NO THANKS, ANNE FRANK: when even the great publishers stumble

Alfred A. Knopf Sr. and the publishing house he built are among the great treasures of literary history.

Nevertheless, the immense trove of Knopf papers now housed at the University of Texas' Harry Ransom Humanities Research Center proves that Knopf rejected just as many future bestsellers, for just as many ridiculous reasons, as anybody else.

In a practice that still continues today, the piles of submissions sent to agents and, back in the day, publishers are often screened by anonymous readers, usually writers or critics desperatae for extra income. (Yes, Working Writer has been among these forgotten toilers. But only in poetry manuscripts, so don't blame her that Penguin turned your novel down.) Most of these readers are both bright and well-meaning, but as I said in my last post, no one is truly impartial, entirely open, or even eternally in a good mood.

Over the years, Knopfs's readers dismissed, among others, Jack Kerouac, Sylvia Plath, and Isaac Bashevis Singer. My favorite among their embarrassing errors is surely their rejection of The Diary of Anne Frank. As illustrious historian David Oshinsky wrote in a delightful article in the New York Times, "the work was “very dull,” the reader insisted, “a dreary record of typical family bickering, petty annoyances and adolescent emotions.” Sales would be small because the main characters were neither familiar to Americans nor especially appealing. “Even if the work had come to light five years ago, when the subject was timely,” the reader wrote, “I don’t see that there would have been a chance for it.”

Here's what I love about this: this criticism is so totally wrong, but it's also so totally understandable. The book was being considered in 1950, not a year famous for its openness to honest, unguarded female stories, much less books by obscure teenagers. If I had been its reader then, would I have recognized the priceless human tale tucked within the diary's intimate, apparently trivial events?

I like to think I would have. But honestly, I'm not one hundred percent sure.

Doubleday's Everyman's Library has recently published a lovely hardcover edition of Anne Frank's The Diary of a Young Girl.

And it seems fitting that the re-launch of Everyman's in the early 1990s, which made possible its republication of Anne Frank now, was supported in the U.S. by none other than the firm of Alfred A. Knopf.

FILM-ETTES ON FRIDAYS: the rejected writer's revenge

The Irish comedian Dylan Moran wrote and stars in a sitcom called Black Books, which revolves around irritable and unpleasant Bernard Black, who owns (but emphatically does not enjoy) a bookstore. The protagonist of today's Film-Ettes on Fridays video is named Bernard Black, though I'm not sure whether it's part of the television show or not.

Either way, it's a hilarious take on writing rejection letters, complete with cigarettes, alcohol, editorial scorn, and promises of head-butting. Even if you haven't submitted any work to be ground in the giant gristmill that is publishing, I think you'll enjoy it. It can't be embedded in this blog, but just click here to view it. Note that the video may come up with an annoying ad at the start (a YouTube feature I can't change, much as I wish to). Just use the toolbar in the YouTube window to mute and/or skip it. It's worth the effort and annoyance.

ROTTEN REJECTIONS: everybody gets 'em

Working writers get rejections....it's just a fact of life. Still, the terse dismissal of months of one's heartfelt work can sting.

That's one of the reasons that Andre Bernard's little book Rotten Reviews and Rejections: A History of Insult, A Solace to Writers has a permanent place on my bookshelf.

This small gem of a book reminds us that on a regular basis, really smart readers, writers, and critics—including the likes of Ralph Waldo Emerson and Charlotte Bronte—heap withering scorn on books and authors that go on to be classics.

Does this mean that we should assume that those who criticize our work are wrong? Hell no. What it does mean is that writing is called an art rather than a science for a reason. Personal taste and personal "takes," not to mention the myriad influences of time and place and culture, always influence a reader's responses, no matter how experienced or illustrious the reader may be. My suggestion? Learn what you can from your rejections, but never use the responses of any one reader as your guide.

Unless, of course, it's Working Writer who has bullied—er, I mean blessed—you with the scrawl of her brilliant red pen.

BOOK PROPOSALS AND LASAGNA: from cook to chef

Oddly enough, several people have raised the same question with me this past week: is it possible to write a good proposal just using one of the checklists or books out there in the marketplace?


The answer is yes...maybe.

I want to answer that question by starting with one of Nathan Bransford's excellent (and funny) analogies. In one of his blog posts he compares a book proposal to lasagna, pointing out that "there are a thousand ways of making it, everyone has their own recipe, but most every lasagna will have a few basic ingredients and chances are it's going to taste good in the end." His point is, as always, not just well stated but well taken. There is no one single formula (or outline, or checklist) for a successful book proposal. Many variations will work.

But (as Nathan points out often in his blog, though not in this lasagna-related way) if you're an aspiring author hoping to publish a nonfiction book through a commercial (as opposed to self-) publisher, it's also important to note that a good-tasting lasagna isn't necessarily the same thing as an award-winning, restaurant-ready lasagna. To make a lasagna lots and lots of people will pay for, it's not enough to follow a recipe. You're going to need to know why those ingredients are there. Why they're there. How they work. How they react to heat or cold or time. How much they cost. Which ones people like best. What can be substituted for a fresh or updated version of the old standard. In other words, you're going to have to become quite expert not just on lasagna, but also on gastronomy and marketing as well. Only once you understand these broader subjects will you be able to tweak an ordinary lasagna recipe into something that is truly yours, truly unique, and truly salable. Only once you understand them will you begin to be a chef, not just a good cook.

A book proposal that actually sells to a commercial publisher is like that award-winning, restaurant ready lasagna. It's not just good, it's expert. It's not just expert, it's original. It's not just expert and original, it's salable, and to strangers, and to strangers in quantity, and to strangers in quantity in a profitable way. That kind of book proposal is entirely different from the kind of proposal you write by dutifully following someone's outline without deeply understanding either that outline, or publishing in general, or even your own book.

That's why people like me, who are trained to teach and consult on book proposals (or their fiction equivalents, queries and synopses) exist in the writing marketplace and offer personalized help. When I work with a client on their book proposal, my job isn't merely to repeat the same checklist and explanations that are available for free. My job is to help that client understand the "whys" behind each element of the proposal, to answer them as compellingly and professionally as possible, and even perhaps to adjust his or her book as necessary to make a strong case for it in the current market. We're not just writing a proposal together, we're thinking it together. I don't say this to suggest that you must hire a professional book consultant or teacher in order to create a proposal that succeeds. I just want to point out that there is a level of professionalism and thought and exploration in a good proposal that is difficult to achieve if you don't learn a lot about all that's behind that simple checklist of "Overview" and "Competition" and "Marketing" and "Credentials."

That "tough love" imparted, let me use the lasagna metaphor once again to offer a closing note of hope.

It's not easy to create a restaurant-ready lasagna or a selling book proposal. But it is possible, and possible for the "average joe." The ingredients, the practice, the mentorship, the comparison with others' creations past and present, the feedback, the care that go into a great book proposal--they are all available, to all of us. Finding them, using them, and building from them may take hard work and the investment of both considerable time and a little bit of money. But you can create a selling proposal, whoever you are.

You just have to want it...a lot.

TOUCHY TOPICS TUESDAYS: they've heard it all before, part 2

I've been asked some interesting questions by fellow writers in the past couple of weeks. Here's the one of them, and my thoughts on the subject.

In response to my Touchy Topics Tuesday post They've heard it all before,  author Dianne Lininger, whose books The Kingdom of Cydinah and The Valley of Shadows and Shame are from Crosam Press, wrote this: " To be honest, your clever poem for HOME LIFE would have sold me on the manuscript had I been your agent. I thought it displayed noticeable talent! I don't understand why being different, original, or unique doesn't work for pitching manuscripts when it's amazing successful at marketing detergent, insurance, hair plugs, or laxatives."

First, let me thank Dianne for her kind words about my poetry!

Beyond that, her question about why quirkiness and gimmicky "hooks" don't work as well selling a manuscript as it does when selling some other "products" is a good one.

One important reason is that the publisher who buys a book is making a much more significant investment. Given overhead, printing, shipping, advertising and other costs, even a low-advance, small-print-run book will cost its publisher ten thousand dollars or more, take space in their list away from any other book, and commit them for several years at least. That's a serious and tangible investment, and demands a more serious approach—and much more solid information—than is involved in a single small retail purchase. Too often, tricky or innovative pitches stop with the clever hook, and fail to go on to demonstrate the salability and professionalism needed to justify this investment.

I would also underscore the point that most good agents scan hundreds if not thousands of query letters a year. The hook that seems so unique and compelling to us as writers crafting a single query letter probably doesn't seem anywhere near as cute to them. They've heard it all, and what they really want is to be able to assess the quality and economics of our project quickly.

Finally, there's the issue of risk. The problem with attention-getting hooks in everything--singles gatherings, keynote speeches, sales pitches generally—is that they either work perfectly or fall completely flat. Sure, an agent may love your weird and dramatic hook. But they may also find it silly or cliched or exaggerated enough to question your writing and your common sense. In contrast, a smart, savvy, and lively opening that doesn't try too hard to impress the recipient with novelty will work well in most situations.

All that said, here's some basic advice.

Tailor the "hook" in your query letters to the genre of your book. A mass-market suspense novel or book of humor may warrant a clever hook. A literary novel, a history of your town or memoir of loss probably don't. Your opening lines and your query letter generally should sound like the "you" that wrote the book you're pitching, not like a door to door salesman on crack.

If you can't come up with a hook that is startling, novel, or unique, don't worry for even a minute. Work to create something that is really smart, really concise, really informative and just plain interesting instead. Meeting even those criteria is difficult enough.

Remember that a query letter is, at heart, a business letter: a communication from one professional to another. Be professional enough to give your fellow professional the information he or she needs to make a decision on your book.

Last but not least, don't overemphasize the importance of having a unique or exciting hook. Agents are very smart people. They're more than capable of scanning below the hook for a second or two of further assessment. I've never known, or even heard of, one who threw queries away because their hooks weren't original enough. (I can just hear it now. "Hmmm. This book could be the Silence of the Lambs of 2012! Too bad the author can't write a hook. Next!") Conversely, I've never heard of any who ask to see lousy books just because the hook is clever. (Here again: "Hmmm. This book has a market of about four people. But that is one clever, clever hook. Get Random House on the phone!")

Or, to end this post with the same bad verse that closed out the last one on this subject:
My dear authors and friends, this small rule I will share:
Of cute gimmicks and tricks please devote not one care.
Be smart and be lively, be clear and be brief
And your letters of query shall come to no grief.

TOUCHY TOPICS TUESDAY: the finances of getting commercially published

Today's Touchy Topic is the finances of getting commercially published, that is, how the money works for you, the author, when you are lucky enough to get your book purchased by a publisher who actually pays you money and prints the book. (I'll talk a bit about the economics of self-publication on an upcoming Tuesday.)

It's difficult to talk about this matter accurately for many reasons. Prime among them: publishers' calculations are complex and often difficult to ferret out, and writers, understandably, don't want to share the details of their royalty statements.

Which is why we should all thank paranormal romance author Lynn Viehl for sharing hers. Though I just came across the posts with this information, she actually shared the first installment in April 2009 and the second installment in November of that year. (Genreality, on which she posted this info, is an excellent blog on the reality of genre writing and publishing, well worth a look if you're a genre writer rather than generalist, so to speak. You might also check out Viehl's blog, Paperback Writer.) But though the specific calculations of book advances and royalty statements may have changed a bit since then, the information is really excellent.

If you're among the many good writers still in the ranks of what my friend Gerri LcClerc wittily calls "the pre-published," the first thing you may notice that Viehl's advance for the book in question, Twilight Fall, was $50,000. And yes, that sounds like a lot when you can't get anyone to buy your book for five bucks. Viehl has published almost fifty books under a variety of pen names (you can see her entire backlist here) and built a thriving, hard-working career; her advance reflected both facts.

Get beyond the advance amount into the calculations, though, and you'll see why I'm sharing her information. It gives you the chance to see how everything from agent fees and taxes to book returns affect the income from a book...how slow the income stream is in coming...how complicated all of the calculations are...and what the financial life of a successful writer is like once you look behind the gross numbers and get into the net.

You may see all this as depressing, and I guess that in some senses it is. On the other hand, work out there in the "real world" beyond writing isn't a walk in the park these days, either. I prefer to think of it in terms of "forewarned is forearmed." When you understand at least a little of the economics of book publishing, it's easier to work toward a truly sustainable career. And it's also easier to view those published authors you see on bestseller lists or at book signings as hardworking folks just like the rest of us rather than as lucky millionaires sitting around counting their money.

The celebrity authors may be doing just that. But the working writers are home, sweating over that next sentence.

TOUCHY TOPICS TUESDAYS: they've heard it all before

When I was putting myself through writing grad school I had the chance to do some preliminary submission screening for a variety of publishers and organizations. This was before email submissions, so it was dusty and surprisingly physical work. (If you've never hefted giant manuscript stacks, let me tell you that paper is heavy.) It wasn't very fun, although it sometimes was funny. But it did give me a transformative glimpse of what longtime agents and editors experience.

The most important thing it taught me was that trying to be original, startling, unique, or otherwise memorable in your pitch, as opposed to the writing you're trying to sell, just doesn't work.

It's as if you were beginning chess player trying to surprise Gary Kasparov or or Boris Spassky with your brand new opening gambit. They have seen hundreds if not thousands more opening gambits than you have. What's unique to you is not unique to them. They've heard, and played, it all before. And the less you understand that, the more amateur you seem.

What does work? In getting your writing published, I mean, not in chess, about which I know only four things. (For the record: Boris Spassky and Gary Kasparov have been champions, Bobby Fisher is one crazy dude, and chess pieces are pretty.)

It's this simple: being professional works. Submitting only those genres of work they say they actually want in the format they request (that is, really researching your submissions rather than sending out huge email blasts). Being informative rather than being "unique" or "different" or "original." Skipping the bold claims and inflated credits for confident honesty. Learning what they need to know to make a good decision, and giving it to them concisely.

Like manuscript screening, this isn't really fun. I'd personally much rather choose fonts and cook up striking first lines for a query letter. But it works. You may still get rejected, and rejected a lot. No letter can sell a work of writing if that work doesn't happen to be right for this particular recipient at this particular time.

But you'll get rejected for the right reasons, and not because you sabotaged a perfect viable book submission by, say, starting your query letter in anapestic tetrameter. That reference sounds impressive, but it's actually the poetic meter used by Dr. Seuss, a writer whose work is permanently engraved on my synapses (which is the only reason I know its name). Herewith, just to show you that I feel your pain despite the rather hectoring tone of this post, is a query for my first book, Home Life, in more or less anapestic more or less tetrameter.

To my dear Agent X: this small book I submit
In the hopes it will charm you with wisdom and wit.
My small memoir of rooms is so detailed and smart,
that its style and its grace will catch most readers' hearts.
I'm impoverished, unknown, and a novice, it's true,
But just try it and see it make profits for YOU!

TOUCHY TOPICS TUESDAYS: rejection response roundup

Let's face it. Rejection is part of every writer's life. And I do mean every writer, not just those who are submitting first books or building early careers.

I've recently spoken to three different authors, all excellent writers with long careers and many published books, who are dealing with rejections because their publisher or the market or lord-knows-what-else has changed directions. And when I get the chance to talk even to the literary or bestselling giants, those writers one would think were absolutely immune, and they all have stories of recent rejections that rankle. A snide review. A publication that doesn't review the book at all. A peer who bad-mouths. A conference that doesn't invite. A book tour that isn't offered. Worst of all, a book that just doesn't sell according to expectations—the author's, or someone else's.

With that in mind, I'm offering a roundup of some online perspectives on rejection from those that know. There are lots and lots of good ones; this is just a sampling. No offense to bloggers or sites I "rejected."

I've mentioned agent Rachelle Gardner before; her blog is one of those I often turn to for clear and sensible comments on the writing biz. I did a search for "rejection" in her blog posts; this link guides you to that location. If it doesn't work for some reason I can't predict, just scroll down the right hand column of her blog until you get to the "find posts on this blog" section and click on "rejection."

I like agent Nathan Bransford's blog a lot, too. How can you not like a guy that explains writing book proposals through the metaphor of making lasagna? I couldn't find a way to search specifically for rejection, but just browsing his blog seems to put things in perspective.

Editor Betsy Lerner, author of the wonderful book The Forest for the Trees: An Editor's Advice to Writers, writes a lot of funny, salty posts. (You won't like this blog if you're sensitive to colorful language.) This one is excellent, and so are the comments it inspired. If nothing else, it will remind you that you're not alone.

Query Shark, not surprisingly, rips apart queries. Very funny, very educational, usually very apt. When you read this blog, you're actually glad agents and editors don't send critiques with their rejections. You could send your query to the Shark if you're feeling brave. Be sure to have bandages, blood supplies, vodka and/or Valium on hand when you read the results.

The blog of Dystel and Goderich Literary Management also writes well about rejection. This link brings you to an overview of some of their pieces on the subject.

Going from the sublime to the potentially repetitious, let me close with four very brief "rules" for handing writerly rejection. You've heard all this before, but it's still the best way to approach the ego-bruising reality of a writer's life.

1. Do it enough to get used to it. Rejection never becomes easy. But like some chronic illnesses and your spouse's lame jokes, it does become easier once you've experienced it repeatedly. It's much harder to get rejected once than it is to get rejected ten times.

2. Don't take it personally. They're not rejecting you. They're rejecting a series of words on paper. That's a crucial difference.

3. Keep going. And going. And going.

4. Keep learning. Sometimes rejection isn't a hardship, it's a gift. Had my first book been accepted in its original form, I would not be writing this blog today. Instead, I would be lurking on some obscure Pacific island in ABSOLUTE AND UTTER MORTIFICATION. Is your book really good enough to make you proud ten books from now?

5. Be kind to yourself. Writing is hard. Rejection is hard. Ample supplies of supportive peers, good snacks, frequent naps, and loving family and friends help. A good therapist isn't bad either.

And finally, just so that we end on a more poetic note than this little list seems to be managing, let me quote from the brilliant Barbara Kingsolver: This manuscript of yours that has just come back from another editor is a precious package. Don’t consider it rejected. Consider that you’ve addressed it ‘to the editor who can appreciate my work’ and it has simply come back stamped ‘Not at this address’. Just keep looking for the right address. Hard as it is to accept it, she's right.

TOUCHY TOPIC TUESDAYS: are we good enough today?

In the world of professional sports, you hear the same thing at the end of a lot of hard-fought, high-visibility matches. "I wasn't good enough today," Andy Roddick/Annika Sorenstam/Shaun White/Serena Williams/Jeremy Abbott/Gretchen Bleiler will say. Or "It wasn't my moment." Or "S/he just outplayed me." "We just didn't have it," the Yankees/Red Sox/Manchester United/Mercury/Steelers/Rangers will comment. Or "They're really playing well. We just weren't at our best."

I like these moments a lot. I like to see an individual or group that is highly skilled and even more highly competitive acknowledge that at this moment, in this setting, in this particular format, they didn't fail because of the weather or the position of the planet Mercury or their fight with their spouse or the basic unfairness of their sport, they just failed because they weren't good enough...today.

I like it that they don't say, "I'm just lousy and I always will be lousy." Or "I'm always going to lose." (Writerly self-deprecation is next Tuesday's Touchy Topic.) It's good that they don't blame themselves. But I also like it that they don't lay blame on outside forces, either.

I like the combination of honesty, humility about today, and confidence in tomorrow. It's simple, and it's strong.

Why don't writers say stuff like this more?

Rather than complaining about the unreliability of publishers, the greed of the market, the necessity of connections, the sway of short-term fads, wouldn't it be both wise and gracious to acknowledge that maybe, in this particular book, at this particular time, we just might not be good enough? That our book isn't (yet) competitive with Joan Didion or Annie Proulx or Sebastian Junger or David Wroblewski or Nora Roberts or Ian McEwan or Michael Lewis or Grace Paley or Harlan Coben or (insert your idol/envy here)?

I'm not saying that publishers aren't sometimes unreliable, that the market isn't generally greedy, that connections aren't helpful, that fads don't often hold sway. Publishing is full of boneheaded decisions, spectacular misjudgments, and slipshod plans. Agents and editors do miss excellent books and select poor ones. Forces other than quality certainly shape many of the book decisions that disappoint us.

I'm just saying that in our business as in every other, taking some responsibility is sometimes the best policy.

I can't speak for you. But I can say that I'm not as good today as any of the writers mentioned above. I also haven't worked as hard, worked as regularly, read as much, or paid my dues for as long.

I'm not good enough today. I hope I'll be at least a little bit closer tomorrow.

But in the meantime, it's not the flaws in publishing that make the difference.

INTRODUCING TOUCHY SUBJECT TUESDAYS

This post introduces "Touchy Subject Tuesdays," a series of weekly posts addressed to stuff few of us writers want to talk about and even fewer want to hear.

Today'stopic speaks directly to all of you hoping to get your book(s) published, and starts with a little math assignment.

Think back on the past twelve months and guesstimate how much money you spent on buying books. Specifically, books that are written by living authors, are new rather than used, come from the midlist (the ranks of ordinary writers) rather than the best-seller list, and are in genres other than reference.

Note that the question isn't how many such books you read, but how many you actually bought. You don't have to be accurate down to the last twenty bucks, but do be reasonably honest.

Once you have a number in mind, click here to get the rest of the assignment. You'll be directed to a confidential page on my bookstrategy.com/artybutsmarty.com web site, but I hope you'll come back and visit the blog again after you're finished there!

In our word of digital publishing, it's sometimes heartening for a writer to remember that there are folks out there who revere books as physical objects and adore the slow and finicky hand-work of making them.

In that vein, click on the link here and spend a few moments watching this little documentary (a documentaryette, we might say if this was 1950) about letterpress printing, brought to you courtesy of my friend and colleague cj Madigan's book thinking blog and, before that, of YouTube. I've given you the link via cj's blog both because her thoughts on images, book design, and information management are always interesting, and also because her post offers a handful of little videos on related processes and crafts.

The letterpress one is my favorite: wry, amusingly voiced, filled with lovely images, and even explaining the source of the curious phrase "out of sorts." Enjoy.

THE OLD ERA IS DEAD. Pass the shrimp.

It seems that articles, essays, blog posts and other screeds are being written about the death of writing, publishing, literacy, and so on every day. I very rarely (read: never) like them. I'm too innately optimistic, I'm too tired to worry about the problems of The World At Large, and I don't like running around being scared of things except after dark on Halloween (and not very much even then).

Not surprisingly, however, Garrison Keillor's op-ed on this subject in last Wednesday's New York Times won me over. It's charming. It's rueful. It's clever. It reminded me of my days in Manhattan in its image of a roof party at which "...authors and agents and editors and elegant young women in little black dresses, standing, white wine in hand, looking out across the Hudson at the lights of Hoboken and Jersey City, eating shrimp and scallops and spanikopita on toothpicks, all talking at once the way New Yorkers do." Once upon a time I too was at such parties (I was the waitress in the corner sticking spanikopita in her pocket as a nice change from Ramen Noodles). I particularly love the ending of the piece--an ending that reminded me that Garrison Keillor doesn't much like running around being scared of things either:

Children, I am an author who used to type a book manuscript on a manual typewriter. Yes, I did. And mailed it to a New York publisher in a big manila envelope with actual postage stamps on it. And kept a carbon copy for myself. I waited for a month or so and then got an acceptance letter in the mail. It was typed on paper. They offered to pay me a large sum of money. I read it over and over and ran up and down the rows of corn whooping. It was beautiful, the Old Era. I’m sorry you missed it.