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September 10, 2004
No fairy godmothers
I have to admit I skimmed through much of this Columbia Journalism Review story on the perils of being a debut author—even though the article was obviously prime fodder for the cultural blogosphere and, with my own first book due to be published in June, it should have attracted my immediate personal interest. But I’ve seen this sob story in print too many times, most memorably in Salon, where a self-described mid-list author writing under the pen name Jane Austen Doe bafflingly bemoaned that publishers were no longer paying her huge advances because her previous books had failed to earn them out.
The lament perpetuated in this new CJR article, which chronicles the surely dire mistreatment of an author named Stacy Sullivan, runs thus:
--too many books are being published
--chain stores like Barnes and Noble are evil
--publishing houses are leaving their authors hung out to dry by denying them 12-city book tours and ads in the New York Times Book Review
--these poor defenseless authors are left to their own devices and must figure out how to promote their books
Terry Teachout quickly responded to the CJR story with a bracing dose of common sense and solid veteran advice. And his sidekick Our Girl in Chicago teases out the pertinent circumstances of Stacy Sullivan’s woeful abandonment. Sullivan turned her manuscript in almost two years late and 300 pages over expected length. Is it any wonder she didn’t receive the white glove editing treatment? Realizing that her publisher was simply going to publish her 600-page ramble she “panicked,” and “then edited it herself, cutting out about three hundred pages, drawing on her boyfriend, whom she calls a ‘business type,’ to help her.” Um, why didn’t she do this before she sent the manuscript to her editor?
I don’t speak as a wizened old hand at the publishing biz—I won’t know for a few months what kind of backing Dutton will give my memoir—but as a counterexample to these doom and gloom stories, so far my experience has proved more gratifying than Sullivan’s. My editor has given my manuscript the kind of sensitivity and attention that supposedly don’t exist in publishing anymore. Just when we thought we’d arrived at the final draft, Dutton’s president asked to take a look and said “You’re not there yet; you can take this a level deeper.” She was right. I wrote half of my book almost as I was living it, without the chance to step back and see the full shape of the story. Dutton gave me that chance, and the memoir is immeasurably better for it. Of course, I turned my manuscript in one month early (being a journalist, I always make my deadlines) and only after getting feedback from two trusted members of my writers group who read the entire draft.
Terry Teachout and OGIC cover my objections to the CJR story rather thoroughly. I have only one point to add. The increase in the number of books published each year is put forth as a terrible, wicked trend. “It’s difficult to fathom,” the CJR story states, “but nearly 175,000 books were published in 2003, a 19 percent increase from the previous year, and a mountainous climb from the 45,000 published in 1991, when the number started rising exponentially.” The reasoning is that in this new “huge ocean of books,” worthy titles like Sullivan’s get drowned out by the blockbusters. But why should I believe Sullivan is a victim of this proliferation, rather than a beneficiary? There are always titles at the bottom of the publishing house’s list of priorities—adding 30,000 to their number doesn’t change the overall group’s fate. Perhaps Sullivan’s book would have been among the rejected if publishers weren’t taking on more titles.
To be sure, CJR didn’t choose a sympathetic case study for its pity fest. But the lesson rings clear. A publishing house is not a fairy godmother waiting to whisk you off to the authors' ball. A publisher is your business partner. And if your publisher doesn’t magically transform your life the way you'd hoped, are you going to sit around and complain? Or are you going to try to promote yourself, and do something about it? Perhaps fame and fortune will come; more likely not. If you’re in writing for the fame, I suggest a new occupation.
Posted by Rachel at September 10, 2004 02:17 AM
