The last thing you want to think about when you’re creating your next masterpiece is how someone else will try to rip it off. Yet, once that work is ready to be shared with the masses, you might consider some preventative measures to protect your art. (Naturally, there are still no guarantees.)
I’ve mentioned the Kindlepreneur team in my blogs in the past, usually in tandem with the KDP Rocket program (which I highly recommend, and I’m not paid to say that). I’m a strong supporter of their brand and their exhaustive efforts to support and safeguard the writer community. Their newer product, Writer Watch (formerly Readerscout at the time of this original post), is no exception. This free tracker keeps an eye on Amazon and alerts you to any changes in pricing or product rating.
Why is this more than just a method to mainline the odd ego boost whenever someone leaves a review? Because there are proverbial “bad actors” out there ready to hijack your listing and steal your profits. In the author world, these pirates create inferior copies of your published works, resell them as genuine copies connected to your listing, and shark your royalties. If left unchecked, readers receiving low-quality items may begin leaving dissatisfied reviews, tanking your ratings in addition to your profit margin.
It’s happened to authors.
I feared it happened to me.
WHAT TIPPED ME OFF
I’m always on high alert when the Writer Watch icon glows red in my browser extension tray. Usually, it’s some benevolent reader taking time to leave a review, and I’m always excited for the feedback.
This time, though, my heart sank when I clicked on the notification bell. A price change alert on An Heir of Realms.
I wasn’t running any promotions.
At first blush, the price appeared to be the same, and I had no idea what had triggered the alert. But closer inspection yielded my answer: a third-party seller was offering a copy of my book at my list price. According to the red-lettered inventory notice, she only had one copy.
One copy was heartening… if accurate. I scoured the seller’s shop page. She had all kinds of second-hand books and movies for sale, most in various conditions of use. But she had listed her copy of Heir as new.
Not “Like New.” “New.”
“New?” I asked aloud, as my fiancé, James, peered over my shoulder at the computer screen, eyes squinting. “As in, she bought it but didn’t read it? Never even cracked a page and is now reselling it?” (This was not a question of ego; it was a question of listing accuracy. How new was “New?” Pirated, inferior copy new?)
I looked up the seller’s details. She was local. Had she picked up a copy at one of my shows? If so, it would almost certainly be signed, as most people ask for a signature when they buy from me in person. Signed isn’t “new.”
Most articles about Amazon hijackings warn not to “engage with the seller in any way.”
I promptly broke Rule #1.
Using my personal (rather than my authorial) account, I contacted the seller.
I’m looking for a signed copy. Do you have one?
Her reply came with shocking speed.
No, sorry, I don’t.
Again, if true, this almost certainly meant she had come by her copy via my Amazon listing.
I’m a fledgling author. As a relative unknown, someone would have to know about my book (or see an Amazon ad) to buy it. If the seller were to be believed, she ordered the book, never touched it, and then resold it, unread. “New.”
Oh, but why? my ego whispered.
Not the point, I whispered back, shushing it heartily.
IN CASE OF PIRACY, SEND OUT A NEWSLETTER
The second-hand seller’s motivation for listing at my price was less than obvious. Fearing the birth of a scam, I kept an eye on the listing for a few days. The quantity remained at one, and the price continued to match mine. I eventually wrote off the listing as a legitimate third-party resale.
Until Writer Watch burned red again.
Another price change.
“No, no, no, no, nooooo,” I moaned as I inspected my listing. The price was lower than I’d set it and lacked any promotional indicators. Usually, during a sale, the original list price will be struck through in favor of the crowing sale price.
My price, struck through or otherwise, featured nowhere.
Not to mention, the third-party seller was undercutting this reduced price by pennies.
Rambling about some grand conspiracy in which the reseller lulled me into a false sense of security while the scammer stole my listing, I consulted Writer Watch’s how-to article about next steps. To my surprise, it was less than Kindlepreneur’s usual brand of thorough. I clicked their link to the Amazon KDP contact page for reporting fraud and was met with two choices under the “Content and rights notifications” section.
Uncertain which to select, I clicked on the first, “Notification about rights review or content guidelines.” What populated looked like little more than a FAQ page.
I backed out and surveyed the second option. My book is copyrighted, so I figured it made sense to “Report copyright infringement.”
Faced with another seeming FAQ, I scrolled down and found a button to “Start a report.” After submitting my concern, I received a startlingly quick reply.
As I had reached their page through the KDP contact page, this reply was befuddling. I explained my process and confusion in my response with a plea for better instructions for how to properly proceed. Suffice to say, they reiterated their assertion that I needed to contact KDP directly for assistance.
Despondent and rather panicky, I returned to door #1 on the KDP contact page: “Notification about rights review or content guidelines.”
It turns out, when you hit the “Contact us” button at the bottom of that FAQ, a form opens below it, asking for the same information I had filed in my first “misdirected” report.
I retyped my inquiry, submitted it, and collapsed in an anxious fit at the prospect of another circular request.
KDP is realm-near impossible to contact nowadays, and the idea that Amazon’s site was directing inquiries to the wrong department—especially when there was seemingly no way to report it—was horrifying. As far as I was concerned, an octopus-faced Davy Jones was pumping out eight cockamamie copies of Heir at a time and “shipping” them all over the East Indies… or wherever. (You have the Pirates of the Caribbean theme song in your head now, right? Ditto.)
The response came quickly again, realms bless them. But this time with better results.
That’s right: Amazon had chosen Heir for a price promotion, which, upon further correspondence, I learned they had no obligation to inform me of. I wasn’t being hijacked. Amazon was promoting my book to try to boost my sales at no cost to me.
Exhausted as I was from the emotional rollercoaster, I was thrilled and honored to have been selected for the promotion. I switched mental gears at a speed that threatened to strip them and put together a newsletter. I had to inform my Readers, Riders, and Exchangers of the discount!
But it wasn’t just one discount. Writer Watch glowed red again and again over the next 18 hours as Amazon put Heir through a tiered sale: 3% off… 6% off… 8% off. I couldn’t believe it! A small fish singled out by Amazon for a tiered promotion? Perhaps the tiering is standard operating procedure, but Heir’s selection was delightfully shocking. Of course, with the delay on the KDP dashboard, I would have no idea whether anyone took advantage of this sudden sale until after its conclusion.
But the real question was whether readers would buy from me or from the third-party seller. I monitored the listing, my eyes flitting repeatedly to the reseller’s single-book offer. As Amazon dropped the price, so did she, undercutting me by a quarter or two.
Who would make the sale?
I’LL GIVE YOU TWO GUESSES
She did. But maybe not the way you think.
One of the things the hijacking articles tell you is if you strongly suspect foul play, buy a copy of the possibly pirated material to check its quality.
So, when the listing got to 8%, we guessed it had reached the steepest discount planned. The reseller’s copy was at its lowest price, too, and likely to net her only a few cents from what she’d probably picked it up for.
My fiancé pounced. “We have to know if it’s a legitimate copy,” James said, adding it to his cart and submitting the order.
It took a few minutes, but once it registered as “sold,” her listing eventually disappeared. This was a good sign—but only if the listing didn’t reappear in the future.
Two days later, the listing was still gone, and the book arrived.
WELL?!
It probably should have been marked “Like New.” It boasted a price sticker over the printed barcode on the back cover and the remnants of some other sticker on the spine. This book had changed hands a few times and clearly made its way into at least one physical shop for resale. I’ve only placed my books with a single local shop that doesn’t (as far as I know) re-barcode, so I don’t know where it ended up or how it got there. A worn corner or two and the pristine spine told me it had probably never been read.
I cracked it open and checked for a signature—I hadn’t signed it, so it almost certainly hadn’t come from a show. That meant it came from that local shop or Amazon.
I flipped to the back. It was printed in December of 2022—four months after the novel’s release. It was from one of the earliest runs!
Again, I was stymied. Someone purchased a copy of my book shortly after its release, seemingly didn’t read it, passed it on to a shop for resale, and sold it to someone who also didn’t read it and put it back up on Amazon.
Then it came back to me.
I stared at the thing, awed by what little I could extrapolate of its grand journey. I was sad that it went unread because that’s what books are made for (and, in my personifying mind, long for), but I was so wowed by the extent of its travel that its homed sister copies hadn’t experienced. The sensation was immense. My book went out into the world, moved around in it in the most mysterious ways, and came home. It was like the bookstore version of Milo and Otis or Homeward Bound or Toy Story—but with something I created.
We’re keeping the book.
WHATCHA GONNA DO?
KDP recently announced a plan to verify author accounts with government-issued IDs. Account owners unable or unwilling to prove their identity when queried will have their accounts closed—hopefully preventing those with ill intentions from pirating others’ works. While the program is in its infancy and will be rolled out over time, theoretically targeting more suspicious accounts first, it holds promise for the increased protection of legitimate authors.
It’s heartening to see this initiative, but in the end, pirates will be a concern as long as people try to game the system. While I copyrighted book one to help protect my work from these kinds of scams, doing so provides a legally defendable line of ownership rather than some kind of impenetrable barrier from being ripped off. It’s been a couple years since I last researched trademarks and other creator protections, but that’s next on my list. When I know more, so will you.
Thankfully, there are indie heroes out there, working for the betterment of the tribe. If you’re an author or aspire to be one, here’s that link to Kindlepreneur’s Readerscout (now Writer Watch) again. My sincerest thanks to them for helping out their fellow creatives; it means so, so much.
Remember: when one of us is pirated, we all suffer. Please avoid the emotional gymnastics for your own sake. Protect yourself and your work as best you can.
-H.A.
Do you have any recommendations on protecting your work? Please, share for the good of the collective!
