published picture book author, if I write a picture book that sells for $20, I receive 85 cents per copy sold. That’s 5% of the cover price, less my agent’s 15%. And that’s only if it’s a normal sale, not a discounted one to book fairs, etc. (which many are).

   
   If a picture book sells 10,000 copies in the first year, that’s pretty respectable in my eyes. And authors get the money in twice-yearly chunks, and only after their advance earns out. Nearly every author I know relies on a day job or a solvent spouse, ideally one who has medical benefits. (Some of us forgot to get those things; oops.)
   

2. On publication, I generally get 20 free copies of my book. Yay! I put one on my shelf to admire. I put three in my storage locker downstairs, so I’ll have copies if the book goes out of print. I send one to the Kerlan Collection at the University of Minnesota, which has kindly offered to house the Deborah Underwood Archives (which I suspect will go untouched by researchers for decades, then perish in an asteroid hit, but hey! the stuff is out of my storage room!).
   
   Some copies go to the critique pals who helped make the book. Some go to relatives and friends. When I do a school visit, I like to bring along a copy for the school’s library if I have one.
   
   Occasionally there are stray copies left. Recently I collected those and offered them to local friends in exchange for donations to The Trevor Project. I’m happy to say we raised nearly $1,000, an amount I wouldn’t have been able to donate directly myself.
   
   After the free books are gone, authors must buy any additional copies from the publisher, at a 50% discount I believe. I almost never do this.

   
   

3. I think people don’t register that mailing stuff is kind of a pain. It takes time and mailing supplies. I don’t have shipping envelopes around, and a bubble mailer plus postage would cost in the realm of five or six bucks. Plus the time to make a trip to the office supply store. Plus the time to take the 20-minute round-trip walk to the post office. Plus the time to pack things up, print out the label, etc.
   
   Maybe they think authors have assistants? I mean, I do, but she happens to be snoozing with her head on her water bowl right now, so she’s not super-helpful with post office runs (and the packing tape sticks to her fur).

So essentially, assuming my author copies have been depleted, a donation to a school auction costs me $10 for the book (which I’d need to order), $6 for mailing supplies and postage, and half an hour of time (if I happen to have an envelope here; more if not).

Despite all this, I hate saying no. It makes me feel mean, and churlish, and crummy. Because, you know, “It’s for the kids!” Of course I want to help kids. All children’s authors do.

But the best way we can do that is by writing good books for them. By spending that half hour working instead of waiting in line at the post office. And by spending that sixteen bucks on groceries (and cat food) so we (and our assistants) can keep going.