Min: You know how that Taves guys spells his name?
Tanya: T-O-E-W-S
Min [shocked at my hockey knowledge]: How do you know that?
Tanya: I just know a lot about hockey.
OR, I read A Complicated Kindness. But don’t tell Min that. It would ruin my new reputation.
I read about Vancouver poet Brad Cran’s refusal to participate in the Olympic cultural events. As his reasons, he listed the lack of support shown writers in the festival line-up, the recent cuts to government funding of the arts, and the “muzzle clause” required by the Olympics, preventing artists from airing any negative views.
I respect and admire his decision. Completely. But, even bypassing the image of the marketing people at his publishing house jumping up and down and pulling their hair out, yelling “What?!? You refused an invitation to read at the Olympics?!?,” there’s the more pressing question:
How do you explain that decision to your mom?
Best of luck, Brad. (And by the way, your 2010 Handbook for Entering Canada is awesome.)
I know, I know. Shocking.
He spent about two weeks reading it, giggling away to himself so often that my interest was finally piqued.
I mean, my interest would normally have been piqued earlier, but the book was about… tennis. It was the autobiography of Andre Agassi.
On the strength of Min’s rave reviews, and on the claim that Open was the best sports autobiography ever written, I read it. I didn’t giggle as often as Min. Maybe I wasn’t privvy to enough behind-the-scenes tennis knowledge. But, I did thoroughly enjoy the read. It wasn’t really about tennis, in the end. It was about a fanatically driven man, how he became that way, and how he learned to survive his own obsession.
Open, likely the only sports book I’ll ever read.
This whole attempting-to-be-useful thing is nerve-wracking. In discussing the slush pile, I should clarify that my books were published by (a) a publishing house that once employed me; (b) a publishing house that once employed a coworker who offered a personal introduction; and (c) a publishing house run by someone who used to run another publishing house which once employed me. There hasn’t been a lot of slush pile action going on.
I have, however, had slush pile rejections. I’ve also done plenty of rejecting and/or accepting on behalf of two publishing houses. Does that qualify me?
Oh, who cares. Here goes the bossy advice:
If option one is selective logging, option two is the clear cut. Just pick out a dozen of your favorite, appropriate publishers and send out your submission, all at once.
What’s that? You don’t want to risk getting a phone call from Publisher Teensy and accepting a deal, only to hear from Publisher Enormous the week after?
Well, here’s the thing. That’s about as likely as two meteorites falling in your yard on the same day. And if, by some cosmic miracle, you do get a call from Publisher Enormous a week after accepting Publisher Teensy, then Publisher Enormous will just have to get in line for your second book. Assuming, of course, the profits from your bestseller haven’t singlehandedly transformed P.T. into P.E. by that time.
Here’s the real problem with the clearcut approach. (And the rant I promised earlier.) It’s that sometimes a Publisher Prim refuses to accept multiple submissions. This would be fair if publishers accepted or rejected manuscripts within three or four weeks. But they don’t. Sometimes, they respond in three or four months. And sometimes never.
Maybe Publisher Prim does not accept multiple submissions because Publisher Prim is not willing or able to enter bidding wars for your work. Okay, I can understand that. But as long as you’re prepared to jump up and down ecstatically when P.P. calls your house (and you promise not to say, “I’m sorry, but can you hold that offer in case I hear from Publisher Enormous?”), then I vote… just go ahead and add them to the clearcut list.
Best of luck.
My box of 50 Burning Questions author copies has arrived on my doorstep. Woohoo!
I am in love with the illustrator of this book. Can you see why? According to his profile, he gets his ideas while sitting in a hot bath of lemonade, with a chicken on his head.
I should try that.
I can’t bring myself to like J.K. Rowling. It has nothing to do with her books. I LOVE her books. It has something to do with the fact that she’s wildly successful and famous and I’m… well… not. Yet.
However, if I liked J.K. Rowling, then I would love her after watching this video — a Harvard graduation ceremony speech about the importance of failure and the value of imagination. She’s funny, moving, and wise.
I guess.
If you’re into that sort of thing.
Sniff.
I requested The Cellist of Sarajevo from the library a long time ago, and it arrived at my local branch last week. A completely serendipitous event, as I hadn’t made the connection between Steven Galloway’s book and my recent read, Peacekeeper.
I am now here to tell you that they are connected, in fascinating ways. And everyone should read Peacekeeper first, and The Cellist of Sarajevo second. It’s like having a history lesson, or flying over a battle in a helicopter (that would be Peacekeeper), and then walking the streets during the actual fighting (that would be Cellist). A different view of the same incidents, viscerally affecting for completely different reasons.
On a side-note, Steven Galloway is a master at creating entire scenes from the suspense of nothing happening, rather than from the action of events (a talent that has always intrigued me). One of his main characters spends pretty much the entire book cowering behind a barricade at a city intersection.
I just listened to a very funny Authors Like Us podcast, in which James McCann and Arthur Slade discuss writing to heavy metal music.
Like them, I grew up in the hair band era. In grade 10, when I set out to become cool, I went out and bought five or six cassettes. I believe I had Motley Crue (still kinda in love with them), Poison, Heart, ACDC and Taylor Dane.
My friend Michelle sat down to peruse my purchases and offered this assessment:
“These are good. This is a start. But what you’re really going to need is GN’R.”
Ah, Axl.
When I think of Guns N’ Roses these days, I think of Jesse in grade 11 social studies, being asked by the rest of us: “Jesse, how do you explain ‘mellow’?” And Jesse, oh-so-cool (seriously) in his tight jeans and mullet, pausing for a long moment and then drawling “passive.” Then all of us nodding as if the gods had spoken. (Jesse could also whistle all of Patience. Perfectly.)
Since the end of high school I have been completely musically illiterate. I haven’t written to music since my high school creative writing classes, either. But who knows? Maybe it’s time to give the McCann-Slade technique a try.
Here it is. A second useful post. Depending, of course, on your life goals and your definition of usefulness.
Quite a few hopeful writers have asked me how to decide. What publisher do they query? Do they start with their dream publisher, or choose a smaller press? Do they query one or two or ten?
I have a few different answers, along with a rant. But no time to rant now, so here’s option number one:
First, research your publishers. (You wouldn’t believe the number of sex books I rejected while working for a children’s publisher.) Once you’ve chosen the ones most likely to accept your book, rank them from one to ten in order of preference. Create a list, complete with addresses.
Make ten copies of your submission. If publishers deign to return your pages, they will be crumpled or coffee stained or smoke-infused, or all of the above. You may as well have your copies done. (And if publisher number one happens to accept your submission, you can tear up the remaining nine copies and throw them into the air as celebratory confetti. You will no longer care about your wasted copying costs.)
Okay, start down the list. Send submission to publisher one. When you have received your rejection and/or six weeks has passed (more on this later), send submission to publisher two. Continue until you have an accepted manuscript or until all ten copies have been rejected. In case of the later, review manuscript (now that a year or so has gone by, you might have fresh eyes), and begin again.
You will probably need ten boxes of dark chocolate to get you through this process. Don’t buy these all at once when you do your copies, however, as you risk eating all ten when you receive your first rejection letter. Limit yourself to one box, and move on…
Option 2 and rant still to come.
You may have noticed that this is February. I have officially finished my self-declared mini-break and started on my next non-fiction project. As for my mini-break goals:
Back to the grindstone!
