publishing

Agents: Needle, meet haystack. Haystack, needle. Part One

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I belong to a small chapter of statewide writing club that includes published and unpublished writers. We connect via a monthly meeting and an online newsgroup, sharing tips, tricks, and sucesses.

There was a flurry of newsgroup posts recently about agents from writers who were (or thought they were) ready to seek representation. I tried to respond as well as I could, sharing my experiences–not from being agented, which I’m not, nor being traditionally published, which I also am not–but from five or six hard years of learning the writing business from research, conversations with published authors, and attending talks, seminars, and conferences.

Like a lot of knowledge that coalesces over time, you tend to forget that this isn’t general knowledge that’s imparted to every dewy-eyed would-be novelist that cracks open a copy of Publisher’s Marketplace. I found myself writing to some of my fellow club members with my eyebrows near my hairline, as I found so much of what I was writing to be, well, common knowledge. Or so I thought.

So, here’s a little capsule of what I learned. I freely admit this is all available elsewhere…it’s how I learned, after all. But if my shortcuts help the next newbie that can’t quite find the right resources, then I’ve done some good.

The Basics – Ground Zero
No matter how gifted you are as a writer, you need to educate yourself about the industry and the marketplace. This has never been more true than right now, with digital publishing having turned traditional publishing on its head in just a few short years.

This is not a waste of time. You are not stealing anything from your writing time; think of it as an enhancement. You may well be the next Michael Chabon and have your manuscript sent to a New York agent without your knowledge, but the overwhelming chances are that, to succeed as a writer, you will have to sell yourself a little or a lot and you don’t want to go cheap.

More to the point, you have to do this at some point. Don’t waste valuable time with amateurish moves and wasted gestures. Do your homework and get it right before you start.

Resources:

Baby Steps
(These are tips that you will pick up if you do your homework, above, but are worth reiterating here.)

If you wish to be traditionally published by a Big Six publisher (who put out the kinds of books you see in airports, libraries, and those thingies that sell books…right, book stores), you must have an agent. No one publishes directly to the large publishers any more and hasn’t for a long time. This is called “over the transom” submission because it humorously refers to authors that would chuck their manuscript through the transom of the publishers’ offices (assumedly, it wouldn’t fit in the mail slot). Since the word transom itself is archaic, you can guess just how outmoded this method is.

Agents now serve as publishers’ first readers, sifting the wheat from the chaff, and trying to sell the wheat. Sometime they hit, much more often they miss. But either way, there is a 99.9% chance you won’t get a response if you send your manuscript directly to a publisher.

Some authors preach going direct to the publisher anyway. It couldn’t hurt, I suppose, and you probably won’t be blackballed by the industry, but your chances of being found are slim. If you don’t believe me, check out this picture of unsolicited slush (manuscripts) that were sent to a publisher. The pile is what the intern is sitting on.

Small Publishers
If you are looking at a small publishing house, much of the above does not apply simply because many small publishers don’t require an agent. But you might. Paying an agent 15% of your royalties might be worth it to have someone representing you and looking out for your best interests. There are plenty of horror stories of small publishing houses holding authors to unfair contractual agreements, subjecting them to litigation, and generally making the Big Six look like Boy Scouts.

This does not describe the majority of small publishers, but unless you are a lawyer during the day, an agent may still be a smart move. Remember, signing with a publisher–of any kind–means you are signing over your rights to some part of your work (often future work, as well, and sometimes even your name as a brand). Be smart.

Your Work

  1. Short poetry and short stories do not need representation. And you will not get it. Short, single items do not make publishers money (they can’t charge enough for a public that wants value), so agents will not represent it.Your best bet for short works are journals and magazines. With enough success in that industry, you may be able to publish a collection, but even then–without a longer work to your credit–you are fighting an uphill battle.If you wonder why, ask yourself when the last time you bought a short story collection was.
  2. If you have a novel or other long work, it must be finished. “Finished” does not mean you reached 75,000 words, saved the Word doc, and printed it. It means rewritten, edited, critiqued, re-re-written, and polished. You almost certainly have one shot to impress an agent. If you haven’t crafted the best product possible–let alone finished it–you will almost certainly not get past a form rejection letter.

This is a lot of information to absorb. Check out the second of two installments in this post (Agents: Needle, meet haystack. Haystack, needle. Part Two.) to find out what else I think I know about literary agents. Share your stories and experiences!

A novel idea

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After several years of working on my craft but poor showings with my short stories, I decided it was about time to try my had at writing a novel.

The funny thing is, for such a mundane and commonplace object, the novel is fairly poorly defined. It’s one thing to stroll through a library or a bookstore, running your hand along spines, and say “these are novels”. It’s quite another to sit down in front of a computer, fire up a word processor, and start to type.

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Get in your saddle and ride…now

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My journey to digital self-publication is far from original but it almost didn’t occur due to an almost fatal (to my career) ability to procrastinate.

I’d wanted to “be a writer” for almost as long as I can remember, but the proof is in the pudding (to daisy-chain two clichés together). For years, I managed to write a paltry short story or two a year. I’d toss them in the mail with little market research or editorial diligence, then wallow in self-pity when the rejection slips came back. The wallowing was made worse by my firm belief that I, indeed, had “it” and just needed to be “discovered” by a Big Six editor (before I knew what that was) while pausing at a rest-stop on I-95 or by chatting up a NYT best-selling author as I stood in the lunch line at Subway.

And I didn’t bother bolstering whatever natural talent I had with a scrap of education or self-edification. I figured I could always get my MFA (ha!), but why bother? Hemingway hadn’t gone to school for writing, Melville barely left his farm after returning from the sea, Bukowski was a postman for Christ’s sake. I’d eventually get around to the act of writing…and when I did, watch the hell out world, because life would never be the same. They’d make Hallmark calendars centered around the day I published my novel. Animals would come up to me in the forest to sit on my lap and eat out of my hand. Weather patterns would form around my house as the creative power of my brain caused a micro-climate to form in my neighborhood.

Needless to say, actually sitting down and writing something didn’t figure into this equation. Since it was understood that you had to write to be a writer, I glossed over that small fact and thought a lot more about hypothetical acceptance speeches and book signings than I ever did about creating anything. Writers call this irony.

By the time I woke up (mmm…around 30?) I realized I not only had to start writing, I had to start writing–and learning–now. I had serious ground to make up. There were writers my age who had finished two or three novels in college…and considered them “drawer novels”, not fit for anything except propping up a table. And writing had to begin with learning and re-learning all those things I’d ignored or given short shrift to for years: plot, character, pacing, theme, rhythm, voice, point-of-view, continuity.

Long story short, for the past ten or twelve years I’ve been applying myself as much to learning the craft as working towards publication (of any sort). It’s been frustrating watching others catch success along the way while I’m re-reading Elements of Style, but I’m not going to write anything I can’t stand behind and that’s going to take patience and a dedication to the craft.

There are only two important rules in this game: are you writing? And, is what you’ve written the best it could possibly be? The second rule implies immersing yourself in the creative art of writing. But the first requires the act itself.

If you’re not actually writing, you’re not a writer. Please don’t make my mistake. Get in your saddle and ride…now.

Coincidences, Vacuums, and MacGuffins

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Sue Grafton once said, “Coincidence can get you into a plot, but it can’t get you out.” I’m going to paraphrase her by adding, “And you can even have coincidence, but you can’t have a vacuum.”

Let me explain. A good thriller writer I enjoy is known for his action scenes, humor, and the complete implausibility of most of his novels’ key premises. His ability to push the reader forward and keep the suspense high is so masterful that most readers shrug at the no-way-in-hell inventions and proceed to the next shootout.

I’m one of those readers. I’m okay with colossal coincidences if the rest is working. What I can’t abide, however, is the middle dropping out of a story.

By that I don’t mean the literal middle of the book—the plotting, the dialogue, the consistency of voice, though all those things are important—I mean the central premise that got us going in the first place. When I get to the end, and there’s no meat, no substance, not even a coincidence, just a vacuum, then I start waving the red flag.

It’s a little tough to explain without actually revealing the plot, the title, or the author, but to summarize, the entire premise of one of his novels is built around discovering a MacGuffin* that, should it be found and exposed, will reveal horrific and damning truths about the several Very Important People connected to it. The world holds its breath as the protagonist races to find the MacGuffin and discover the secrets about the VIPs. Bad guys are mowed down by the dozen, allies are maimed, buildings explode. Finally, the villains are defeated and the MacGuffin falls into the trembling hands of our hero…

…who doesn’t have a clue what’s what it means. Nor does anyone involved, including the Very Important People who are Very High Up in the government that are mentioned in connection to the MacGuffin. And that’s it. Our hero gets tired of thinking about it and moves on. The book ends.

This is a profound disservice to the reader. It can’t have been that hard to think up some reason—any reason, even a bad reason —why dozens of minor characters were willing to sacrifice their lives over this object.

And for anyone who would defend this by saying, in effect, life is messy and sometimes things don’t make sense, let me introduce you to an aphorism that most fiction writers learn in Creative Writing 101: Truth is stranger than fiction.

This bon mot isn’t meant as a guide, it’s a warning: the essence for writers isn’t that they should look at our crazy, mixed-up world and use it as justification for their poorly plotted novels, it’s that no one cares about random events. We all know life has its oddball moments; we turn to tabloid newspapers and internet chain letters to keep us abreast of them. What we want from our fiction writers is to construct things that make sense, not for more of the same crap we see on the news and experience in our daily lives.

It’s not enough when a main premise is just a vehicle for us to experience the shooting, the chases, the love scenes. There has to be some there there. I’ll hang with you and your crazy reasons for getting me to read in the first place. But don’t leave me hanging.  As we all know, when the center doesn’t hold, things fall apart.

* A MacGuffin was Alfred Hitchcock’s phrase for the interchangeable “thing”–Maltese Falcon, diamond ring, voodoo doll, etc.–that drives the plot forward.

Creative Tithing: The old 80/20

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I was nearing the end of a seven-week writing class held at the Smithsonian. The teacher was wrapping up both the evening and the course and was trying to leave us with some food for thought.

The advice ran a familiar gamut: write every day, read what you want to write, work through rejection. Then, the instructor veered into foreign territory.

“Tithe,” she said, paused, and said again, “You have to tithe.”

She went on to explain what should’ve been a simple–but for me what was at the time, a radical–concept: in order to get a little (or a lot) you have to give a little (and sometimes a lot, too).

All artists enter their craft hoping and believing, at some level, they will be a success. That belief sometimes promotes a self-centered, solipsistic view of the world. Sometimes it takes someone else to point out that the rest of the creative world is trying to do the same exact thing…and we could all help each other if we glanced up from our own road map once in a while.

You want that magazine to accept your short story? Buy a copy. Desperate for a 5-star rating and gushing review for your latest epub novel or short story? Write a couple reviews yourself. Sad that your local indie book store is going out of business? Buy something there, even if you could get it for $4.99 $1.99 on Amazon.

Recently, the concept has been put more crudely as the “80/20” rule: put 80 percent effort in to get 20 percent out. It’s a stark way of quantifying what should come naturally: that we should be supporting fellow artists, outlets, and industries by giving something back. I prefer the more archaic term tithe, as I think it implies more about the relationship of giving and receiving, of obligation and reward, than the industrial digital inputs of the 80/20 rule, but the gist is the same: if you want success, hold out your hand, not for a gift, but to help.

If you’re a writer or artist, consider doing the following:

  • Buy a copy of the journals, magazines, or the books of the publishers (especially small publishers) that YOU would like to see yourself in. If you can afford it, subscribe.
  • Tithing can be time, as well. If you belong to a writers organization, suck it up and run for office or participate on a board or panel. You’re busy? Guess what, we’re all busy. Don’t know what it takes? No one does. The important part is to breathe life into the organizations that keep your craft going.
  • Attend book signings, readings, and panels of fellow authors in your organization or just your local area. Introduce yourself, thank them for their work and time, offer your congratulations, buy their book and get them to sign it.
  • Share insights and tricks you’ve gleaned on your blog, in chat rooms, listservs, and in meetings.
  • Introduce others at events, work at making connections and bringing creative people together.