February 28, 2017 § Leave a comment
In May 2015, I submitted a novel I had spent nine months writing to a book editor attached to a consultancy. When three weeks or so later, I received the editor’s report, I was pleasantly surprised. Of course, the book was not ready for publication, but a number of good things were therein noted. And my fears as to whether I had managed to maintain a reader’s interest as the book progressed, through different time periods, were allayed. Nor did the book editor take issue with an aspect of the plot which I thought was far-fetched. As my greatest fears proved groundless, I was very receptive to the criticism. The most significant criticism: the “hero” was not sympathetic. A second criticism: there was not enough period detail. These revelations did not disturb me. The editor was right.
I ended up re-writing the entire novel, and, I believed, very much improving it. I made cuts and I made additions. There was a net gain of 20,000 words. I re-submitted the novel to the same consultancy. I was disappointed that the same editor was not available to critique my book. Six weeks or so later, I received the report. The change of editor was not for the best.
My “hero” had now gone from being unsympathetic to being a cipher. Even I don’t understand how he became fainter, if I had tried to make him more solid. The part of the book I feared to be far-fetched was found to be so. I did not peruse the entire critique; it was long and detailed: too detailed. Wasn’t it enough to say that my hero was a cipher without insulting the hero’s name as well? Did it matter? If the book wasn’t good in its essentials, why gripe about small details? There were positive comments. The book had “promise”. The word promise, I recall, was used in such a way as to indicate that I was not to read too much into the word.
I was not so much back to square one but to a minus square. Was I then to re-write the book a third time and have a third person look it over and find it wanting?
All this happened last April. The book has remained untouched. (I wanted to continue writing so I turned to writing plays.) However, in December I had an epiphany. I rebelled against my dejection. I decided that the editor had gone too far in his criticism. I had handed him too much authority: the authority to tell me my work was not good enough.
My work cannot become something that it is not. Most of the time, it will not be what people want. The real challenge is not writing a publishable book but discovering the person who will like your book enough to publish it.
Agents advise writers to send in sample chapters and a synopsis. But there are usually restrictions too. For example, you shouldn’t be sending, at the same time, a great many sample chapter out to other agents because you might be wasting agents’ time. Agents might end up reading something that is snapped up by another agent. In whose dreams? Never having had an offer of representaiion by any agent, I think the agents’ fears of having their time wasted are largely unfounded. In truth, only the unpublished writer’s time will be wasted. Some agents do represent unsolicited submissions. But, I think, the odds are 100 to 1.
What do I suggest? Perhaps you discover a remote connection, amongst your acquaintance, to the publishing industry. Perhaps this remote connection will introduce you to someone more directly connected to publishing and so on. And if you have the time and money to flood the world with your sample chapters, perhaps do that. Make it your aim to collect refusals and rejections. Perhaps, a 100 or 1,000. When the bulky envelope drops through the letter box, you can say: “Success!”
June 30, 2016 § Leave a comment
We hear all too often of the express way to success taken by some writers. We have read of people who have written some little story or perhaps poem of which they have no great opinion. Nevertheless, they go to the trouble of printing it off and finding an envelope and posting it off to a competition. They forget all about their entry. But they are reminded of it, soon enough, when they are told that they have come first.
We, on the other hand, only have stories that we have tried very hard to write as well as we can. Then we go almost mad and blind proofreading our story. We know what a dim view these judges take of typographical errors. How quick they might be to tell you of your sloppiness.
We are never sloppy. We briefly contemplate amending a mistake in our printed copy in handwritng. But we can’t because we might be viewed as careless. We have to print the story again, and again. We cannot recycle an old envelope, lest the competition organisers hold that against us. Once we have posted off our entry, we do not forget all about it. We have high hopes of our story.
But the judges never get in touch. And we almost gnash our teeth when we read of yet another writer who, having toyed with the idea of writing, gives up a lucrative career to go on a writers’ course. Do you know the rest of the story? As soon as they stop toying and become serious, they are picked up by talent spotters. Of course, rarely does success come so easily. We have to remind ourselves of that. We have to remind ourselves of that.
Yesterday, a man told me of his brother-in-law who had taken time off his work to do a year’s full-time creative writing course. On the course, he was not lifted out of obscurity by a literary agent. Since he has finished the course, he has had to return to the IT work he knows best, and dislikes. He needs the money. All the same, he is working on the third draft of his novel. I found it very refreshing to hear of someone who was working hard, had yet to have a big break but was showing impressive dedication. Such stories are so much more uplifting than those of people taking to writing in January and becoming a publishing sensation by July.
I wish him luck. I wish all writers who plod away luck.
June 26, 2015 § Leave a comment
Books about ‘getting published’ will usually outline the steps to getting an agent. Although the process is not simple, it appears straightforward. The aspiring writer should write well enough for the genre and submit the sample writing required to an agent. Of course your book, however good, may be rejected because it is not to the agent’s taste.
Some writers, despite refusal, keep applying to agents. Marjorie Blackman, I believe, submitted to about 83 agents before one of them agreed to represent her. Perhaps Marjorie Blackman received some encouraging responses along the way, and such encouragement was the reason for her doggedness. If we look, however, at the figures the odds against succeeding by direct application to agents are very high.
Thousands of unsolicited submissions are made a year to literary agents and only a handful of clients are taken on, and these clients are not all necessarily from the unsolicited submissions. Ahead of the unsolicited submissions will be the writing-competition-winners, and unpublished writers that other agents have recommended.
My view now is that most unpublished writers don’t have a chance because there are far more writers than there are places on agents’ lists.
Of course, if your book is BRILLIANT, you may triumph. But, more likely than not, your book is not up to scratch. This is a conclusion I have reached about my recently finished manuscript. I did not arrive at this conclusion unaided. I arrived at it because of a critique I received from TLC (The Literary Consultancy). Yet when I received that critique I was delighted. I had been afraid that my astute editor (or reader) would give me to understand that what I sent in was neither a ‘book’ nor a ‘book in progress’ but ‘convoluted mush’.
My editor did not think the book was ready to publish. She advised me in what ways I might improve the book. Oddly enough, she did not attack the book in any of its fundamentals. I had been afraid that she would say, “That’s a far-fetched plot you’ve dreamed up, change it.”
Before the report, I was like a person afloat on a sea, surrounded by fog, not knowing if I ever would reach land. Then I got my report: the fog lifted a little, land was in sight, and I had been given a compass. I know my novel is not ready for publication and I also know what I must work on to make my novel ‘publishable’.
I have begun the revisions, recommended by my editor. The revisions turn out to be much more extensive than I had realised. But I believe the book will be far better than my original conception. Now I begin to understand why agents take on writers and then spend two years working on the draft novel.
I would recommend that an unwaged unpublished writer consults a literary editor, but only where:
1. She has already worked hard on her manuscript, and has either finished it or needs guidance before she can confidently proceed further.
2. She is committed to making it the best she can: she is open to taking the advice of an expert*.
And finally a word of warning: don’t be in a hurry to send unsolicited submissions to literary agents as their responses may be brutal. In the past, I received two devastating criticisms from literary agents. These “ladies” undermined me. Their advice was freely (without tact and without charge) given. Advice one might pay not to have had.
*One writer told me that she got two lots of advice, from the same editor, about her memoir. The writer found the advice excellent, and agreed with 70% of it (I don’t know if this was on the first or second round). However, she balked at emphasizing too much the ‘poor girl made good’ element of the memoir which her editor had recommended. This was not the direction the writer wanted to take. She didn’t. I, on the other hand, believe I am adopting my editor’s advice 100%.
May 2, 2013 § Leave a comment
Tick tock! Tick tock! Over two years have gone by since I started entering writing competitions. About six months ago, I considered giving them up altogether. But I changed my mind and entered three: one in February, and two in March.
I didn’t make the shortlist of either Myriad’s or Cornerstones’. This month, May, the results of Mslexia’s Short Story Competition will be announced.
When I entered these competitions, I told myself that if I got nowhere in all of them, I would have to change my strategy. I could not continue to enter competitions. Competitions take time, and time, once spent, is gone forever.
Initially, when I discovered two afternoons ago, that I had not made the Cornerstones’ shortlist, I remained in a reasonably buoyant mood. That evening, I went to a literary event. There I met a writer who told me that she worked for a literary consultancy. She mentored other writers. In this way, she earned money when writing did not pay. Does it ever?
She talked about writers having sometimes to review their aims, not to make publication their ultimate end. I nodded at this: I was still philosophical. She also said that writers do not always feel as validated by being published as they anticipated. Presumably their sense of validation depends on the critical reception of the book, and its sales. Most writers must feel very validated if their books are critically acclaimed or sell in great numbers.
After returning home, I felt I could not bear the load: the notion that I would write for neither publication nor money. We all have to make adjustments along the way. It is hard enough to accept that writing may not pay as well as stocking shelves in a shop but I could never write for my sole satisfaction. If I wanted to do that, I could keep a diary. I write to be read by other people. For me, a writer or artist must have an audience.
If mentoring were an end in itself, what would I be then? Not a writer but someone with a writing habit. How would I find money to support my habit?
What would Henry James, that most pure artist, say to the idea of writing for writing’s sake? I know of no writer who was hotter after the dollar than James was, or who was more of a conscientious artist. (Flannery O’ Connor, ‘The Nature and Aim of Fiction’). I imagine most writers, great or minor, are with me on this: we want at the very least to be published, and we would very much like to be paid as well.
All the same, I am going to change my strategy. My next step will be to pay to have my children’s book professionally edited.
April 26, 2013 § 1 Comment
Where should we begin Mel Sherratt’s story?
We could start it here. In December 2011, Mel Sherratt published Taunting the Dead on Kindle. In one month, she sold 40,000 at 99p a copy.
It went on to be a number 1 Kindle bestseller, in three different fiction categories, and ultimately a number 3 bestseller in fiction. Not bad at all. However, when this one month comes after 12 years of writing, part time until 2010, it’s not such a great story for those seeking instant success.
Mel Sherratt nearly secured a traditional publishing deal. She had an agent, and her book Taunting the Dead had got to acquisitions stage: then everything fell through. What had she to lose by publishing Taunting the Dead on Kindle?
Publishing on Kindle was not Mel Sherratt’s first choice, nor would it be today. In a way it was a last resort, or perhaps the only way she could see herself being published quickly. And despite her success, she still wants to be published traditionally. Why? Because that was her goal when she set out. All the same, she would rather self-publish on Kindle than not publish at all.
Three books of Mel Sherratt’s ‘Estate’ series (psychological suspense) are also available on Kindle.
Before self-publishing, Tim Cooke wrote for television. Tim Cooke published Kiss and Tell in October 2012, and his second book Defending Elton this month, April 2013. Although Kiss and Tell was the first to be published, it was not the first to be written. Tim Cooke wrote a draft of Defending Elton first. So no, he did not whizz off a complete novel in six months.
Three top literary agents had worked with Tim Cooke. Yet even with their help, Tim Cooke did not secure a publishing deal. His books had been professionally edited (by agents). Like Mel Sherratt, he had gone far down the road to a publishing deal.
We, unpublished writers, know how hard it is to interest agents. Is it comforting to know that getting an agent will not necessarily lead to a publishing deal?
For neither writer did things happen quickly. And it seems likely that neither of them would have been as successful on Kindle if they had got to it sooner. In the time they were waiting to secure publishing deals, they were able, with the help of their agents, to improve their books.
More than once, Tim Cooke said that a book should be as good as it could be, before you self-publish it.
Mel Sherratt found, after hours of searching online, an image, a rose for Taunting the Dead. Before Taunting the Dead was published on Kindle, a writer friend of Mel Sherratt’s put the finishing touches on the cover.
The designer that Tim Cooke asked to do the cover for Defending Elton agreed because he had liked the book. He also designed the cover for Kiss and Tell; he did not charge his usual fee. Tim later learnt that the designer had done covers for Irvine Welsh and Stephen King. (Books will advise you that knowledge is power, but if Tim Cooke had known of the book-cover designer’s prestige, he probably would not have asked for his help.)
Taunting the Dead had been structurally edited but not copy edited when it was first published. So there were mistakes. Mel Sherratt has had her other books copy edited as they were published (she’s since had Taunting the Dead copy edited too). She wouldn’t recommend that any writer omitted this step. You can’t copy edit yourself, she told us.
Publishing on Kindle appears easy. You can self-publish, but will your book sell? Buyers of ebooks seem to look for the same things as buyers of hard copy books, a well written book, and a good cover.
We hear great success stories in self-publishing, of ebooks that have not been edited and of readers who (happily?) point out all sorts of mistakes to the writer so that she can correct them. Collaborations between readers and writers? How long can that last for? We can only presume that such writers are lucky. If becoming an ebook bestseller were that easy, who could resist self-publishing a book?
I heard Mel Sherratt and Tim Cooke speak at the Authorlounge (The London Book Fair on 15th April 2013).
March 19, 2013 § 2 Comments
People who don’t write may indeed think that writing is typing. Last summer when I was talking to a friend who I had not seen for many years about the difficulty of getting published, the advice given was that I should write a bestseller and fill it with sensational material. Sometimes you are amused at this sort of advice, at others, depressed.
Do people suppose because I am trying to write serious fiction that all I have to do is just drop a gear or two, and then I could whack out a bestseller? I only have to sit down at the word processor and type until I reach a target of 70,000 words. Then the words THE END could be added and I could bundle a copy into a envelope and sent it to publishers. On receipt, they would publish my novel with scant regard for my obscurity. And within a few weeks, my novel would be a New York Times bestseller.
Then, I could feel pleased that I had put the bestseller, I had tucked up my sleeve, all that time, into circulation. How silly of me to have been aiming so high for nothing when I could have been earning a great deal of money from my bestseller.
Now I must explain to people the following:
1. Writing any book requires a great deal of effort and time.
2. If you are ‘insincere’ about the book you are writing, your readers will sense that.
3. Many people attempt to write bestsellers but they do not succeed.
People have suggested other things to me besides writing a bestseller. Someone suggested I write a screenplay or perhaps a play. I haven’t an idea how to do either. Wouldn’t it be better for me to stick to writing novels ? After all, I have some idea how to write those.
Last November, a published writer, to inspire me, told me of a friend of hers who had written a children’s book, about a hamster with some connection to Hampstead Heath. The writer lived in Hampstead. The local bookshop sold it. I should mention also that he had a very well paying job in the BBC, and had no wish to be a serious writer. She suggested I might set a story in Finsbury Park, the largest park near me.
People do mean to be encouraging but I would almost prefer if they were being malicious. At least, you could write the malicious remarks off. There are some differences between that writer and me:
1. I do not have a well paying job in the BBC.
2. I do not have a whim to write a story about a hamster and be quite content to see it sell a few copies in the local bookshop.
3. I am not dabbling in writing.
I have ambitions, not whims. I want to be a published writer of stories that have suggested themselves to me. Stories of finned creatures in Finsbury Park are for somebody else.
Please be careful what you say to the unpublished writer. She is a very sensitive creature. And, at all times, but particularly before suggesting some years’ long project she undertake, understand this: writing is not typing.