Publishers Weekly: The Deals You Don't See

Publisher Shells Out for Crime Novel by Retired English Teacher in “Nice” Deal

Small Press Throws Down for Middle-Aged Poet’s Chapbook in Three-Figure Deal

47-Year-Old Mother of Three Sells Debut Novel in 1-Book Deal

Trade Publisher Quietly Acquires Midlist Author’s Sixth Romance Novel in Low-Key Deal

Venerable Press Finally Makes Offer on Literary Novel It Has Been Sitting On For Eleven and a Half Months

**

Friends: publishing is not all six-book mega-deals and twenty-year olds winning national book awards. Most book deals are small-to-medium, and most people getting book deals are not teenaged geniuses, contrary to what you read online.


You are valid if you are 20 or 32 or 47 or 64 or 71, if your advance is three hundred bucks or ten thousand, if you are fashionably obscure or completely unknown. The models are Photoshopped.

Love, INTERN.

what would Tsitsi do? thoughts on filtering in the age of how-to

In moments of writerly desperation, INTERN has been known to go on wretched binges of advice-seeking, looking for answers in all the wrong places: cheesy novel-writing handbooks, questionable blog posts, even more questionable collections of "tips" on character arc and theme. She clicks through tab after tab in a terrible fever, not even reading but scanning, scanning, scanning, looking for the article that will say, "hey INTERN, on page 213, your character really needs to have the opposite reaction of the one she's having now." At the end of such a session, she feels drained and sheepish and no better equipped to tackle the problem at hand than she was when she started—yet the very next time a quandary appears, it's back to the search engine and the 808.8 shelf in the library again.

We live in a culture of how-to, and INTERN has been as guilty as anyone at encouraging it. The internet has taught us that there ought to be a certain type of answer for every question—not "go for a long walk and think about it," but "do step A and then step B and then step C and your character question will be resolved." Not "study it for years and seek out true teachers," but "sign up for this two-week seminar and emerge a novel-writing wizard." This is not to say that books, blog posts, seminars, etc. don't have their place, for they certainly do. But the binge mentality that can arise from the availability of so much information is a worrisome thing, and is surely the enemy of good writing.

A few months ago, Techie Boyfriend caught INTERN in the act of one such bender—which, speaking even more to its shamefulness, INTERN was doing in secret. The tabs were lined up on the screen; the library books were in a pile on the desk.

"What are you doing?" said Techie Boyfriend.
"Go away," shrieked INTERN.
Techie Boyfriend peered at the screen. "50 Ways to Nail Your Ending? Close that thing. Let's talk."

INTERN snarled at him, defensive. Just like other kinds of binges, this one was less about nailing INTERN's novel ending, and more about dealing with anxiety by cramming it full of something else—in this case, writing advice INTERN knew in her heart she didn't need.

Eventually, INTERN allowed herself to be coaxed away from the computer.

"Who's a writer you really admire?" said Techie Boyfriend.
INTERN thought for a second. "Um. Janet Frame."
"Would Janet Frame be reading that website you were just on?"
"Noooooooo."
"Think about that."

INTERN did think about it. She thought about it for a long time. And the more INTERN thought about  it, the more she realized the writers she most admires—Rivka Galchen, Kazuo Ishiguro, Virginia Woolf—would not be caught dead reading article after article purporting to teach them how to, quote, "nail" ANYTHING.

Again, this is not to bash writing advice books, or workshops, or articles per se—but merely to question the ways in which we consume them and, at their tip-centric worst, allow them to distract us from the deeper work of learning to write.

INTERN has a new rule for how she consumes advice or instruction of any sort, and here it is: what would Janet Frame do, or David Foster Wallace, or Tsitsi Dangarembga?

Remember what kind of writer you want to be, and shoot for that.

**

Is INTERN the only one who is prone this kind of bingeing in moments of anxiety and self-doubt? Are you careful about how you consume writing-related advice? Which writers do you most want to be like? In what ways is the writing advice industry helping writers? In what ways is it hurting or distracting us? INTERN wants to know!

what the querier meant to say: publishing euphemisms for all

A few days ago, the Guardian posted this handy guide to decoding publishers' euphemisms at the London Book Fair:

We don't have sales numbers yet – trust us, you don't want to know

I loved the opening – boy, the middle needs work

National publicity and marketing campaign – there's no budget, so you're on your own

I've read the book – I've had it read

To which INTERN would like to add:


Queriers' Euphemisms:


This is my first novel: 

I have nine other manuscripts in various stages of completeness sitting on my hard drive: three hilariously angsty ones I wrote in highschool, three hilariously pretentious ones I wrote in college, two post-college attempts at science fiction that ran into unsolvable plot snarls somewhere around the Xxordon Galaxy, and a NaNo about two old ladies who sneak around shooting people with poison darts.

This is my first novel that's really, actually ready to query. At least, I think it is. *deep breath*

NIGHTS OF SWEATY ENTANGLEMENT is complete at 95,000 words:

NIGHTS OF SWEATY ENTANGLEMENT is 95,000 words long. And it's complete in every way, if by "complete" you mean "spell-checked."

I am a long-time fan of your publishing blog, Irascible Agent:


I left one comment on your blog ten minutes ago.


Thank you for your time and consideration:

In the name of the father, and the son, and the holy ghost, amen. *kisses rabbit foot* *twirls sage bundle* *buries five dollar bill in the back yard* *commences checking in-box*

Authors' Euphemisms:


I bought these boots with money from my advance:


I used my advance to pay off my health insurance, car insurance, cell phone, electricity, gas, and internet bills and to purchase one hallucinatorily overpriced block of goat cheese at the food co-op. I found these boots in the alley next to the dumpster.

I'm working on my web presence:


I have spent approximately ten thousand hours looking at other authors' web presences and despairing of ever being as popular, friendly, good-looking or sociable as they are.

I'll have that Author Questionnaire back to you by Friday:


I will spend between now and Friday freaking out over the fact that no, I do not have any "friends, acquaintances, or professional contacts in the national media" and wondering it that LA Times reporter I met at a party one time and awkwardly Facebook friended counts as a professional contact.

Line edits are going great:


I have not changed out of my unwashed Goodwill bathrobe in six days and the neighbors are starting to worry.

**

But seriously, if anyone can help INTERN out with that "friends and acquaintances in the national media" thing, she will let you borrow her (extremely soft and fuzzy) Goodwill bathrobe. Oh, fine, you can borrow it anyway. Just don't wash it.

in which INTERN and real, actual Hilary have a brawl...also, NEW TITLE REVEAL

real actual Hilary: *wanders in* *looks around*

INTERN: Whoa, whoa, whoa—what are you doing here? Get out before someone sees you!

real actual Hilary: Too late. Don't worry, this picture's nice and blurry, just the way you like it.

INTERN: Stop! Go away! Why are you doing this?


real actual Hilary: I thought it would be nice to stop by and introduce myself. You keep pretending this blog's still anonymous, and frankly, it's getting a little awkward.

INTERN: Introduce yourself? INTRODUCE YOURSELF? Who the heck do you think you are?

real actual Hilary: I'm, um, you.

INTERN: Pfffffffffffffft. INTERN has, like, eleventy followers. How many followers does real actual Hilary have? That's right—NONE.

real actual Hilary: Go staple a document.

INTERN: Go hunt a mushroom.

real actual Hilary: Get your hair out of your face.

INTERN: Get your face out of INTERN's blog!

real actual Hilary: Just let me post this link and I'll get out of here.

INTERN: Yeah, yeah, like INTERN is going to believe that. Next you'll be using this blog to post cat photos and exceeding boring updates on your personal life. INTERN knows how this works.

real actual Hilary: Did I mention I might possibly start using the first person on Twitter?

INTERN: *loads bazooka*

real actual Hilary: Wait, wait—can I at least tell our mutual internet-friends the new title for my book?


INTERN: You mean the new title of INTERN's book!

real actual Hilary: Whatever. If you would like to see the new title revealed in groovy stop-motion form, click here.

INTERN: Is that a Tumblr?

real actual Hilary: Yes.

INTERN: You started a real actual Hilary Tumblr?

real actual Hilary: Yes.

INTERN: Can you leave now?

real actual Hilary: I was thinking I'd—

INTERN: *hefts bazooka onto shoulder*

real actual Hilary: *scurries out back door*

Big 6 versus Indie Publishing part 2: of paddles and canoes

A few days ago, INTERN got an e-mail from her editor with the kind of bad news that drives authors everywhere into unhealthy relationships with cheap vodka: the title INTERN had come up with for her novel had been, quote, "roundly" rejected by the Sales Team, who were requesting that a new one be dreamed up, stat.

Roundly rejected! huffed INTERN. They could have at least AGONIZED a little. They could have at least sent INTERN a letter explaining how this decision to veto her beloved pet title had ripped at their very SOULS.

After a day or two of mourning, INTERN felt pretty over it. After all, there are plenty of title-fish in the sea—and although INTERN was reluctant to admit it at first, the reasoning behind the veto seemed pretty sound. Over the next few days, INTERN's agent, editor, and assorted other publishing people all pitched in with ideas and suggestions, and the hunt for a new title has started to feel exciting and worth-it, not Tragic and Senseless as it did at the height of INTERN's emotions.

Interestingly, the hardest thing to deal with was not the title-rejection itself, but the reactions of (non-publishing savvy) friends and relatives:

"They can't make you change the title of your book. It's your BOOK."
"What do they know about titles? That title was perfect!"
"You should refuse to change it."

Even worse were the looks INTERN got when she delicately explained that she had signed a teensy little thing called a legally-binding contract giving her publisher final say over the title of her novel—like she was some kind of abused animal, or at best a prize nincompoop.

"So they can just tell you what to call YOUR BOOK?'
"They don't control the cover art too, do they?"
"What if they want to call it something dumb?"

All of which leads INTERN to one of the key issues in the Big 6 versus Indie Publishing debate: who gets to paddle the canoe.

**

The canoe-paddling discussion goes something like this on polite days:

Team Legacy: "Hang with us, and you'll have a whole team of canoe-paddling experts to guide you through the Rapids of Publishing!"

Team Indie: "Here's your oar, kid. Sink or swim!"

And like this on rude days:

Team Legacy: "Look at those poor indies paddling their cheap, junky canoes into the rocks."

Team Indie: "Look at those poor legacies trying to paddle their bloated, inefficient canoes by committee."

Of course, there's no reason the two teams can't coexist, with people who insist on absolute control paddling their canoes alone, and people who are willing to give up some control in exchange for more support enlisting the skill and know-how of a publisher. If you insist on absolute control, you need to be certain you really have as much titling/covering/marketing chops as you think you do. If you give away some of that control, you need to be certain you're working with a publisher you trust.

**

A few years ago, INTERN was renting a rambling old house with a bunch of other twenty-somethings. We wanted to put in a vegetable garden, and our landlady agreed to pay for the rototiller, seeds, and truckloads of compost and mulch if and we put in the manual labor.

High fives! Grabbing of trowels! Buying of beer!

Planting a garden on Landlady's dime was awesome: there were so many resources, so much mulch. But it soon became apparent that Landlady was not going to sit idly by while a bunch of eager but fantastically overconfident kids made expensive mistakes with her investment. She wanted to see a planting schedule. She wanted sketches of the proposed garden's layout. She pointed out that blueberry bushes needed to be pollinated—you couldn't just stick 'em anywhere, as INTERN and the gang had been planning to do.

Basically, she imposed rigor and a certain degree of party-pooperism to what would otherwise have been a free-for-all. Was it aggravating? Sometimes. Was it worth it? Yes. Would the garden have been better off without Landlady's funding and her interference? At the time, no—although it's certainly possible that a more experienced (and, um, responsible) group would have done just fine without it.

**

Is it an outrage that most publishers retain control over a book's title and cover, or is it an effective way of saving authors from their own (sometimes cheesy and non-marketing savvy) selves? Published authors, have you ever had a title rejected? Seeking-to-be-published authors, have you ever felt conflicted about the potential surrender of control a traditional book deal would entail? Is it better to have a publisher chime in on your plans to plant avocado trees in Maine, or would you rather attempt it anyway, thank-you-very-much?

INTERN wants to know!

why you will still be insane after the book deal

1. If your forthcoming novel has a scene in which the characters go skinny dipping in a hail storm, you will immediately stumble upon twenty already-published novels with a scene in which characters skinny dip in a hail storm.

2. You had no idea skinny dipping in a hail storm was such a cliché. Are you that unoriginal?

3. *picks up scourge* *self-flagellates*

4. You will start to fret that people will think you ripped off the skinny dipping hail storm idea from one of those other novels, despite the fact that those novels didn't even come out until your own novel was in galleys.

5. Will people think you're some kind of pathetic, scheming, copycat? Should you write a post on your newly-minted Author Blog explaining about how you didn't know about those other books and promising to change the scene in future print runs so the characters are waltzing under a volcano instead?

6. If your forthcoming novel has a title you're totally in love with, you will realize—far too late—that said title is ALSO the title of a notoriously cheesy soft-porn movie from the 1980's.

7. You did not think to Google movies when titling your book. Just other books.

8. It turns out there's a REASON no other authors have claimed the title NIGHTS OF SWEATY ENTANGLEMENT.

9. And you were sooooo pleased with yourself for coming up with it. You thought it sounded soooooo literary.

10. *picks up scourge* *self-flagellates*

11. Why did your publisher agree to this title? Aren't they supposed to catch that stuff?

12. Wait, is somebody there trying to sabotage your career? Wasn't NIGHTS OF SWEATY ENTANGLEMENT the intern's idea?

13. Your significant other will remind you that calling the book NIGHTS OF SWEATY ENTANGLEMENT was, indeed, your idea.

14. If you managed to avoid titling your book N.O.S.E, you will nevertheless discover that your book title lends itself to some kind of crude joke you can't believe you never spotted before and which will haunt you forever.

15. For example, if your forthcoming book is titled THE ORGAN DONOR, you can look forward to hearing those snarky kids at the bookstore referring to it as THE ORGAN BONER.

16. In fact, you are pretty sure that mean intern who is trying to sabotage your career is ALREADY calling it THE ORGAN BONER.

17. Your significant other will remind you, again, that this malevolent intern you keep referring to does not, in fact, exist.

18. Should you write a post on your newly-minted Author Blog explaining about the title and promising that in forthcoming print runs, your novel will be re-titled simply THE ORGAN?

19. No, wait. Shit. No. Just THE. You can't mess with THE.

20. If you somehow manage to avoid both titling your novel N.O.S.E or something that rhymes with a crude joke, you will nevertheless discover—far too late—that, when anagrammed, the title of your forthcoming novel spells HAIL SATAN.

21. You will start to fret that your novel will be banned from public schools and in libraries throughout the Bible Belt for its satanic undertones, even though you swear—SWEAR—you weren't trying to insert any subliminal messages into the title.

22. You realize that, in addition to HAIL SATAN, your book titles also anagrams to A NASAL HIT. Schools are going to think you're promoting drug use. Drug use and satanism.

23. Shit. Shitshitshit.

24. Should you write a post on...etc. etc...explaining to readers that you endorse neither drug use nor Beezlebub?

25. You realize your newly-minted Author Blog consists solely of apologies, disclaimers, and paranoid screeds.

26. Your agent and editor will start asking about your next novel.

27. You will try to play it cool, when in fact you are so freaked out from that skinny dipping in a hailstorm thing that you have resolved to write your next novel using only the letters K and U, because that's the only way you can ever be sure that it hasn't been "done" before.

28. Just try finding a scene like THIS in any other novel: KU. UUUUUUUK. KUUUUUUU. uKuKuK. "uuuUUUUUU!!!'

29. Your editor will gently suggest that the K and U thing isn't the best project to fulfill this particular book contract, but you should totally keep at it on the side.

30. You will drop the UUK thing and instead set out to write the most blockbustery, commercial, straight-to-movie-deal book that's humanly possible. You have recently developed a vague but pressing anxiety that your next novel will be invalid if it does not turn into a blockbuster starring Justin Bieber, despite the fact that the sort of novels you love most are the sort that never get turned into blockbusters starring Justin Bieber.

31. You will drop the Justin Bieber thing, and a week later, you will catch yourself starting a new novel that is neither an unreadable experiment nor a glorified screenplay to a mega-mega-blockbuster about, like, a highschool dance-off where every character is really, really, sexy but also a total underdog with Universally Relatable Issues.

32. You will kill your newly-minted Author Blog and dance on its grave, thanking Jah that nobody had actually discovered it yet.

33. You will send the malevolent intern eleven pounds of marijuana through the mail in an attempt to get her fired, in the slight chance that she actually exists.

34. You will pace up and down your apartment in a bathrobe you bought at Goodwill and never washed.

35. You will tell all your friends how faaaaabulous life has been since the book deal.

a follow's not a book sale (though it's very nice): thoughts on social media

Over the past few months, INTERN has made a point of asking writer-friends and acquaintances about their experiences using Twitter, Facebook, blog tours, etc. to promote their books. So far, most authors INTERN has questioned have been ambiguous and even a little sheepish regarding the effectiveness of their social media efforts at garnering book sales. Meeting new writer-friends? Yes. Participating in a fun community? Yes. But selling more books to more readers? "To be perfectly honest, I don't know if it's making a difference or not" is a common confession.

Then this weekend, INTERN had an interesting conversation with a writer-friend whose first book came out in early 2011.
For the first six months the book was out, said writer-friend was determined to do everything she could to promote it. She blogged. She tweeted. She tumblred. She Facebooked. At her writer-friend's advice, she started a weekly vlog on YouTube, featuring goofy jokes, giveaways, and one-sided conversations with her cat.

After an initial spike in book sales following positive reviews in a couple of major newspapers, sales leveled out at 50-60 copies a week according to the Bookscan data provided by Amazon. In other words, no Da Vinci Code, but not too shabby. She kept plugging away, racking up an impressive number of blog posts and gaining a new follower or two every week (was that a lot? was the blog about to go viral? would those 76 followers get mad if she skipped a day?) Her vlog was doing OK too, with a hundred or so views racked up for the earlier videos and about a dozen views for the more recent ones (was that OK? how many views qualified as a success? how could there be 100 views but no comments?). Twitter was sort of fun, but it was unclear how much it was affecting book sales: she nevertheless gave herself a self-imposed minimum of five "original" tweets and five retweets or replies per day, and felt wracked with guilt whenever she missed her quota.

Six months in, she decided to run an experiment. In fifteen terrifying minutes, she obliterated her entire internet presence. Gone Facebook. Gone Twitter. Gone all sixty-seven blog posts and all twenty vlogs. Gone, even, the Group Discussion questions she'd written up for potential book club use, and the Resource Guide she'd spent hours putting together for readers who might want to know more about the issues addressed in the book. She even deleted the e-mail signature that linked to her book on Amazon and B&N.

Fast forward eight-ish months to two nights ago, when she and INTERN had this conversation. Her book sales since that night of rage? 50-60 copies a week. Occasionally 35. Occasionally 70. But most weeks, with a regularity that is almost freakish, somewhere between 50 and 60.

"I realized that the people who buy my book do not give a CRAP about my writing process or my favorite cupcake store. I don't know how they find out about my book. I guess people just recommend it to each other," she said.

**

The hype surrounding social media reminds INTERN of an ad she saw recently for Pediasure: "if you don't feed your toddler this nasty-looking vitamin-milkshake, you're putting him at a Disadvantage to other kids, who will surely grow Bigger and Stronger than he will!" In a world where you can do so much to promote your book (or rather, FEEL like you're doing so much), doing nothing or doing less is downright subversive.

How much do an individual author's social media efforts affect book sales? Is there a threshold at which social media becomes very effective (2000 followers? 5000 page views?) and beneath which social media doesn't have much of an impact? Is social media more important for building a long-term following than bumping sales on one particular book? Of the people who buy a certain book, how many are even aware of that author's social media presence?

Halfway through writing this post, it occurred to INTERN to look at her own book-buying habits. How effective has social media been at selling books to INTERN? A survey of the books INTERN bought in 2011 reveals:

-most of the authors whose books INTERN bought are either not on social media, or INTERN hasn't bothered to find out.
-INTERN bought several books by writer-friends she met online (by writer-friend, INTERN means a person with whom INTERN has shared ongoing, meaningful interactions—in other words, not just a person she follows).
-INTERN bought 1 or 2 books from writers she discovered on Twitter and Blogger but has not interacted with (by far the smallest category)

In short, INTERN follows plenty of writers whose books she isn't particularly interested in buying, and buys books from plenty of writers whose social media presence she isn't particularly interested in discovering. (INTERN feels vaguely evil confessing this, but why? INTERN is not so delusional as to expect that every person who enjoys her blog will also enjoy her books. A follow is a way to say, "your blog/twitter is interesting!" not "I do solemnly swear to buy your books, your friends' books, and your #fridayreads recommendations in all perpetuity, so help me God.")

Obviously, there are many authors for whom social media has been a crucial and undeniable asset (John Green's vlog comes to mind, and there are plenty of others). But now that INTERN has examined her own book-buying habits, she's more curious than ever: if a follow's not a book sale, what is it?

How many books have you bought as a result of social media (book trailer, tweet, blog post, blog tour, etc.)? How many books have you bought with NO input from social media? Are the social media book purchases from writers who feel like friends, or from other readers hyping the book? Do you buy every book from every writer you follow? INTERN wants to know!

indie vs traditional publishing: notes from a Big 6 book deal

INTERN has been following the self-publishing versus so-called “legacy” publishing debate for some time now, and is fascinated by how emotional the conversation has been, and how full of colorful personalities.

On one hand, we have Team Indie, who argue that publishers are blundering, outdated, inefficient dinosaurs who make an increasingly poor value proposition to authors. Not only will traditional publishers make a mess out of editing, designing, and promoting your book, Team Indie claims, but they’ll squeeze you out of all but a measly royalty on what books they do manage to sell.

On the other side of the field, we have Team (airquotes) Legacy, who fire back that most self-published books are poorly written, poorly designed, couldn’t-pay-me-to-read-‘em buckets of word-vomit not worth their ever-so-clever $1.99 price point on Amazon.

As a person who recently signed a book deal with an old-skool publisher, INTERN is naturally quite curious to know who’s right. Would INTERN have been better off if, instead of querying agents and going on submission, she’d hired a cover artist and slapped that sucker on Amazon? What has she gained by signing with a publisher, and what has she given up? Are there subtle benefits and drawbacks the indie-vs-legacy debate has overlooked?

Keeping in mind the fact that INTERN’s first novel isn’t due to be published until summer 2013, here are the benefits and drawbacks INTERN has noted so far.

BENEFIT: Editing

Some proponents of indie publishing claim that Big 6 publishers hardly take the time to nurture new authors or edit their books. INTERN’s Big 6 editor has been unfailingly helpful, available, insightful and patient as INTERN has clawed her way towards a final draft (the fact that INTERN has a novel deal at all seems to indicate that Big 6 publishers are still willing to take on semi-feral young writers and nurture them into readability, which is another post entirely).

DRAWBACK: Requiring patience

Prior to this book deal, INTERN (like many young writers) was in the habit of spewing out a manuscript, tinkering with it a little, then ditching it for a brand new one. Being made to stay at the dinner table until every last pea is cleaned off her writerly plate has been a good thing—an initiation into the discipline of truly finishing something for public consumption—but some days INTERN wonders what it would be like to simply fire off a novel, e-book it warts and all, and move on to the next one. Maybe nobody would notice the missing subplot resolutions or the hokey ending! Maybe it would have sold just fine three drafts ago, and INTERN would be a Kindle Millionaire by now instead of slaving away on yet another one! It’s possible! (alright, INTERN—finish those peas!)

BENEFIT: $

Book advance is putting tofu in INTERN’s fridge.

DRAWBACK: $

Book advance means that INTERN’s novel needs to sell an intimidating number of copies in order to earn out. Whereas if she self-published, INTERN would consider herself to be ballin’ out of control if she sold 50 copies, and she wouldn’t have to worry about anyone else’s money/career riding on her book.

BENEFIT: Social cred

Not gonna lie: having a Book Deal with a Big Fancy Publisher is a useful thing to have in your back pocket. Even though an alarmingly small percentage of the population actually buys novels, an alarmingly large percentage of the population seems to look favorably on novelists themselves, for reasons INTERN cannot fathom. It’s like being acquainted with an asthmatic baron or the heiress to the fortune of a vaguely recognizable brand of baking powder; people get some obscure pleasure out of the fact that a real, live baking powder heiress is renting their (moulding and uninhabitable) apartment.

All INTERN knows is that crotchety relatives, overworked librarians, and potential landlords have gone from regarding INTERN with suspicion (dirty hippie!) to friendly interest (Actual Writer!) if/when she mentions her publisher. God knows this shouldn’t be a factor in anyone’s self-publishing vs legacy publishing decision, but it’s not nothing either.

DRAWBACK: Wait times

As a zillion people have already pointed out in a zillion places, traditional publishers can take a really, really long time to publish a book. Does INTERN wish her novel could appear in bookstores this summer instead of next summer? Of course! She’s impatient! Hell, by next summer INTERN will be an old lady. If INTERN was self-publishing, she could publish her book as soon as the final copyedits were done. No struggling to explain to baffled relatives why the book’s not coming out for a whole other year after it’s finished. No thinking about how freaking OLD and, like, WIZENED she’s going to be when she can finally hold a copy in her hands.

**

INTERN’s first novel is still early in the publishing process, so she can’t speak to indie publishing’s claims about bungled copyediting, nonexistent promotion, etc. etc. What she CAN tell you is that she has a better novel now than she did when she went on submission (this doesn't mean one can't arrive at an equally strong draft strong through other means and self-publish; just that, in INTERN's case, going through the traditional route has been helpful.)

What do you think of the publisher-bashing going on at some of the indie blogs? Can we all just get along? Is either option inherently worse or better, or is it a matter of what's the best fit for each author? Have you ever wondered if your book would have done better or worse if you'd gone a different route? INTERN wants to know!

laistrygonians and cyclops, wild poseidon: on difficult revisions

Thus far, INTERN has been rather shy about discussing her own novel-to-be on this blog, in part because she is wary of writing too much about herself, and in part because until recently, she would often wake up in a panic that she Won't Be Able to Pull It Off (the novel) and should therefore refrain from mentioning it until it's safely done.

INTERN's has not been one of those manuscripts that slips and slides, barely tinkered with, from writing desk to agency to publisher to bookstore. On the contrary, the number and scope of changes (and change-backs. and changes-again) has been dizzying. Although INTERN is increasingly stoked with the way things are coming together, she has felt, at other points in the revision process, like a wretched third grader held back after class to struggle with a math problem she just can't solve, long after everyone else has finished and gone out to play.

Panic. Despair. Self-laceration. Improbable solution after improbable solution, none of them surviving the delete button for more than a day. Googling, for chrissakes. Googling.

What finally turned it around for INTERN was some good advice from her editor (of which more in a future post), and an ultimatum from Techie Boyfriend: you are creating a Work of Art, not engineering a septic system. Act like it.

In short, it has been an Interesting Process, by which INTERN means an embarrassingly emo process, and while INTERN is happy to report that the panic and despair are safely behind her, going through them was an experience she will never forget.

Then late last night, while unwinding after an (exhilarating and productive!) revision session, INTERN came across this poem that seems to explain EVERYTHING. In his poem Ithaka, the poet C. P. Cavafy writes of the creative process:

Laistrygonians and Cyclops,
wild Poseidon—you won’t encounter them
unless you bring them along inside your soul,
unless your soul sets them up in front of you.

Perhaps it was the 4 AM, post-revision high, but this poem seemed to reframe everything about the revision process in such satisfyingly mythical, Hero's Journey, psychoanalytic terms that INTERN read it ten times, in total wonder.

Of course! The Cyclops of the dozen placeholder endings (= unwillingness to confront the fear of death!), the Laistrygonians (whatever the heck those are) of the bungled character arcs (= the writer's inability to understand where her own journey is taking her!) etc. etc. etc. Every problem in revision was really a Struggle With the Self! How meaningful and even necessary all that wretchedness can seem in hindsight, with the help of a dead poet!

This whole adventure—for it has been an adventure—has lead INTERN to wonder: is there inherent value to suffering over the course of a creative endeavor? How much of it is meaningful and growth-inducing, and how much of it is avoidable and unnecessary? Is a difficult manuscript a kind of hero's journey, or is that just a story you can tell yourself as a consolation prize for things not having been more of a breeze?

INTERN would also like to know: are panic and despair something you grow out of as you become a more experienced novel-writer? Or are they more of a constitutional thing? To what extent does one doom oneself (by having the wrong outlook, or not enough confidence, or whatever) and to what extent is a particular manuscript doom-causing?

Wishing you all good luck with your Cyclops.

don't panic: why your publishing disaster matters less than you think

Since this blog's inception in 2009, INTERN has been the happy recipient of all sorts of panicked, confessional e-mails and requests for advice from readers undergoing their own personal Publishing Disaster. These Disasters are spread fairly evenly over the course of the publishing process.

There's the Beginner Phase Querying Disaster:

I put down "Won second place in the My Little Pony poem-writing contest 2003" in my query letter, but then my writing friend told me it wasn't a relevant credit and I shouldn't have included it, and now the ENTIRE PUBLISHING UNIVERSE is going to think I'm some kind of My Little Pony-writing IDIOT and should I e-mail those agents and explain?

There's the Advanced Phase Querying Disaster:

I sent out my queries and wasn't hearing anything back, so in the meantime I kept revising the manuscript, which is now significantly different from the manuscript I pitched in my queries—and today I got a request for a partial, so do I send the old version or the new and possibly better version???

There's the Clusterfuck of Doom Disaster, Agent Version:

I just got off the phone with Agent Z, but then I checked my e-mail and there was a last-minute full request from Agent Y, not to mention the fact that I already promised Agent X I'd get back to him by tonight, except I think I like Agent Y better than both Agents X and Z, and holy crap what do I do?

Fast forward a month or two and there's the Clusterfuck of Doom Disaster, Editor Version:

My manuscript just went on submission, and I'm TOTALLY FUCKED because I tweeted a joke that could possibly be interpreted as a negative review of one of the books Editor A worked on, and I wore the wrong color pants to a conference that Editor B was also attending, and I think Editor C goes to the same gym as my sister-in-law, with whom I am engaged in a blood feud and who will not hesitate to RUIN ME if she finds out?

What all these e-mails share in common is the author's conviction that he/she has a) committed a terrible blunder that is b) extremely urgent to resolve or risk c) a lifetime of failure and regret.

After reading and responding to dozens of these tortured missives (and tracking their outcomes), INTERN has something to report:

With very, very, VERY few exceptions, these situations (or in some cases, non-situations) resolve themselves.

Sometimes it takes a polite e-mail to the right person. Often, it takes even less (that editor whose book you could theoretically be perceived as slighting on Twitter? If you send her an apology, SHE IS GOING TO THINK YOU'RE INSANE.)

Here's something else that INTERN can tell you with confidence:

These kinds of situations happen all the freaking time.

Do you really think you're the first writer who sent the wrong version of a manuscript to an agent? Or went on submission to an editor who has endured the sight of you wearing an unfortunate pair of pants? This kind of thing happens every day in publishing. Agents and editors have seen it before and know how to handle it (often, by saying, "No worries!")

If INTERN had a nickel for every crisis that mysteriously ended up NOT RUINING SOMEONE'S CAREER, she would be a very rich lady indeed.

So please, writers—don't panic. You're doing OK. You really are. Some day soon, you will look back on this disaster and laugh until you cry.

tell a dream, lose a reader...but why?

The first time INTERN heard Henry James' pronouncement "Tell a dream, lose a reader," she was baffled. Why not "write a training montage, lose a reader" or "use Comic Sans, lose a reader" or any other writing peeve? What is it about a dream sequence that makes readers roll their eyes, yawn, or chuck the book onto the floor?

After a several years of having this question gnaw at her (and writing and discarding a few doomed dream sequences of her own), INTERN has a few theories about why, despite writers' ongoing love affair with writing them, readers tend to dislike dreams.

Dreams feels like cheating.

You'd cry foul if the very tool your protagonist needed dropped out of the sky on a silver parachute (unless your book is The Hunger Games, that is). All too often, writers use dreams to parachute information to the protagonist ("the key is hidden in the banana grove!") rather than having the protagonist do the hard work of figuring out those problems on her own.

As a result, these discoveries feel unearned: rather than marveling at the protagonist's skill and intelligence in solving the mystery, we roll our eyes at her ever-so-convenient subconscious. We may even start to actively dislike her: "Come on, guuyyys—I totally dreamed that! I swear!"

Suggestion: Never use a dream to hand your protagonist something she ought to have worked for.

They're repetitive.

Often, dream sequences do no more than rehash, in a slightly more surrealistic or jazz handsy way, emotional content or plot information we've already covered in other scenes. Real Life Scene A shows the protagonist having a heart-wrenching visit with his dying grandmother; Dream Sequence A shows the protagonist having a dream about his grandmother in which she repeats the same life lesson she delivered that afternoon, except now her wise old face is lined in silver etc etc. In other words, many dream sequences are redundant (for more on redundant scenes, see INTERN's post on the topic.)

Suggestion: When a dream scene and a lived scene replay the same event, ask yourself: Do both scenes bring something new to the table? Do both scenes have distinct and different functions? Or are they merely two versions of the exact same scene?

A dump is a dump is a dump.

Dream sequences are easy to write and dastardly difficult to cut. They sometimes contain the most beautiful writing in the entire manuscript—or it can feel that way to the writer, who poured every gorgeous image that wouldn't fit in other parts of the novel into the dream sequence.

Just as writers use "reading the newspaper" scenes as info-dumps, we tend to use dream sequences as poetry-dumps. And while a dump of poetry is arguably nicer than a dump of information, the fact remains that a dump is a dump is a dump.

Suggestion: If you feel like your writing isn't beautiful or literary enough, a dream sequence isn't going to make up for it. Put your energy into line edits.

**

Do you skim the dream sequences in other people's writing? Can you think of an example of dreams done effectively in a novel? Do dreams work better in some genres than others? Have you ever held on to a dream sequence that really ought to be cut? Do dream sequences get too much flak for being boring and self-indulgent? Do they deserve more respect? INTERN wants to know!

playing for the house: an editorial assistant on the dangers of going agent-free

A few weeks ago, INTERN received an e-mail from an editorial assistant at a New York publishing house who had recently had a distressing—but telling—experience with a brilliant manuscript, an unagented author, and an offer that had "poor sucker!" written all over it. Unagented writers, take note...

**

I want to be clear—I love my job. But this isn't a post about how hard won it was to

get an editorial position or how great it is to work with authors or make decisions

that will impact a book that people will read. This is a post about the less glamorous

part of the job. This post is about the money.

It feels so long ago that I had the good fortune of finding something in slush, that

strange and hopeful pile of paranormal love and dark futures. But what I found was

a quirky memoir with an itchy, infectious voice. My boss "Steph" read the partial

and loved it. So with butterflies, I emailed the author to ask if it was still available.

I know authors feel like the wallflower at the dance but I want you to know editors

worry too.

It was still available, and the rest of it was fresh and wonderful. We got the approval

to make the offer, but it was a pittance really. New and naïve, I did the silly thing of

asking “Steph” if we could offer a higher advance. “Steph” looked at me like there

was a fly on my face and I wished I had never spoken up. Maybe “Steph” thought I

was being cute, maybe “Steph” chalked it up to my previous post at an agency. In

any case, “Steph” made it clear very quickly that we were playing for the house. In

fact, when “Steph” called to make the offer to the joyous hoots and hollers of the

lovely author I’d dredged up from the deep of the slush, “Steph” offered less than

the pittance. “Steph” explained to me that we needed to leave room for negotiation. I

almost laughed.

There was no negotiation. There were only profusely thankful emails sent to me for

that one chance that changed everything. There were lots of rants in the evenings,

empty threats to quit this moneymaking machine, shouts of indignation that were

unheard save for my poor friends who had seen me work myself to the bone and cry

on the floor for only a chance to work in publishing.

I got over it, cut my teeth on other deals, compartmentalized what I did during the

days and what I did in between—write, write, write.

A few months later, the author came down to New York and we took him out for

a fancy midtown lunch. It broke my heart when he told us he hadn’t even read the

contract before signing.

Maybe you think “Steph” is a terrible, terrible person. But “Steph” is not a bad

person. No, actually “Steph” is the kind of boss who never makes an underling

get coffee at the Starbucks down the street. “Steph” never gets mad, even when

people make really, really dumb mistakes. “Steph” is one of the best editors I

know. “Steph”’s authors, including the memoirist, adore “Steph” for “Steph”’s kind

words, endless insights, and personal touch.

If anything “Steph” is not the exception but the rule. Please get an agent. A good one

is worth it, I promise.

**

There you have it, straight from the mouth of an editorial department insider. It shouldn't come as a shock that the house is playing for (gasp) the house, but sometimes you need a not-so-gentle reminder. To this, INTERN would like to add: Editors seeking a lower price tag aren't any more evil than agents seeking a higher one. Everyone wants to get a really good deal. It's just how the game works.

Writers: please don't make any more tender-hearted editorial assistants cry on your behalf. Get an agent, educate yourself, and read the freaking contract.

where INTERN lives now

Two weeks ago, INTERN and Techie Boyfriend moved to a small town in northern California, where they are renting a shadowy nook on the grounds of a failing ecovillage. INTERN has passed through this town many times on cold and wet hitchhiking trips up and down the coast, but never dreamed she would live here. Now, she's the one waving at hitchhikers, but never driving far enough to take them anywhere they want to go.

It's a very good place place to be a writer, or anyone on the lookout for stories. You can sit in the coffeeshop and listen in awe and dismay as baby-faced highschool seniors discuss their upcoming bachelorette parties, or eavesdrop on pot growers griping about how much further the price of a pound plummets each year.

You can linger in the cluttered aisles of the tiny health food store while a barrel-chested back-to-the-lander expounds on his methods for harvesting wild yeast for homemade ginger beer. You can walk down the road to drink unusually strong gin and tonics in a huge, vacant bar decked out with logging photographs, and walk home again feeling like you've really done something with the evening, even though you haven't.

One of your neighbors beats a drum every morning and leaves gifts of bundled sage on your doorstep; the other one thoughtfully informs you of the best nights to go to the casino at the rez. The local newspaper consists almost exclusively of stream-of-consciousness letters-to-the-editor from people who have grown used to having their bizarreness tolerated and even celebrated by the rest of the community. As you read them, reality peels away. If these people are OK, you think to yourself, maybe I'm not doing so bad.

It's been a long time since INTERN has lived in a place where one can feel productive just by sitting on the curb and absorbing, knowing that something interesting is bound to happen or appear or amble up the sidewalk and tell a knock-knock joke. As a writer, INTERN often feels anxious about producing enough: enough blog posts, enough chapters, enough articles, enough tweets. But simply being is productive too, or can be. At least, that's what INTERN's been telling herself over the course of many hours loitering on the street.

**

INTERN wants to know: What's the most interesting place you've ever lived? Why is it that the world feels so rich and observable at some times and in some places but not in others? How important is lived experience to writing?