Is there a way in which my architectural history degree assists me in doing my job as a literary agent? Um…no. But two of my favorite things come together in this article about great library staircases in the United States. Off to figure out a good reason to stop by Caltech’s Astronomy library other than just to walk up and down the stairs…
-Jim
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Monday, May 18, 2009
Thoughts on communication
It seems to me in these days of publishing’s troubled economy, that authors are suffering more than they should. I know editors are busier than ever as their numbers dwindle and they are asked to do more. But they seem to be forgetting one very important thing about our business. A publisher’s bottom line is directly affected by the quality of the material produced by their authors, and this work is dependent on the communication between editors and authors and the former’s valuable editorial feedback.
My clients often ask me -- after their book is sold and their contract signed -- when they will hear from their editors. Many don’t until they turn in their completed manuscript. I really think this is a shame as the lack of guidance can diminish the quality of the final book and ultimately the publisher’s bottom line.
My message is a very simple one here – editors need to make it their business to contact their authors immediately upon acquiring their books and be in touch throughout the writing process. These communications needn’t take a lot of time, but they will indicate interest and caring and I am certain they will also improve the quality of the final product.
- Jane
My clients often ask me -- after their book is sold and their contract signed -- when they will hear from their editors. Many don’t until they turn in their completed manuscript. I really think this is a shame as the lack of guidance can diminish the quality of the final book and ultimately the publisher’s bottom line.
My message is a very simple one here – editors need to make it their business to contact their authors immediately upon acquiring their books and be in touch throughout the writing process. These communications needn’t take a lot of time, but they will indicate interest and caring and I am certain they will also improve the quality of the final product.
- Jane
Wednesday, May 06, 2009
On writing memoir
Recently I was poking about on the website for This American Life, the altogether brilliant public radio show and now HBO television show that is one of the only things that tempts me toward faithlessness--in thought if not deed--toward book publishing. (Book publishing and public radio—apparently I don’t even fantasize about career-cheating with a high-paying job). In any case, I happened upon their submission guidelines. Although these are tailored to the demands of a radio show with a very distinctive sensibility (anyone who’s never listened should give it a try) they struck me as pertinent to book projects, especially memoir.
Memoir is a tricky category, one that I love but one in which the bar for writing is high and the demand for platform still higher. If you’re not already famous, or a participant in the Real Housewives/Dancing with Stars/America’s Top Model franchises, persuading a publisher to take a chance on your own story can be challenging. Despite the ubiquity of reality shows, not every person poised to write a personal narrative has a tv deal (yet), which means that for those people brave enough to wade into a sodden market that editors politely call “saturated,” not only had you better write very, very, very well, but do so in service of a story in which the whole is somehow greater than the sum of its parts. So how, exactly, does this mathemagical equation work?
I thought This American Life’s submission guidelines came up with a pretty good answer: They write:
"The material we most often reject is writing that lacks a narrative. A lot of it is good, vivid writing, but without a real story to it. Often it's recollections about some person the writer knew, or some time in their own lives. Often there are interesting anecdotes, but without any driving question, or real conflict. There's nothing bigger at issue and nothing surprising revealed. In many of these stories, the characters are all the same at the end of the story as they were at the beginning. No one learns anything. No one changes.”
Why yes, I thought.
Elsewhere on the site, in an amusing essay in which she talks about having her own work rejected repeatedly from This American Life, regular contributor Hilary Frank writes; “Specifically, This American Life is looking for stories with two main elements: the narrative action, or plot (in which one thing happens to the characters, and then another, and then another), and moments of reflection (where someone says something surprising about what the story might mean).”
Yes again.
Like most every piece of writing featured on the show, this is well said. They want work that has drama, that surprises, that toggles between the personal and the universal, and is also very, very well written. The fact that many of their contributors—David Sedaris, Sarah Vowell, Shalom Auslander—are successful published writers seems to indicate that these parameters translate well to the printed page.
Perhaps the model above is not the only one that works for memoirs, but the advice seemed to me well worth sharing. You can check it out in greater (perhaps excruciating) detail at http://www.thislife.org/About_Submissions.aspx.
--Jessica
.
Memoir is a tricky category, one that I love but one in which the bar for writing is high and the demand for platform still higher. If you’re not already famous, or a participant in the Real Housewives/Dancing with Stars/America’s Top Model franchises, persuading a publisher to take a chance on your own story can be challenging. Despite the ubiquity of reality shows, not every person poised to write a personal narrative has a tv deal (yet), which means that for those people brave enough to wade into a sodden market that editors politely call “saturated,” not only had you better write very, very, very well, but do so in service of a story in which the whole is somehow greater than the sum of its parts. So how, exactly, does this mathemagical equation work?
I thought This American Life’s submission guidelines came up with a pretty good answer: They write:
"The material we most often reject is writing that lacks a narrative. A lot of it is good, vivid writing, but without a real story to it. Often it's recollections about some person the writer knew, or some time in their own lives. Often there are interesting anecdotes, but without any driving question, or real conflict. There's nothing bigger at issue and nothing surprising revealed. In many of these stories, the characters are all the same at the end of the story as they were at the beginning. No one learns anything. No one changes.”
Why yes, I thought.
Elsewhere on the site, in an amusing essay in which she talks about having her own work rejected repeatedly from This American Life, regular contributor Hilary Frank writes; “Specifically, This American Life is looking for stories with two main elements: the narrative action, or plot (in which one thing happens to the characters, and then another, and then another), and moments of reflection (where someone says something surprising about what the story might mean).”
Yes again.
Like most every piece of writing featured on the show, this is well said. They want work that has drama, that surprises, that toggles between the personal and the universal, and is also very, very well written. The fact that many of their contributors—David Sedaris, Sarah Vowell, Shalom Auslander—are successful published writers seems to indicate that these parameters translate well to the printed page.
Perhaps the model above is not the only one that works for memoirs, but the advice seemed to me well worth sharing. You can check it out in greater (perhaps excruciating) detail at http://www.thislife.org/About_Submissions.aspx.
--Jessica
.
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