A String Around My Finger
by A. D. Coleman

I own the copyright and all other rights to all but two of the essays I've written and published in my life. And I'm still pissed (at myself) about those two.

Back when I was young and ignorant, circa 1971, I accepted commissions to write two book introductions, and the letters of agreement accompanying both were all-rights contracts. The prospect of writing something that would be included in abook so excited me that -- accustomed as I was to one-time usage based on handshake deals with the editors of periodicals, which was then standard practice in the field -- I didn't bother to inquire as to what those terms meant. I also needed the money, enough so that -- as was my practice with editors in those days -- I didn't even try bargaining for higher fees. Consequently, I'll never know whether I could have negotiated better deals for myself (though I'm reasonably sure I could have done so). Instead, I blithely signed away all my rights to both essays, for what I now know were fairly low sums.

In one case, it doesn't matter, except on principle: The book involved will never be reprinted, and the essay I wrote is specific enough to it that I wouldn't be able to re-use or re-tool it in any case.

In the other case, however, the book involved -- a large-format coffee-table selection of the work of Edward S. Curtis, the legendary photographer of Native American life -- has never been out of print. The gonzo original version (roughly 15"x18") -- gets reprinted periodically. A smaller-sized version has appeared under several different imprints. There was at least one foreign edition (French) that I've seen listed, but never laid eyes on.

And there was a Japanese version. My text appeared in all of them, with no notification to me and no additional payment -- not even any complimentary copies. So it goes when you sign your rights over to someone else.

Once I realized my mistake, I began informing myself about copyright and related issues, and never again signed such a contract. So the price for that lesson, though high, proved affordable. But those essays are lost to my inventory. Conceivably, I could request permission from the publishing house that now holds the rights to this Curtis essay to reprint it in a collection of my own work. I suppose they'd agree, as a courtesy. But I doubt they'd revert the rights to me, though I may eventually inquire about that, in this case and the other.

Not only does the principle matter (I regret equally my failures in both instances), but in practical terms such short-sighted and/or uninformed decisions can prove extremely costly. In any event, I use these two instances as goads, painful reminders of what can happen when you don't protect your own copyright and subsidiary rights. They're the string I've tied around my finger to help me remember why the founders of this country built copyright protection into the Constitution to protect me. Maybe this mnemonic can spare you the unpleasantness of learning this lesson the hard way.

For the record, here's the bibliographic information:
Portraits from North American Indian Life: Edward S. Curtis (1972)
Introductions by A. D. Coleman and T. C. McLuhan.
First Edition: Outerbridge & Lazard, Inc., publisher.
Oversized Hardcover. 14 3/4" x 18 1/4"

Published in association with the American Museum of Natural History, this book features eighty-eight full-sized sepia-toned reproductions of a selection of portfolio plates from The North American Indian (1907-1930).

(This essay is previously unpublished.)

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