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Whiting Foundation Announces New Prizes for Literary Magazines

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Nadia Q. Ahmad

The Brooklyn, New York–based Whiting Foundation recently announced the creation of a new grant program intended to support the work of nonprofit literary magazines. Three Whiting Literary Magazine Prizes, totaling up to $120,000, will be given annually for print and digital publications. Hoping to support both “nimble upstarts as well as established journals,” the foundation will offer two prizes for medium-sized and smaller print magazines, and one prize for an online publication. In order to focus on publications that will most benefit from financial support, eligibility is limited by a magazine’s annual operating budget (up to approximately $150,000 for small magazines and $500,000 for medium-sized and online magazines). An anonymous panel of first-round readers and final judges—made up of editors, writers, independent booksellers, and other experts in the field—will select the three annual recipients, and will consider the following criteria in their selections: magazines that publish extraordinary writing, connect with readers, support talented writers on the page and in the world, and advance the literary community.

Founded in 1971 by investor, collector, and philanthropist Flora Ettlinger Whiting, the Whiting Foundation is guided by its belief in empowering artists as early as possible in their creative development. The organization is perhaps best known for its individual grants for creative writers, which since 1985 have been given annually to ten emerging poets, fiction writers, creative nonfiction writers, and playwrights. The awards, worth $50,000 each, are based “on early accomplishment and the promise of great work to come.” Recent recipients include Alexander Chee, Yiyun Li, Victor LaValle, Tracy K. Smith, Tyehimba Jess, Elif Batuman, Li-Young Lee, Layli Long Soldier, and C. E. Morgan. According to its website, the foundation follows a similar mission with the new Literary Magazine Prizes: to support the idea that literary publications are “more than vessels for fresh writing,” but often, and more important, “the first significant editorial relationship for an emerging writer.”

“We noticed in the bios of our emerging writers the central importance of literary magazines in launching their careers, and got very interested in the range and vibrant energy of the magazines out there,” says Courtney Hodell, the Whiting Foundation’s director of writers’ programs. So many literary magazines operate on a shoestring budget, their employees (and in many cases volunteer staffs) inversely under-recognized for what can be herculean efforts to keep a publication afloat. “They work with the zealot’s ethic, without the pay to match,” Hodell says of magazine editors and staff, whose concerns often include having an adequate budget to pay writers, publishing content on time, serving a target audience while reaching a wider readership, and supporting contributors throughout their careers. Through the Literary Magazine Prizes, Whiting hopes to create a support system for these platforms, which themselves serve as important support systems for writers.

In addition to offering financial support (each monetary prize will be distributed over several years), the new awards will attempt to help magazine staffs achieve larger, long-term goals they might otherwise have difficulty planning and executing. This “call to action,” which applicants are asked to identify in their application materials, will be a significant factor in the decision process. “By a ‘call to action,’” Hodell explains, “we mean that we hope magazines will take the application process as an excuse to carve out the time for strategic thinking, articulate a powerful goal to reach for, and start to identify what they would need to do to achieve it.” Some examples could include bringing on a new editor or social media staff person, identifying ways to broaden a subscription base, or publishing new voices.

The new awards are timely, Hodell says, not least because the world is in need of such voices, of diverse stories by emerging writers who otherwise might not find a home for their work. “Grants for nonprofit literary magazines have only become scarcer over the last decade or two. In light of the gap between the quality and importance of the work, and the available funding, the Whiting Literary Magazine Prizes are a small contribution.” The greater hope, she notes, is that the new awards will draw the attention of other grant makers who might also increase support of literary magazines.

The application deadline for the inaugural Whiting Literary Magazine Prizes is December 15. Winners will be announced in the late spring of 2018, with an awards ceremony and celebration in New York City to follow shortly thereafter. Visit the Whiting Foundation website for more information about the prizes and complete application guidelines.

 

Nadia Q. Ahmad is Poets & Writers Magazine’s Diana & Simon Raab Editorial Fellow.

Ondaatje Archive Acquired by Harry Ransom Center

by
Nadia Q. Ahmad
10.2.17

The archive of Booker Prize–winning author Michael Ondaatje has been acquired by the Harry Ransom Center, an internationally renowned humanities and research library at the University of Texas in Austin. The collection, which is composed of more than ninety boxes of material, includes notebooks containing early drafts of his novels, as well as poetry manuscripts, plays, photographs, audio and video recordings, and correspondence with friends and fellow authors such as Margaret Atwood, John Berger, W. S. Merwin, Joan Didion, Salman Rushdie, and Alice Munro. Like all of the Ransom Center’s collections, once catalogued, Ondaatje’s archive will be open for research and viewing by students, scholars, and the general public. Considering its size, the collection will take many months to catalogue, but the Ransom Center plans to start that work immediately in order to share the materials as soon as possible.

The Ransom Center’s mission is to encourage a deeper appreciation of literature, photography, film, art, and the performing arts, and to share and celebrate the creative process, providing unique insight into the often unseen artistic practice of writers and artists. This latest acquisition is no exception. “Michael Ondaatje’s working notebooks provide researchers an intimate glimpse of the creative decisions he made in composing such powerful works as The English Patient,” says Ransom Center director Stephen Ennis, “while the many letters in the archive place him within an artistic network of other writers, editors, and publishers, each with their own influence on the author and his work.” Ondaatje’s notebooks—in which the author composes up to four drafts of each novel by hand before moving to a typewriter or computer—serve as the showcase of the collection. “He has pasted into them pictures, maps, and quotations that make plain the associative way his mind works,” Ennis says. “They are highly visual artifacts that invite us to consider the relationship between character, plot, and visual imagery of different kinds.” 

The author of six novels, including the 1992 Booker Prize–winning The English Patient, as well as thirteen poetry collections and several works of nonfiction, criticism, and plays, Michael Ondaatje was born in Sri Lanka, formerly Ceylon, in 1943. He immigrated to England in 1954 and moved to Canada when he was eighteen. With works that are often read in the context of modern British literature and postcolonial studies, and whose characters and themes often deal with place and displacement, Ondaatje calls himself a nomad in both life and work, “a mongrel of place. Of race. Of cultures. Of many genres.”

Though Ondaatje, who lives in Toronto, has been writing for more than fifty years, his career as both a poet and a writer was an unexpected path. “I never imagined I would be a writer,” he says. “And when I began writing poetry I never thought I would end up a novelist as well.” Ondaatje’s next book, Warlight, is forthcoming from Knopf in May 2018. Set in London in 1945, the novel follows two young siblings who have been separated from their parents in the aftermath of Nazi bombings.

With a firm belief in a community of artists, Ondaatje is optimistic about housing his archive at the Ransom Center, where he joins a literary collection that includes contemporaries such as J. M. Coetzee, Kazuo Ishiguro, and Jayne Anne Phillips, as well as Faulkner, Yeats, Borges, and Whitman, among many others. This “gathering of wonders,” he says, representing many cultures and places in one space and time, makes the Ransom Center the ideal home for his work—a place where, as he describes the places in his books, people “are able to discover themselves and others…where strangers meet and are altered.”

 

Nadia Q. Ahmad is Poets & Writers Magazine’s Diana and Simon Raab Editorial Fellow.
 

Notebooks containing the first draft of Michael Ondaatje’s novel The English Patient, 1988. (Credit: Pete Smith, courtesy of Harry Ransom Center.)

Harry Ransom Center Acquires Pound Archive

11.17.08

A sizable collection of papers, photographs, and personal items of Ezra Pound was recently acquired by the Harry Ransom Center at the University of Texas, Austin. Fourteen archival boxes containing photographs, two chess sets, a scrapbook, and other personal effects such as the late poet’s walking stick and a lock of his baby hair belonged to Marcella Spann Booth, Pound’s secretary and close friend in his later years. Also included in the archive are more than seven hundred letters Pound wrote to Booth, James Laughlin, William Carlos Williams, and others.

“The Ezra Pound collection of Marcella Spann Booth gives us even greater insight into the latter part of this difficult—in every sense of the word—poet’s mind and work,” said Brian A. Bremen, an associate professor of English at the University of Texas. In a press release, the Ransom Center referred to Pound’s later years as a “period of prolific creativity and mental turmoil.”

Spann Booth met Pound when she visited him toward the end of his twelve-year stay at St. Elizabeth’s mental hospital in Washington, D.C. Pound had been hospitalized after being declared unfit to be tried for treason for his support of Mussolini during World War II.

Upon his release in 1958, Spann Booth traveled to Italy with Pound and his wife Dorothy. She later returned to the United States and received her PhD in English.

“It is rare that a collection would become available today that could add so much to the scholarly record about arguably the most ubiquitous of the moderns,” said Ransom Center director Thomas F. Staley. “This untapped collection will be a remarkable resource for scholars of 20th century literature.”

The collection, which adds to the Center’s existing Pound materials, is expected to be available for public viewing by spring 2009.

British Library Acquires Expansive Ted Hughes Archive

10.17.08

A major collection of the papers of poet Ted Hughes was acquired on Tuesday for roughly one million dollars by the British Library in London. The archive consists of over two hundred boxes containing manuscripts of Hughes's poems, journals, ephemera, and letters to his literary contemporaries, including poets Seamus Heaney and Kathleen Raine, the Web site 24 Hour Museum reported.

Scholars and readers of the poet and his first wife, Sylvia Plath, may find the archive of particular interest for Hughes's papers related to his final book, Birthday Letters (Farrar, Straus and Giroux). The collection, published shortly before Hughes’s death in 1998, was received by many as an homage to Plath, who took her own life in 1963. The collection contains map-like notes for and early versions of poems that appear in the book, whose working title was "The Sorrows of the Deer."

"The archives show the conflicts he was going through—how he worked things out in prose before working them up into poetry," said Rachel Foss, curator of Modern Literary Manuscripts at the British Library, adding that Hughes wrote Birthday Letters over a period of twenty-five years. "It absolutely gives the lie to the idea that Birthday Letters was a rush, a spontaneous overflow of emotion that he just got out onto the page."

In a letter to Heaney, dated New Year's Day 1998, Hughes said of the poems in the volume, "Because I’d come to the point where there seemed no alternative, I just couldn’t bear to go on with them stuck in my craw." Hughes went on to say, "Publication came to seem like a matter of life and death."

According to the Canadian Press, the library plans to have the archive, which also includes literature for children and unfinished writings on Shakespeare, catalogued and available to researchers by the end of 2009.

Ransom Center Acquires Norman Mailer Archive

5.3.05

The papers of Norman Mailer were recently purchased for $2.5 million by the Harry Ransom Humanities Research Center at the University of Texas in Austin. Nearly five hundred boxes, weighing more than twenty-thousand pounds, filled with unpublished stories, journals, essays, and screenplays, as well as manuscripts of nearly all of the Pulitzer Prize-winning writer's forty books, will be shipped to the Ransom Center early in the summer.

The archive also contains approximately 25,000 letters—originals and carbon copies—written by Mailer and literary greats such as James Baldwin, Truman Capote, Joan Didion, Allen Ginsberg, Lillian Hellman, Robert Lowell, and many others.

In choosing the Ransom Center, Mailer noted its reputation as “one of the best, if not, indeed, the greatest collection of literary archives to be found in America. What the hell. Since it's going to Texas, let's say one of the best in the world."

Mailer's archive adds to the Ransom Center’s prominent literary holdings, which already include the papers of Don DeLillo, Isaac Bashevis Singer, James Jones, and Arthur Miller.

 

Texas State University Buys McCarthy Archive for $2 Million

1.15.08

Novelist Cormac McCarthy recently sold his archives to the Southwestern Writers Collection at Texas State University, San Marcos, for $2 million, the Associated Press reported yesterday. The archives include correspondence, notes, drafts, and proofs of McCarthy's eleven novels, including his 2007 Pulitzer Prize-winning The Road (Knopf) and All the Pretty Horses (Knopf), which won a National Book Award in 1992. In announcing the acquisition, Bill Wittliff, who cofounded the Southwestern Writers Collection in 1982, called McCarthy "one of the immortals." The university hopes to open the archives to the public next fall.

In other Cormac McCarthy news, Variety reported yesterday that Charlize Theron will costar in the film adaptation of The Road, which is set to begin filming next month. Theron, who has appeared in over two dozen movies, including Monster (2003) and Cider House Rules (1999), will play the wife of the book's main character—an unnamed man who, along with his son, journeys south across a post-apocalyptic landscape—played by actor Viggo Mortenson.

Ransom Center Acquires Norman Mailer Archive

5.3.05

The papers of Norman Mailer were recently purchased for $2.5 million by the Harry Ransom Humanities Research Center at the University of Texas in Austin. Nearly five hundred boxes, weighing more than twenty-thousand pounds, filled with unpublished stories, journals, essays, and screenplays, as well as manuscripts of nearly all of the Pulitzer Prize-winning writer's forty books, will be shipped to the Ransom Center early in the summer.

The archive also contains approximately 25,000 letters—originals and carbon copies—written by Mailer and literary greats such as James Baldwin, Truman Capote, Joan Didion, Allen Ginsberg, Lillian Hellman, Robert Lowell, and many others.

In choosing the Ransom Center, Mailer noted its reputation as “one of the best, if not, indeed, the greatest collection of literary archives to be found in America. What the hell. Since it's going to Texas, let's say one of the best in the world."

Mailer's archive adds to the Ransom Center’s prominent literary holdings, which already include the papers of Don DeLillo, Isaac Bashevis Singer, James Jones, and Arthur Miller.

 

British Library Acquires Expansive Ted Hughes Archive

10.17.08

A major collection of the papers of poet Ted Hughes was acquired on Tuesday for roughly one million dollars by the British Library in London. The archive consists of over two hundred boxes containing manuscripts of Hughes's poems, journals, ephemera, and letters to his literary contemporaries, including poets Seamus Heaney and Kathleen Raine, the Web site 24 Hour Museum reported.

Scholars and readers of the poet and his first wife, Sylvia Plath, may find the archive of particular interest for Hughes's papers related to his final book, Birthday Letters (Farrar, Straus and Giroux). The collection, published shortly before Hughes’s death in 1998, was received by many as an homage to Plath, who took her own life in 1963. The collection contains map-like notes for and early versions of poems that appear in the book, whose working title was "The Sorrows of the Deer."

"The archives show the conflicts he was going through—how he worked things out in prose before working them up into poetry," said Rachel Foss, curator of Modern Literary Manuscripts at the British Library, adding that Hughes wrote Birthday Letters over a period of twenty-five years. "It absolutely gives the lie to the idea that Birthday Letters was a rush, a spontaneous overflow of emotion that he just got out onto the page."

In a letter to Heaney, dated New Year's Day 1998, Hughes said of the poems in the volume, "Because I’d come to the point where there seemed no alternative, I just couldn’t bear to go on with them stuck in my craw." Hughes went on to say, "Publication came to seem like a matter of life and death."

According to the Canadian Press, the library plans to have the archive, which also includes literature for children and unfinished writings on Shakespeare, catalogued and available to researchers by the end of 2009.


Angela Peñaredondo

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“Eternity opens with the dark back / of a jazz pianist hunched inside himself...” For the Poetry.LA series, Angela Peñaredondo reads and discusses poems from her debut collection, All Things Lose Thousands of Times, which was the inaugural regional winner of Inlandia Institute’s Hillary Gravendyk Prize.

Making Ourstory

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Nancy Agabian is the author of Princess Freak (Beyond Baroque Books, 2000) and Me as Her Again: True Stories of an Armenian Daughter (Aunt Lute Books, 2008), which was honored as a Lambda Literary Award finalist for LGBT Nonfiction and shortlisted for a William Saroyan International Prize. Her novel manuscript The Fear of Large and Small Nations was a finalist for the PEN/Bellwether Prize for Socially Engaged Fiction. Agabian teaches creative writing at the Gallatin School of Individualized Study at New York University and for Heightening Stories, a series of community-based writing workshops online and in the Jackson Heights neighborhood of Queens, New York where she lives.

Sitting at a folding table at the Leslie-Lohman Museum of Gay and Lesbian Art, I worry that I am not queer enough. Some of the texts I’ve brought in to teach the Creative Writing From Queer Resistance workshop feel like old friends, read long ago, but others I haven’t even read yet. We will consider them each week on what I conceive as a timeline of queer liberation: Stonewall; feminist lesbian liberation; AIDS and Act Up; trans, bi, and gender/sexual fluidity; and marriage equality. But isn’t categorizing ongoing activism into History with a capital H decidedly not queer? And how am I an expert on resistance? I’m a forty-nine-year-old bisexual cis woman still healing from an abusive relationship six years ago, undergoing menopause, and caring for my elderly parents. How will I speak to the young people who sit around the table with me?

We can learn to work and speak when we are afraid in the same way we have learned to work and speak when we are tired.  —Audre Lorde

The gallery walls are hung with images of naked bodies. Workshop participants, women and nonbinary, introduce themselves. A pattern emerges: They want to reconnect with their writing. They have felt alone in the current political moment. They have wanted a place where they can be all of who they are—in race, culture, religion, and identity—and where queerness is not the otherness in the room. Someone asks, “When we discuss the texts, do we have to analyze them, or can we talk about the feelings and experiences they call up in us?” Over the next few weeks, our conversations crackle and spiral, one person’s thoughts inspiring a response in someone else; people want to talk about their lives with each other as much as they want to write. 

The danger in writing is not fusing our personal experience and worldview with the social reality we live in, with our inner life.... What validates us as human beings validates us as writers.  —Gloria Anzaldúa

Halfway through the workshop, someone brings pumpkin chiffon cake on the evening we discuss Hunger (HarperCollins, 2017) by Roxane Gay, and it’s an experience. So is Gay: We have three other texts to discuss, but her descriptions of what she feels she deserves and doesn’t deserve in the way of love, as a survivor of gang rape, is enough for us. Someone says, “What she says about sexual violence in relation to queerness is something we don’t always want to admit.” We talk about accepting sexuality not as fixed biology, but humanity. Something shifts in me; I let go of my fear and find my purpose in holding the space.

My warmth was hidden until I found the right people with whom to share it, people I could trust.... —Roxane Gay

When someone asks, “Can we read non-American or non-Western texts?” I ask for their input. At our final workshop two folks bring in a nonfiction story called “The Woman Who Loved Women” from The Good Women of China: Hidden Voices (Anchor, 2003) by Xinran, and a science fiction short story called “The Worldless” about a genderless future by Indrapramit Das. As the pair discusses what compelled them about each piece, I realize that we all make our own queer herstories, shaped by the spaces we form together. The words of the authors we have read these past weeks are actually in conversation with us...and we speak back to them.

You will read words...that don’t ring true to you. Please, take a pen or pencil and cross them out. Write in a word you like better. And when that word doesn’t work for you anymore, use another word. —Kate Bornstein

Part of ourstory is language, which shifts and changes as we speak and write. As workshop facilitator, I strive to not take up too much room, but my feelings and experiences belong to our queer writing space too. As someone in the workshop says, “Showing up here is an act of resistance.”

The Creative Writing From Queer Resistance workshop will read from their work on Wednesday, December 6 at 6:30 PM at the Leslie-Lohman Museum in New York City’s SoHo neighborhood. For more information about the reading, please visit the events page.

Support for the Readings & Workshops Program in New York City is provided, in part, by public funds from the New York State Council on the Arts, and the New York City Department of Cultural Affairs, with additional support from the Frances Abbey Endowment, the Cowles Charitable Trust, and the Friends of Poets & Writers.

Photos: Taken during rehearsal at the Leslie-Lohman Museum, (top) Nancy Agabian, (middle) Priya Nair, (bottom) Katrina Ruiz (Credit: Maria Jose Maldonado).

The Professor

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“A few years ago I used to tell myself I wanted to marry a cowboy.” In this short film produced by Park Pictures, director Alison Maclean adapts Lydia Davis’s short story about an English professor who fantasizes about a life of adventure. “The Professor” is included in Davis’s collection The Collected Stories of Lydia Davis (Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2009).

The Descent of Alette

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“‘In a dark cave, I saw’ ‘an apparition:’ ‘almost real, almost there—’...” In this video, Alice Notley reads from her feminist epic The Descent of Alette (Penguin Books, 1996) at the Lab in San Francisco. The two-night program included a reading of the entire book-length poem and was cosponsored by the Poetry Center at San Francisco State University.

Jennifer Egan and Carmen Maria Machado

Henry Wei Leung

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“I was a martial artist before I was a writer. It’s absurd: kicking and punching the air daily, for hours, perfecting your technique for an encounter that probably won’t happen, and definitely not in that sequence. We called it ‘formatting.’ It’s like writing drafts: All those pages in the trash are a practice toward no promised end. So what you train for is purely theoretical—and yet, if you don’t commit yourself to it, if you’re not kicking the air to save your life, then you’re doing it wrong. When I can, I go running, then write standing up, because free-writing is another physical endurance. I don’t think I write from the heart. (What does that even mean?) But I write sore, from the body, which is always urgent, while my heart’s panting. I write by hand so that I can read whether my hand is sure or hesitant or dishonest. And instead of music, I listen to the cadences of old drafts or better books—Simone Weil, Samuel Beckett, and Albert Camus (not his fiction) usually do it for me, and with some embarrassment I admit I’m still consoled and inspired by Shakespeare’s tragedies. Studies show that people who sing in the shower have a better spatial awareness—it’s the acoustics of space—so I try to write the space around my body into a necessary cadence, something to live in and live by.”
—Henry Wei Leung, author of Goddess of Democracy (Omnidawn, 2017)

Writer Photo: 
Writer Photo Credit: 
Lo Mei Wa

Patrick Rosal

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“Poems engage our imagination such that the confusion is not the end point.” Patrick Rosal, who won the Academy of American Poets’ 2017 Lenore Marshall Poetry Prize for his fourth collection, Brooklyn Antediluvian (Persea Books, 2016), talks about the importance of art and reads several of his poems at the Loft Literary Center.


Making Connections Through Books

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Goodreads, the social networking website and app for readers, celebrated its tenth anniversary in September. With sixty-five million users and sixty-nine million book reviews, it is among the hundred most visited websites in the United States. Owned by Amazon and headquartered in San Francisco, the company is not just a platform to catalogue, rate, and review books, it’s also a promotional force in the publishing industry—one utilized by the Big Five publishers, independent presses, and authors alike.

In 2007 journalist Elizabeth Khuri and software engineer Otis Chandler, who were married the following year, created Goodreads to answer two needs book lovers often face: how to decide what to read and how to keep track of what you’ve already read. Social networking was in its infancy—Facebook had just hit fifty million users—and the couple wanted to bring the social aspect of reading, recommending, and discussing books to the Internet. “Most readers find the amount of books being published overwhelming,” says Khuri. “And there is something deeply satisfying about being able to track the books you’ve read.”

A teeming community of book bloggers and critics quickly latched on to the platform. Chandler says that publishing “the best reviews on the Internet” helped secure its success. Khuri adds that the reviews published on Goodreads are more personal than those of traditional book-review outlets, which enhances the site’s appeal. “Goodreads users are writing for their friends and for the community, so the reviews feel more authentic.”

Goodreads offers numerous tools for cataloguing and discussing books. As with Facebook and other social-networking sites, readers can set up a profile and connect with other book enthusiasts. They can create and label “shelves” to keep track of what they’ve read, what they want to read, and their favorite books; they can rate books, write reviews, and comment on other readers’ reviews. They can also join any of the thousands of public and private discussion groups and book clubs—or create their own. Users can even ask authors questions and post their own writing. In 2011 the Goodreads team introduced a book-recommendation engine to the platform, which delivers informed suggestions to users for further reading based on the books they’ve read and rated. Chandler notes that three to five books in a given subject area enables the algorithm to make smart picks—often a mix of best-sellers and lesser-known surprises.

In 2013 Amazon purchased Goodreads for an undisclosed sum, allowing Goodreads to bolster its team (now at 130 employees) and implant Goodreads reviews and recommendations into the Kindle reading experience. Users can also share Kindle notes and highlights with friends on Goodreads, to facilitate deeper discussion. “We’re building magical experiences for the Kindle,” Chandler says, before adding, “We’re still full-guns-ahead on Goodreads the site.” Though Goodreads makes it easiest to buy books on Amazon, a drop-down menu lists other online options such as Barnes & Noble and Better World Books, as well as links to WorldCat, a centralized library catalogue.

While Goodreads started out as a useful tool for readers, it has also become an important promotional platform for authors and publishers. Considering that publicity departments have been scaled back in recent years, social networking has played a growing role in the success of many books and authors, whether traditionally or self-published. “Online discovery has become the biggest challenge for authors and publishers,” says Chandler. “How do you stand out online with all the self-publishing and digital publishing? Goodreads sits at the intersection of word of mouth and online publicity.”

Writers Paulo Coelho, Neil Gaiman, Kathryn Stockett, and Roxane Gay have long used the site. Chandler and Khuri were humbled when John Ashbery joined Goodreads a few months after the site launched. Novelist Celeste Ng joined Goodreads in its early stages to keep track of what she’d read. When she published her 2014 debut novel, Everything I Never Told You, she created an official author page, which contains a bio, a list of books she has written or contributed to, quotes from her writing, discussion topics, and her reviews of other books. Ng also answers reader questions and participates in interviews on the site. But she warns against responding to reader reviews, good or bad: “For the author to be listening in can dampen the conversation,” she says.

Everything I Never Told You resonated with readers on the site and was nominated for a Goodreads Choice Award, so Ng’s publisher, Penguin Press, embraced the site in its promotional campaign for her 2017 follow-up, Little Fires Everywhere. The publicity team raffled off galleys to Goodreads users, mailed them to influential reviewers on the site who had loved the first book, and shipped a box to the Goodreads office. When the book hit stores, Penguin paid for an e-mail with a note from the author to be sent to Ng’s fans and placed targeted ads on the Goodreads home page. Ng came in at number three on a BuzzFeed list entitled “21 Books Goodreads Users Are Damn Excited to Read This Fall,” and Goodreads featured an interview with Ng in its e-newsletter in the lead-up to her new novel’s publication. After each of these efforts, more users added the book to their “want to read” shelf—which often converts to sales.

Ng’s second novel debuted in September at number seven on the New York Times hardcover best-seller list. “It’s safe to say that this community helped make Little Fires Everywhere such a big success,” says Matt Boyd, the associate publisher and marketing director of Penguin Press. “I think the site has helped people discover the book,” Ng says. “My sense is that it’s an amplified version of friends recommending books to other friends.”     

 

Jonathan Vatner is a fiction writer in Brooklyn, New York. His novel, The Chelmsford Arms, is forthcoming from Thomas Dunne Books in Fall 2018.          

Jonathan Vatner

Squirl App Maps Literary Hot Spots

by
Rachael Hanel
2.10.16

Jack Kerouac’s On the Road has inspired countless works of literature and art, but now, thanks to two literary-minded entrepreneurs, the iconic novel has also inspired an app. “I was reading On the Road, sitting there with my laptop next to me, book at my side, looking up all the places Kerouac mentioned,” says Jef Van der Avoort, cofounder of the new literary search-and-discovery app Squirl. “I told my business partner, Serie Wolfe, and she said she had the same experience.”

The pair’s literary curiosity sparked the idea for Squirl, which allows users to find nearby literary locations wherever they are. The app pins locations on a map that correspond to scenes in books. There’s a pin for the University of Texas in Austin campus, which is featured in Elizabeth Crook’s novel Monday, Monday. There’s a pin for South Park in Billings, Montana, which appears in Carrie La Seur’s novel, The Home Place. And there’s a pin for the Brooklyn Bridge, which plays a part in Catherine Lacey’s debut novel, Nobody Is Ever Missing. Each pin features a relevant passage from the book, as well as links to the author’s profile and a summary of the book that also includes links to booksellers.

Squirl works by first inviting authors to post locations from their books. “We developed the app because we think too many great books remain undiscovered,” Van der Avoort says, noting that the app is geared mostly toward independent and emerging authors who need help getting the word out about their books. “If you’re a smaller indie author, you can tell your friends, then friends of friends—but what’s the next step? It levels the playing field. Whether you have a marketing budget or not, it’s the same for everyone.” Writers then set up an author profile, on which readers can find out more about their work. Readers can search locations for a specific book, or they can search by locale to discover what literary places might exist in that area—and in doing so also find out about new books. Users can also search by author, from self-published writers to Arthur Conan Doyle, in order to find out where the characters in that author’s books have been and the places that have inspired their works.

Van der Avoort and his team began developing the app in late 2014. They launched the brand, complete with people dressed in squirrel costumes, at the South by Southwest festival in Austin, Texas, in March 2015. The app, which is free for readers and authors, went live later that year; by the end of January it included more than five hundred authors and a thousand  locations worldwide. The project has so far been independently funded, but Van der Avoort is looking for external support to develop new features. In the future, he hopes readers will be able to create their own maps of favorite literary locations and that authors will be able to create virtual journeys for their characters that readers can follow.

For now, Van der Avoort sees Squirl as a tool to enhance the reading experience and connect readers with authors they might not otherwise discover. “My personal goal would be to one day see a book that was discovered through our app featured on the New York Times best-seller list,” Van der Avoort says. “That would be success.”

Rachael Hanel is the author of We’ll Be the Last Ones to Let You Down: Memoir of a Gravedigger’s Daughter (University of Minnesota Press, 2013).

 

 

Catapult Launches More Than Books

by
Jonathan Vatner
10.14.15

Considering the number of steps it takes for writers to turn their work into a published book, it’s no wonder that the literary world is partitioned into so many components: workshops for writers to hone their craft, literary magazines for emerging writers to share their first pieces, and both indie and mainstream presses for new and established authors to publish their books. Catapult, a new literary venture launched in September and led by a team of industry veterans—with significant financial backing—offers all of the above.

“Catapult conceptually mirrors the ecosystem in which writers and creatives exist right now,” says Andy Hunter, Catapult’s publisher and the cofounder of the popular website and digital publisher Electric Literature. The new operation, headquartered in New York City with a satellite office in Portland, Oregon, evolved out of the independent press Black Balloon Publishing, which was established in 2010 by Elizabeth Koch and Leigh Newman. Koch—Catapult CEO and daughter of billionaire conservative industrialist Charles Koch—provided the seed funding for the company, which is operating on a budget in the high six figures. “Since the inception of Black Balloon, part of the vision was always to create a mechanism for writers to find one another, support one another, and share their work,” says Koch. “Both Catapult and Black Balloon sprang from a deep-seated belief that a well-told story can be an accidental training ground for empathy, for expanding our minds and developing personally.”

Koch enlisted Hunter, who then recruited industry veteran Pat Strachan to take the role of editor in chief. Strachan has worked as an editor at the New Yorker; Farrar, Straus and Giroux; and Little, Brown, and is known for acquiring Marilynne Robinson’s debut novel, Housekeeping, as well as books by Tom Wolfe, Lydia Davis, and Seamus Heaney. Meanwhile, Newman has been named the company’s editor-at-large.

Catapult’s editorial focus will be broader than that of Black Balloon (which will continue to publish more experimental books as an imprint of Catapult), with twelve titles published in both print and e-book format each year. Strachan says Catapult is seeking “American and international fiction and narrative nonfiction that is alive, insightful, illuminating, stirring, and surprising by way of unique voices—whether emerging or established—who honor the craft of writing.” The press will open its doors to unagented submissions every April and October, and released its first titles this fall: Padgett Powell’s short story collection Cries for Help, Various, in September; and Gavin McCrea’s debut novel, Mrs. Engels, in October.

The company’s website (catapult.co), meanwhile, publishes original short fiction and nonfiction that complements the press’s editorial focus. Web editor in chief Yuka Igarashi and associate web editor Mensah Demary say they are more concerned with a compelling story than genre distinctions. “We’re thinking about stories very widely,” says Igarashi, the former managing editor of Granta. “Hopefully that includes graphic pieces and stories told in multimedia.” Catapult also publishes pieces with original art by its in-house illustrator, Tallulah Pomeroy; recent works have included Nao-cola Yamazaki’s story in translation about amoebas, “False Geneology,” and Joy Williams’s story about a daughter visiting a nursing home, “Cats and Dogs.” Submissions for the website are open year-round, and contributors are paid for their work.

The Catapult website also hosts a Community section, which allows writers to self-publish stories and comment on one another’s work. Readers can promote pieces they like, and the web editors will choose their favorite pieces, which will then be published on the curated site; those writers selected will be compensated for their work. With this type of community engagement, Hunter hopes the site will eventually attract a million unique visitors a month (by comparison, Electric Literature attracts three million unique visitors a year)—an audience that will help build and sustain a readership for Catapult’s books.

In addition to its publishing platforms, Catapult offers a robust series of writing classes in New York City. The program offers six-week workshops (limited to six students each), as well as daylong publishing and writing boot camps, taught by both established and emerging writers such as Mary Gaitskill and Julia Pierpont. While the Catapult team doesn’t have plans to host courses outside of New York City, it will offer online courses starting in 2016.

With such a comprehensive array of publishing and educational efforts, Hunter believes the new endeavor could eventually become its own publishing ecosystem. In other words, beginning writers might take a Catapult class to learn craft and find readers, then publish a piece on the community site, and then be chosen for the curated site. And finally, Hunter hopes, some Catapult writers might even publish a book through the press. “Nothing that we do hasn’t been done before,” Hunter says, “but we’re the only ones who are doing all of it together in exactly this way.” Koch agrees. “This multiarmed structure—that’s our Catapult. It’s our flywheel, generating its own growth and momentum as it blurs traditional boundaries—between student and teacher, established author and up-and-comer, publisher and audience.”                 

Jonathan Vatner is a fiction writer in Brooklyn, New York. He is the staff writer for Hue, the magazine of the Fashion Institute of Technology.

Correction
An earlier version of this article incorrectly stated that many staff members of Black Balloon Publishing have joined the Catapult staff. No former Black Balloon staff members currently work at Catapult.

Searching Indie Bookstore Shelves

by
Rachael Hanel
8.19.15

When looking to buy a particular book, one has a couple of options: Either go online, punch in a few keystrokes, click a couple of links, and a book will be immediately on its way; or call several bookstores, track down a copy (or wait for it to arrive in stock), and then walk, drive, or take a train to the shop. The first option is quick and easy; the second is time-consuming and inefficient, but supports more local booksellers—an increasingly important act in the age of Amazon, the company whose business model has made it difficult for many independent bookstores to compete.

Ben Purkert, a poet who lives in New York City, grappled with this dilemma. Like many readers, he wants to support his local independents and enjoys the experience of browsing through a physical store, but in the end he wants to know whether a specific book is on the shelves before he makes the trip. Purkert grew frustrated, however, with calling individual stores to confirm books were in stock. “I thought that maybe there were other people getting frustrated in the same way I was,” he says. In response, he founded CityShelf (www.cityshelf.com), a new digital tool that allows users to search the inventories of local bookstores on their mobile devices. A user can simply enter the title of a book, and CityShelf offers a list of local bookstores that carry the title, including the book’s price and in-store availability as well as each store’s location and phone number. Launched last December as a mobile site, CityShelf initially only covered seven bookstores in New York City. This summer, however, Purkert and the CityShelf team rolled out a new app and desktop site that covers stores in New York City as well as in five new locations: Boston; Chicago; Minneapolis; Portland, Oregon; and Seattle.

Purkert describes CityShelf as a “passion project.” He and his partners—technologist Eric Weinstein, designer Liz Oh, and product manager Javier Lopez—created the site in their spare time with no funding. Once they built the platform, they approached bookstores and included those with a searchable inventory on the site. In the few months since the mobile site’s launch, Purkert reports that more than a thousand people have used CityShelf, with about 50 percent of the site’s traffic representing returning users. Ultimately, Purkert would like to see the number of users grow exponentially, and he hopes to add more cities to the site and more developers to the team.

As CityShelf continues to expand, Purkert believes the platform will complement what he sees as a resurgence in indie bookstores and will encourage more readers to choose local brick-and-mortar shops over the convenience of Amazon. “A lot [of bookstores] are not just surviving, but thriving. What that suggests to me is that people are buying local. People love talking to booksellers, they love browsing, and they love getting suggested picks,” he says. “You can buy lightbulbs and diapers online, but a paperback is a bit more sacred.”

Rachael Hanel is the author of We’ll Be the Last Ones to Let You Down: Memoir of a Gravedigger’s Daughter, published in 2013 by the University of Minnesota Press.

Otis Chandler and Elizabeth Khuri, founders of Goodreads. (Credit: Nick Walker)

The Darkness Within: In Praise of the Unlikable

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Steve Almond

Last summer I wrote a review of Who Is Rich? (Random House, 2017) by Matthew Klam. The novel is narrated by a man named Rich Fischer, a self-loathing husband and father who conducts an anguished and antic affair with an equally unhappy infidel.

Shortly after I turned in my review, I heard the book discussed on the radio. The segment opened on an odd note. “Rich is a hard man to like,” the host began. I sat back in astonishment—the notion hadn’t even occurred to me. But a quick survey of prepublication reviews revealed that this was, in fact, the consensus view: Rich was whiny, selfish, unsympathetic.

These complaints, it should be noted, weren’t generally directed at his adultery, about which he is so racked with guilt that he attempts to kill himself twice. No, his central offense is that he articulates the miseries of monogamy and parenthood with such tender precision. He’s hard to like, in other words, because he makes the reader feel uncomfortable.

And yet when I survey the books that inspired me to quit journalism and take up fiction two decades ago, every single one features protagonists who are “hard to like” in the exact same way: Birds of America by Lorrie Moore, The Lover by Marguerite Duras, Airships by Barry Hannah, Jesus’ Son by Denis Johnson, the stories of Flannery O’Connor.

My predilection for destructive and discomfiting characters arose, in part, from my years as an investigative reporter, which I spent tracking con men and corrupt cops, shady developers and sexual deviants.

In my reporting, the central danger was detection by the authorities. In literature, the danger was self-revelation. The question was why people messed up their lives and, when they got going, the lives of those around them.

This question began with the characters, but it extended to the reader. Spending time with folks who were morally flawed and ruthlessly candid, who had thrown all manner of caution to the wind, was thrilling specifically because they enacted my own repressed urges. I didn’t just want to rubberneck their misdeeds. I felt implicated by them.

As I turned all this over in my mind, I began to realize why I’d found the scolding critiques of Rich Fischer so vexing. They weren’t just sanctimonious or shallow. There was something cowardly in them, a mind-set that positioned fiction as a place we go to have our virtues affirmed rather than having the confused and wounded parts of ourselves exposed.

***

A lot of ink has been spilled over the past few years on this question of likability, as well as an adjoining anxiety: how important it is that characters be “relatable.” One of the flash points of this debate emerged from the critical reception of Claire Messud’s fierce novel The Woman Upstairs (Knopf, 2013), whose narrator, Nora Eldridge, spends much of the book railing against the forms of feminine duty she has internalized.

When an interviewer for Publishers Weekly observed that she “wouldn’t want to be friends with Nora” because of her “unbearably grim” outlook, Messud’s reply lit up the Internet. “For heaven’s sake, what kind of question is that?” she demanded. Messud went on to cite a dozen famously repellent male characters who are rarely, if ever, subjected to such a litmus test. “If you’re reading to find friends,” she concluded, “you’re in deep trouble. We read to find life, in all its possibilities. The relevant question isn’t ‘Is this a potential friend for me?’ but ‘Is this character alive?’”

Messud was hailed for confronting what we might call the fallacy of likability, and the ways in which female authors are expected to cleave to this notion.

One of the most fascinating reactions came from novelist Jennifer Weiner. In an essay published by Slate she noted, rightly, that many readers come to fiction hoping to spend time with characters they admire. And she argued that the creators and consumers of such characters shouldn’t be looked down upon.

But Weiner’s defense of likability was undermined by her own resentments. Likable, she insisted, was a code word “employed by literary authors to tell their best-selling brethren that their work sucks.” Her response was to tell Messud that her work sucked.

“There’s no payoff,” Weiner wrote of The Woman Upstairs, “just a 300-page immersion in the acid bath of Nora’s misery, her jealousy, her lack of compassion, her towering sense of entitlement.” Weiner felt Messud had willfully crafted a character to whom no one can relate.

The irony was that Nora elicited such vehement reactions precisely because readers related to her too much. They felt implicated, both by her impotent rage and the despair lurking beneath her grievances. “Above all, in my anger, I was sad,” she confesses. “Isn’t that always the way, that at the heart of the fire is a frozen kernel of sorrow that the fire is trying—valiantly, fruitlessly—to eradicate.”

What I’m getting at here is that the debate about likability ultimately boils down to sensibility. Nora Eldridge’s view of the world, and her place in it, is too dark and intense for some readers. When they pick up a book, they want to be transported to a sunnier precinct, or a more exotic one, with a friendlier companion. They seek a refuge from the anguish of their inner life.

There’s no right or wrong in any of this. It’s a function of what sort of experience we’re after as writers and readers.

***

There’s another unspoken factor in all this: the market. If you’re an unpublished writer seeking representation, and you submit a manuscript with an abrasive protagonist, chances are you’re going to hear from agents concerned about likability. The whole reason Lolita was originally published in France, and nearly three years later in the United States, is that Humbert Humbert’s panting hebephilia was abhorrent to American editors.

Cultural and literary standards evolve, of course. But financial anxieties are forever. Which is why agents and editors remain wary of characters they fear readers will find off-putting. In a world where reading books is itself a marginal activity, one performed in defiance of the perpetual racket of digital distraction, why risk losing sales?

I spent weeks, for instance, arguing with my editor about the section of my memoir, Candyfreak (Algonquin Books, 2004), in which I developed the irrational conviction that I had testicular cancer during a barnstorming tour of U.S. candy bar factories. My editor argued, quite sensibly, that this disclosure made me a lot less likable as a guide. What’s more, it dampened the giddy mood that prevailed elsewhere and guaranteed the book would never be adopted in school curriculums.

The reason I insisted on its inclusion was that I saw my self-diagnosis as an integral part of the story, a symptom of the depression that had reignited my childhood obsession with candy.

I don’t mean to imply that highlighting the repellent traits of a character is some shortcut to literary depth. That’s as foolish as the notion that scenes of graphic violence or sex will magically yield drama.

Some years ago I began a novel about a shameless right-wing demagogue who decides to run for president (I know). The response I got from readers was that my leading man, while fun to hang out with for a little while, was ultimately oppressive. It wasn’t that my leading man had the manners and conscience of a shark but that he had no subtext, no dreams or fears animating his outsize appetites. Nor did he hew to the path of so many unlikable protagonists, the Emma Woodhouses and Ebenezer Scrooges, who are forced to confront their flaws and wind up redeemed in the bargain. My man was self-regarding without being self-aware.

Such a figure might plausibly thrive in the world of politics (again, I know). On the page, he quickly degenerated into caricature. 

***

But what about those characters who refuse to evolve or offer up much in the way of vulnerability? I am thinking here of our most famous villains: Milton’s Satan, Shakespeare’s Lady Macbeth, Dostoyevsky’s Grand Inquisitor, Joseph Conrad’s Kurtz, Flannery O’Connor’s Misfit, Cormac McCarthy’s Judge Holden. These figures, though not technically protagonists, dominate their given worlds.

They do so because they’re willing to violate moral norms and thus wind up driving the action of the story. They’re also fearless in apprehending the nature of the world around them, even if they deny us access to their own inner lives. Most vitally, they embrace the transgressive aspects of their selfhood, the ones we anxiously inhibit so as to appear more likable.

Consider Melville’s Captain Ahab as he stands upon the deck of the Pequod, roaring out the true nature of his mission. “If man will strike, strike through the mask. How can the prisoner reach outside except by thrusting through the wall? To me, the white whale is that wall, shoved near to me,” he tells his crew. “I see in him outrageous strength, with an inscrutable malice sinewing it. That inscrutable thing is chiefly what I hate; and…I will wreak that hate upon him. Talk not to me of blasphemy, man; I’d strike the sun if it insulted me.”

Tell us how you really feel, Ahab.

The reason readers like me gravitate toward characters like Ahab is that, not very deep down, we know ourselves to be equally charged with wrath, besieged by private doubts and grudges, and thus enthralled by those who dare to speak truth in a world overrun by personal forms of marketing.

The rise of Internet culture has only magnified the allure of such figures. Most social media platforms revolve around an elaborate effort to generate “likes” by presenting an airbrushed version of our lives and values. What grants trolls their magnetic power—whether they lurk online or in the White House—is the unacknowledged force of our own suppression.

Moral perfection is admirable, after all, but deadly dull in a literary character. I think here about the figure of Jesus Christ as we encounter him in the New Testament. He says and does all the right things. But he only comes alive as a character in those rarely cited verses when his revolutionary ire and human needs come into view.

The most shocking moment in the Gospels takes place a few days before his appointed end. On the way to Jerusalem, he stops in Bethany, where a woman lovingly anoints his head with perfumed oil.

The act angers some of those who witness it, including Judas Iscariot, who asks Jesus whether the expensive oil could have been put to better use if it was sold and the money given to the poor. “The poor you will always have,” Jesus replies. “But you will not always have me.”

It’s a moment of sensual indulgence and unvarnished pride that’s astonishingly out of character for Jesus. By my reckoning, he’s never more likable. 

***

I don’t expect this piece will do much to settle the question of likability. It’s one of those disputes into which writers will continue to pour their opinions and anxieties.

And that’s probably a good thing, if you think about it. Because we happen to be living in a historical moment ruled by unlikable characters. Take a look at our political and popular culture, at the angry voices emanating from our screens, at the seething violence in our discourse.

As writers, it can feel pointless to engage in literary endeavors when the world around us feels so combustible, so fragile. But I would argue that it has never been more important for writers to engage with the questions literature seeks to answer.

If we are to reclaim our country from the dark forces determined to divide us, to sow discord and cynicism among us, we must first seek to understand the darkness within ourselves. That means turning to stories in which we encounter characters actively engaged in the struggle—and sometimes failing—to contain their unbearable thoughts and feelings.

The urgent question isn’t whether we like these folks. It’s whether, in coming to know them, we come to know ourselves any better.

 

Steve Almond’s book Bad Stories: What the Hell Just Happened to Our Country is forthcoming in April from Red Hen Press.

His central offense is that he articulates the miseries of monogamy and parenthood with such tender precision. He’s hard to like, in other words, because he makes the reader feel uncomfortable.

Polite Need Not Apply: A Q&A With Mary Gaitskill

by
Joseph Master
12.11.17

Mary Gaitskill doesn’t believe literature should have to be polite. Do a Google image search of the author and you’ll see a succession of penetrating gazes—pale, wide eyes you just can’t fend off. Gaitskill’s writing, which has earned a National Book Award nomination, a Guggenheim fellowship, and a PEN/Faulkner nomination, has a similar effect. The author whose most recent book is a collection of personal and critical essays, Somebody With a Little Hammer (Pantheon, 2017), is best known for her fiction, having previously published three novels and three story collections. Gaitskill has been labeled “The Jane Austen of sickos,” a moniker that supposes her fiction—famous (and in some circles probably infamous) for its enjambment of sexual brutality with sensuous lyricism—is debauched. While her prose can at times appear as icy as her stare, waves of empathy, soul, and B-12 shots of humor course beneath the surface. From her first book of short stories, Bad Behavior (Simon & Schuster, 1988), which became widely known for “Secretary,” a story of sadomasochism and desire that was made into the 2002 indie film starring James Spader and Maggie Gyllenhaal, to her most recent novel, The Mare (Pantheon, 2015)Gaitskill’s fiction has always been ferocious, but not for the sake of brutality. The fireworks are in the vulnerability of human connection, not just the spectacle of sex. When she talks about her craft, Gaitskill’s eyes brighten and she smiles often. If you are fortunate enough to speak to her about Chekhov or Nabokov, as I was, you feel thankful for her clairvoyant insights, for her mastery of opinion—for her energizing confidence in what makes a good writer.

In an interview you once said, “Literature is not a realm of politeness.” What’s your style in the classroom? Are you the conditionally supportive teacher or the unconditionally supportive teacher?
I’m sure most people would call me conditionally supportive. I don’t really know what I’m like. I mean, I can’t see myself from the outside. People have described me as blunt. I’m not always, actually. I mean, I’m not always as blunt as I—

As you want to be?
as I might be if I were actually being blunt [laughs]. I’m blunt if I think there is no other way to be. I think my teaching style has also somewhat changed. And again, it’s hard to see myself from the outside. But I think I’ve learned how to be critical in a better way than I used to. In the past, I was so uncomfortable in a position of authority. I had never had a job before where I had any authority at all. My generation is notoriously uncomfortable with authority. That’s why we are terrible parents. I mean, I’m not speaking personally. I am not a parent. But it’s a thing—my generation makes awful parents. Because they’re so busy trying to make their children happy and be a friend to their children and make everything in their life work out that they end up just smothering them, basically.

All unconditional! I guess psychologists would say you need one unconditional and one conditionally loving parent, right? There’s a balance.
I had a similar problem teaching. But, it didn’t show up in the same way. I was just so uncomfortable having to be the authority. And I knew that I had to be. So the things I would say would come out much more forcefully than I actually meant them. It translated into harshness. And it was actually coming from a place of real discomfort and insecurity. But I don’t think the students knew that. Maybe some of them did, some of the time.

I remember a former writing professor, Chuck Kinder, always driving home the principle of Chekhov’s smoking gun. This West Virginian drawl saying, “If there’s a gun, there had better be gun smoke.” What’s your smoking gun principle? Do you have a rule?
I don’t, actually. I think there are very few rules that can’t be broken. I think there is only one that is very difficult to break. I have seen it broken, but not very often. It’s that something has to change. From the beginning of the story to the end, something needs to be different. The only time I’ve ever seen it successfully broken was a Grace Paley story called “A Conversation With My Father.” But as a general rule, something has to change. There has to be some source of tension. And even that can be subtle. Even in the language itself. You know the Flannery O’Conner story “Everything That Rises Must Converge”?

Yes!
The blood pressure. It’s mentioned in, I think, the first or second sentence. The blood pressure is the number-one thing.

Earlier I asked you which short stories of yours I should read, and you immediately responded with “Secretary.” You said you considered it one of your best. So I started there with Bad Behavior. That was your first book. You were thirty-three when it was released. How long did it take you?
About six years.

A first book is like a band’s first record, right? You have your whole life up to that point to write that first collection of words. And you release it. And then people tell you who you are. They say, “Oh, you’re the masochism writer,” or  “you’re the next Dylan.” It can be kind of crushing. Then you have, what? A year? Five years? You have such a shorter time frame to follow it up. What was the difference between writing Bad Behavior and your second book, the 1991 novel Two Girls, Fat and Thin?
Well, there were a couple of things. I had actually started the novel before I sold the story collection. I had written maybe thirty-five pages and stopped, because I just didn’t know what to do. And the reason I picked it up again was because I was in a publisher’s office, and they didn’t know if they wanted to buy the collection or not. And the guy said, “So, do you have a novel?” And I said, “Yeah. Yeah I do.” And he said, “What’s it about?”

And I just started talking about these girls. And they were like, “Oh, ok.” And they wanted to do a two-book deal: the short story collection and the novel.

Well, that certainly worked out.
It didn’t have to do with the process, though. It was much more complicated. Because when I was writing Bad Behavior I could always say to myself, “It doesn’t have to be good. No one is going to see it.” That actually made it possible for me to go forward. I said that to myself literally every time I sat down, repeatedly. “It doesn’t have to be any good. No one will see it.”

Like The Basement Tapes. Dylan and his band didn’t mean for anyone to hear them. They were just hanging out in Woodstock, recording music they never thought would see daylight.
It’s a very helpful thing to say to yourself. And I didn’t have any expectation of how it would be received, either. Whereas with Two Girls I could not say that. I knew people were going to see it. And actually, for the first time, I was self-conscious about how it would be seen. And I felt a desire, an obligation almost, to please certain readers. Because I knew who had liked Bad Behavior and I knew why they liked it. So I was uncomfortable about disappointing those people, perhaps. I tried as hard as I could to put those feelings aside. But it was very difficult.

That had to be jarring.
It was.

Had you ever thought about your limitations as a writer when you were working on that first collection?
Oh, yeah! I thought I was terrible.

You thought you were terrible?
That was the other thing about Two Girls that was different. It was that I had never tried to write a novel before. Short stories are—some people say they are harder, but I don’t think so. And the reason I don’t think so is because it’s just a smaller space to deal with. I mean, some are quite capacious. It’s not that they are easy. I don’t find them easy. But a novel? It’s like I was a cat that had been in a house all of its life, and all of a sudden a door was flung open. And I was flooded with sights and smells and was crazily running over in one direction wondering what was going on there and getting distracted. And then running in the other direction. It was a total feeling of freedom. But I didn’t know what to do with it. It was very hard to figure out what I wanted to pay attention to and how to structure it. And stories are way more manageable that way.

Being flooded with sights and smells. Yes. So appropriate, because your fourth novel, Veronica (Pantheon, 2005), is flooded with sights and smells and senses that overlap and eclipse each other. Let’s start with the origin myth that opens the book —the dark folktale told to the narrator, Alison, by her mother. Alison revisits this story for the rest of her life. It haunts her. At one point she admits that she felt it more than she heard it. At what phase in the process of writing this novel did you write the beginning—this story that keeps coming back?
I added that later.

Was there a Lebowski’s Rug moment, when you arrived at this origin story and added it, and it really brought the whole room together?
Honestly, it was because someone who read a draft of the book said it reminded them of the tale The Girl Who Trod on the Loaf. It’s Hans Christian Anderson. And I said, “Really, what’s that?” And I went and looked it up. And I agreed. I thought it was perfect.

Those old tales are soul crushing and beautiful, but also scary as hell. It’s scary being a kid.
Right. Because everybody’s bigger than you. And they are weird! [Laughs.]

You’ve mentioned a soul-quality in writing. I’ve read interviews where you break it down to the molecular level. I guess it’s a voice quality, right? This energy. How did you find that? And how in the world do you teach that?
I don’t know. How did I arrive at the voice quality?

Yes. This energy in your writing, the music of it. The way you describe these grotesquely beautiful things. It’s your voice. What all MFA students want so badly to get, I think, is their own version of that.
I used to tell students, “I want to see it how only you can see it. I don’t want to see it how a hundred people would see it.” I was basically telling them not to rely on shared perception. There isn’t anything wrong with shared perception. It can be a beautiful thing, and I think music relies partly on shared perception, or it assumes a certain kind of shared perception, rightly or wrongly. Because you feel, in a group of people, that you are hearing it the same, although you’re probably not. You feel that commonality. Slang. Expressions. There are certain things that make shared perception beautiful. You can’t have a conversation without it. But when you’re reading a story, it’s a different thing. It’s much more intimate. It’s much more like…you’re wanting to get the pith of what that person feels and sees. It’s more like that.

Music plays a huge, great part in Veronica. What’s your soundtrack?
You mean, what music do I listen to?

Yes. When you’re writing, or on the train with your headphones. What are you listening to?
I’m really sorry to say this, but I don’t have those things. I don’t like that. I don’t want to walk around listening to music and not listening to what’s happening. It’s bad enough that I’m glued to my phone. I’m not going to go there with music. But right now I’m also at a disadvantage, because I don’t have a good sound system. So I’ve been listening to music on my computer and I just don’t like it as much. Like, when I had a good sound system, I used to put on music and just walk around, drinking a glass of wine, just listening to it.

In your writing, you slip in and out of time seamlessly. In Veronica, you’re like a time bandit. We’re talking a really adult version of Madeleine L’Engle. The book spans decades of Alison’s life—from her teenage years in Paris in the 70s to New York in the 80s, where she meets Veronica, and she’s narrating when she’s in her fifties. There are certain sentences that stretch between two different moments. Considering the amount of time the book covers, there has to be a level of trust—in your own ability to do that, but also that the reader will trust this time machine you’re driving. Was that hard to do? Did you question that?
Yeah, I did question if it was a good idea or not. I was afraid it would be too arty, or just too hard to follow. Yeah, I wondered about that.

For me, that kind of movement through time made everything move faster. It made my heart beat faster, especially as the book went on.
Well, thank you. I did it, for one thing, well, I felt like I had to blend the times because the book is focused on something in the past, and the narrator is in the present. But also because I was at an age where I felt like time was blending for me, personally, in a way that it hadn’t before.

How so?
I think when you get to a certain age, and for some people it may be in their forties or for other people it may be in their sixties—I’m not sure—but I think for everybody it happens that your relationship with time changes and you see the future or the present, and it becomes like a palimpsest for the past, and you just kind of blur things. And it’s not necessarily in a confused way, but sometimes it is. Like, you can talk to very old people and they’ll think something happened. Recently, my mother thought that her mother gave her the book, Born Free by Elsa the Lioness. And that’s not possible. My mother wasn’t alive when that book was written. But in her mind it absolutely must have been that way. She’s blending something. I think that starts to happen in middle age. Not in the sense that you’re confused, but that your connections of when things happen in time, spatially, are just different.

So, let’s talk about sexuality. Never have I read fiction regarding sexuality that made me feel quite the same way—that way I felt when reading Veronica.
When you say “that way,” what do you mean?

As a male, reading about sex—this beautifully painful account of health, illness, death, with all of this sometimes brutal sex—I felt my own mortality. I became very aware of my heartbeat and my breathing. Thinking about all the cigarettes I had smoked a long time ago. It made me anxious. It hurt. And I saw all of this through the eyes of Alison, a model, who is absolutely nothing like me. At all. I related to it. Absolutely, in the moment, related to it. And it’s hard enough for me to be in the moment, ever.
Me, too.

At one point Alison says she sees how men can look at pictures and feel things. She’s trying to see the world through the eyes of the other, and reading the book as a man, I was doing the same thing backwards, through her eyes. Have you found that the reaction to your writing has been starkly different along gender lines? That men have a different response? Like, me, how I am getting super uncomfortable talking about it with you right now?
Oh, it doesn’t make me uncomfortable at all. I don’t really know. Someone wrote an article about how horrible she thinks men are when they write about me. And it’s true that some male critics have been unusually nasty. But it’s also true that once, a long time ago, for my own curiosity, I went through all the reviews and divided them into male and female. And then I added up where the most negative ones came from. They came from women. So, I think women are more likely to relate to my writing in a superficial way, because most of my characters are women. I don’t really know if there is a predictable breakdown.

I thought my last book, The Mare, would not be read by men at all. The Mare is all female characters with specifically female issues. And there isn’t a whole lot of sex in it. Even the horses are female. But men read it and liked it. I mean I don’t know how many. I can’t really say for sure. I am thinking, though, that some men seem to view it with horror that seems gendered.

Recently, Veronica was republished in England and my editor decided to have a personal friend of hers write an introduction. I can’t remember the guy’s name. He’s an English writer whom she says is very respected, but I’ve never heard of him. And he spent a lot of time—and he was a fan, apparently—talking about the horrifying, degrading imagery that I use about men. In one of these horrifying examples, Alison was thinking about a guy, and I hope you don’t mind me using this language. She’s having sex with somebody, and she can feel his asshole tingling on the end of his spine. In the context of writing, that does not seem especially degrading or at all degrading to me. If you were saying that to someone, it might be different, depending on who they are and how you said it. But the idea of somebody thinking that, in private, in a fictional novel, I don’t understand. I scratched him doing the introduction and I did it myself. And I wrote back to [my editor] and said, “Has this guy ever read Philip Roth or Saul Bellow? What makes him so shocked by this?”

In conversation it might be a shocking remark, but not in a novel, in somebody’s head. And that’s what I mean by politeness not applying to literature. There’s a different standard than at a party. I really did wonder if he would have reacted that way if it was a male writing about a female he was having sex with.

Well, I think there is maybe a double standard when it comes to writing about sex. Men might get more of a pass, right? And I’ve never read anything about sex that was written quite like that.
Thanks. Except I would normally disagree with that. I think women get more of a pass. For sexist reasons, actually, sexuality is considered the purview of women. It’s like women’s area of authority. Women can write really dirty things without being criticized as much. Are you aware of Nicholson Baker’s book The Fermata?

No.
It’s a pretty dirty book. It’s a fantasy book. Have you read him at all?

No, I haven’t. I guess I should.
Beautiful writer. Line by line, probably the best writer in America, in my opinion.  Line by line, though, not by the whole content, necessarily. Well, The Fermata was one of his lighter books. He’s better known for Vox, because Bill Clinton and Monica Lewinsky read it together. Or for The Mezzanine. But The Fermata is about somebody who can stop time, and he uses it to take women’s clothes off…

Oh! Yes…he masturbates on their clothes?
He masturbates, but he doesn’t do it on their clothes. My, that book got outraged reviews. People said it was violent, degrading, disgusting. It was none of those things. It was a totally harmless fantasy. And I think if a woman had written it, it would have been different. Have you ever read Natsuo Kirino?

No. You know what? Not only have I probably not read any of the books you’re mentioning, I’m probably going to get a big complex about it. 
No. Don’t worry. I’ve hardly read anything. But Natsuo Kirino, one of her books that I really like, in one of the final scenes is this guy who has been stalking her and finally gets her tied up and he’s planning to torture her and he’s cutting her and he’s raping her. And she actually responds to him. But she’s actually tricking him. She ends up killing him. And he almost likes it. She cuts his throat and he dies slowly. I don’t remember the words, but it’s almost like he says, “I love you” in the end. If a man wrote that scene, he’d be considered the equivalent of a murderer. He wouldn’t be able to show his face in public.

Well, I guess I’ll have to read that now…
It’s true, though. I think women are allowed to be much more outrageous sexually, in general, than men. What some of the male critics, who have been nasty, are responding to—and this one guy said that reading me was like being sodomized by an icy dildo—

Um, does he know what that’s like?
[Laughs] Oh, I suspect he doesn’t. Because if he did, he would never make such a ridiculous comparison. But, in a way, it’s a huge compliment, because I have never read anyone in my life who would make me feel even remotely like that. So he must think I’m some kind of badass.

What I think makes people like that uncomfortable isn’t the level of sexual detail. I think it makes them feel emotionally uncomfortable. Because they feel emotionally exposed. Lots of people write about sex very graphically.

Switching gears, you really describe the beauty and sometimes ugliness of voices. The sound of them. And you do it visually, too. Alison will describe how something looks as a sound. Are you the kind of person who can be enthralled, or just totally turned off, by the timbre of someone’s voice?
Oh yeah. I’m really, really voice responsive. When I was very young, at home, in the other room doing homework, some guy came to see one of my sisters. And I was so revolted by his voice, I could hardly bare to listen to it. And when he left I walked in the room and I said, “Who was that?” And I said, “He’s a horrible person.”

It turned out he was, actually. He had sexually molested somebody and later he made obscene calls to one of my sisters. I’m not saying I can do that all the time, but I am very voice reactive. And I can even fall in love with somebody just by the sound of their voice. I mean, I may not stay in love with them [laughs]. And it might not mean they’re a wonderful person. Although, interestingly, when I first heard my husband’s voice, I didn’t like it. But that changed. I’m not completely wedded to that impression. But it does mean something.

I read you once say that Debbie from “Secretary” was no older than eighteen. And I thought, “Wow. What an erudite, literate eighteen-year-old.”
Really, you think?

Oh yeah. That first-person narrator in that third-person universe? Totally.
It’s pretty simple, I think.

But what we can get to here is the idea of the reliability of a narrator. In Veronica, you use the first-person narrator, and you nailed the trust—the narrator was so reliable. How do you confer that trust? What advice do you give students to find that place?
I’ve always found the concept of the reliable versus the unreliable narrator peculiar, because I think all narrators are unreliable [laughs]. People tell you what they saw or what they think or what they felt, and they may be telling you the truth, but it might not at all be what someone else saw happen. Like, people always call Humbert Humbert an unreliable narrator. He’s very reliable. He’ll tell you exactly what he thought and felt in a lot of detail. And you also get a very clear sense of what Lolita is experiencing through him. But I don’t think of it as unreliable. I think more in terms, and this sounds really corny, I think more in terms of, “Do I care what this narrator thinks and feels? Can he engage me?”

With students, the problem I see most often is that I don’t get a sense of what their narrators care about. What they want. What matters to them. That’s a bigger issue to me than whether or not they’re reliable in some way.

Would you agree if I were to say that you are hard on your readers?
I don’t know [laughs]. It probably depends on the reader. I’m sure some people read my stuff and think it’s fun. And some people might think it’s boring.

Your writing? Boring?

Sure. I think Bad Behavior is boring, quite frankly. I had to read it for an audio book. I was just like, “Oh…”

For some readers it is hard. I guess I do know that for a fact. I’ve seen complaints. I’ve seen people talk about how hard it is. So it must be. But it’s not something I set out to do.

I guess we have a theme here, of conditional versus unconditional. Reading your work, I found it very hard on the reader. Not in a pejorative sense. I found it absolutely conditionally loving. It gives me everything I need, but as you once said, there is a thin line between absolute excitement and humiliation—and you thrive on that line.
I said that?

Yep.
Where?

I think in New York Times Magazine, actually.
Wow. I never read that one.

You’re tackling incredibly emotionally intense, sexually intense, illness, health, and death…
It’s true. That line.

It’s so interesting that you bring that up because a student of mine just workshopped a story; the ending is a scene in which the male character is really ashamed of his body and his girlfriend is really beautiful and she decides she wants him to pose naked for pictures. And it’s a potentially very powerful scene because it can potentially be a very horrible experience. And he’s just so uncomfortable. It would be very much a thin line. And it could be one of those things where it could be great or just really, really awful. Or both.

I’d say great and awful at the same time would be the goal, right?
Oh, yeah. For a lot of people, yeah. Because it’s the whole picture.

I think that’s what I would say about your writing. 
Well, thank you.

 

Joseph Master is the executive director of marketing and digital strategy at Drexel University in Philadelphia. His freelance work has appeared in newspapers, magazines, television commercials, and on tiny screens across the nation. He studied creative writing at the University of Pittsburgh.

Mary Gaitskill, whose most recent book is the essay collection Somebody With a Little Hammer(Credit: Derek Shapton)

Where the Past Begins: An Interview With Amy Tan

by
Alison Singh Gee
10.13.17

This past summer, while speaking on a panel at the Squaw Valley Community of Writers conference, Amy Tan surprised an audience full of aspiring authors with an admission: “There are times when I think to myself, ‘I’ve lost it completely,’” she said. “‘That’s it. It’s over. I will never write again.’” She shook her head and added, “It took me eight years to write the last novel. It seems like with every novel, it gets harder and harder.”

Tan, the author of six novels, including The Joy Luck Club (G. P. Putnam’s Sons, 1989), as well as two children’s books, struggled with writing her last novel, The Valley of Amazement, first exploring one storyline for about five years, ditching much of it, and basically starting over, finally completing the book some three years later. Published by Ecco in 2013, the novel followed the odyssey of a young biracial courtesan as she searches for her American madam during the early twentieth-century in China.

As she grappled with her voice on the page, her public voice—on Facebook, notably—was becoming pointedly more personal and urgent, poking at topics that ranged from the whimsical (her beloved terriers and her latest sculptural haircuts) to the controversial (politicians she despises). In post after post on social media, Tan examined and confronted the world around her and the world within her. It was during this period that she began e-mailing with her editor, Daniel Halpern at Ecco, who she started working with on The Valley of Amazement, a little more than a decade after Faith Sales, her longtime editor at Putnam, died in 1999.

Halpern would send Tan a question, and the author would fire off a witty retort, or sometimes a very long missive. Once, for instance, Halpern asked the writer for a synopsis of her yet-to-be-written novel and Tan shot back a four-thousand-word response about why she hates writing synopses. All of these missives had a vital quality in common: spontaneity.

Buoyed by the vibrancy of their dashed-off e-mails, Tan decided to write a memoir, Where the Past Begins: A Writer’s Memoir, published this month by Ecco. The book collects Tan’s unguarded, free-flowing writing in response to family documents, personal photographs and journal entries she had collected throughout her life, which began in the San Francisco Bay Area, where she grew up the daughter of immigrant parents from China. The results of this personal research deeply surprised the author. In examining photographs of her grandmother and the clothing she wore, Tan discovered that her grandmother had most likely been a courtesan. In rereading letters she and her mother had exchanged before her death in 1999, the author realized they had remained close, even during the times that Tan tried to distance herself, and that her mother had felt that her daughter had truly understood her. The relationship between a mother and a daughter has formed the basis of much of Tan’s work, from The Joy Luck Club, which consists of stories about the experiences of four Chinese American mothers and their daughters, to The Bonesetter’s Daughter (G. P. Putnam’s Sons, 2001), about an immigrant Chinese woman and her American-born daughter.

Tan, who readily admits that in writing her novels she labors over every sentence, discovered something vital about her writing process: that if she just shut out her self-conscious voice and wrote, she could capture something vital, intimate, and authentic on the page. “Writing this book was very painful,” she says. “But it was exhilarating, too.” 

I recently spoke with Tan about her approach to memoir and how this shift in process changed the way she views her fiction writing. 

You’ve written six novels, two children’s books, and one collection of essays. A memoir is a departure of sorts. Why did you decide to switch literary camps?
I would say I was lured into writing this book. It was the suggestion of my publisher, Dan Halpern, who thought I needed an in-between book—as in, between my novels. At first he thought we could put together a whole book of our e-mails. I said, “That’s a terrible idea.” But he kept insisting that it would be good. We could turn our e-mails from when we were first getting together into essays about writing. Then I looked at them and said, “This is never going to work.” And he finally agreed.

But by then this book had already been announced. And I was stuck writing it. At first I started writing something esoteric about language, but it was coming out all wrong and stiff. So I decided I was just going to write whatever comes to mind. It was going to be a memoir but it was going to be spontaneous.

But you’re known as a literary craftsperson, laboring over every sentence. How did you decide that spontaneity was the way forward?
This was one of the things I learned about creativity. You have to let go of self-consciousness. When I started thinking about this book, I knew that if I felt self-conscious while writing, it would probably come out bit by bit and it would not be as honest.

So I told Dan I would send him fifteen to twenty pages of writing every week. I imposed this crazy deadline on myself. I was just writing spontaneous sentences and not doing much in the way of revision. And this is what came out.

Throughout the writing of this book I was both excited and nervous. I didn’t know what I was going to find. It was like when you go to the circus and you’re about to see the next act. You’re looking forward to it but you’re also scared out of your mind. You’re worried that the trapeze artist is going to die. The process had a suspense to it. Even though I was writing about my life, here, I was writing about what I felt about certain experiences. There’s a difference between a narrative of facts and what happened in your life.

This was about what I felt about certain experiences and the association of that experience with another, and another beyond that. It was about who I am as an adult and reflecting on the core of these experiences.

What was your process? How did you organize the mining of these moments in your life?
I had collected all these things from my family and my own life, not ever thinking that I would write from them. I am sentimental; I have things from my high school, like my student-body card. I had like eighty boxes of this stuff in my garage. I kept them with the idea that I would one day go through them and get rid of a bunch and keep a couple of things. Then I thought, I will just pull something out of the boxes, and if it intrigues me I will write about it. So the process was: I stuck my hand in a box and what came out I wrote about.

It wasn’t as though I had it all lined up, like I wanted to write about this and this. The process was surprising, shocking. It was exhilarating, a mix of emotions. It brought about those things you get out of writing—you know, you have these epiphanies and discoveries. It was an affirmation of why we write.

How did this differ from writing your novels?
Writing fiction allows me the subterfuge of it being fiction. I can change things from real life. I can still go to an emotional core but not as intensely.

Fiction is a way to bring up emotions that I have and to get a better understanding of the situation. But I found that writing memoir brought up ten times the amount of emotion I have while writing fiction. This was truly an unexpected book. I kept telling Dan, “I hate this book.” It seems so personal, like an invasion of privacy. It’s as though I let people into my bedroom and into my darkest moments. I haven’t had time to really meditate over this as I would have liked—you know that word: process. I haven’t even had reflection time to sort out my emotions.

You seem to have lived a remarkably dramatic life and so did your mother, so did your grandmother. Your grandmother was likely a courtesan, one who committed suicide by swallowing raw opium. Your mother, in choosing to leave behind an abusive husband in China, also had to leave her daughters behind as she moved to America for a new life. And I read an article in which you mentioned that you had been sexually molested as a child, held up at gun point, experienced the death of both your father and older brother within six months of each other, and lived with a mother who threatened to kill herself on many occasions, and threatened to kill you with a cleaver on another occasion. In taking stock of this generational trajectory, did you have it in your head that you would one day make sense of all this as a writer?
Well, that’s what I was doing all along with my fiction. I was writing about things, and these moments would come up spontaneously, intuitively, naturally, as part of a narrative in which I was trying to make sense of a story.

For example, when I was writing The Joy Luck Club, I was writing to understand my mother more. But not to the extent that I did in writing this particular book—there was so much turmoil. When I examined for this memoir, in a very concentrated way, what it was like to live with my mother and her suicidal rages, it was so painful. The horror of seeing her put her leg out of a car and knowing that she might possibly die.

Is it meaningful to your memoir writing that your mother, who you’ve described as your muse, died almost two decades ago? How has that freed you to write autobiographically?
I wonder every once in a while what my mother would have thought about the things I wrote in this memoir. Would she have been upset or really happy? Would she be angry? When she was alive, anytime I wrote about her, even when I wrote terrible things, she was thrilled because it was about her. I could have written that she tried to kill me, and she would have been delighted. She’d say something like, “Now you understand how I feel.” My mother was an emotional exhibitionist.

My father, a minister, would have been wounded. In this book I wrote these things about him being sincere but shallow. He depended too much on the pat phrases of the Bible. Rather than truly feeling what somebody was going through, he wanted to solve things and be a good minister. He was so blind to what was going on in his own family. He didn’t have compassion for my little brother and me and what we might have been going through.

Was there difficult material that you left out of the book? If so, how do you feel about that decision now?
We took out about ten or twelve pieces and there was one, actually, that I debated over. Dan and I agreed that it was a little too risky. It was a letter I wrote to a minister based on having been abused when I was fifteen by their youth minister. This person I was writing to was not the minister when this happened. My point in the piece was that his church is a house of worship and it’s a continuous fellowship. I wrote that he is proud of the story of his church but he has to add this to its history. His house of worship has a stain on it.

I finally said, “We have to take this piece out. It goes off the path. It doesn’t enhance what I’m trying to write about.”

Are you happy with that decision or do you regret it?
I’m happy with the decision. Sometimes you write something and it becomes almost retribution, a desire to get even. In this memoir, I could have written about betrayal. I could have written about people who deeply wounded me, but why? I could have written about the fact that my mother went through her life feeling betrayed and that is a mark she put on me. I now have very strong feelings about betrayal and condescension. But I don’t want betrayals to be a dominant part of my life, and if I had written about them I would have given them more importance than I wanted to give them.

How did you push past your emotional blocks to include difficult information and lines of questioning?
In this book I say something about writing and honesty. And it has to do with spontaneity. If you are going to get to some emotional core and truth, you have to write spontaneously. You have to let go of that frontal lobe that says, “Oh, but my father will read this.” You can look at your writing later and say, “Oh my God, my father is going to kill me when he reads this, or he’s going to kill himself.” And then you will know what to leave in or take out. Or you wait until your father’s death. But if you start out in your writing having these concerns, maybe you are writing things that are vindictive. Or maybe you are not ready to write these scenes. Maybe you need to write them later. Maybe you need to take it from a different angle and it will come out in a different way. But I think that if you always write with compassion and understanding, then you stand a good chance of having that person understand why you are writing this. That you weren’t trying to be vindictive. Being vindictive is an automatic no.

Will you take this technique of spontaneity back to your fiction writing? How else will this foray into memoir affect your work as a novelist?
I always thought as I wrote fiction that I was making discoveries, deep discoveries. I was surprised by how much deeper these went as I was writing this memoir. How much more trouble the memories are and how much more risk I had to take to go into it.

Fiction offers us a subterfuge—I keep using this word—it’s almost similar to donning a costume when I go onstage as a ridiculous singer [as she does as a member of the literary rock band, The Rock Bottom Remainders, whose other members have included Stephen King, Scott Turow, Barbara Kingsolver, and others]. If I wear the costume, I can do ridiculous singing because it’s supposed to be in the guise of a silly person.

I am much closer to who I am when I am writing fiction, but there is still a separation. I write my fiction in the first person but writing memoir is truly first person.

I wonder if, in writing fiction, I am going to be as close to the material now, as I was as writing the memoir. With fiction I will still have that protective mechanism. For my memoir I fell into this safety zone of fiction when I wrote that memory of being in the car with my mother as she threatened to commit suicide. I had to write that in the third person. At first, I wrote it in the first person and I had to take it in the third person because it was so painful. I could only get it out in the third person.

At the same time, I think that writing fiction can be very fun. It allows you to be reflective, and at the same time and there’s the art and craft of fiction that I like. So I don’t think I would ever continue to just write memoir.

You mention that you have a “messy narrative style,” that you might start a novel using one voice speaking from a particular period of time but then you shift to another voice speaking from another period of time. Does this have to do with the dual narrative you lived with your mother?
This seems to be true about every book I’ve written. I start in the present and then go into the past. I think this has to do with an interior sense that whatever is happening in one particular time has a connection to another. I’m really fascinated by what that connection might be.

It’s not always a direct connection. For example, my father was a Christian minister and very devout. That does not mean that the connection to me was that I became a Christian minister or very devout. But what it did do for me was made me question what I do believe and why. And also that I am interested in having a purpose in life, rather than a random one. 

At Squaw Valley you said something surprising—and probably very buoying to many writers—that sometimes you face a blank page and think that you have lost the ability to write another word. But then you start to write again. What’s gets you over that hump and onto writing the next page?
I sometimes have this existential dread that I will never write again. Or, I’m not a writer, or this book isn’t going anywhere. Everyone is going to be disappointed. It makes me sick. Then I just say, “Get over it, you are not the end of the world.”

I’m not a disciplined writer at all. I would never want to convey that and make other writers anxious.

What happened with this memoir is that I gave myself a self-imposed deadline—fifteen to twenty pages a week—and I allowed myself to write bad pages. That’s the thing. Allow yourself to write bad pages and just continue to write spontaneously and in that writer’s mind. Write as much as you can without self-consciousness over bad sentences. Write knowing it’s going to be imperfect—that’s important. Just press on. You might look at it later and maybe you have to throw everything away. But there might be something in there that is valuable, that you can keep.

What three or four qualities make a “literary writer”?
Ah, that’s a terrible term. It has triggered a response equal to what the word “liberals” has attracted from Trump supporters. Being a literary writer might mean that you think you’re better than everybody else, or what literary means is that you’re incomprehensible to about 90 percent of mainstream readers.

But, okay. A literary writer is serious about craft, and doing something original, writing a story that contains an important idea. Literary writing has an important theme and it comes through naturally, logically, imperatively.

What qualities make a superstar writer?
Luck. And some kind of style. There is a great deal of luck involved. You have to get recognized and read. You’re lucky if your book falls into the right hands and if it didn’t come out the day after 9/11. Beyond that, it is having established a voice that people enjoy or want to hear from and being able to provide that.

Superstar writers are not necessarily the best writers. Some have written the same book over and over again. They may have a formula that readers want. Superstar writers have that down. They can be depended upon to deliver what readers like to read. I’m not counting myself as a superstar writer, by the way.

What’s next for you?
My new book is a novel, The Memory of Desire. It’s a book that I dreamed up. The structure, the characters and the setting—they literally came to me in a dream. It is so gratifying to get the setting down. For me, it’s a major part of starting a book. But keep in mind, what works for me may not work for you. 

 

Alison Singh Gee is an award-winning journalist and the author of the Hong Kong-India memoir, Where the Peacocks Sing, about her comical and complicated relationship with her husband's family palace in Northern India. She teaches creative nonfiction and literary travel writing at UCLA Extension. Find her at Facebook.com/AlisonSinghGee.

Amy Tan, whose new book is Where the Past Begins: A Writer’s Memoir, published by Ecco in October. (Credit: Julian Johnson)

The Heart of the Novel: Nicholas Montemarano and Eric Puchner

11.6.17

If you want to lose and then find yourself in stories of modern family life, look no further than the fiction of Nicholas Montemarano and Eric Puchner. Both authors peer into the beautiful messiness of contemporary America by way of its homes: the high stakes of our daily rituals, the turmoil beneath serenity, the white lies and longings that hold it all together. Puchner is author of the beloved story collections Last Day on Earth (Scribner, 2017) and Music Through the Floor (Scribner, 2005), as well as the novel Model Home (Scribner, 2010), which won the California Book Award and was a finalist for the PEN/Faulkner Award. Montemarano is the author of two critically acclaimed novels, The Book of Why (Little, Brown, 2013) and A Fine Place (Context Books, 2002), and the short story collection If the Sky Falls (Louisiana State University Press, 2005), a New York Times Book Review Editor’s Choice. Now he’s celebrating the release of his third novel, The Senator’s Children, published this month by Tin House Books. Centered on two sisters who have never met, it is an intimate family drama about a political scandal and the personal aftermath. Puchner read an advance copy and was enthralled. “This engrossing, brilliantly structured novel takes a familiar situation—the implosion of a presidential candidate’s career—and creates a thing of heartbreaking beauty out of it,” he writes. “By asking whether forgiveness can conquer blame, and whether we might even be able to treat strangers like family, The Senator’s Children feels like exactly the kind of novel we need.”

So Eric Puchner and Nicholas Montemarano got in touch, and what started as an e-mail exchange in the fall of 2017 turned into a literary deep-dive. The two discussed scandals and second chances, finding the heart of the novel, and blurring the personal and political.

Eric Puchner:The Senator’s Children feels like a departure for you in terms of material. One of the things I admire about it, in fact, is that you take a familiar subject, one that’s sort of ripped from the history books—the infidelity of a presidential candidate and its ramifications on his career and family—and find a brand new story to tell.  What compelled you to write about a political scandal?

Nicholas Montemarano: This novel does feel like a departure in some ways—I never expected to write about a political scandal—but in other ways, it continues a preoccupation of mine. So much of what I’ve written—I realized this only after I completed The Senator’s Children—is about families, specifically how they cope with the aftermath of tragedy. My first urge to write this novel came after listening to a late-night talk show host lampoon a politician whose career and life were falling apart. I was compelled less by the fact that this man was a politician and more that he was a public figure being mocked when privately he and his family must have been in great pain. I had an especially strong reaction to the audience’s laughter. I may have been the only person in America, for all I know, who felt sorry for this man, his wife, and his children. We like to see the mighty fall, and then we love the redemption story that often follows. But this politician—the one who was the butt of so many jokes—there wasn’t going to be a second act for him. Not a chance, not after what he did. I couldn’t help but wonder what the rest of life would be like for a person who had become such a pariah.

EP: That’s another thing I admire about the book, the sympathy you show each and every character—not only David, the disgraced senator, but also “the other woman” who in some ways conspires to take David down. Was there a particular character you found hard to empathize with at first? Who was the trickiest character to write your way into?

NM: David Christie was unfaithful to his wife while he was running for president—and while she was battling cancer. Can you feel sympathy for someone who did that? Well, that was one question I set out to ask in my novel. The answer, for me, was surprisingly immediate: yes, of course. The challenge, then, was to bring out those aspects of David that might evoke empathy in readers. On the other hand, Rae, the woman with whom David has the affair—she was more of a challenge. In early drafts, she wasn’t very sympathetic. She was too interested in cashing in on the affair; she wanted to write a book about it and still hoped, years after the affair, to win over David. But she struck me as a caricature, a cultural footnote you might see on a reality TV show (in fact, I had her on a reality TV show in the first draft). So I had to dig deeper and allow her to be flawed—she can be needy and self-absorbed—but sympathetic. In her case, her saving grace is that she loves her daughter.

EP: We’ve been talking about David and the other woman, but the novel’s called The Senator’s Children. For me the emotional heart of it is the story of the two sisters, Betsy and Avery, who don’t know each other because one of them is the living proof of their father’s scandal. It’s just such a fraught, thematically rich situation. Did you know from the beginning that you would focus on David’s two daughters and their very divergent trajectories in life? And that these trajectories would eventually cross?

NM: I was just talking about this last week with my students. I showed them the pages in my notebook from 2011 when I wrote down my first thoughts about this novel. It was called The Senator. But a few weeks later, the working title became The Senator’s Daughter because I decided that its focus—and its narrator—would be Avery, the daughter born from the affair. I wrote the first paragraph—which no longer exists in the novel—and then one page later in my notes, I wrote: The Senator’s Children. I could see myself changing my mind and discovering what the heart of the novel would be. Even at that early stage, I knew who David Christie’s three children were and that his two daughters, estranged from their father to varying degrees, would collide late in the novel. I wrote pages of notes about them. It’s amazing to me that, after five years and so many drafts, much of those first notes I wrote about them remain true. Some things we know from the very beginning, and other things we have to write our way towards knowing.

EP: I wonder about that in relation to the novel’s structure. Another thing that impresses me is the way it moves so unexpectedly through time, toggling between the mid-eighties, the early nineties, 2010, and (in the final section) 1977. I found this to be the source of a lot of the book’s poignancy and power. (In some ways, it feels like the real subject of the novel is time and its irrevocability.) Was the jumping-around-in-time structure something you knew you were going to have from the beginning, or is it something that evolved during the drafting process?   

NM: I really like what you just said about time and its irrevocability—yes! If I had to choose two words that seem to capture my books thus far, they would be: time and regret. What is the life span of a terrible mistake? Can time heal even our deepest wounds? Or do those wounds fester and multiply? I’ve written three novels, and all of them move around in time. It’s difficult for me to imagine writing a novel that doesn’t; it just feels natural to me. As a reader, I’m drawn to nonlinear narratives. Many of my favorite books—The Things They Carried, Jesus’ Son, Another Bullshit Night in Suck City—jump around in time. Or skip ahead, like the “Time Passes” section of Virginia Woolf’s To the Lighthouse. Or move backwards like Harold Pinter’s play Betrayal. Julia Pierpont’s Among the Ten Thousand Things, one of my favorite novels in recent years, includes surprising flash-forwards. Time jumps can be so powerful. We’re here, then suddenly we’ve jumped ahead, or back, and important things happen in that white space. I remember turning the page to Part Two of your novel, Model Home, and seeing that time had jumped ahead a year—even a small time jump like that excites me. I’m like, what did I miss? What happened between those two pages? The ending of The Senator’s Children, the final jump back in time—as soon as it happened, it thrilled me; I knew it was right.

EP: I want to ask you about the language in the book, which feels whittled down to its very essence—there’s a kind of spareness to it that feels evocative and hard-boiled at the same time.  Reading it, I couldn’t help thinking of Babel’s dictum that “only a genius can afford two adjectives to a noun,” except that it seems to me you’ve decided to get rid of adjectives altogether. Is this ultra-spare voice something that comes easily and naturally to you? Or, like Isaac Babel, do you “go over each sentence, time and again,” taking out anything extraneous?

NM: Eventually, I had to give myself over to sparer prose. During revision, it won me over and convinced me that it would be best for the novel. The first draft was bigger, louder, stylistically and formally explosive, multiple narrators, very voice-driven. With each draft, more of that fell away. The aspects of the first draft I was most enamored with were exposed as just that—writing I was too enamored with and attached to. The revision process was one of whittling down me, so to speak. The novel couldn’t be about me being a good writer or making some interesting moves; everything had to be at the service of the story. And so with each revision the novel became quieter and more intimate. Whenever my editor and I spoke about the later drafts of the novel, we always came back to intimacy—that was the novel’s strength, she kept telling me, and I came to believe her. It’s amazing to see how much the novel changed through revision—more than any other book I’ve written.

EP: Speaking of change, the biggest change that happened between your writing of this novel and its publication was the election of Trump. You wrote the novel before Trump’s infamous Hollywood Access tape, which—unlike David’s indiscretion—didn’t end up crushing Trump’s chances at the presidency and makes the Monica Lewinski scandal seem almost quaint. Has Trump’s ascendancy changed your perspective on the novel in any way? Would you write the same book in 2017?

NM: I would. Trump, of course, has reset almost everything when it comes to politics. But families—it seems to me that they remain the same. And I really see The Senator’s Children as a family novel more than a political novel. I set David’s run for the presidency in 1991 and 1992 mostly by necessity: I needed Avery, his daughter outside his marriage, to be in college during the present narrative in 2010. But setting the political scandal twenty-five years ago turned out to be interesting. I had a chance to revisit some of the political sex scandals around that time. In the case of Gary Hart in 1987, a photograph brought down his run for the Democratic nomination. But during the 1992 presidential campaign, Bill Clinton was able to overcome allegations of infidelity and win his party’s nomination and the White House. David Christie’s fate was closer to Hart’s. Or John Edwards’s in 2008. Some readers of The Senator’s Children have told me that the political world depicted in my novel feels, in the Age of Trump, like a throwback to a more civil time. Politics, of course, has always been a rough sport—and a fascinating one. But I’m a writer more interested in the private—what happens behind closed doors when the shit hits the fan, how families cope, how people lose each other, or hold on.

Novelists Nicholas Montemarano (left), author of The Senator’s Children; and Eric Puchner.

The American Prison Writing Archive

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In the fall of 2009 writer Doran Larson put out a call for essays from incarcerated people and prison staff about what life was like inside, and five years later, in 2014, Michigan State University Press published a selection of them as Fourth City: Essays From the Prison in America. But the essays never stopped coming. “I’m holding a handwritten essay that just arrived today,” Larson said in August. “Once people knew there was a venue where someone would read their work, they kept writing.” Instead of letting this steady stream of essays go unread, Larson decided to create the American Prison Writing Archive (APWA), an open-source archive of essays by incarcerated and formerly incarcerated people, as well as correctional officers and staffers. Accessible to anyone online, the APWA (apw.dhinitiative.org) is a “virtual meeting place” to “spread the voices of unheard populations.”

With more than 2.2 million people in its prisons and jails, the United States incarcerates a higher percentage of its population than any other country in the world. But most Americans don’t know anything about life inside, which can leave them both indifferent to those who live and work there and divorced from the justice system their tax dollars reinforce. Larson hopes to rectify this disconnect with the APWA, and after receiving a $262,000 grant in March from the National Endowment for the Humanities (NEH), the archive is poised to do just that.

Larson, who teaches literature and creative writing at Hamilton College in Clinton, New York, first became involved with the incarcerated population when a friend invited him to a discussion group at Attica Correctional Facility, a New York state prison. Larson listened to men speak about how they were coping with being in prison and was “floored by the honesty and earnestness of those conversations,” he says. A few months later he started a writing group at Attica and became interested in prison writing as a genre. “I spent two summers at the Library of Congress reading all the prison writing I could. I wanted to start an undergraduate course on it. There are a few anthologies of [work by] political prisoners like Martin Luther King Jr. and some small collections from prison writing workshops, but I couldn’t find a wide, national sampling from currently incarcerated people.”

With more than 1,200 essays from people all across the country, the APWA fills that need. The database currently holds three million words’ worth of writing, enough to fill more than eighteen volumes the size of Fourth City, which is a hefty 338 pages. “While reading individual essays can be moving and inspiring, it’s reading in the aggregate that’s valuable and instructive,” says Larson. “One of the extraordinary things has been to see the same themes emerging: staff violence, neglect and abuse at home, drug and alcohol addiction, police aggression.” These shared experiences are part of what inspired Larson to name the collection Fourth City—to represent the fact that the prison and jail population in the United States is larger than that of Houston, Texas, currently the fourth largest city in the country,  and that stories told from inside any prison in the nation can seem as if they’re all coming from the same place.

The APWA is part of Hamilton College’s Digital Humanities Initiative. With additional funding for the archive from the NEH grant, Larson plans to continue to solicit, preserve, digitize, and disseminate the work of incarcerated people and prison workers and to hire a part-time assistant. The grant will also go toward finishing an online tool that will allow anyone to transcribe handwritten essays into fully searchable texts and to improve the site’s search functions so users can search by author attribute (race, religion, age, ethnicity), keyword, location, and more.

Larson hopes the archive will be a resource that people will use regularly for academic, policy, and social research. “In the age of big data, we’re trying to help create the era of big narrative, people writing very concretely about what works and doesn’t work,” he says. “Policy-makers might consult this to investigate: How much human pain might be caused because of this policy? When does the law become little more than legalized suffering?” Larson published a book last July, Witness in the Era of Mass Incarceration (Rowman & Littlefield), that compared prison writing in Ireland, Africa, and the United States; he is currently working on another book about the archive tentatively titled “Ethics in the Era of Mass Incarceration.”

The APWA doesn’t espouse any political view. “The advocacy is done by the writers,” Larson says. “You read ten Holocaust or slave narratives and no one has to tell you what the message is. The difference is that there is a fixed number of slave and Holocaust narratives. But this collection will continue to grow.”      

 

Gila Lyons has written about feminism, mental health, and social justice for Salon, Vox, Cosmopolitan, the Huffington Post, Good Magazine, and other publications. Find her on Twitter, @gilalyons, or on her website, gilalyons.com.

Gila Lyons

Lit Mag Gives Voice to Homeless

by
Adrienne Raphel
10.12.16

Every Tuesday morning, twenty to thirty writers gather in a meeting room in the basement of the Cathedral Church of St. Paul on Tremont Street in Boston. Each member of the Black Seed Writers Group gets a pen and a yellow legal pad and, after catching up with one another, sits down and gets to work. The writing they produce will eventually fill the pages of the Pilgrim, a literary magazine celebrating its fifth anniversary this December. The Pilgrim looks like just about any of the small literary magazines lining the shelves of local bookstores and cafés, but it is different in one major respect: Its contributors are all part of Boston’s homeless community. 

The Pilgrim is the brainchild of James Parker, a contributing editor and cultural columnist for the Atlantic. In 2011, while on a sixty-mile pilgrimage with the MANNA ministry of the Cathedral Church of St. Paul, Parker was inspired to launch the writers group and journal with the idea of pilgrimage as a guiding theme. “Homelessness is a state of acute pilgrimage,” writes Parker on the journal’s website, “a condition of material and occasionally moral emergency, and thus a place where the world reveals itself under the pressure, or the pouring-in, of a higher reality.” When he returned from his own pilgrimage, Parker established the Black Seed Writers Group to give homeless people in downtown Boston an opportunity to gather, write, and share their work. The group is named for the nearby café where it first met, but its ranks soon swelled beyond the café’s capacity and it moved to the cathedral next door. Each week, Parker provides a few open-ended prompts to get the writers going. There is no formal workshop, and anyone who is homeless, recently housed, or transitioning into a home is welcome to join. Members of the group come and go, though each week there are at least a few regulars.

“If we’re the Black Seed Writers Group,” says Margaret Miranda, a writer in the group, “the people helping us are mission figs: They surround the black seeds at the center, they’re nurturing, and they’re on a mission. Besides,” she adds, “think of the literary significance of figs.” (When Miranda presented her metaphor to Parker, he asked her if that makes him a mad vegetable. Miranda replied, “In forty years, you will be.”) In addition to Parker, the other volunteers who help facilitate the workshop include Kate Glavin, an MFA student at the University of Massachusetts in Boston; Libby Gatti, a diocese intern; and James Kraus, a graphic artist who refers to himself as “the other James.” 

Miranda and several other regulars set the group’s tone: After a few minutes of greeting and banter, they settle into their various writing processes and work diligently through the hour. A man named Joe dictates into his phone and transcribes his recording; Steven thumbs through a dictionary; Cody paces back and forth before plunging into his work. Rob, a wiry writer in a Red Sox hoodie, brews the coffee.

“This is the most punk-rock thing I’ve ever been part of,” says Parker, who first connected with the homeless community through music. At age twenty-two, Parker was immersed in Washington, D.C.’s independent music scene, and discovered the city’s Community for Creative Non-Violence (CCNV), a thriving facility for the homeless, through the liner notes of a music album. Parker lived at CCNV as a volunteer for several months, but soon moved to Boston and lost touch with the homeless community over the next two decades, until founding the writers group.

After each session, Parker gathers all the work and splits it among himself and the other volunteers to transcribe. He then prints the writing in packets that he distributes the following Tuesday. Within a week of attending the Black Seed Writers Group, therefore, every participant is a published author; additionally, the packet entices writers to return the next week. Parker then chooses work from these packets to include in the Pilgrim, which he publishes eight to ten times per year. The Pilgrim is printed right where it’s produced; the administration at the church lets Parker use its printers, and subscription fees—the journal has a circulation of a few hundred—provide funding for the paper and ink. 

As a writer himself, Parker believes fervently in the power of publication. While he was writing his first book, his wife had one of the chapters printed as a chapbook, and it transformed the way Parker approached his work: “It was so powerful to me to have something published,” he says. When he founded the Pilgrim, the heart of his mission was to publish as many voices as possible—particularly those that would normally go unheard. In 2015, according to government census figures, the homeless population of Boston was 7,663—a 5.6 percent increase from the previous year. Since it was established, in December 2011, the Pilgrim has published more than 150 different writers.

The Pilgrim does not have a specific style; instead, writers are encouraged to find their own style, and to push their voices deeper. Participants write poems, stories, memoirs, prayers, protests, and everything in between. One regular attendee, Rolando, is a journalist who catalogues various aspects of life at the shelter through a series of bullet points that create something between a list, a poem, and an essay. One week he wrote about lost property; the next week he categorized the various safety nets at the shelter. Cody writes prophetic images from his imagination. He describes a dream cover for his book, were he to write one: a rendering of the globe with a seven-headed serpentine monster crawling out of a deep chasm in the center.

In 2014 Parker expanded the Pilgrim to include a book imprint, No Fixed Address Press. Its first publication was Paul Estes’s science fiction novel, Razza Freakin’ Aliens, a madcap space opera featuring the intergalactic adventures of Dave the Spy, who encounters many multispecies creatures, such as rebel alien cats that yell, “Hairrbawlz, kill ’em all!” This year, the press published Miranda’s debut collection of poetry, Dressing Wounds on Tremont Street. The book is at once devotional and jocular, weaving together portentous subjects with light banter; think John Donne meets Kenneth Koch. 

 

Now, Parker says, No Fixed Address Press is concentrating on what he calls broadsheets—chapbook-length collections that are easier, cheaper, and quicker to produce than full-length books. Any profits that the Pilgrim and No Fixed Address Press might bring in from sales go directly into producing the next publications. Parker is excited to watch the group’s reach naturally expand, but is careful to avoid a “dissipation of essence,” as he puts it. As the group grows, it’s important for Parker to maintain an environment of openness, encouragement, and safety—an intimate space where members can nurture each other as writers. “We want growth that’s real growth,” said Parker. “Growth as writers.” 

Adrienne Raphel is the author of What Was It For (Rescue Press, 2017) and But What Will We Do (Seattle Review, 2016). Her work has appeared in the New Yorker, Paris Review Daily, Poetry, Lana Turner Journal, Prelude, and elsewhere. She is a graduate of the Iowa Writers’ Workshop and a doctoral candidate at Harvard University. 

Publishing, Empowering Teen Writers

by
Tara Jayakar
6.14.17

For Chicago teenagers with a passion for writing, there is no shortage of resources. Young Chicago Authors; 826CHI, a branch of the youth writing organization started by writer Dave Eggers; StoryStudio Chicago; and Writopia Lab, among other programs, have been offering writing workshops, open mics, summer camps, and poetry slams for kids throughout the city for decades. But a new organization has a more specific goal in mind for Chicago teens: to offer them hands-on experience in editing and publishing their peers. Launched last year by poet and educator Jennifer Steele, [Y]volve Publishing (YP) is an extension of Revolving Door Arts Foundation, which Steele founded in 2014 to empower and publish young and emerging writers and to get them actively involved in the publishing industry. Steele runs the organization almost exclusively on her own, with some help from a volunteer board that includes writers Fred Sasaki and Kenyatta Rogers. While Steele has other projects in the works for the organization, including workshops for young and new mothers, an anthology about postpartum depression, and a reading series, her primary focus is currently YP and its inaugural project, the Teen Chapbook Series, which features poetry chapbooks written and edited by teens. 

The chapbook series began last summer, when Steele asked four teenagers on the slam poetry team she coaches to each write five poems and then expand that work into a chapbook-length collection. The four young poets—Nyvia Taylor, Semira Truth Garrett, Kai Wright, and Jalen Kobayashi—worked with one another, along with Steele, to edit their poems. “Each book has been a personal journey for these writers, as they explore personal ideas and also think about how to expand the craft of their writing,” says Steele. “Semira, for instance, was really interested in learning how to write short poems. Jalen has learned about truth versus fact when writing a poem. And Nyvia has been writing brave poems that are confronting difficult, personal subjects.” 

The chapbooks, each featuring artwork the poets chose themselves, were published in May. Steele also invited four established poets, including CM Burroughs and Jacob Saenz, to write introductions to the chapbooks. For the young poets, seeing their words in print has had a powerful impact. “When you have a hard copy of something, it’s forever,” says Kobayashi in a video on the press’s website. “As poets, we share our work on social media, but that can only get you so far. Once you actually have that physical copy of all your words on the page, nobody can take that from you.” Wright agrees: “I’m just a little Chicago kid from the West Side, but to be able to put my work out there in a permanent way—these are just my words that are here and nobody can take my story, or my truth, or my life away from me as a result of that.” 

The Teen Chapbook Series will be published annually, and next year’s series will be expanded to include fiction and nonfiction. (Submissions will open this month, and the chapbooks will be released in Spring 2018.) Steele is also in the process of developing a teen editorial board, which will oversee the production of each book in the series from start to finish. “We’re hoping to have a full-fledged publishing program that includes graphic design, marketing, and promotion teams by 2018,” Steele says. Students will create a call for submissions, read and select manuscripts, and then be paired with a more established editor or writer to edit the selected manuscripts. They will also work on every stage of production, from layout and design to promotion. Steele plans for the press to release three to five chapbooks through the series each year and to put out other books as well. This summer she is working with a group of teens to curate, edit, design, and publish a book of poetry and fashion photography centering around the Gwendolyn Brooks centennial, which is being celebrated this year in Chicago. The anthology will be published in October. 

By teaching teens how to publish books, Steele believes she will help equip them with both entrepreneurial and collaborative experience that will be applicable within and beyond the creative industry. By taking on the role of an editor, publisher, or marketing executive, Steele says, the young people involved with the YP will acquire marketable skills before they even graduate high school. She also hopes to reach more teens by bringing YP books into classrooms. Starting in the 2017–2018 school year, she plans to provide the chapbooks to teachers in Chicago schools and help them develop lesson plans based on each book’s content or theme. “We often hear from teachers that they wish they had more books written by teens to share with their students, so we’re hoping this could fill that need,” she says. “As far as I know, there aren’t many collections of poetry being taught in the classroom, let alone collections by teens.” 

Steele’s commitment to empowering teens is partially motivated by her own experiences as a young person. “I didn’t know I could be an editor,” she says. “I thought if I got my English degree, I was just going to be a high school English teacher. But if someone had told me that I could be editing a magazine, I probably would have made different choices. We’re trying to create these experiences for kids at this age so they can make more informed choices about what they’re interested in doing. That’s the underlying point of all of this: creating, through the literary arts, skills that can be transferable to any career path they’re interested in.”

Tara Jayakar is the founder and editor of Raptor Editing. She lives in New York City.

[Y]volve Publishing's poets (from left) Semira Truth Garrett, Jalen Kobayashi, Kai Wright, and Nyvia Taylor. (Credit: Kikomo.p Imagery)

Amanda Gorman Named National Youth Poet Laureate

by
Maggie Millner
4.27.17

Last night in New York City, at a historic ceremony at Gracie Mansion, nineteen-year-old Amanda Gorman of Los Angeles was named the first national youth poet laureate. The unprecedented title, to be awarded annually, honors a teen poet who demonstrates not only extraordinary literary talent but also a proven record of community engagement and youth leadership.

For Gorman, poetry and civic outreach aren’t separate interests. The Harvard University freshman knows firsthand that creative writing can build confidence and a sense of community among young people whose voices are often underrepresented in mainstream dialogue. In 2016 she founded One Pen One Page, a nonprofit organization that provides an “online platform and creative writing programs for student storytellers to change the world.” She continues to serve as the organization’s executive director.

Gorman’s own writing often addresses the intersections of race, feminism, and adolescence, as well as the changing landscape of her native Los Angeles. For both her poetry and her advocacy, Gorman has been recognized by Forbes, the Scholastic Art and Writing Awards, the YoungArts Foundation, and the OZY Genius Awards. She has also performed on The Today Show, ABC Family, and Nickelodeon News, and helped introduce Hillary Clinton at the 2017 Global Leadership Awards.

“For me, being able to stand on a stage as a spoken word poet, as someone who overcame a speech impediment, as the descendent of slaves who would have been prosecuted for reading and writing, I think it really symbolizes how, by pursuing a passion and never giving up, you can go as far as your wildest dreams,” said Gorman at the ceremony on Wednesday evening. “This represents such a significant moment because never in my opinion have the arts been more important than now.”

Amanda Gorman, national youth poet laureate.
 

The event represented the culmination of years of work by arts organizations across the country. In 2009 literary arts nonprofit Urban Word NYC, in partnership with the New York City Campaign Finance Board and Mayor’s Office, began bestowing the annual title of New York City youth poet laureate on one visionary poet between the ages of fourteen and nineteen. Michael Cirelli, executive director of Urban Word NYC, says the program was founded on a belief that “young poets deserve to be in spaces of power, privilege, and governance, and to have their voices front and center of the sociopolitical dialogue happening in our city.”

Since the inception of New York’s youth poet laureate program, arts and literacy organizations in over thirty-five cities have followed suit, launching their own youth laureateship positions. As it spread nationally, the program garnered support from the Academy of American Poets, the Poetry Society of America, and PEN Center USA, among other major poetry organizations. Finally, in 2016, the President’s Committee on the Arts and the Humanities partnered with Urban Word to bring the program to the national level.

Last July a jury of prominent poets, including U.S. poet laureate Juan Felipe Herrera, Brooklyn poet laureate Tina Chang, and Academy of American Poets executive director Jen Benka, narrowed the pool of local laureates down to five national finalists. Poets were evaluated on the caliber and subject matter of their poems, as well as their commitment to serving their communities through volunteer and advocacy work, and each finalist was selected to represent a geographic region of the country (Northeast, Southeast, South, Midwest, and West). Along with Gorman, Hajjar Baban of Detroit, Nkosi Nkululeko of New York City, Lagnajita Mukhopadhyay of Nashville, and Andrew White of Houston were named the first annual regional laureates and finalists for the inaugural national youth poet laureateship.

Each finalist received a book deal with independent press Penmanship Books, which published Gorman’s first poetry collection, The One for Whom Food Is Not Enough, in 2015. Over the past year, the finalists have also had the opportunity to perform for large audiences at renowned venues, including the Poetry Foundation, the Kennedy Center, and the White House. As the national youth poet laureate, Gorman will continue to give readings and participate in events across the country throughout her yearlong term.

“The role of poetry, especially in marginalized communities, is to provide a voice to those who are traditionally silenced,” says Cirelli, “and the best way to effect social change is to provide platforms for youth to tell their stories. We hope to leverage our work to allow these diverse stories to be told in spaces that have historically omitted youth voices, and to energize and engage the issues that they are most passionate about.”

The ceremony at Gracie Mansion featured performances by three of the finalists, as well as a roster of current and former New York City youth poets laureate. The performers were introduced by a group of acclaimed poets, including American Book Prize winner Kimiko Hahn and four-time National Poetry Slam champion Patricia Smith. Nkululeko recited a poem about his hair, a metaphor through which he discussed his relationship with his mother and collective African American history. Baban, who was named runner-up for the national title, recited a sestina on language, family, and her Muslim name. Finally, Gorman delivered a poem about how her speech impediment led her to discover writing.

“I am so grateful to be part of this cohort of young creatives who are taking up their pens to have a voice for what is right and what is just,” Gorman said in her acceptance speech. “I don’t just want to write—I want to do right as well.”

 

Maggie Millner is Poets & Writers Magazine’s Diana and Simon Raab Editorial Fellow.  
 

Q&A: Yang Inspires Young Readers

by
Dana Isokawa
2.15.17

In 2008 the Library of Congress, the Children’s Book Council, and the nonprofit organization Every Child a Reader established the National Ambassador for Young People’s Literature position to celebrate and promote books for children and young adult readers. The current ambassador, graphic novelist and recent MacArthur “Genius” Grant recipient Gene Luen Yang, started his term in January 2016. Yang has devoted much of his work to his Reading Without Walls Challenge, which encourages kids to read books with unfamiliar characters, topics, and formats. Yang is the perfect advocate for such an undertaking: His popular graphic novels American Born Chinese and Boxers & Saints have pushed against cultural stereotypes and blurred the lines between the comic-book and book-publishing industries. More than halfway through his two-year term, Yang spoke about his work as the ambassador.

What inspired you to come up with the Reading Without Walls Challenge?
We want kids to read outside their comfort zones, and we want them to do it in three ways. One: We want them to read about characters who don’t look like them or live like them. Two: We want them to read about topics they don’t know anything about. And three: We want them to read books in different formats. So if they normally read only graphic novels for fun, we want them to try a chapter book, and if they read only chapter books for fun, we want them to try a graphic novel.

What are you planning next?
Right now we’re trying to promote the Reading Without Walls program. We’ve put together a bunch of downloadable materials: recommended reading lists, posters, and certificates of completion. We’re hoping librarians, booksellers, and teachers will download, print, and use these materials to promote the initiative with their classes. And we’re trying to do a wider national push for the summer.

What else is involved in the national ambassador position?
It’s pretty flexible. I have a few speaking engagements—I was at the National Book Festival in Washington, D.C., in the fall, which was a ton of fun. I’m going to go again this year, and I’ve done a few school visits, some of them in person, some of them over Skype. We’ve tried some online stuff. I have a video podcast called the Reading Without Walls podcast—it’s just me having conversations about children’s books with people I really like. I had one that came out with Lois Lowry, who wrote The Giver; another one with Patrick Ness, who wrote A Monster Calls. I also do a monthly column at Book Riot about making comics, and we’re probably going to start another podcast this year.

Why do you think it’s important for kids to read books with characters who don’t look or live like them?
There are studies that show that fiction in particular builds empathy—that when you read about characters who don’t look or live like you, you begin to understand them a little bit better. You understand what makes you similar and how vast the differences are, and it helps you to be a little bit more compassionate toward people who are different from you. Right now it seems like—not just in America, but around the world—we need a little more empathy. And I include myself in that too. I worry about how technology affects us. Just recently with the presidential election, there was all of [this research] about how Facebook basically shows you stuff you like to read. And then even beyond that, you can literally read about yourself all day. You could just fill your whole day with pure narcissism because of digital media. And I think fiction is the exact opposite of that. Well-written fiction pulls you out of your own mind space and helps you see into the thoughts and lives of somebody else.

Can you think of a book where you were reading without walls as a kid?
As an Asian American kid growing up in America in the eighties, almost every book that I read was outside of my own walls, because they were about kids that were part of the majority culture. I do think that maybe gender-wise there were books that pushed me outside of my walls. Like almost every kid in the eighties, I loved Beverly Cleary and I loved the Ramona books. I think as a character Ramona really broke stereotypes and cultural norms about the way little girls should act, because she was creative and rambunctious and kind of loud. And there was a lot of overlap in the way she saw the world and the way I saw the world as a little kid. So I think that that pushed me out. And there were also books that mirrored my life. I started collecting comics in the fifth grade and got really obsessed with superheroes. I wonder if part of that obsession comes from the fact that these superheroes negotiated two different identities—Superman wasn’t just Superman, he was also Clark Kent. In some ways that mirrored my own reality since I had a Chinese name at home and an American name at school; I lived under two different sets of expectations. And Superman is actually an immigrant too—he deals with the cultures of both Krypton and America.

Have your experiences as a graphic novelist informed the challenge, especially the part about reading in different formats?
Yes, absolutely. I think in America, up until pretty recently, the comic-book market and the book market were really two separate entities. They had their own stores, distribution systems, norms, and readerships. It’s only in the last ten or fifteen years that they’ve started working together. I really think I’ve been a beneficiary of that merging, and it’s exciting to see. It’s exciting to see how publishers and authors who are prominent in one area are starting to embrace the work from the authors in the other area. More and more we’re seeing publishers who typically only publish prose books start to add graphic novels to their list. On the other side, we’re starting to see comic-book publishers recruit writers who are primarily known for their prose, like Ta-Nehisi Coates over at Marvel.

Do you think that’s because people’s opinions or the form itself is changing? Can you diagnose why that shift is happening?
I think there are three prominent comic cultures in the world. There’s the American one; there’s an Asian one that’s centered primarily around Japan, and there’s a European one centered around France and French-speaking Belgium. And in those other two cultures, comics have been prominent for a long time. If you go to Japan, there will be people of every age and gender reading graphic novels and manga on the subways. In France, it’s the same way: They televise the comic awards shows. In both of those cultures, it’s always been a big deal. It’s only in America that comics have been in this backwater. And that really goes back to the 1950s when the child psychologist Fredric Wertham wrote a book called Seduction of the Innocent, in which he argued that comic books cause juvenile delinquency. The United States Congress took it very seriously and had a series of congressional hearings where they called comic-book authors, publishers, and artists to Washington, D.C., to testify to see if comics actually caused juvenile delinquency. These hearings lasted for a few weeks, but didn’t end conclusively—there was no congressional decision that came out of it. But they damaged the reputation of comics in the eyes of the American public, and that lasted for decades. That didn’t happen in Japan or France. I feel what happened in Japan and France was a much more natural development of the medium, whereas in America it was stunted. It wasn’t until the last couple of decades that people have forgotten about what happened in the fifties. People have finally started to realize that comics don’t cause juvenile delinquency.

What draws you to working with and writing for young people?
I think it’s kind of my natural storytelling voice. When I first started writing comics, I was a self-publisher. I was working at a tiny scale. I would Xerox comics and I’d try to sell them at shows. I’d sell probably a dozen or two—tiny scale. And when you’re working at that level, you don’t think about demographics. I wasn’t actually categorized as a young-adult author until I signed with First Second, my primary publisher. They come out of the book world, not the comic-book world. In the book world age demographics are huge; that’s how booksellers decide where to shelve their books and how to sell them. So I was categorized there. It’s not something I had in my head when I first started, but I think it sits well—probably because I was a high-school teacher for a long time. I taught high-school computer science for seventeen years, so I was just surrounded by teenage voices, and a lot of that just bleeds into you. When you spend so much time in the hallways of a school, the voices of those hallways just kind of get into you.

Dana Isokawa is the associate editor of Poets & Writers Magazine.

Academy Establishes Web Resource for Teen Poets

6.18.09

Yesterday, the Academy of American Poets launched a new online poetry resource targeted at teenage readers and writers of poetry. The initiative was conceived after the organization conducted a survey of visitors to its Web site and found that 75 percent of users developed an interest in poetry before the age of eighteen.

The new home page features writing resources and a collection of poems for teens, as well as links to the organization’s discussion forum and a comprehensive index of Web sites and reference materials for poets. A "Leave Your Mark" feature prompts teen users to share indispensable lines of poetry, upcoming events, and to create virtual poetry notebooks of their own design featuring poems, writer profiles, and interviews culled from the Academy’s site.

Young writers are also prompted to sign up for the "Street Team" newsletter, which will notify them of poetry projects and contests in which they could participate. Planned programs include the Free Verse Photo Project, in which a line of poetry is written using a temporary medium and photographed before it disappears, the National Poetry Writing Month challenge and pledge drive, and Poem In Your Pocket Day.

The home page initiative was funded by close to five hundred Academy members, the Gladys Krieble Delmas Foundation, which supports advancement of artistic inquiry and scholarship, and the graduating class of 2008 from Holmdel High School in New Jersey.

Doran Larson, founder of the American Prison Writing Archive. 

Bullets Into Bells

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It has been just over five years since the shooting at Sandy Hook Elementary School in Newtown, Connecticut, on December 14, 2012, during which twenty first-graders and six educators were killed. Since then, more than 150,000 Americans have lost their lives as a result of gun violence, and the public debate about guns in America—recently magnified by a mass shooting in Las Vegas in October and at a church in rural Texas in November—rages on. But a new anthology of poetry and essays aims to offer a different perspective on an issue that is so often oversimplified by the media.

Published a week before the fifth anniversary of the Sandy Hook shooting and coedited by poets Brian Clements, Alexandra Teague, and Dean Rader, Bullets Into Bells: Poets and Citizens Respond to Gun Violence (Beacon Press) is a powerful call to end gun violence in the United States. The anthology includes poems by dozens of celebrated poets—including Billy Collins, Ocean Vuong, Natasha Trethewey, and Juan Felipe Herrera—paired with nonfiction responses by activists, political figures, survivors, and others affected by gun violence. The anthology’s “call and response” structure showcases the direct relationship between specific acts of gun violence and the poems that were generated as a result. In the book’s foreword, former congresswoman Gabrielle Giffords—who survived being shot in the head at a 2011 meeting with constituents in Arizona—and her husband, retired astronaut and Navy captain Mark Kelly, write, “Survivors, advocates, and allies can change hearts and minds—and move more people to join our fight for solutions—by telling stories about the irreparable damage that gun violence does to families and communities across the country.”

When they began compiling the book, the editors knew it would have a political purpose. “We agreed that the anthology would do more than simply collect literary responses to a political issue—it would need to be a political artifact in itself,” says Clements, for whom the anthology has a personal thrust. His wife, Abbey, worked as a second-grade teacher at Sandy Hook Elementary School in 2012 and has since become an outspoken activist for gun control. Clements and his fellow editors envisioned the anthology as both a tribute to those who die by guns every year and a way to find common ground in the discussion about gun violence.

Several poets the editors invited to contribute, including Robert Hass, Tess Taylor, and Yusef Komunyakaa, chose to write new poems for the anthology. “These poems tend not to respond to specific events but are, instead, often deeply personal meditations on the poet’s relationship to guns or their individual experiences with shootings,” says Rader. He points to two poems in particular: one by Brenda Hillman about her family’s gun, and one by Bob Hicok that revisits the 2007 shooting at Virginia Tech, where he was a professor at the time and even had the shooter, who killed thirty-two and wounded seventeen, in one of his classes. “Both of these poems move beyond mere ‘anger’ and toward some larger notion of individual and communal ethic,” says Rader.

With more than fifty poems and fifty responses, the anthology brings together many perspectives on a complicated issue. “A big part of the impetus for the anthology was that conversations in the media about gun violence often become a loop of the same few sentiments, without the range of voices that poets were offering,” says Teague. “Christopher Soto’s ‘All the Dead Boys Look Like Me,’ for instance, written in the wake of the 2016 shooting at Pulse nightclub in Orlando, Florida, draws together personal experience with the often fatal dangers that queer brown bodies face in our country, as well as with family connections, activism, and a call for reimagining this legacy of endangerment and death.”

In another of the anthology’s pairings, Samaria Rice, mother of Tamir Rice, the twelve-year-old boy who was shot by police in Cleveland in 2012, responds to Reginald Dwayne Betts’s poem “When I Think of Tamir Rice While Driving,” which opens:

 

in the backseat of my car are my own sons,
still not yet Tamir’s age, already having heard
me warn them against playing with toy pistols,
though my rhetoric is always about what I don’t
like, not what I fear, because sometimes
I think of Tamir Rice & shed tears…

 

Rice responds, “When I think of Tamir as his mother, the woman who gave birth to him, I wonder why my son had to lose his life in such a horrific way in this great place we call America…Tamir was an all-American kid with a promising and bright future…. Who will govern the government when they continue to murder American citizens?”

In another pairing, Po Kim Murray of the Newtown Action Alliance responds to a poem about the Sandy Hook shootings. Antonius Wiriadjaja, who survived being shot on the sidewalk in New York City as he walked to the subway in 2013, responds to Jimmy Santiago Baca’s poem “A Morning Shooting,” about a young man who is shot in a driveway on his way to work. “The poems themselves are exceptionally powerful, but the combinations of poem and respondent results in another order of emotional impact,” says Clements.

“Throughout the collection, the poets and respondents imagine how the lives of those killed by gun violence, and their survivors, could have been different if not for racial discrimination, homophobia, and other forms of violence that have replaced listening and supporting the lives and potentials of all our citizens,” says Teague.

The Bullets Into Bells editors hope to expand the project’s reach beyond the book. In the coming months, a number of events will be held across the country, featuring readings and panel discussions with the poets and essayists from the anthology. A related website for the project (beacon.org/bullets-into-bells-p1298.aspx) includes additional poems, statements from activists, opportunities for action, data on gun violence, interviews, and more. “One of my hopes,” says Clements, “is that this project—the book, the web content, the events around the country—will be part of a perhaps slower but more direct and more personal approach, bypassing the national media, that will encourage poets, readers of poetry, and literary audiences who might not otherwise have become involved in this movement to get more involved.”

Colum McCann echoes this hope in his introduction to the book: “The conviction behind this anthology is that we should be in the habit of hoping and speaking out in favor of that hope. It is, in the end, an optimistic book. The poems assert the possibility of language rather than bullets to open up our veins.”       

 

Maya Popa is a writer and teacher living in New York City. She is the author of the poetry chapbook The Bees Have Been Canceled (New Michigan Press, 2017). Her website is mayacpopa.com.                  

Maya Popa

Writers, Editors Resist

by
Sarah M. Seltzer
4.12.17

The Wednesday morning after Election Day delivered a political shock for just about everyone, including writers—but hot on the heels of the electoral surprise came an existential dilemma: How could writers attend to the quotidian concerns of sentence structure, agent-hunting, and sending out work when America was so divided on seemingly every major issue—from reproductive and LGBTQ rights to immigration laws and the environment? Like much of America that morning, many writers turned to their friends and colleagues for answers. “On Facebook, everyone was saying, ‘Now more than ever we need fiction, art, and books,’” says writer Anna March, who had spent time in Pennsylvania that week, knocking on doors for Hillary Clinton with her mother. “I got a little bit panicky. I thought, ‘Oh my God, are people really thinking that art is going to save us?’ Because it’s really about organizing and getting out the vote.” Similarly, fiction writer Paula Whyman, based in Bethesda, Maryland, described the morning after the election as a rare world-changing moment. “As a fiction writer I had a lot of questions in my mind about what would happen to fiction and how we would go on working,” she says. “Does it really matter now?”

Both Whyman and March reached for similar outlets to channel their doubts and reassert the power of writing. Whyman answered a call on Facebook by her friend, the writer Mikhail Iossel, for help launching a new publication and with a small group started Scoundrel Time, an international online journal intended to foster artistic expression in the face of political repression and fear. March, eager to harness the energy of the arts community for political activism, decided to start Roar Feminist Magazine, an online publication that would provide a platform for politically informed fiction, poetry, and essays—as well as a way to strike back against an election that frequently devolved into disrespectful language, most notably the leaked Access Hollywood tape showing Donald Trump making lewd comments about women. “We wanted to do something that was both literature and revolution,” says March. 

These efforts are part of a growing number of projects and events started by writers, editors, and literary organizations in response to the election and the current political climate. Poet Erin Belieu and PEN America organized Writers Resist rallies, which brought out thousands of writers and citizens in cities all across the United States on January 15, five days before the presidential inauguration, to “defend free expression, reject hatred, and uphold truth in the face of lies and misinformation.” Poet Major Jackson started a collaborative poem, “Renga for Obama,” at the Harvard Review, while the Boston Review released the poetry chapbook Poems for Political Disaster, and Melville House published What We Do Now, an essay collection focused on “standing up for your values in Trump’s America.” 

Roar and Scoundrel Time both launched in late January—Roar on Inauguration Day and Scoundrel Time ten days later—and have since produced an impressive body of work and attracted large followings in just a few short months. “The idea of starting a new journal would be laughed at otherwise,” says Whyman. “There are so many excellent journals doing beautiful work that I in no way want to compete. But I think of this as something entirely different.”

Indeed, the interest both magazines have received in terms of financial support and submissions suggest that the audience is engaged. With a very small inheritance from her grandmother, who died shortly before the election, March was able to launch the Roar website and with her collaborators held a successful crowdfunding campaign that raised $12,000 in just a few months. The Roar staff includes Sarah Sandman and  Bethanne Patrick as executive editors, Jagjeet Khalsa as production editor, and several section editors, including novelist Porochista Khakpour and humor writer Cynthia Heimel. The title is a play on the “pussy” motif that appeared on posters and signs, and in knitted hats, after Trump’s infamous Access Hollywood remarks were made public. According to March, the journal’s mission involves “roaring, not meowing.”

The most prominent feature of Roar, which publishes three new pieces each day, is a section called “My Abortion,” in which women relate their experiences with abortion. The daily column serves to remind readers of what’s at stake under the strongly antiabortion Trump administration. Other columns include the Roar Meter, which uses numbers to tell a story: “Number of votes by which Hillary Clinton won the popular vote: 2,864,974 / Number of Americans who receive Planned Parenthood services: 2,840,000” reads the beginning of one entry. A column called Fight This Hate highlights “a small selection of hate crimes and/or harassment,” alongside fiction, poetry, and art sections. “Think about if Guernica met the Nation or VQR met Mother Jones,” says March. “We want to be at the intersection of the finest writing and political activism.” The editors plan to expand in the spring by publishing six pieces a day and bringing on more explicitly political writers.

Scoundrel Time (named for the 1976 book by Lillian Hellman about the McCarthy era) is, in Whyman’s words, “a place for artists to respond as artists” to the postelection reality. “There are wonderful and thoughtful journalists and commentators, people at think tanks, and activists in every realm doing important things,” says Whyman. “But this is a place for artists to speak to what’s going on from their particular perspective. We can keep telling one another stories, and those stories will draw people in and give them some relief.” The journal is a registered nonprofit organization, and the all-volunteer staff plans to look into nonprofit partnerships. Slightly less confrontational in tone than Roar (though no less political), Scoundrel Time publishes fiction, photography, poetry, essays, and dispatches from around the world, with a focus on content that’s current. “The strongest argument I can think of for satire and parody is that despots and authoritarian regimes of all stripes hate it so,” Tony Eprile writes in a February essay tying recent Saturday Night Live sketches to a long tradition of political subversion through mockery. Fiction writer Jodi Paloni also spearheads an Action section, encouraging readers to make calls and show up to protests.

Scoundrel Time and Roar also drummed up support at the Association of Writers and Writing Programs (AWP) Conference in Washington, D.C. in February. Whyman and her fellow Scoundrel Time founders gathered in the lobby of the Trump International Hotel on Pennsylvania Avenue and read aloud from James Baldwin, Emma Lazarus, and Claudia Rankine. Meanwhile, Roar supporters wearing pink “pussy hats” handed out pink Roar-branded condoms and stickers at the bookfair. They weren’t the only ones making a statement at AWP: Split This Rock, a D.C.–based organization focused on poetry and social change, collaborated with organizations such as VIDA: Women in Literary Arts and CantoMundo to hold a candlelight vigil for freedom of expression outside the White House, during which writers such as Kazim Ali, Ross Gay, and Carolyn Forché delivered speeches about the importance of writing and art.  

Scoundrel Time plans to organize similar actions in the future, but for now it carries on that spirit of standing together and holding space, albeit online, for writers to freely speak their minds. With their new journals, both Whyman and March hope they can help writers to, as Whyman says, “hang on to our humanity and feel like [we] can gain understanding.” 

 

Sarah M. Seltzer is a writer of fiction, creative nonfiction, journalism, and ill-advised tweets. A lifelong New Yorker, she is the deputy editor of the culture website Flavorwire.com.

Protesters march on Trump Tower in New York City as part of the Writers Resist rallies in January. (Credit: Ed Lederman)

The Radius of Arab American Writers

by
Marwa Helal
8.16.17

When poet Glenn Shaheen first started writing, he had little sense of community as an Arab American writer. He felt constrained from writing about Arab American issues or identity, and his undergraduate writing professors scoffed at “identity writing,” telling him it would be “a cheat to write like that, because you’d immediately get published.” But when fellow poet Hayan Charara introduced Shaheen to the Radius of Arab American Writers (RAWI), Shaheen found a community that supported and empowered his artistic freedom. “RAWI helped me be proud of my Arab heritage. Knowing there was a thriving community of Arab writers of all backgrounds and genres made me realize I was actually a part of that community,” says Shaheen. “I feel free to write about anything now after meeting so many other Arab writers—some working on science fiction novels or ecopoetry or experimental dramatic works. It helped me see that there isn’t a specific mold of an Arab American writer that I should aspire to or avoid.”

Shaheen is not the only writer who has found community through RAWI, a nonprofit organization that for the past twenty-five years has worked to support and disseminate creative and scholarly writing by Arab Americans. RAWI—a word that means storyteller in Arabic—was first established in 1992 by journalist and anthropologist Barbara Nimri Aziz as a seven-person group of writers that met in Washington, D.C. It has since grown into a thriving community of nearly 125 writers, artists, and journalists all over the world, from the United States to the United Arab Emirates. Members include literary heavyweights like Pulitzer Prize finalist Laila Lalami, National Book Award finalist Rabih Alameddine, poet and translator Fady Joudah, and poet Naomi Shihab Nye. The organization now hosts workshops and a biennial conference that features panels, readings, and workshops for Arab American writers. The last conference, which focused on a range of topics including craft, publishing, and the effects of Islamophobia, was held in Minneapolis in June 2016 and cosponsored by Mizna, a nonprofit that promotes Arab American culture. The next conference will take place in Houston, Texas, in June 2018. In the meantime, RAWI has also launched In Solidarity, a series of daylong workshops and craft talks for people of color, members of marginalized communities, and allies in various cities throughout the United States. The series was spearheaded by fiction writer Susan Muaddi Darraj, and the first workshop, which took place in March in Washington, D.C., gave writers space to talk about identity, publishing, and being a writer in the margins. The second was held in San Francisco in April, and more are in the works around the country. “We hope these workshops foster communication and a feeling of solidarity among various communities,” says Darraj. “At least one writers circle has been formed as an outcome of these daylong workshops.”

In the coming year RAWI will be doing even more. In March the organization began advocating for the first-ever Arab American caucus, to be held at the next Association of Writers and Writing Programs conference in Tampa, and is currently planning a twenty-fifth-anniversary celebration. In October the University of Arkansas Press will publish Jess Rizkallah’s poetry collection the magic my body becomes, winner of the Etel Adnan Poetry Prize, a new award given for a first or second book of poetry by a poet of Arab heritage and cosponsered by RAWI. “Leading RAWI has always been rewarding and challenging, but it is especially so this year,” says executive director Randa Jarrar. “I’m dazzled by our community’s literary output—we have so many excellent books out this year and next, and on and on.”

RAWI’s growth hasn’t been without some pains. “The challenge is often fund-raising, and belonging to a nation that often doesn’t celebrate our work alongside us, but picks and tokenizes, or silences,” Jarrar says. Both before and after 9/11, Arab American writers have had to balance the desire to be read and recognized for the quality of their work with being hyper-visible spokespeople for their homelands while struggling to live and work amid ongoing hostility toward Arab people. With the president’s recent ban on travelers from several Arab-majority countries, Arab Americans face increased challenges. “More than ever,” Jarrar says, “I hope that RAWI can be a solace and provide its members and the Arab American literary community support and a sense of belonging and connection and resistance.”

For many writers, RAWI has done just that. “It has shown me that we exist,” says Palestinian American poet Tariq Luthun. “I think, like any population, we are at least vaguely aware of the fact that we aren’t the only ones of our kind. But seeing and experiencing this community firsthand is so vital to one’s resolve in continuing to do this work.” Emerging poet Kamelya Omayma Youssef agrees. For her, RAWI provided the foundation she needed as a writer. “Imagining that I can eventually read to a room full of people and be heard without the threat of reductive thinking or fetishization or demonization should not be as radical as it is for me today,” she says. “But it is totally radical. RAWI is that room.”        

 

Marwa Helal is a poet and journalist who lives and teaches in Brooklyn, New York. She is the winner of BOMB Magazine’s 2016 Poetry Contest and the author of the poetry collection Invasive species, forthcoming from Nightboat Books in 2019. Her website is marshelal.com.        

Hayan Charara addresses attendees at the 2016 RAWI conference in Minneapolis.  (Credit: Makeen Osman)

Muslim Americans Take the Mic

by
Marwa Helal
12.14.16

On a recent trip to New Orleans, my friend and I went to a bar in the neighborhood known as Algiers. We met a local man there, who hung out with us for the rest of the evening. About three hours into our conversation, I casually mentioned that my last name means “crescent moon.” He backed away from the table with a fearful gesture and said, “Oh, so you’re definitely Muslim.” This is the M-word in action, and this is how it functions in everyday social situations. It can suddenly change the mood, discontinue or alter conversations. PEN America’s new initiative, “The M Word: Muslim Americans Take the Mic,” aims to address this social effect head-on through a series of events and stories that will give voice to some of the most powerful and innovative writers in the Muslim community. The two-year initiative, which launched last fall and is funded by a $225,000 grant from the Doris Duke Foundation for Islamic Art’s Building Bridges Program, seeks to advance the conversation about the challenges of self-identification and self-expression that Muslim Americans face in today’s social and political climate.

An organization devoted to advancing literature and protecting free expression at home and abroad, PEN America has highlighted Muslim writers by publishing their work on its website, pen.org, and by inviting Muslim writers to speak at the annual PEN World Voices Festival in New York City, where the organization is based. The M Word series continues this work by giving a more dedicated platform to the Muslim community. “We are for the first time focusing on the richness and diversity of Muslim American writers but also their deep contributions to the American literary canon and landscape,” says Clarisse Rosaz Shariyf, the deputy director of public programs at PEN America.

For centuries, Muslim Americans have played a vital role in building America’s varied and inspiring cultural landscape. But their voices have often been marginalized, a trend that has accelerated in today’s political climate, as misinformation and the normalization of hate speech have given rise to divisive rhetoric and rampant Islamophobia. “PEN America wanted to counter this trend by giving Muslim American creators the mic, so to speak, to tell their stories, their way, and to challenge prevailing narrow representations of Muslims in popular media,” Shariyf says.

The series kicked off in New York City this past September with an event called “The M Word: Muslim-American Comedians on the Right to Joke,” which featured comedy sets and a conversation with journalist and award-winning playwright Wajahat Ali, and comedians Negin Farsad, Mo Amer, Hasan Minhaj of The Daily Show, and Phoebe Robinson of 2 Dope Queens. PEN plans to host similar events in Boston; Washington, D.C.; Los Angeles; and other cities across the country. The next event, part of the Muslim Protagonist Symposium hosted by the Muslim Students Association at Columbia University, will be held in late February in New York City and will focus on Muslim American fiction writers.

To expand the program’s reach, PEN will also share original stories by Muslim American writers online. “We are inviting audience members, online followers, panelists, and others to share their personal experiences. The stories we collect will become part of the PEN American Center Digital Archive of Free Expression and may also appear on pen.org, Facebook, or other platforms,” Shariyf says. Videos of the M Word events are also posted online and sometimes live-streamed.

To help shape the series, PEN is collaborating with prominent organizations and individuals within the Muslim writing community. PEN cohosted an event in September at the Brooklyn Book Festival with Akashic Books and the Muslim Writers Collective, a volunteer-run group that organizes monthly open mics for Muslim writers and artists (the collective has active chapters in several cities, including Seattle; Boston; Houston, Texas; and Ann Arbor, Michigan). PEN has also solicited several advisers, including Pulitzer Prize–winning playwright Ayad Akhtar; Sana Amanat, creator of the comic-book series Ms. Marvel (Kamala Khan); novelist Zia Haider Rahman; religious scholar and media commentator Reza Aslan; and Ali, who moderated the September event. “Everyone talks about Muslims, but no one is really interested in talking to them or having them emerge as protagonists in their own narrative,” Ali says. “The M Word is not a politically correct, feel-good, liberal proselytizing series. It examines, dissects, uncovers and celebrates the diverse experiences that are too often silenced, stereotyped, or excised from the final draft.”The M Word

When asked what the M-word means to him, Ali explains, “Muslim is an identity, a signifier that means an individual in some way identifies with a religion that acknowledges the Allah as the Creator and the Prophet Muhammad as his messenger. It’s one of my chosen identity markers that denotes my spiritual path and religious communities. On 9/11, I was a twenty-year-old senior at UC Berkeley. Since that day, I have become an accidental representative of this word and the 1.7 billion people it allegedly represents. I became us and them. My career has been spent navigating the alleged divides, building this bridge and inviting others to cross it.”

Ali remains hopeful. “Change takes time and effort, it never comes without some friction. I hope the M Word helps cast a spotlight on these talented American Muslims who rarely get their voices heard in front of mainstream, privileged audiences. It’s education, entertainment, and an opportunity to bridge the divides.”

Marwa Helal is the winner of BOMB Magazine’s 2016 Poetry Prize. She lives in New York City and received her MFA from the New School. Follow her on Twitter, @marwahelal.

Singapore Unbound

by
Melynda Fuller
2.15.17

Every month in New York City, thirty to forty writers and literature enthusiasts gather at the home of a fellow writer for a potluck and reading of American, international, and Singaporean literature. Established in 2014 by Singaporean writer Jee Leong Koh, these salons, called the Second Saturday Reading Series, have featured dozens of emerging and established writers from around the world and allowed Singaporean and non-Singaporean writers alike to connect over literature. Koh now hopes to expand on that cultural exchange with his new project, Singapore Unbound, which will celebrate and raise awareness about Singaporean literary culture. “We want to expand the idea of who is Singaporean,” says Koh. “You’re not Singaporean just because you’re a citizen. You’re still Singaporean if you move away, or you could be a guest worker in the country. We want to encompass both groups.” 

Launched in February, Singapore Unbound serves as the umbrella organization for the Second Saturday Reading Series and the biennial Singapore Literature Festival, which was created in 2014 by Koh and writer Paul Rozario-Falcone and was last held in New York City in Fall 2016. Under the same umbrella, indie poetry publisher Bench Press will join forces with the blog Singapore Poetry, which features cross-cultural book reviews (Americans review Singaporean books, and Singaporeans review American books). Koh hopes that by aligning these projects under one organization, he can provide Singaporean writers with a “prominent and independent platform for open and free expression of their views.” 

That platform is important to protecting and advancing the literary culture of a country that has not always supported free speech. While Singapore boasts a rich stew of cultures with four official languages—Malay, Mandarin, Tamil, and English—and a burgeoning indie literature landscape that showcases a diversity of cultures and ideas, literature is still restricted by the government. Although the state grants large sums of money to publishers and writers, giving them greater freedom to take risks on young writers in particular, the money comes with stipulations: The work cannot undermine governmental authority and must not advocate for what the state deems “objectionable lifestyles”—namely, those of LGBTQIA writers. In response, Singapore-based publishers like Ethos, Epigram, Landmark, and Math Paper Press have been pushing censorship boundaries for the past few years, and Koh himself doesn’t accept government funds. Kenny Leck, owner of the popular Tiong Bahru–based bookstore BooksActually, says, “At the bookstore, and with our publishing arm, Math Paper Press, we sell the titles and publish the content that most compels us. In that way, our government, the state, has no say in what we choose to do.” 

Singapore Unbound is committed not only to freedom of expression, but also to the idea that cross-cultural exchange leads to a healthier literary culture. Alfian Sa’at, who participated in the 2016 literature festival, where a portion of his five-hour epic play Hotel was performed in the United States for the first time, notes the positive impact of the kind of exchange Singapore Unbound fosters. “Having links with writers from other countries helps us learn from one another’s experiences,” he says. “For a long time I think we’ve looked toward a place like the United States for guidance on issues such as freedom of expression, how institutional solidarity in the form of something like the PEN American Center can aid writers who struggle with censorship and persecution.” Jeremy Tiang, a Singaporean writer living in New York City, agrees. At the 2014 festival Tiang worked with the political arts collective Kristiania to organize a panel of two Singaporean poets alongside writers in exile from Indonesia and Nigeria. “I think the best conversations happen when people from different contexts are able to exchange ideas in this way,” says Tiang.

With the introduction of Singapore Unbound, Koh plans to further those conversations. He hopes to start a scholarship program that will pay for Singaporean writers to spend two weeks in New York during the summer to experience the culture of the city and collaborate with local writers. This past fall Koh also created a fellowship program designed to bring more voices to the organization, help it reach a wider audience, and build its online presence. “With Singapore Unbound we want to bring outstanding literature to a wide audience,” says Koh, “and by doing so liberalize our politics and sentiments.”

 

Melynda Fuller is a New York City–based writer and editor. She received her MFA from the New School and is at work on a collection of essays. Her website is melyndafuller.com. Find her on Twitter, @MGrace_Fuller

Correction
A previous version of this article incorrectly stated that the 2016 Singapore Literature Festival included both a performance of Alfian Sa'at's play Hotel in English and a panel organized by Jeremy Tiang. Alfian Sa'at's play is actually multilingual and Jeremy Tiang organized a panel at the 2014 festival, not the 2016 festival.

Muslim Americans Take the Mic

by
Marwa Helal
12.14.16

On a recent trip to New Orleans, my friend and I went to a bar in the neighborhood known as Algiers. We met a local man there, who hung out with us for the rest of the evening. About three hours into our conversation, I casually mentioned that my last name means “crescent moon.” He backed away from the table with a fearful gesture and said, “Oh, so you’re definitely Muslim.” This is the M-word in action, and this is how it functions in everyday social situations. It can suddenly change the mood, discontinue or alter conversations. PEN America’s new initiative, “The M Word: Muslim Americans Take the Mic,” aims to address this social effect head-on through a series of events and stories that will give voice to some of the most powerful and innovative writers in the Muslim community. The two-year initiative, which launched last fall and is funded by a $225,000 grant from the Doris Duke Foundation for Islamic Art’s Building Bridges Program, seeks to advance the conversation about the challenges of self-identification and self-expression that Muslim Americans face in today’s social and political climate.

An organization devoted to advancing literature and protecting free expression at home and abroad, PEN America has highlighted Muslim writers by publishing their work on its website, pen.org, and by inviting Muslim writers to speak at the annual PEN World Voices Festival in New York City, where the organization is based. The M Word series continues this work by giving a more dedicated platform to the Muslim community. “We are for the first time focusing on the richness and diversity of Muslim American writers but also their deep contributions to the American literary canon and landscape,” says Clarisse Rosaz Shariyf, the deputy director of public programs at PEN America.

For centuries, Muslim Americans have played a vital role in building America’s varied and inspiring cultural landscape. But their voices have often been marginalized, a trend that has accelerated in today’s political climate, as misinformation and the normalization of hate speech have given rise to divisive rhetoric and rampant Islamophobia. “PEN America wanted to counter this trend by giving Muslim American creators the mic, so to speak, to tell their stories, their way, and to challenge prevailing narrow representations of Muslims in popular media,” Shariyf says.

The series kicked off in New York City this past September with an event called “The M Word: Muslim-American Comedians on the Right to Joke,” which featured comedy sets and a conversation with journalist and award-winning playwright Wajahat Ali, and comedians Negin Farsad, Mo Amer, Hasan Minhaj of The Daily Show, and Phoebe Robinson of 2 Dope Queens. PEN plans to host similar events in Boston; Washington, D.C.; Los Angeles; and other cities across the country. The next event, part of the Muslim Protagonist Symposium hosted by the Muslim Students Association at Columbia University, will be held in late February in New York City and will focus on Muslim American fiction writers.

To expand the program’s reach, PEN will also share original stories by Muslim American writers online. “We are inviting audience members, online followers, panelists, and others to share their personal experiences. The stories we collect will become part of the PEN American Center Digital Archive of Free Expression and may also appear on pen.org, Facebook, or other platforms,” Shariyf says. Videos of the M Word events are also posted online and sometimes live-streamed.

To help shape the series, PEN is collaborating with prominent organizations and individuals within the Muslim writing community. PEN cohosted an event in September at the Brooklyn Book Festival with Akashic Books and the Muslim Writers Collective, a volunteer-run group that organizes monthly open mics for Muslim writers and artists (the collective has active chapters in several cities, including Seattle; Boston; Houston, Texas; and Ann Arbor, Michigan). PEN has also solicited several advisers, including Pulitzer Prize–winning playwright Ayad Akhtar; Sana Amanat, creator of the comic-book series Ms. Marvel (Kamala Khan); novelist Zia Haider Rahman; religious scholar and media commentator Reza Aslan; and Ali, who moderated the September event. “Everyone talks about Muslims, but no one is really interested in talking to them or having them emerge as protagonists in their own narrative,” Ali says. “The M Word is not a politically correct, feel-good, liberal proselytizing series. It examines, dissects, uncovers and celebrates the diverse experiences that are too often silenced, stereotyped, or excised from the final draft.”The M Word

When asked what the M-word means to him, Ali explains, “Muslim is an identity, a signifier that means an individual in some way identifies with a religion that acknowledges the Allah as the Creator and the Prophet Muhammad as his messenger. It’s one of my chosen identity markers that denotes my spiritual path and religious communities. On 9/11, I was a twenty-year-old senior at UC Berkeley. Since that day, I have become an accidental representative of this word and the 1.7 billion people it allegedly represents. I became us and them. My career has been spent navigating the alleged divides, building this bridge and inviting others to cross it.”

Ali remains hopeful. “Change takes time and effort, it never comes without some friction. I hope the M Word helps cast a spotlight on these talented American Muslims who rarely get their voices heard in front of mainstream, privileged audiences. It’s education, entertainment, and an opportunity to bridge the divides.”

Marwa Helal is the winner of BOMB Magazine’s 2016 Poetry Prize. She lives in New York City and received her MFA from the New School. Follow her on Twitter, @marwahelal.

Abbey and Brian Clements (holding an orange sign) at the Moms Demand Action for Gun Sense in America march across the Brooklyn Bridge in May 2016.

Reviewers & Critics: Leigh Haber of O, the Oprah Magazine

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Michael Taeckens

Leigh Haber is the books editor at O, the Oprah Magazine, a position she has held for more than five years. She graduated from George Washington University with a degree in international affairs, and after getting a job as a copy aide at the Washington Post Book World, she worked for many years in book publishing, first in publicity and later as an editor—at Jeremy Tarcher, Ballantine Books, Avon, Bantam Books, Berkley Books, Harcourt Brace, Scribner, Hyperion, and Rodale—before turning to work as a freelance editor and start-up consultant. At O, the Oprah Magazine, Haber is responsible for putting together the Reading Room section of the magazine, and is always on the lookout for books to feature or excerpt elsewhere in the magazine. She also works with Oprah Winfrey and the rest of the staff to identify new candidates for Oprah’s Book Club. She can be followed on Twitter, @leighhaber.

You got your start in the literary world as a copy aide at the Washington Post Book World in the late 1970s. What was it like working there? Did it make you want to forge a path within the publishing world?
I arrived there not realizing there was an industry behind the books I loved reading—I’d never thought about it before. It was soon after Watergate, so the Post was a glamorous and iconic place, filled with characters. My first boss there was William McPherson, who’d just won the Pulitzer for criticism. He passed away last year, sadly, but that was a universe I am lucky to have glimpsed up close, and, yes, it did lead me to publishing.

You later worked in publicity for several years at Ballantine and Avon, and after that, in editorial for many years at Scribner, Hyperion, and Rodale and as a freelancer. How does your former experience as a publicist and editor inform your role today?
I am so steeped in the book world—it helps me stay on top of what’s coming out when, especially given that we work so far in advance, when there are no indicators of the reception a book will receive. Many of my book publishing colleagues—authors, editors, publishers, agents, publicists, media colleagues—I’ve known them for decades, which helps inform everything I do at O. But I like to try to approach the job itself as a reader, plain and simple. Do I love the book? Will our readers? And are we helping them to discover new talent or writers they’ve never read before, especially women writers? Are we finding books that will challenge or delight them? That’s our mission.

Who are some of the notable authors you worked with—and what are some notable projects you worked on—before you started at O?
When I was a publicity director I flew all over the place with a range of authors I now realize is absolutely astonishing, though at the time, being a mother of two boys, I was just trying to keep it all together.  I worked with Alice Walker, Gloria Naylor, Umberto Eco, Charles Simic—and also Jimmy Buffett and Helen Hayes, to name a few who really stand out.  I also worked on a tour with Mickey Mantle, which thrilled my dad.  At Avon Books they were publishing lots of writers who were just gaining a literary reputation, including James Ellroy, Elmore Leonard, and John Edgar Wideman. But there I also worked with Rosemary Rogers.  Those were incredibly fun days.

As an editor, I’m probably proudest of having acquired and edited Al Gore’s An Inconvenient Truth. But there are so many other writers I am honored to have worked with: Steve Martin, Jacqueline Novogratz, Jonathan Ames, Richard Hell, Tess Gallagher, Lou Reed, Glen David Gold, the Kitchen Sisters, Terry Gross, Bill Maher, the authors of The Intellectual Devotional, Scott Simon, Aasif Mandvi, Peter Jennings…

The literary coverage at O is quite expansive and varied. You oversee book reviews, book lists, excerpts, and original essays—anything else? How has your job evolved over the five years you’ve been there?
When I walked into this job more than five years ago, I’d never been a magazine editor. I didn’t know what I didn’t know, but my editors did. From them I’ve learned an entirely new skill. And I’m still learning. On the first day of my job I was told I needed to send some books to Oprah for book club consideration. I was frankly terrified. But then I read Twelve Tribes of Hattie by Ayana Mathis and I just felt it was a book Oprah would embrace. We’ve had six picks since then, and it’s always a thrill to know we are helping the authors to grow their audiences. Oprah’s passion for books is at the core of my job and always at the top of my mind. I consider it a privilege to assist her in bringing an entirely new dimension to a writer’s career. As far as Reading Room is concerned, I love that the support is there to be feminist, to be globalist, to be diverse, to cover poetry and literary fiction and emerging writers along with the established. And, yes, now I’m also helping to find essayists and contributors to the themed packages we do. How has it evolved? I will always recall this position as one that has to be occupied with a weird combination of humility and a kind of hubris. As to the hubris, I have to choose a few books to cover from the many worthy candidates, which means I have to trust my taste. Humility because I am always aware how lucky I am to be working on this platform, as a part of the incredible legacy Oprah has earned.

Walk me through what a typical week in the office is like for you.
We receive hundreds of books per week—probably two hundred a day. Sometimes it feels as if every day is Christmas, and other days I feel as if I’m drowning in books. And some of the books we receive make me wonder—is there really an audience for a topic this narrow and obscure? But every day I’m combing through the mail, opening packages, and trying to get a sense of the landscape. Most of the time my eyes are bigger than my stomach, and I bring home a bag bursting with books—I still read from the physical galleys. I have a beanbag chair in my office, and there are days when I am sitting in it, looking from my window overlooking Central Park from the 36th floor of the Hearst Building and thinking, “They’re paying me to read?”

I love envisioning the section every month with my editors and my partner in the art department, Jill Armus. There’s a lot of back-and-forth in terms of finding contributing writers, editing, revising, fitting, fact-checking, and so on. My favorite moment is when I see the section come together on page. The hardest times are when I’m working on the mammoth July Summer Reading package—eighteen pages instead of four. It’s tough trying to do something different and to get it right, but it’s exciting, too.

But it’s not all about books. We have a lot of conversations about a wide range of topics. Gayle King’s assistant is obsessed with Beyoncé. I’ve had to learn about her. You pretty much can’t survive in the O office without being a passionate pet lover, whether dogs or cats. You have to be willing to discuss your sex life, your therapist, how long you wear your favorite bra before washing it. It’s all fair game.

How many books do you typically receive per week—and of those, how many are you able to write about each month? 
I would estimate we receive five hundred to seven hundred books a week. Of those, we can typically cover about fifteen a month. 

Other than your interest in a particular author, what sorts of things, if any, influence you when choosing which titles to include—blurbs, prepub reviews, large advances, social media buzz? What about your relationships with publicists and editors—do those ever hold any sway?
I don’t view blurbs as helpful. They seem very quid pro quo to me. Raves in prepubs do sometimes alert me to books I need to take seriously. Advances don’t matter to me, and while I very much value my relationships with publicists, editors, and authors, it’s all about the read.

How conscientious are you about diversity—gender, race, sexual orientation, etcetera—when choosing what to include? And do you try to pay attention to books published outside of the Big Five publishers?
When I first started at O, I made a conscious effort to make the section and its contributors “diverse.” But I have to say that now happens organically. And all things being equal, if there’s a choice between a great book by a man and a great book by a woman, the woman wins.

O has been particularly inclusive of poetry over the years. Is poetry a special love of yours? Has it ever been difficult persuading editors to allow space for it?
I am not a poetry maven. I admire it, and I love reading it at times, but I don’t consider myself an expert by any means. I think it enriches our culture, and the section, so I go to others who know more about it than I do to teach me. My favorite was getting Bill Murray, who is a huge poetry fan, to tell us about five poems he loves—in person, at the Carlyle Hotel.

How many freelancers do you work with? Are there certain things you look for in a reviewer?
It’s just myself and an assistant on staff, so we do lean on freelancers. And while I have three or so regulars, I also like to have fun pairing a book with a reviewer. My favorite match-up was asking Mary Roach to review Ian McEwan’s novel in which the narrator was an unborn fetus. And I like to intermix big names with young new voices.

Is social media at all helpful to you in your role as a book editor?
I should use it more than I do in terms of promoting the Reading Room section, and I do try and follow what others are doing. Because Oprah.com is a separate entity, and O doesn’t have an online version, it’s hard to fully spread the word about how robust the section is.

What is the status of Oprah’s Book Club, and how does Oprah go about choosing which books to pick?
The book club is alive and well when we find the right book. The way it goes is that when I read for the section, I am always also thinking about what Oprah might like, either for the book club, or for some other purpose—film, movie, or just for pleasure. I send her books, and if something profoundly resonates, she will likely call me to tell me so. Then we talk about whether it could be a selection. We’d love for there to be picks on a more frequent basis, but that’s hard because the book has to be right and the timing for Oprah has to be right too. And of course, others are always sending books to Oprah—she’s not just hearing from me.

How have you seen the publishing world and the media landscape change over the past five years?
It seems indies and physical books are back. That’s cause for celebration. But print newspapers and magazines are, of course, facing challenging times, which means we have to keep innovating.

A frequent complaint in literary circles is that negative reviews take up space that could otherwise be used reviewing better books. Where do you stand on the value of publishing negative reviews?
I was told when I came to the magazine that we should pick books we think are worthy of coverage and share them with our readers. If we don’t like or love a book, we just won’t cover it. There are just too many good books to celebrate to devote space to the ones we don’t like.

Of those publications that still devote space to literary criticism, which are your favorites? Are there any book critics whose work you particularly enjoy? 
I’m really going to miss Michiko Kakutani and Jennifer Senior. We also lost Bob Minzesheimer to brain cancer last year. And as everyone knows, the day of the standalone newspaper book review section, except for the New YorkTimes Book Review, is gone. But I’m looking forward to seeing what emerges, because I do think books are as important and as vital as ever, and there are lots of wonderful voices out there writing about them.

Name three books you’ve read in the past year that really knocked your socks off.
It still amazes me that the right book in the right moment can blow your mind. I just reread Night by Elie Wiesel, as there is a new edition with a foreword by President Obama. All I can say is that it’s as heartbreaking and beautiful now as it was when I first read it years ago. Future Home of the Living God, the latest from Louise Erdrich, absolutely floored me. It felt as urgent as a punch to the gut. The Hate U Give made me hopeful. Angie Thomas channeled her righteous anger into something incredibly brave and new, and she’s giving young people all over the country the sense that, yes, someone feels as I do.

 

Michael Taeckens has worked in the publishing business since 1995. He is a cofounder of Broadside: Expert Literary PR.

Reviewers & Critics: Kevin Nguyen of GQ

by
Michael Taeckens
8.16.17

Kevin Nguyen is the digital deputy editor of GQ, where he writes about books, music, and popular media. He grew up outside of Boston in the 1990s and attended the University of Puget Sound in Tacoma, Washington. Since moving to New York City five years ago, he has run the Best Books of the Month feature at Amazon and was editorial director at Oyster, “the Netflix for books,” then Google Play Books after the tech giant acquired Oyster in 2015. He can be followed on Twitter, @knguyen.

At GQ you mostly work on reported features, but you also compile a Best Books of the Month feature. How many books do you receive each month, and of those how many are typically included in your roundups?
I went on vacation last week and returned to four mail crates of unopened galleys. So I’m getting something in the vicinity of fifty to seventy-five books a week. And honestly, I wish publishers wouldn’t send me things unsolicited. Most of those books are never going to be touched, and eventually they are shipped off to Housing Works for donation. In a given month I’ll try roughly twenty books. From those I’ll finish about half, maybe slightly more. And then I’ll pick about half of those—so it’s somewhere between four and six books each month. It really depends on how strong that month is.

In an ideal world, I would just request those books and not receive any mail. It feels like such a waste, but once you’re on those distribution lists, there’s no getting off them.

It’s funny. If I died today, the books would keep coming to the office, and I think about the poor person who would get stuck dealing with several thousand pounds of galleys each month. Which is why I plan to never die.

What sorts of things, if any, influence you when choosing which titles to include: blurbs, pre-pub reviews, large advances, social media buzz? What about your relationships with publicists and editors—do those ever hold any sway?
I keep a very long spreadsheet of books that are coming out, based on a combination of catalogs, publicist and editor pitches, Kirkus, previews from places like the Millions, and of course, word of mouth. Twitter can be a good signal, but its taste is fairly narrow.

I do read a lot of stuff blind, too. My equivalent of digging through the slush pile is browsing through everything available as a digital galley on Edelweiss.

Blurbs mean nothing. Same with big advances. Honestly, by the time the galley rolls around I’ve forgotten what I read about it in Publishers Lunch. I’ve been doing this for [checks watch], oh, Jesus, nearly seven years now. But I’ve got a system that works.

How conscientious are you about diversity—gender, race, sexual orientation, and so on—when choosing what to include? And do you try to pay attention to books published outside of the Big Five publishers?
Most people won’t cop to this, but I pay pretty close attention to making sure my list is inclusive. That spreadsheet I was talking about has a column that denotes if an author is a woman or a person of color, so I can make sure that there’s never a month when I am reading only white dudes. It feels weird—I am literally checking boxes—but it’s also a way to keep me honest.

On the upside, usually what I gravitate toward in terms of stories tends to be inherently diverse. You read enough and you see that a lot of books by white authors suffer from a kind of maddening sameness—thankfully you can identify this from the first fifty or so pages, if not sooner. Publishing has made slow strides forward in putting out books by people of color. Big lead titles are more diverse than ever.

And, of course, that spreadsheet also lists publishers. I make sure to read across the Big Five and indies each month. It’s probably the most useful column I have. Penguin Random House controls over 50 percent of trade publishing, and you could easily make the mistake of reviewing exclusively their books.

You’ve also edited some excellent literary features at GQ—Kima Jones’s interview with Colson Whitehead and Alex Shephard’s piece on Jonathan Safran Foer, to name just two examples. What goes into these features? Are you conceiving of them? Do you have much leeway when it comes to assigning literary coverage at GQ?
Both of those stories were my idea. Since we’re not a book-specific outfit, we have to find a story deeper than “this is a new book.” It has to speak to a broader audience, and that restraint had led to better pieces, in my opinion. 

Kima and Alex did a great job with both, even though they were very different. Kima went deep with Colson Whitehead, and we were confident that the strength and reception of The Underground Railroad would justify going to such an intense place with the interview. For the Foer piece, it was a profile because we knew he was in an interesting inflection point in his career. Plus he surrendered some weird quotes about Natalie Portman. Love him or hate him, the guy is worth reading about. 

You’ve written eloquently about the overwhelming whiteness in the U.S. literary culture and publishing industry. What critical steps do you think need to be made to diversify the literary ecosphere? In your recent Millions article you pointed out one bright spot of 2016: the momentous National Book Awards ceremony, so much of which was due to the National Book Foundation’s executive director, Lisa Lucas. Have you seen any other positive changes over the past couple of years?
As I mentioned earlier, publishing is a behemoth that is trudging along slowly in the direction of progress. But it still has a long way to go. Publishers used to excuse themselves by saying that the data showed books by people of color didn’t sell—a disingenuous claim. Well, in the past three years, we’ve seen some tremendously successful fiction by authors of color. So now editors and agents can’t say that anymore. Progress marches forward, and even the most reluctant figures have no choice but to be dragged along. I hope that in the next five or ten years, literary events will become spaces that are less oppressively white. I think we can get there.

You’ve had an interesting career path in the literary industry, with a notable stretch at the editorial side of Amazon, where you ran the Best Books of the Month feature. What was it like behind the scenes there? Did you and your team have full editorial control over which books you picked each month?
Amazon is bizarre, man! But the editorial team was—and still is—great. Real readers, with full editorial freedom. There was never any pressure to include or exclude anything, at least not in my time there. Remember that summer when Amazon was refusing to stock books from Hachette? It was one of the reasons I left the company. But one of the last Best of the Month lists I put together included Edan Lepucki’s California, a Hachette title we couldn’t even sell. Nobody at Amazon gave us a hard time about that, even when Stephen Colbert made that book a symbol against Amazon’s vicious business tactics. I don’t think Amazon is good for the world, but that editorial team is a bright spot in a bleak machine.

After Amazon you worked for two years at Oyster, an e-book streaming service billed as the “Netflix of books,” which was bought and later closed by Google Play. At Oyster you launched the Oyster Review, a remarkable online literary magazine that included reviews, interviews, essays, and book lists and featured an impressive roster of writers and critics. What went into creating and running that magazine?
A lot! Oh, man, but what a fun time. Basically, Oyster attempted to capture the indie bookstore feel and taste and personality in the digital space, as opposed to the big-box retail approach of Amazon. We hoped both could coexist, just like they do in brick-and-mortar.

The Oyster Review was the place where we’d establish our literary identity. Every great indie bookstore has one. And online, what you do instead of shelves and author events is publish reviews and essays and comics. I edited and art-directed the whole thing. And most people didn’t see this because it was in the Oyster app, but there was a whole mobile experience that had to be designed for too. So from conception to construction to day-to-day editing and production, I had a hand in all of it. And I loved doing it.

Obviously, it didn’t totally work out. But Google acquired the company, and one of the big selling points to them outside the engineering was the Oyster Review and all the fine editorial work we’d done. I’m very proud of that. I mean, has a tech company ever acquired a literary magazine before? It might be the first and last time that ever happens.

In addition to reviewing books and writing about literary culture, you’ve written widely about TV, movies, and gaming. Have your interests in fields outside of literature influenced and informed your literary criticism and vice versa?
Oh, definitely. You can tell the reviewers who do only books. There’s a strange stilted myopia there. I think the best writers have broader interests and can talk intelligently about other mediums.

Of those publications that still devote space to literary criticism, which are your favorites? Are there any book critics whose work you particularly enjoy?
Bookforum is probably the most complete publication out there. It has a strong perspective and tone and taste. Plus, the reviews are damn good. I wish they’d do a little more online so more people could see it.

I keep waiting for someone to start the Pitchfork of books, but every new book-related site that launches ends up feeling so flat and overly positive. Oh, and too damn white.

Name three books you’ve read in the past year that really knocked your socks off.
White Tears by Hari Kunzru by a mile. What a tremendous, smart, weird book. I tore through The Killers of the Flower Moon by David Grann in a couple of days. And Ottessa Moshfegh’s short stories in Homesick for Another World have stayed with me in strange and surprising ways.

 

Michael Taeckens has worked in publishing since 1995. He is a literary publicist and cofounder of Broadside PR

Reviewers & Critics: Dwight Garner of the New York Times

by
Michael Taeckens
1.15.15

Dwight Garner is one of the most beloved book critics writing today. His New York Times reviews, whether positive, negative, or mixed, are always entertaining—not an adjective most would use to describe book criticism. Language comes alive in his reviews; one gets the sense that he’s playing with words and having fun along the way.

Raised in West Virginia and Naples, Florida, Garner started writing for alternative weeklies such as the Village Voice and the Boston Phoenix after graduating from Middlebury College. In 1995 he became the founding books editor of Salon, where he worked for three years, followed by a decade as senior editor at the New York Times Book Review. He has been a daily book critic for the New York Times since 2008. The author of an art book, Read Me: A Century of Classic American Book Advertisements (Ecco, 2009), he is currently working on a biography of James Agee. You can follow him on Twitter, @DwightGarner.

With Goodreads, Amazon, and countless blogs, it seems like everyone’s a book critic these days. What credentials do critics have that make them critics? And what was your own path to becoming a professional book critic?
No credentials are required to write criticism: Either your voice has authority or it doesn’t. Either it has style and wit or it doesn’t. Thank God there’s no grad program, no Columbia School of Criticism. Nearly all the best critics are to some degree autodidacts. Their universities are coffee shops and tables covered with books.

I grew up in a house that didn’t have many books in it, beyond the Bible and Reader’s Digest Condensed Books, at any rate, and where culture wasn’t particularly valued. I loved reading critics—book critics, movie critics, rock critics—from the time I was young. They gave me someone to talk to, in my mind, about the things I cared about. I’m the kind of reader who’s always flipped first to the “back of the book” of magazines, or to the arts pages of any newspaper. I worked in a record store during high school and wrote rock reviews for the school newspaper. This makes me sound almost cool; I was not almost cool. I was also the editor of my college paper. But I prefered writing book reviews, which I also did. Writing book criticism seemed to me then, and seems to me now, a chance to talk about everything that matters—the whole world, really.

You can’t trust Amazon reviews; I’m less certain about Goodreads, which I don’t know enough about. I’ve found it to be a terrific resource for certain kinds of information. Good writing is good writing wherever it appears, definitely including blogs. The more voices the merrier.

Facebook and Twitter have been a terrific boost to authors and publishers. Has social media aided your role as a critic?
I forget who it was who said that Facebook is a smart service for simple people while Twitter is a simple service for smart people. Ouch, right? But true enough. Twitter is companionable if you follow the right people, and you can dip into real-time conversations about books. You can see what people are saying; you can glean links to reviews. If people I respect are talking about a book, and it’s not on my radar, I’ll put it on my radar. I’ve reviewed books because I’ve seen interesting people talking about them.

Does buzz—a big advance or an author’s name—influence you?
Buzz matters and it doesn’t matter. Occasionally you might weigh in on a book because you have something to add about something everyone is talking about, perhaps to deflate the hype. Book critics envy movie critics only in that movie critics write weekly about things people are talking about and are likely to see.

Are you able to select which books you review or are they assigned to you? If you have a relationship with a publicist or editor, does it tip the balance?
At the Times we pick our own books. The daily books editor, Rachel Saltz, is a mensch, though, and is great at suggesting things. I review six or seven books a month; my schedule is two reviews one week, one the next. It’s about [equivalent to] the schedule of a major-league pitcher. Two or three of those books I know almost on contact that I want to review, because I’m interested in the author or I’m interested in the topic. After that, it gets headache-making. I sit down once a week or so with a big pile of galleys and poke around in them, looking for signs of life.

Relationships with publicists and editors (I don’t have many of those) don’t matter, either—a book is worthwhile or it isn’t, and the good ones know that. Having said that, a really good editor or publicist will know that very rare occasion to send up the bat signal, to indicate that a genuinely extraordinary book is on the horizon. Alas, even the bat signal, three times out of five, turns out to be hype.

Given the inordinate amount of review copies you must receive daily—just how many do you receive on an average day?—it seems like an e-reader would possibly help lighten the load. But the allure of physical books—even with galleys—is so hard to resist, isn’t it?
I get twenty-five to thirty books a day, and they really pile up on the porch. Last summer an elderly woman heard our three dogs barking—the windows were open, and we were out—and she saw the huge, sloppy pile of mail out front. She knocked on our neighbor’s door and asked, “Do you think the person who lives there is dead?”

I read e-books sometimes, mostly on my phone, but I don’t like to review from them. I write all over my books, I really mark the shit out of them, and I’m not confident that the notes I take on, say, a Kindle, will be recoverable in ten years. They’ll vanish, like the e-mail messages or the photos you meant to save from the laptop you owned three laptops back. So give me the dead-tree edition. I suspect I’ll always feel this way. Oddly, I do prefer to read magazines now on my phone or laptop. I find it easier on the eyes.

Have you ever changed your mind about a book that you praised or panned years earlier?
I deeply regret one or two reviews I’ve written. I was too hard, once, on a writer with a first book out; I still mope about my arrogance. These are the kind of reviews I’ve heard described as, “You know that thing you’ve never heard of? It sucks.” I regret a few raves, too—times when I’ve gotten carried away. I want readers to trust what I have to say on an intergalactic level but also on a bank-card level. Books aren’t cheap. I don’t want thousands of people walking around thinking they’d like to dun me for $26.95.

When you’re reviewing a new book from an author with previous books to his or her name, do you read the author’s backlist as well?
Very nearly always. It matters especially with fiction. I recently read the first three volumes of Karl Ove Knausgaard’s My Struggle in just a few days. Each is five hundred pages or so. It felt like I was back in college, cramming for an exam. But those are beautiful books, and I feel lucky to have been able to submerge myself in them. It was like having a lovely fever.

Negative reviews: Do they have a purpose and a place? When a review is mostly a summary with nary a positive or negative opinion in sight, is that essentially a kind version of a negative review?
I hate summary reviews, unless the critic is very knowlegable about the topic and is sort of touring it for you. It’s among my goals as a critic to rarely if ever write one. You can’t trust a critic who doesn’t write negative reviews. Most books simply aren’t that good. I try to find things to admire even in books I don’t like, and I try not to be punitive and to have a sense of humor. But what’s a critic for if not to think clearly, make fine discriminations, and speak plainly?

There’s been a lot of talk within book-critic circles about the VIDA Count and calls for more racial and cultural diversity. Do you take this into consideration when deciding what books to review?
I try not to think about it. I try to pluck the books I most want to review, and hope that my interests are not so unlike everyone else’s that the mix will be a genuine mix. But it’s always in the back of the mind. It matters.

If you could change one thing about the book-reviewing process or the world of book criticism, what would it be?
I wish more young novelists wrote criticism, or at least kept a hand in. Some do, but fewer than in generations past. Doing so used to be part of being in the guild. I discovered a lot of novelists through their criticism. Now everyone plays nice, at least in print, and it gets dull.

What books that you aren’t reviewing are you most looking forward to reading in the near future?
The notion of reading for pleasure versus reading for work doesn’t have much meaning for me—it’s always both. But when I’m off duty, I most often find myself poking around in cookbooks. I thought my wife and I owned a lot of them; we have eight hundred or so. Then I met Nathan Myhrvold, who has fifteen thousand! I guess if you’re that wealthy it’s easier to be a collector.

I also like to read poetry and things like old collections of rock writing. Robert Christgau’s record guides from the seventies, eighties, and nineties are devilishly funny, and I find all kinds of things I want to listen to in them. I’ve heard that Christgau is writing a memoir. There’s a book I’m looking forward to. Put me down for that.

Michael Taeckens has worked in the publishing business since 1995, most recently at Graywolf Press and Algonquin Books. His website is michaeltaeckenspr.com

Reviewers & Critics: Isaac Fitzgerald of BuzzFeed Books

by
Michael Taeckens
8.19.15

In late 2013 Isaac Fitzgerald was selected to lead BuzzFeed’s new Books section, which has seen tremendous growth under his leadership. Doubtless one of the reasons BuzzFeed solicited Fitzgerald was for his excellent work as the managing editor at the Rumpus, where over a period of four years he published essays by many contemporary writers, including former Reviewers & Critics subject Roxane Gay.

These days Fitzgerald is a familiar figure in the New York City literary-events scene, having interviewed and moderated panels with a number of debut and established authors alike. This past spring, for instance, he led a discussion with authors Stephen King and his son Owen, and Peter Straub and his daughter, Emma, at St. Francis College in Brooklyn, New York. Fitzgerald has written for the Bold Italic, McSweeney’s, Mother Jones, and the San Francisco Chronicle, and is the cofounder of Pen & Ink and coeditor of Pen & Ink: Tattoos and the Stories Behind Them.

You were recruited to lead BuzzFeed Books a couple of years ago. Around that time you mentioned in an interview with Poynter that you were establishing a positive-only book-review policy, which caused a flurry of reactions from, among others, the New York Times, the New Yorker, Gawker, and NPR. Do you still stand by your decision?
Most definitely. Since I was brought on in December 2013, my goal has been to be the friend who’s always grabbing your shirtsleeve and saying, “Hey, this is what you should read next.”

The books conversation on the Internet is huge—that’s a wonderful thing! In that line you mentioned from my conversation with Poynter, all I was saying was that my little corner of the books Internet was going to be a fun and positive place. Which I’m proud to say is what we’ve accomplished.

I’m always thinking of larger audiences, of course, but in some ways it’s a really personal project. I think about the dirtbag kid I was, growing up poor in rural Massachusetts. If it weren’t for my parents, who love literature, I don’t know how I would have gotten into books. We weren’t supposed to love books—they didn’t seem cool, interesting, or relevant to our lives—and books weren’t supposed to love us. The world of books felt distant, something that was for other people. Not us.

So I got lucky. I got to fall in love with books. But I just as easily could have not, so it’s important to me that I use my tools and resources to make BuzzFeed Books great, not only for writers and critics, but for all the readers who might have been left out before. To use the wide reach and sense of connection enabled by the Internet to foster a love of books.

I wonder if part of the negative response to your “positive-only” intention was led by people thinking you were primarily going to feature reviews of books. But you’re featuring books in a variety of ways other than reviews. Was that your plan from the beginning?
The craziest thing about the whole experience was that it all happened before I had even shown up for my first day at work. There wasn’t really a plan yet. When I first showed up at BuzzFeed, it became abundantly clear that I had heaps to learn from my coworkers. Then, and even more so now, it was a totally staggering Avengers-team of a cohort—all these people with incredible skills in their wide-ranging areas of expertise. Design! Editorial! Tech! Video! There were so many possibilities for BuzzFeed Books, a wild array of options I hadn’t considered or had available to me before.

What it comes down to is that we’ve got myriad ways to talk about and have fun with books at our disposal. We do run reviews every week in our newsletter, written by different members of the BuzzFeed staff, recommending new books, but there are also essays, quizzes, lists, and videos. Every morning when I wake up, my hope is to get a reader who previously didn’t know about a certain book or author connected to something he or she is going to love.

What are the different ways in which you cover books? Have any particular series been especially popular during your tenure?
Our personal essays—usually by writers who have recently had a book come out or have one forthcoming—have a massive readership. Our aforementioned newsletter, which comes out twice a week—and once a week contains a review of a new book—has a subscription base of over 175,000 people. Our recommendation lists are at the core of what we do, whether it’s the best books of the year, the most exciting books of the summer, or just the sixty-five books you need to read in your twenties. These lists reach hundreds of thousands and sometimes millions of people.

One of the things I love about working at BuzzFeed is the emphasis on experimentation. I started playing around with Vine and gave #6SecondBookReviews a shot. You might think six-second videos and books wouldn’t make the best bedfellows, but our account now has over 1,600 followers, and some of the Vines have close to 100,000 loops, which isn’t half-bad for short clips of me holding out books, talking like an auctioneer, and (once in a while) running into a wall.

I’m particularly impressed by many of the literary essays you’ve published. Who are some of the authors you’ve showcased, and how often do you run these kinds of first-person pieces?
We’ve published essays from writers such as Roxane Gay, Lev Grossman, Mat Johnson, T. C. Boyle, James Hannaham, Jami Attenberg, Nell Zink, and many others plus excerpts from Chuck Klosterman, Judd Apatow, and more. I try to run at least one essay a week, and they pair nicely with the fantastic essays that Doree Shafrir and Kat Stoeffel are publishing in the BuzzFeed Ideas section.

What is a typical day in the office like for you?
I read for work on the train, until I get into the office. I eat yogurt-covered pretzels. I read pitches and edit essays. I eat yogurt-covered pretzels. I work on posts and help my coworkers with their book-related content. I eat yogurt-covered pretzels. I read on the train ride home and then when I get home, I eat more yogurt-covered pretzels that I brought home from work. While my diet probably isn’t all that desirable, the amount that I get to read certainly is.

BuzzFeed has branched out well beyond “listicles” in recent years, including expansion into serious international journalism. How has BuzzFeed’s expansion changed things for the Books section? Has it expanded your audience?
I’m always stunned by how much BuzzFeed News is accomplishing. The investigative unit, led by Pulitzer Prize winner Mark Schoofs, leaves me in awe, as does our foreign desk, led by Miriam Elder. All boats rise. The bigger the site gets—not just News, but also Video, and the Life section—the more potential Books content has to reach readers.

I’m also very excited about Saeed Jones becoming our new literary editor. Saeed and I were friends before BuzzFeed—he helped me get the job when he was heading up the LGBT section—and working with him has been an incredible experience. The fact that he’s going to start publishing literary fiction on the site starting in spring 2016, not to mention the generous emerging-writers fellowship he’ll be heading up, isn’t just good news for BuzzFeed—it’s good news for the writing world in general. And that really shows that BuzzFeed is invested, not only in the world of books, but also in the literary world as a whole.

How much traffic does BuzzFeed Books get per month?
We don’t share traffic information for specific sections, but I can tell you that BuzzFeed Books has seen significant traffic increase since we launched, and it continues to grow.

How many books do you get a day? How many are you able to cover?
We receive anywhere from thirty to fifty books a day. We have a BuzzFeed Books library that everyone on staff is encouraged to browse. If they find any book interesting, they can cover it, whether it’s in the form of a recommendation, as part of a roundup or list of books, or even in a personal essay. Because of the amount of content we get to publish, we’re able to touch on numerous books. If a book really has my attention, I’ll usually try to get an essay from the author, because once I get obsessive about a book all I want is more writing about anything from that same brain.

What sorts of things influence you when deciding to select a book for coverage? Do blurbs, prepublication reviews, large advances matter at all? How about relationships with publicists and editors?
All of that definitely helps, and it should. It’s all information coming from well-informed, passionate people who have made books a huge part of their lives. But what it comes down to is that I’m really lucky to have the freedom to cover what I want. I never feel like I have to cover a book for any reason beyond that which is between its two covers. So the most important thing is that it’s a good book.

Do you cover books of all genres?
It pleases me so much that not only do we have the freedom to cover all sorts of books, we also have the staff to do so. The best thing about working at BuzzFeed is how many ridiculously smart book-lovers work here. While my background is in contemporary literary fiction, we have other members on staff who are huge fans of science fiction, fantasy, children’s books, and young adult fiction. And everyone gets to contribute; although I’m the books editor and Jarry Lee is staff writer, anyone at BuzzFeed can cover a book that they enjoyed.

We also have an internal book club. We’re currently reading Mia Alvar’s short story collection In the Country, which is fantastic. We also have authors come visit us at BuzzFeed HQ, where we have a conversation attended by staff members, but also do fun posts and cartoon drawings of the authors. We’ve had Margaret Atwood give us advice on surviving a zombie apocalypse, dating tips from Chuck Palahniuk, as well as visits from Judy Blume, Issa Rae, Meg Cabot, and Renata Adler.

Everything comes into BuzzFeed Books from different pipelines—which allows readers with all kinds of interests to find something that’s right for them.

BuzzFeed Books is particularly adept at featuring and promoting a diversity of writers—diversity of race, sexuality, gender. Do you see what you’re doing as a corrective to an imbalance in the publishing world?
From where I’m sitting, there have always been diverse storytellers, so diversity in coverage comes naturally as long as you pay attention and focus on seeking out the best work. As an editor, when you cast the net wide and keep striving to reach and hear from more people, you’re just doing your job.

What do you think BuzzFeed offers that other literary sites don’t?
I don’t like to play the comparison game, so here’s the way I see it: For a long time, the literary world—and coverage of the literary world—was a very fancy cocktail party, with champagne and tuxedos, and it was very hard to get into. What the Internet has allowed is not for everyone to storm that party and tear it apart—in fact, that party, and the forms of discourse it has developed, are incredibly important. It’s about building around that party, so that all kinds of voices can be heard and so many styles of book coverage and discourse can happen. So while I’m maybe playing Frisbee over here, there might be beer pong over there, and a fish fry across the way. The other thing that’s nice is that as the Internet progresses it’s becoming easier to go from one party to another, so someone in a tuxedo might step across the way to the fish fry.

For me, it’s not about what we have that other places don’t, or vice versa. It’s about the ways in which we all contribute to the conversation about books. Which is really why we’re all here, right? No one in this business is here to get rich. We’re here because we really, deeply, truly love and care about books. How that’s expressed will vary for different people and outlets, but it is all love.

You’ve interviewed a number of authors—Joyce Carol Oates, Junot Díaz, and Emily St. John Mandel, to name a few—for live events. Is this part of your official role at Buzzfeed? Who else will you be interviewing in the near future?
I love interviewing writers—basically, I’m loud and curious and I show up on time, which event organizers really seem to like. Interviews aren’t in my job description, but when I first got to New York, the Strand offered me the opportunity to do a conversation with Joyce Carol Oates. And recently, I interviewed former BuzzFeed writer Anna North, whose book Life and Death of Sophie Stark is fantastic, and moderated a panel featuring Stephen King, Owen King, Peter Straub, and Emma Straub. All of which BuzzFeed has been very supportive of.

I’ve been doing live events and book discussions since back in my Rumpus days. Doing and supporting live book events is incredibly important to me, as just another great way to expand the conversation around books. When it comes right down to it, whether online or in person, my favorite thing to do is talk about books.

Where do you see the future of book coverage in ten years?
Hopefully the cocktail party is bigger than ever, with more voices from different socioeconomic backgrounds, more diverse voices, more international voices. I think with the growing worldwide audience, not to mention incredible translations from presses like Graywolf and Melville House, we’re only going to find that as book lovers we find strength in one another, too, and that group is only going to continue to grow.

Are there any books coming out in 2016 that you’re especially looking forward to?
Another fun thing about my job is that I’m usually planning for the next week, or the next month, or if I’m really good, the next season. I’d be lying to you if I said I had a Google Calendar with all of the 2016 releases already marked out. So instead of talking about books on the horizon that I’m excited for but really haven’t had a chance to read yet, I want to leave you with a couple of the books that have really lit me up this year: The Sellout by Paul Beatty; A Little Life by Hanya Yanagihara; Get in Trouble by Kelly Link; and The Invasion of the Tearling, the second book of a killer science fiction–fantasy trilogy that began with The Queen of the Tearling, by Erika Johansen.

One book I can name that I’m excited about in 2016 is All the Birds in the Sky by Charlie Jane Anders. It comes out in January, which might barely be 2016, but in Internet time that feels aeons away.

Michael Taeckens has worked in the publishing business since 1995. He is a cofounder of Broadside: Expert Literary PR (broadsidepr.com).

Reviewers & Critics: Carolyn Kellogg of the Los Angeles Times

by
Michael Taeckens
6.14.16

In January Carolyn Kellogg was named book editor of the Los Angeles Times. She’d been leading the newspaper’s online book coverage since 2008, when she launched the books blog Jacket Copy, and had joined the staff full-time in 2010, the same year she received a Times Editorial Award for feature blogging.

Kellogg grew up in Rhode Island and attended the University of Southern California. Her first job in new media was at Disney Interactive in the 1990s, and in the years since then she’s had many professional roles, including managing editor of the music-festival website Woodstock
.com, editor of LAist.com, and web editor for the public-radio show Marketplace. As an early book blogger, in 2005 she launched Pinky’s Paperhaus—a podcast in which she talked to writers about music—which she shut down while she was in graduate school. Kellogg, who earned her MFA in fiction at the University of Pittsburgh, has retained a sense of the literary playfulness that marked those early projects: On Twitter (@paperhaus), she has attracted more than thirty-four thousand followers.

How has your job changed since your promotion to book editor earlier this year?
Almost entirely. I previously wrote daily for our blog and weekly book reviews and features. Now I assign and edit all our coverage for print and online. While I occasionally have a chance to write, overseeing our coverage is keeping me busy. I’m interested in bringing new voices into our pages, interesting thinkers, people you may not have heard of yet but who have a strong point of view. I consider that one of the great opportunities of my new position.

When Los Angeles Times editor Davan Maharaj announced your promotion, he stated that your role “will go beyond the printed word to explore ideas, film, art and society.” Are you reviewing other art forms as well, or is this all through the lens of literature?
In March we announced a lineup of ten critics at large, who will be engaging with books and ideas and culture in our pages: Rebecca Carroll, Alexander Chee, Rigoberto González, Marlon James, David Kipen, Laila Lalami, Viet Thanh Nguyen, Adriana E. Ramírez, John Scalzi, and Susan Straight—fantastic writers all, and I am delighted to be working with them.

There’s almost a default belief that people with MFAs in creative writing will either pursue jobs as teachers of creative writing or become acquisitions editors at publishing houses. How do you think your MFA degree has informed your role as a book critic and book review editor, and what advice would you give to current MFA students who want to pursue a similar path?
I think the idea that an MFA will result in a job teaching creative writing has been, or needs to be, recalibrated. There are simply many more MFAs awarded every year than there are creative writing jobs. Getting an MFA in creative writing is delightful, but it’s going to take a killer book or two before you’re sharing the faculty lounge at Princeton with Joyce Carol Oates. The best career advice I can give is to stay flexible: When I was in grad school and teaching comp and freelancing—copyediting—I wrote my first book review for the Los Angeles Times. If you really want to be a critic, you should feel comfortable expressing your opinions, join the National Book Critics Circle and use its resources, read widely, and pitch, pitch, pitch.

My MFA gave me the tools to see and understand craft. I can read an outstanding novel like Paul Beatty’s The Sellout and observe how its switchbacks of humor, politics, pop culture, and inverted satire are operating even at the sentence level. Or pick up a robin’s-egg-blue galley from a writer whose prior novel was a gothic pastiche and see that she’s accomplished something totally genius with structure. This was, of course, Jennifer Egan’s A Visit From the Goon Squad. And then there’s the downside—spotting the novel with fifty pages of jewel-like prose, polished to death in workshop, that fails to maintain that level of attention and concentration throughout.

You were recently interviewed on WNYC’s On the Media about “why the publishing industry isn’t in peril.” Music to everyone’s ears! What makes you feel optimistic about the future of the industry?
One of the things we talked about in that interview was adult coloring books, which really helped drive print book sales in 2015. They’re billed as a respite for grown-ups who are seeking the calm of coloring when turning away from staring at computer and phone screens. But another big sales driver were memoirs by YouTube stars, which sold to tweens—an entirely different demographic, seeking a connection to these stars that’s different from their frank, engaging videos. As long as people are turning to books from different age groups, for divergent reasons, publishing has reason to be optimistic.

The L.A. Times Festival of Books is one of the premier literary festivals in the country. How involved with it have you been over the years?
The woman in charge of programming the festival is Maret Orliss; she and her team do an amazing job. Over the years she has invited me to help select authors, organize panels, and come up with panel names; this year she went easy on me because of my new responsibilities. My biggest task in 2016 was doing two on-stage interviews, with Susan Orlean and Buzz Aldrin.

You’ve interviewed many luminaries over the years—President Jimmy Carter, Molly Ringwald, James Ellroy, Elizabeth Gilbert, LeVar Burton, Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, Nick Hornby, Alison Bechdel, Tavis Smiley, Anne Rice, Juan Felipe Herrera, and Marlon James, among others. Who will you be interviewing this year?
My time is really taken up with assigning and editing these days, but nevertheless I’ll be interviewing Colm Tóibín about James Baldwin tomorrow night on stage, and I’m supposed to talk on the phone with Don DeLillo about Zero K.

You launched the newspaper’s influential books blog, Jacket Copy, in 2008. How has the blog grown and changed over the years? Is there a tonal difference between Jacket Copy and the newspaper’s books section?
In 2008, I was brought on as a freelancer by then-book editor David L. Ulin to launch Jacket Copy, so I’ve been with it since it took its first shaky steps. One of my first posts was about One Story versus Ninth Letter, two fantastic but very different literary journals, and I can see us writing a similar post today. The biggest divergence between Jacket Copy and the book section happened in 2010, when David moved into the role of book critic and a new book editor was hired whose longest tenure at the paper had been as editor of our Obituaries section. His tastes ran more to the severe than the cheerful blogging I’d been used to, like the annotated, color-coded, 61 Essential Post-Modern Reads.

How important do you think social media is in your role as an editor and critic?
I love Twitter. I am terrible at Facebook. The former, for me, is like a watercooler, around which many bookish people have gathered. I follow comedians like Patton Oswalt, international reporters like Borzou Daragahi, and the artist Jennifer Dalton so I have windows into other worlds, and I am grateful to people who think I might have something interesting to share from mine. If I feel like I’m being too boring…I try to post a picture of a bookshelf or a cat. Particularly a cat; it is the Internet, after all.

On average, how many books do you get per week—and how many of those are you able to assign for review? How many reviews do you feature on Sundays and how many during the week?
The L.A. Times gets hundreds of books every week. In print we have three or four pages dedicated to books coverage on Sunday, which is a mix of reviews, essay, and feature stories. We run book reviews and features during the week but not on a preset schedule. Our online coverage is constant and wide-ranging, limited only by our capacity.

What sorts of things influence you when assigning a book for review—an author’s name, the size of the advance, prepub reviews, blurbs? What about your relationships with editors and publicists—do those ever help a book get reviewed?

This is an interesting question, because it implies that if a book just has a secret weapon it will be reviewed. Of the things you mention, I don’t care a whit about the size of the advance, but the rest may factor into the decision to assign a book. More important, however, is the prose, and if it’s nonfiction, the subject. There is no secret, external weapon: In the end, a book stands on its merits.

Do you keep diversity—gender, race, sexual orientation, et cetera—in mind when assigning reviews?
I keep it in mind in regards to all our coverage.

Are you able to dedicate much attention to poetry, genre books, and/or children’s books?
Poetry fairly regularly, while I think children’s books are harder to get a handle on critically. I’m not sure where the genre lines are anymore; I think our coverage crosses them.

How many freelancers do you work with? Are there certain things you look for in a freelance reviewer? Do you pick up many reviews from the wire?
As of this writing, I have worked with about a hundred freelancers. A strong voice, a cogent pitch, and an ability to file on time are my favorite things. Our reviews go out on the wire, but we don’t take reviews from the wire.

Are there any book critics whose work you particularly relish?
Kathryn Schulz, now at the New Yorker; Dwight Garner and Parul Sehgal at the New York Times; and my former colleague David L. Ulin, wherever his writing appears.

What books that you aren’t reviewing yourself are you most looking forward to reading this year?
My prior regular reviewing responsibilities and my recently concluded tenure on the board of the National Book Critics Circle used to dominate my reading. Recently I started Viet Thanh Nguyen’s novel The Sympathizer, which is fantastic; I have Jean Stein’s West of Eden in my to-read pile; and I’ll probably blend stuff I’ve missed—Anna Karenina!— with new books, like Idra Novey’s Ways to Disappear.

Michael Taeckens has worked in the publishing business since 1995. He is a cofounder of Broadside: Expert Literary PR.

 

Reviewers & Critics: Parul Sehgal of the New York Times Book Review

by
Michael Taeckens
4.12.17

Parul Sehgal is a senior editor and columnist at the New York Times Book Review. Previously she was books editor at NPR and a senior editor at Publishers Weekly. She grew up in Washington, D.C., Delhi, Manila, Budapest, and Montreal, where she studied political science at McGill University, and moved to New York City in 2005 to study fiction in the MFA program at Columbia University. In 2010 she was awarded the Nona Balakian Citation for Excellence in Reviewing from the National Book Critics Circle. Her TED talk on literature, titled “An Ode to Envy,” has been viewed more than two million times since it was posted in the summer of 2013.

What was your path to becoming a literary critic?
Random and inevitable. I’ve written a bit about how books were a highly controlled substance in my childhood home. My mother had a marvelous, idiosyncratic library—lots of André Gide, Jean Genet, and Oscar Wilde, lots of philosophy, and lots of Jackie Collins. But she was terribly strict, and the library was off-limits to us. Naturally my sister and I became the most frantic little book thieves; I must have spent the first decade of my life with a novel—and usually something massively inappropriate like Judy Blume’s Wifey or Gore Vidal’s Myra Breckinridge—stuffed in the waistband of my pants. Reading was an illicit, compulsive, and very private activity for me; discovering criticism—in the Washington Post Book World—opened up a whole world. I suddenly had interlocutors. It was thrilling.

More prosaically—and to the point—I needed a job after graduate school, and Publishers Weekly was hiring. From there I started freelancing for a number of places: Bookforum, Slate, the New York TimesBook Review. I just got addicted to the form, its constraints and possibilities. Book reviews remind me of that great Zoë Heller line about kissing: It’s about trying to be creative in a limited space.

Has your background in creative writing informed your work as a literary critic? Do you think literary criticism as a practical pursuit can be taught, and do you think it should be in MFAprograms? 
It has given me a huge admiration for fiction writing. It’s lonely and difficult work, and I think having attempted it helps me treat books with care and respect. I found MFA workshops enormously helpful too, but not for the expected reasons. I don’t think they made me a better writer, but I learned how a certain class of people talked about literature. There was a whole depressing vocabulary: about reader “investment,” about how certain effects were “achieved” or endings “earned.” Has anyone written about when and why so much finance jargon has migrated into fiction classrooms? As for whether criticism should be taught, why not? Good criticism can refresh our responses. Last year I taught a class on criticism at Columbia that was largely devoted to unlearning boring, clichéd, or, worse, fashionable ways of thinking about books. And given how difficult the world is for young writers, why shouldn’t myriad kinds of practical writing be taught in these programs—book reviewing, grant writing, copyediting? 

Talk a little bit about your role at the New York Times Book Review—what kinds of books do you oversee, and within those categories, how many books do you look through on a weekly basis? 
I live in the shadow of wobbly stacks of books…who knows how many? I shudder to count. I handle a variety of topics: some fiction, lots of nonfiction—science, technology, philosophy, psychology, nature, and religion. 

Other than your interest in a particular author, what sorts of things influence you when selecting a book for coverage? Do relationships with editors and/or publicists help? What about blurbs and pre-publication reviews?
I look at everything—blurbs, trade publications—but it really comes down to sitting with the book and reading those first few pages or chapters, waiting for a voice and argument to emerge. I don’t think relationships in publishing do much to influence my thinking, but there are a few editors I really admire, who have interesting minds and interesting taste: Fiona McCrae and Jeff Shotts at Graywolf, Eric Chinski at FSG, Ed Park at Penguin Press. I’m always curious to see what they’re up to. 

You write Roving Eye, a brilliant New York Times Book Review column devoted to international literature. What was the genesis of this column? Considering that international literature by and large gets such short shrift in U.S. culture, do you see this column as a corrective of sorts?
Thank you! All credit to the editor, Pamela Paul, who’s a champion of international literature. I think the column is partly a corrective—but that sounds so dry and dutiful, no? I like to think of it as a way for readers to discover not only books in translation but books that are exploring some terrain or technique we might not have encountered—as with the Lebanese writer Rabee Jaber, who is so much more sophisticated on terrorism and political violence than any American writer I’ve read, or the French writer Virginie Despentes, who has created a genre of her own—queer, punk, feminist, screwball noir. 

You also write for the New York Times Magazine—several essays for the First Words column on language, and in late 2015 you profiled the wonderful Mary Gaitskill—and you’ve written critical work for other publications, including Bookforum, where you’ve written about Zadie Smith, Maggie Nelson, Claudia Rankine, Lorrie Moore, and Anne Carson. Will we be seeing more of this kind of work from you? 
I hope so. I have wonderful editors at Bookforum and the New York Times Magazine—the great Michael Miller and Sasha Weiss—who let me, and on occasion push me, to veer off course and try something new. I’m very lucky in this way. And I love author profiles and essays on language not least because I’m always looking for ways to smuggle in book criticism where people don’t expect it. Book reviewing can get a bad rap as glorified book reports, when it really is this amazing instrument, this vocabulary of pleasure.

In an interview with the Columbia Daily Spectator, you mentioned that when you’re reviewing a book you read it twice, and then “The third time, I kind of dip in and out of it as I’m actually writing the review…and often as I’m writing, my opinion of the book radically changes.” I find this fascinating. Is this system unique to you, or is it somewhat prevalent among book critics? And do you find it at all frustrating—or perhaps rewarding—when your opinion about a book changes during the process of writing?
I suspect most reviewers experience this to some degree. It’s what makes it interesting, the process of self-interrogation: Why does that character please me? Why does she feel so real? What makes someone seem “real” in fiction anyway—and just what kind of achievement is it? It’s a conversation with the self, with one’s own tastes and biases—or it is for me at any rate. There’s something Cezanne said that I think about a lot, something like, “I know what I am looking at, but what am I seeing?” That’s what reviewing feels like to me. It’s very much to “re-view,” to see again, to try to see farther and see deeper.

Social media: helpful or a hindrance? 
Neither—an occasional pleasure. I’m not really on social media; I’m only on Twitter and that only nominally. I’m too secretive and long-winded and erratic in my habits—but how I love to eavesdrop. 

In your NBCC speech you said, “A review is someone performing thinking, and our finest reviewers are, to my mind, no less remarkable than our finest athletes: What do they do but exercise their precision, subtlety, and stamina for our enjoyment?” Aside from your esteemed colleagues at the New York Times, who do you think are some of our finest reviewers working today? 
Kathryn Schulz is almost upsettingly good, isn’t she? Who else can move so effortlessly between science and literary fiction? She has the range. And I think she’s one of the few white writers I know who consistently and interestingly thinks about race. Kevin Young is a genius. I think Dayna Tortorici is an extremely fine and precise thinker, and I wish she’d review more. The Irish critic Mark O’Connell can’t write a boring sentence. I love Steph Burt’s mission to find and defend the new. And then, of course, there’s James Wood. I’ll never forget reading him on how Orwell possibly cribbed a detail from Tolstoy—a man about to be executed adjusting a blindfold that was tied too tightly. I was unspeakably envious. To be on such intimate terms with these books—what could be better?  

 

Michael Taeckens has worked in publishing since 1995. He is a literary publicist and cofounder of Broadside PR (broadsidepr.com).

Parul Sehgal (Credit: David Surowiecki)

Reviewers & Critics: Laura Miller of Slate

by
Michael Taeckens
2.15.17

Laura Miller, a journalist and critic living in New York City, is a books and culture columnist for Slate. In 1995 she cofounded Salon, one of the first online-only magazines, where she worked as an editor and staff writer for twenty years. Her work has appeared in the New Yorker, Harper’s Magazine, the Guardian, and the New York Times Book Review, where she wrote the “Last Word” column in 2003 and 2004. She is the author of The Magician’s Book: A Skeptic’s Adventures in Narnia (Little, Brown, 2008) and editor of The Salon.comReader’s Guide to Contemporary Authors (Penguin, 2000) and Literary Wonderlands: A Journey Through the Greatest Fictional Worlds Ever Created (Black Dog & Leventhal, 2016).

 

What was it like writing about books for a web publication in the 1990s, when print criticism still completely dominated the scene? Did you have a particular mission in mind for literary coverage when you launched Salon?
It was a great time to be writing and editing pieces about books because the idea of an Internet magazine was totally new. There were no rules. But there were also no guidelines. We had to make things up as we went along, and from square one, which is an experience hard to convey now, when everyone is used to getting journalism online. I spent a lot of time just drawing rectangles on legal pads trying to conceptualize how to publish a “magazine” that had no material substance. But that scrambling was very much outweighed by the thrill of doing more or less exactly what we wanted. With no metrics, no conventional wisdom about what “worked” online, we had a very rare freedom. I also worked with amazing people. Dwight Garner edited our books coverage back then, and every November we’d go on these epic reading binges to come up with a year-end top-ten list between the two of us.

The main thing we aimed to do was to bring a more elastic, less stuffy style to bear on literary criticism and journalism, a more informal voice. That voice is now ubiquitous on the Internet, so it’s also hard to convey just how refreshing it felt. We often used reviewers, Stephanie Zacharek and Charles Taylor in particular, who were primarily film critics of the Pauline Kael school—although they were very knowledgeable about books. If we had a mission, it was to bring that kind of lively, vernacular approach to book criticism and journalism.

Did Salon’s books coverage change in style or volume during your two decades there?
Enormously. We went from running a book review every day to running a couple of books pieces per day along with the review during the dot-com boom, to, near the end of my tenure, a definite press from above not to cover books at all unless they offered a “red meat” political angle. That’s one of the reasons I left Salon—its divestment from substantive literary coverage.

Now, at Slate, do you purposefully seek books from presses outside the Big Five?
At Slate I’m fortunate enough to work closely with a great editor, Dan Kois, and we kick a bunch of ideas around every month or so. The focus is more on what will make an interesting “column,” which is technically what I write for Slate, although it sort of alternates between reviews and essays. As a journalist, your concern is for your readers—and editors/bosses—with providing them with interesting, arresting, trenchant writing. It’s nice if that also means bringing attention to a smaller press offering, but that’s not a priority. No respectable literary journalist considers helping out authors or publishers to be a central purpose. That would be a big mistake. A publication commands a significant audience because it prioritizes running pieces that are interesting and meaningful to that audience. Once you start to put someone else’s needs ahead of your readership, they tend to evaporate. Readers are really good at detecting ulterior motives.

In an interview with the National Book Critics Circle, you said, “I’m under the impression that most literary critics are primarily interested in writing, and while I find that subject fascinating, I am probably more interested in reading.” I find this rather intriguing, and think it’s a chief reason your writing on literary culture is so distinctive. Can you elaborate on your statement here?
We live in a time when everyone wants to write and seemingly no one “has time” to read. Everyone wants to speak and increasingly few people want to listen. People sometimes scoff when I make this observation and claim that aspiring writers read more than anyone else, but that is not my experience. I’m constantly meeting people who, when they learn what I do, always want to talk about the book they plan to write despite the fact that they seem to find no books worth reading. We fetishize the idea of being a writer in a variety of ways, most of them narcissistic. So when I meet a big reader who professes no desire to write, I think of them as a beautiful, almost mythical creature, like a unicorn, to be celebrated.

I also believe that reading is a profoundly creative act, that every act of reading is a collaboration between author and reader. I don’t understand why more people aren’t interested in this alchemy. It’s such an act of grace to give someone else ten or fifteen hours out of your own irreplaceable life, and allow their voice, thoughts, and imaginings into your head. I can’t respect any writer who isn’t abjectly grateful for the faith, generosity, and trust in that. I think there’s an unspoken, maybe even unconscious contempt for reading as merely “passive” in many people who obsess about writers and writing. Discussion of writers and writing generally bores me. But I’m always interested in why people read and why they like what they like. That’s far more likely to surprise and enlighten me than someone fretting about daily word counts and agonizing over their process.

Another hallmark of your critical writing is your interest in and attention to a vast array of authors—from Haruki Murakami, Rachel Kushner, Helen Oyeyemi, and Colson Whitehead to George R. R. Martin, Tana French, Neil Gaiman, and Elmore Leonard. How do you choose which authors to write about and which books to review?
I can’t say! I follow my nose, I guess. I’m generally looking for something that interests me because that’s the only means I have for inferring what might interest my readers, which is always the first goal. Genre is a complicated issue because it can be both an unfair stigma and an identifier of books that are reliably formulaic in an uninteresting way. But as a rule I find that it’s pretty easy to ignore genre divisions. They’re a marketing tool for publishers and readers with specific tastes, but it doesn’t serve a critic to believe in them unquestioningly.

How conscientious are you about diversity—gender, race, sexual orientation, etc.—when choosing what to write about?
As a duty, not much—and really, what writer wants to be read out of someone’s sense of obligation or desire to look good to others? But it would be very boring to constantly read and write about the same sorts of books with the same sorts of people in them, so variety is something I seek out.

Is there anything from the publishing side that raises your interest in a particular book or author—the size of the advance, notable blurbs, your relationship with an editor or publicist?
There are some editors with distinct tastes worth following (or avoiding), and a handful of publicists I trust to tip me off that something might really appeal to me. But mostly I tune out the marketing because it’s just not a reliable indicator of a book’s merit. Blurbs are hopeless: They’re mostly the result of favor trading. I do pay attention to trade reviews, and within the business of covering and publishing books there’s an extensive grapevine that I try to tap into frequently. Those are impartial takes. One thing I’d say to smaller publishers is, if they get starred trade reviews it would be worth it to send an email saying, “Would you like to see a copy?” If it’s not a press I work with a lot or have in my rolodex, making it easier to act on advance reviews is helpful. There are weeks when I just don’t have time to hunt down the contact information online.

You also write about a fair amount of nonfiction as well. Do you believe that reviewing a work of fiction is a markedly different art from reviewing a work of nonfiction?
Of course. Fiction is a work of art conjured out of whole cloth. It may be based on real world events and people, but it has no obligation to them. Nonfiction has a relationship to the truth that also needs to be considered. On a journalistic level, readers are typically more interested in nonfiction reviews. A review of a novel is interesting to the extent that you’ve read or intend to read the book, but you can learn something from a review of a nonfiction book even if you never read the book itself. People like learning stuff.

In August 2012 you wrote a Salon article, “The Case for Positive Book Reviews.” Where do you stand on the value of negative reviews?
I don’t think that a harsh (or even a merely unenthusiastic) review of an obscure book has much meaning in a world where the vast majority of books go almost entirely unnoticed. “Guess what. A book you’ve never heard of isn’t much good” is not an appealing premise for most readers. On the other hand, when a book has some stature in the world, it’s another matter; knocking down the unjustly prominent is part of a critic’s mandate. It’s just that hardly any books are prominent. Readers often really enjoy savage or derisive reviews. There’s a great, pent-up feeling of resentment out there on the part of readers who feel that they are constantly being sold—by reviewers and publishers—on books that are bad or just far less good than the praise they get. It’s kind of dumb, because what’s going on is usually just a disparity in taste, but we persist in the desire to believe that there are objective, consensus standards of good and bad. There aren’t. I’m not very keen on gratifying the anger people inflict on themselves as a result of embracing that belief at the expense of some poor author who has no responsibility for this.

Have you ever changed your mind about a book that you praised or panned years earlier? Has a work of criticism ever changed your opinion of a writer’s work?
I have to be constantly reading new books, so I rarely get the opportunity to revisit anything. Sometimes I bail on a book if the first chapter or two don’t grab me, and then later the enthusiasm of others makes me wonder if I should have persisted. But by the time I’ve read and written about a book, my opinion is pretty solid.

What advice do you give to young students who aim to become professional critics?
My advice to people who want to be professional critics is not to. It wouldn’t be responsible to encourage young people to pursue a career path that is so economically unfeasible. It’s a nice sideline, but the only deliberate path I can think of to recommend is journalism school. There you can at least learn an assortment of skills by which you might—might—someday make a living as a writer. But it would be smarter to have a reliable day job that pays the bills and gets you out into the world and then write reviews on the side.

How many books do you typically receive per week—and of those, how many are you able to write about each month?
I get maybe seventy-five to a hundred books per week. It depends on the week. I write about three or four new books per month, since sometimes the topics of my column aren’t specific new books but an essay about a cultural topic or author/book from the past.

In an interview with Daniel Mendelsohn you stated that Twitter is “an absurd place to look for literary criticism.” Outside of that, has social media been helpful at all in your role as a literary critic?
I follow many people whose opinions and taste I value, so if they’re enthusing about a forthcoming book, I want to know that. This is especially true of big readers who are not writers—booksellers, bloggers, vloggers, etc.—and who operate outside of book/publishing enclaves. I like to know what all kinds of people are reading and what they think of it, especially if they’re the sort of people who pay real money for the books they read. I don’t follow publishers and I take all recommendations from published authors with a huge grain of salt because, as with blurbs, that part of Twitter is full of disingenuous logrolling.

What books that you aren’t reviewing are you most looking forward to reading in the near future?
I’m a big audiobook fan, so I fill in the gaps of my work-related reading with listening. I really don’t need to be doing any more sitting down, thanks very much. The titles tend to be a mix of classics—as much Trollope as I can get—and new fiction that for one reason or another I didn’t end up reviewing, like Nathan Hill’s The Nix and Chinelo Okparanta’s Under the Udala Trees. I’m addicted to Audible’s daily deals for members, which offers all kinds of titles for five dollars or less. That’s where all my impulse buying goes, and I’ll probably never have time to listen to everything I’ve bought from them. 

 

Michael Taeckens has worked in the publishing business since 1995. He is a cofounder of Broadside: Expert Literary PR (broadsidepr.com).

Why We Write: The Unwilling Suspension of Disbelief

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Jay Baron Nicorvo
Nature is as well adapted to our weakness as to our strength.
—Henry David Thoreau

 

Like most writers, I consider myself reasonably self-aware. I do believe the unexamined life is worth living, but it’s not a life I’d care to live, at least not as an adult. Yet I’d managed to work on a novel nearly every day for five years, and it never occurred to me that the emotional hardships, the traumas, I was running my characters through were so plainly, and painfully, my own. About a month before a publisher acquired my first novel, The Standard Grand—a novel that concerns a large cast of characters, civilians and veterans, fighting through trauma and its aftermath—I was diagnosed with post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD).

Which came first, the writing about traumatic stress or the traumatic stress? It’s an insincere question. Me being flippant. A way to delay—yet again, and for just a little while longer—writing something I’ve never before written, not without the guise of fiction or the elision of verse.

Writing trauma, and reading trauma, induces trauma in the traumatized—you may take this as your trigger warning—but I’ve found that this induction, coupled with proper care, can also help us to live with, rather than be done in by, our traumas. So here goes.

Having grown up poor, in poverty’s requisite deficit of security, I’ve got trauma to spare. The longest-lasting, and most stress-inducing, arises from a time when I was around six years old. That’s when my years-long molestation at the hands of my babysitter began. The chronic sexual abuse, my chronic sexual abuse, was hard enough. Worse was the way I was forced to keep the secret of it—first in the face of violent threats and then in simple, brutal shame. There, I did it. And you know what? I don’t feel one bit better. I even feel somewhat worse, and from experience I know that the feeling will carry over into the next days and weeks, at least. But the hardest part, for me, has simply been getting to this point—this very goddamn paragraph—and it’s taken me only thirty-five years from that formative moment of trauma.

***

There is a character in my novel who’s something of a Bizarro me, a me I would have become had my mom not moved us out of that abusive Jersey Shore town and down to Florida when I was ten. In creating this character, I was trying to imagine what would’ve happened had I spent my entire childhood in the same neighborhood as my molester, who was a minor at the time. The alternate reality I kept coming back to was that I would’ve enlisted—something I nearly did on two occasions anyway—to get out from under the long shadow of my intimate victimhood, so my novelized not-me, Ray Tyro, is a veteran, but a vet who’s somewhat compromised. He’s spent more time as a security contractor than a soldier. He’s a mercenary—a population with little representation in our war literature—and I lent him my molestation mostly as I remember it.

Foisting my sexual abuse onto one of my characters helped me to experience my trauma but at a level of remove, and with a little less stress. Very literally, I rewrote the narrative of my trauma, reclaiming some small measure of control over the single most defining, and damaging, moment of my life. Novel writing has by no means saved me, but it has allowed me to reach a guiding hand, tentative, into the past to help shake free that helpless boy still pinned, all these years later, under a teenage boy trusted with my care.

***

My brand of PTSD is somewhat peculiar. It manifests as panic disorder, mostly, but it’s complicated by—comorbidity is the clinical term—an additional, and somewhat controversial, diagnosis of hallucinogen persisting perception disorder (HPPD). My panic attacks are hallucinogenic. Before an attack I perceive a distortion in my visual field, somewhat akin to the disturbances that can presage a migraine. Whatever setting or social situation I’m in, I begin to “see” a spiraling arrangement of surfaces and gestures.

These unvaried hallucinations, leading invariably to full-blown panic attacks, began when I was eighteen, during a bad acid trip, right around the time I first spoke of my molestation. All these years later, my hallucinogenic panics have lost none of their disruptive clarity. I might even consider this trick of cognition a psychedelic bargain—freebie flashbacks—if every one of them didn’t feel so catastrophic. And they’re often inspired by stimuli I mistakenly, but understandably, associate with my
molestation.

By and large, with the help of a cognitive behavioral therapist, my devoted wife, and my mother, who is a survivor too, and a years-long secret keeper of sexual abuse, I’ve learned to negotiate, if not control, my symptoms. Writing helps. But I’ve come to believe that writing can’t be therapy. If anything, I’ve learned otherwise: Writing, without familial and clinical care, can cause more emotional harm than good.

***

Listen to the author read this article

***

As I understand it, novel writing is largely pattern recognition followed by the expression of the recognized pattern. At one end rests the simple symbol of the letter, a fixed arrangement of marks that, in turn and in conjunction, establishes ever more contingent patterns of words, sentences, syntax, and formal structures, ad infinitum. At the far other end of the modest letter looms the novel, arguably the furthest artistic advance of human pattern making in language.

Novel writing is the extreme extension of an everyday application, what neurologists call pareidolia: the perception of a familiar pattern—given a stimulus, a sight or a sound, usually—without the existence of the actual perceived object. Seeing faces in strange places (faucets, for example) is a common example. This is distinct from, but may lead to, apophenia: the perception of connectedness in unrelated phenomena. If, while in the bath, the faucet face gives you a queer feeling, bearing a peculiar resemblance to your grandfather, a retired plumber recovering from a recent angioplasty, and you’re struck with the worry that something’s happened to him, well, that’s pareidolia plus apophenia. Pareidolia is the mind finding form in noise, and apophenia is conferring meaning upon the found form.

What novel writers are actively doing when they write, what novel readers are passively doing when they read, is entertaining a shared sense of pareidolia and apophenia. Samuel Taylor Coleridge called this cognitive phenomenon “the willing suspension of disbelief.” Putting it more plainly, Michael Shermer, founder of the Skeptics Society and author of Why People Believe Weird Things: Pseudoscience, Superstition, and Other Confusions of Our Time (W. H. Freeman, 1997), dubs it patternicity, his pet name for a concept that unifies pareidolia and apophenia. He believes our brains are “belief engines: evolved pattern-recognition machines that connect the dots and create meaning out of the patterns that we think we see in nature,” and all our art is—to a lesser degree—the expression of this nature.

What those of us with PTSD experience, on a too-regular basis, is the unwilling suspension of disbelief. We encounter some stimulus and the past is dragged kicking and screaming into the present. During this psychological meantime—having perceived a familiar pattern and established some connectedness, however false—we have difficulty reestablishing our disbelief.

***

I have come to believe that twenty years spent in the daily exercise of patternicity has strengthened my imagination but weakened my ability to regulate disbelief. This is what I mean by saying writing can, on its own, do more emotional harm than good. Is it any real wonder that artists are so often beset by madness? The mad may well gravitate toward art, but making art also asks the artist to isolate and habitually entertain a condition of madness. These days, whether I want to or not, I perceive more connectedness than I did. This is partly the result of a more mature neural network—some would call it wisdom—but it’s also a symptom of trauma.

Those of us living with PTSD have an exaggerated sense of both apophenia and pareidolia. But as Phil Klay, author of Redeployment (Penguin Press, 2014), has pointed out, in an essay for the New York Times in which he bridges that gap between child abuse and battle stress, “If we fetishize trauma as incommunicable, then survivors are trapped—unable to feel truly known.” For veterans coming home from war, for the sexually abused engaging in sex and all of its social suggestions, for any of us who’ve survived the radical amazement induced by life’s awful extremes, but especially those who’ve had to tend, and stoke, the seeming exclusivity of such extremes, the world and its infinite stimuli encourage a great deal more connectedness. As a result, we traumatized are both weaker and stronger for our traumas. I’m convinced I wouldn’t be the writer I am if I weren’t constantly engaged in the practice, often against my will and with significant stress, of finding meaning in what others—the unfortunate untraumatized—deem blissfully meaningless. But I need to be careful.

During stressful times, which for me often coincide with social settings, every single thing—every word, every breath, every movement, mote, and instant—can be cause for heightened awareness leading to panic. In these moments, my perception dilates as my consciousness shrinks. Tapping into our collective cognitive past, what Robert Bly poetically but unscientifically, and in a very 1970s sort of way, referred to as the reptilian brain, I see more and understand less. This overstimulation, finding interconnectedness in every single minuscule thing, feels inexhaustible, and terrible. But afterward, alone or talking with my wife or my therapist, when I’m trying, and largely failing, to make sense of all the dizzying misconnections and disconnections, I’m often left with one or two ties tangible enough to hold tight to.

Once I regain some semblance of myself, the first thing I try to do is write them down.

 

Jay BaronNicorvo lives on an old farm outside Battle Creek, Michigan, with his wife, Thisbe Nissen, their son, and a couple dozen vulnerable chickens. He is the author of a novel, The Standard Grand (St. Martin’s Press, 2017), which was picked for IndieBound’s Indie Next List and Library Journal’s Spring 2017 Debut Novels Great First Acts, as well as named “New and Noteworthy” by Poets & Writers Magazine. He has published a poetry collection, Deadbeat (Four Way Books, 2012), and is working on a memoir.

The Heart-Work: Writing About Trauma as a Subversive Act

by
Melissa Febos
12.14.16

In a recent nonfiction workshop I taught at Sarah Lawrence College, a female student cringed when I suggested she include more of her own story in an essay. The narrative experimented with form, suggested a history of sexual trauma, but quickly shifted into a more lyrical and analytic musing on the general subject. She frowned. “But I don’t want to seem self-absorbed. You know, navel-gazing.” The rest of the room—all women—nodded. It is a concern I have heard from countless students and peers, and which I always greet with a combination of bafflement and frustration. Since when did telling our own stories and deriving their insights become so reviled? It doesn’t matter if the story is your own, I tell them over and over, only that you tell it well. We must always tell stories so that their specificity reveals some universal truth. 

And yet. How many times have I been privy to conversations among other writers in which we sneer at the very concept? We compulsively assure one another that writing isn’t about enacting a kind of therapy. How gross! We are intellectuals. We are artists. And the assumption is that these occupations preclude emotional self-examination or healing. “I mean, you can’t expect people to be interested in your diary,” a friend and fellow teacher recently exclaimed. I nodded. What kind of monstrous narcissist would make that mistake?

I am complicit. I have committed this betrayal of my own experience innumerable times. But I am done agreeing when my peers spit on the idea of writing as transformation, as catharsis, as—dare I say it—therapy. Tell me, who is writing in their therapeutic diary and then dashing it off to be published? I don’t know who these supposedly self-indulgent (and extravagantly well-connected) narcissists are. But I suspect that when people denigrate them in the abstract, they are picturing women. I’m finished referring to stories of body and sex and gender and violence and joy and childhood and family as “navel-gazing.”

At a recent writers conference, during a panel of literary magazine editors, a female audience member posed a question about the potential audience for her story of trauma survival. One of the male editors rolled his eyes and shrugged. “I mean, I’m not sure we need any more of those stories.” The other panelists nodded in consensus: Stories like hers belonged on Oprah’s talk show, not in the hallowed realm of literary prose. Everyone knows we don’t need another one of those. The genre of victimhood is already so crowded. So gauche.

Later that day, while serving on a panel of memoirists, I polled the audience—a room packed with a few hundred readers and writers. I asked for a show of hands: “Who here has experienced an act of violence, abuse, extreme disempowerment, sexual aggression, harassment, or humiliation?” The room fell silent as the air filled with hands.

***

In response to a surge of popular memoirs, William Gass, in a 1994 issue of Harper’s, asked, “Are there any motives for the enterprise that aren’t tainted with conceit or a desire for revenge or a wish for justification? To halo a sinner’s head? To puff an ego already inflated past safety?” He went on: “To have written an autobiography is already to have made yourself a monster…. Why is it so exciting to say, now that everyone knows it anyway, ‘I was born…I was born…I was born’?’” It is an argument that has been made for centuries, and that I have heard all my writing life.

It is the reason that I did not want to write a memoir. At twenty-six I was an MFA student in fiction, deep into what I believed was a Very Important Novel about addiction and female sexuality. Then I took a nonfiction craft class for which we were asked to write a short memoir. Though the content of my novel drew heavily from my own experience, I had never written any kind of nonfiction. The twenty-page essay I drafted about my years as a professional dominatrix was the most urgent thing I had ever written. When he read it, my professor insisted that I drop whatever I was working on and write a memoir.

I cringed. Who was I, a twenty-six-year-old woman, a former junkie and sex worker, to presume that strangers should find my life interesting? I had already learned that there were few more damning presumptions than that of a young woman thinking her own story might be meaningful. Besides, I was writing a Very Important Novel. Just like Jonathan Franzen or Philip Roth or Hemingway, those men of renowned humility.

“No way,” I told my professor. I was determined to stick to my more humble presumption that strangers might be interested in a story made up by a twenty-six-year-old former junkie sex worker.

Do you see how easy it is to poke holes in this logic?

But the story wouldn’t leave me alone. So I wrote it. And it was urgent, but not easy. In order to write that book, I had to walk back through my most mystifying choices and excavate events for which I had been numb on the first go-round.

That book was about being a sex worker and recovering from heroin addiction. It was about desire, shame, bodies, drugs, and money. It was an intellectual inquiry into these topics as much as it was a psychological and emotional reckoning. In hindsight, I can say that the compulsion to write it was an expression of my need to understand what the connections were among those things. To answer my own questions about why a girl from a loving family ended up shooting speedballs and spanking men for a living, and how the power of secrecy could become a prison. I wrote it because I wanted to show the strangers who shared those experiences that they were not alone.

I didn’t write a memoir to free myself, though in the process I did.

***

In the 1980s, social psychologist James Pennebaker conducted some now famous studies on his theory of “expressive writing.” Pennebaker asked participants in his experimental group to write about a past trauma, expressing their deepest feelings surrounding it. In contrast, control participants were asked to write as objectively as possible about neutral topics without revealing their emotions or opinions. Both groups wrote for fifteen minutes for four consecutive days.

Some of the participants in the experimental group found the exercise upsetting. All of them found it valuable. Monitoring over the subsequent year revealed that those participants made significantly fewer visits to physicians. Pennebaker’s research has since been replicated numerous times and his results confirmed: Expressive writing about trauma strengthens the immune system, decreases obsessive thinking, and contributes to the overall health of the writers. And this is after only four days of fifteen-minute sessions.

Let’s face it: If you write about your wounds, it is therapy. Of course, the writing done in those fifteen minutes was surely terrible by artistic standards. But it is a logical fallacy to conclude that any writing with therapeutic effect is terrible. You don’t have to be into therapy to be healed by writing. Being healed does not have to be your goal. But to oppose the very idea of it is nonsensical, unless you consider what such a bias reveals about our values as a culture. Knee-jerk bias backed by flimsy logic and bad science has always been the disguise of our national prejudices.

That these topics of the body, the emotional interior, the domestic, the sexual, the relational are all undervalued in intellectual literary terms, and are all associated with the female spheres of being is not a coincidence. What I mean is, this bias against “personal writing” is a sexist mechanism, founded on the false binary between the emotional (female) and the intellectual (male), and intended to subordinate the former.

That is, Karl Ove Knausgaard is a genius, a risk-taker, while all my female graduate students are terrified to write about being mothers for fear that they will be deemed (or, that they already are) vacuous narcissists. Or, as Maggie Nelson, in her latest book, The Argonauts, says of a man inquiring how she could possibly pen a book on the subject of cruelty while pregnant: “Leave it to the old patrician white guy to call the lady speaker back to her body, so that no one misses the spectacle of that wild oxymoron, the pregnant woman who thinks. Which is really just a pumped-up version of that more general oxymoron, a woman who thinks.”

I suspect I could write something relevant and dynamic and political and beautiful and intellectual about my own navel. And I don’t think it’s a stretch to wonder if the navel as the locus of all this disdain has some faint thing to do with its connection to birth, and body, and the female.

***

Acknowledging all of this will not get your book published. Being healed by writing does not excuse you from the insanely hard work of making art. There are plenty of mediocre memoirs out there, just as there are plenty of mediocre novels. I labored endlessly to craft my memoir. But after it was published, I still fielded insinuations that I had gotten away with publishing my diary. Interviewers asked only about my experiences and never about my craft. At readings, I would be billed on posters as “Melissa Febos, former dominatrix” alongside my co-reader, “[insert male writer name], poet.” Even some friends, after reading the book, would write to me to exclaim, “The writing! It was so good,” as if that were a happy accident accompanying my diarist’s transcription.

Writing about your personal experiences is not easier than other kinds of writing. In order to write that book, I had to invest the time and energy to conduct research and craft plot, scenes, description, dialogue, pacing—all the writer’s jobs, and I had to destroy my own self-image and face some unpalatable truths about my own accountability. It was the hardest thing I’d ever done. It made me a better person, and it made a better book.

Navel-gazing is not for the faint of heart. The risk of honest self-appraisal requires bravery. To place our flawed selves in the context of this magnificent, broken world is the opposite of narcissism, which is building a self-image that pleases you. For many years, I kept a quote from Rilke’s Letters to a Young Poet tacked over my desk: “The work of the eyes is done. Go now and do the heart-work on the images imprisoned within you.”

***

Listen to me: It is not gauche to write about trauma. It is subversive. The stigma of victimhood is a timeworn tool of oppressive powers to gaslight the people they subjugate into believing that by naming their disempowerment they are being dramatic, whining, attention-grabbing, or beating a dead horse. Believe me, I wish this horse were dead. To name just one of many such statistics in a grossly underreported set of crimes: The National Intimate Partner and Sexual Violence Survey recently found that 46.4 percent of lesbians, 74.9 percent of bisexual women, and 43.3 percent of heterosexual women have been the victims of sexual violence.

But we shouldn’t write about it because people are fatigued by stories about trauma? No. We have been discouraged from writing about it because it makes people uncomfortable. Because a patriarchal society wants its victims to be silent. Because shame is an effective method of silencing.

***

I have just finished writing a second book about my own experience. It’s called Abandon Me, and it’s about having a sea captain father, about loving women, about being annihilated and invented by love and sex. It is an exercise in applying my intellect, and the intellects of other thinkers—philosophers, psychologists, holy people, poets—to the raw matter of my own abandonments. It is about having abandonment issues.

This sort of admission might make you cringe. But white straight male writers are writing about the same things—they are just overlaying them with a plot about baseball, or calling their work fiction. Men write about their daddy issues constantly, and I don’t see anyone accusing them of navel-gazing. I am happy to read those books. I just wish that male authors—along with the greater reading populace—were not discouraged from reading such books by women. That women were not discouraged from writing them.

The new book is a collection of linked essays, and I have never worked so hard, sentence by sentence, image by image, on anything. But I struggled with the title essay, which, at over 150 pages, is more than half the book and tells the story of a time when I lost myself in love, acted in ways I would never have believed until they happened.

I showed an early draft of the essay to a close friend. After reading it, she said: “This is a very pretty story, but this is not what happened. If you want to tell the real story, you are going to have to be more honest.” My heart sank. I knew she was right. I had included only the parts that I felt safe revealing. I had hidden the ugliest parts. When I thought about taking her advice, a cold fear surged through me. “I am not allowed to write this,” I thought. “No one can know how profoundly I lost myself.” But I knew that she was right. So I rewrote it. I faced the truer version that I had tried to avoid. Because it was a better story, and because I wanted to be free.

What I’m saying is, don’t avoid yourself. The story that comes calling might be your own, and it might not go away if you don’t open the door. I don’t believe in writers block. I only believe in fear. And you can be afraid and still write something. No one has to read it, though when you’re done you might want someone to. One of the epigraphs of my book is a quote from the British psychoanalyst Donald Winnicott: “It is joy to be hidden but disaster not to be found.” The book I’ve written is about secrets, too. About my father’s father, who terrorized his family; about my mother’s father, who was mad. About my biological father, his father, and his grandfather—who lied on a census and said he was Polish, instead of native. It’s about the legacy of those secrets, how they ruined us for generations, how they have formed me.

To William Gass’s argument, “To have written an autobiography is already to have made yourself a monster,” I say that refusing to write your story can make you into a monster. Or perhaps more accurately, we are already monsters. And to deny the monstrous is to deny its beauty, its meaning, its necessary devastation.

Transforming my secrets into art has transformed me. And I believe that stories like these have the power to transform the world. That is the point of literature, or at least that’s what I tell my students. We are writing the history that we could not find in any other book. We are telling the stories that no one else can tell, and we are giving this proof of our survival to one another.

What I mean is, tell me about your navel. Tell me about your rape. Tell me about your mad love affair, how you forgot and then remembered yourself. Tell me about your hands, the things they have done and held and hit and let go of. Tell me about your drunk father and your sister who lost her mind. Give them whatever names you want.

Don’t tell me that the experiences of a vast majority of our planet’s human population are marginal, are not relevant, are not political. Don’t tell me that you think there’s not enough room for another story about sexual abuse, motherhood, or racism. The only way to make room is to drag all our stories into that room. That’s how it gets bigger.

You write it, and I will read it.

 

Melissa Febos is the author of the memoir Whip Smart: The True Story of a Secret Life (St. Martin’s Press, 2010), and an essay collection, Abandon Me, forthcoming from Bloomsbury in February. Her work has appeared in the New York TimesTin HouseGrantaPrairie Schooner, the Kenyon Review, and elsewhere. She teaches at Monmouth University and the Institute of American Indian Arts and serves on the board of VIDA: Women in Literary Arts. Her website is melissafebos.com.

 

 

 

Writing the Self: Some Thoughts on Words and Woe

by
Frank Bures
12.14.16

Growing up, I only knew that my grandma had been “sick.” Later I heard more, and learned that she had taken her own life. But it wasn’t until I started researching a book about culture-bound syndromes that I uncovered the fuller version: Late one night, in 1968, my grandma woke up, opened a bottle of barbiturates, swallowed them all, then climbed back into bed. The next morning my grandfather found her body next to his. She was fifty-six years old. They had been married since she was sixteen and he was nineteen.

At the time the doctors said she had a nervous breakdown, or sometimes that she was depressed. But that meant something different to the doctors than it meant to her family. And as I researched my book, it started to become clear that even today it probably means something different to everyone around the world.

Rates of depression vary widely. In Korea or Japan you have a one in fifty chance of having experienced major depression over the past twelve months, while in Brazil your chance is one in ten. Symptoms vary too. According to Handbook of Depression, a textbook on mood disorders, Koreans and Korean Americans experience manifestations that others would never consider related to depression: constipation, abdominal cramps, heartburn, stiff joints, sore muscles, and increased heart rate. In cultures where excitement and happiness are considered normal, people with major depression show low energy and blunted emotional response. In cultures where emotional control is considered the norm, the opposite is true: Intensified emotional responses are a common symptom of depression. The British psychiatrist Christopher Dowrick, author of Beyond Depression: A New Approach to Understanding and Management (Oxford University Press, 2004), has suggested that depression itself should be considered a culture-bound syndrome.

Culture-bound syndromes (or “cultural syndromes,” as they’re now called) are mental illnesses that mainly occur in certain cultures and that are shaped by those cultures. They are things like koro, a genital-retraction syndrome found in Asia and Africa; or khyâl cap, which is a panic-related condition from Cambodia whereby the wind flowing through one’s body is believed to be blocked; or taijin kyofusho, a paralyzing fear of other people’s embarrassment (not your own) that strikes people in Japan.

When I started researching these conditions, there seemed to be a clear line between them and the depression that afflicted my grandmother. But as I dug deeper, that line began to blur. The belief in the United States that depression is biochemical or genetic in nature—always assumed, but never proven—began to seem culture-bound as well. How could something so big, so terrible, and (sometimes) so final differ so much around the globe, or across a family?

My father, my two brothers, and I are all prone to waves of darkness rolling through our lives, which does point to a likely hereditary component. And yet the way it has played out in all our lives is so different that we each might as well be living in his own country: My youngest brother turned to religion at age fifteen, which is still his source of great joy. My other brother spent many years self-medicating before joining Alcoholics Anonymous, after which he felt better. As for me, while I’ve sunk into dark places many times, for a variety of reasons I have never gone all the way down my grandmother’s road.

If depression were a simple biomechanical process, a series of cellular dominoes falling, the effects should be more uniform from Korea to Kenya to Kansas. But they’re not. And after spending several years reading and thinking about these things, I now see that there is something else at work. Something layered over, and woven through, our biology.

I came across this almost by accident, when someone recommended the work of James Pennebaker, a social psychologist who did some of the first studies into the effects of “expressive writing” on health. His interest started in college, at a time when his marriage was falling apart and he fell into a depressive spiral. He started smoking. He drank more. He stopped eating.

Then, after a month, he started writing, first about his marriage, then about his feelings, his parents, his career, death, and so on. “By the end of the week,” he wrote in Opening Up: The Healing Power of Confiding in Others (William Morrow, 1990), “I noticed my depression lifting. For the first time in years—perhaps ever—I had a sense of meaning and direction.”

So he embarked on a series of experiments in which students wrote about various topics—some emotional, some not. Those who wrote about their emotions experienced a bizarre health benefit: Their trips to the campus health center dropped by half. Their immune function increased. Yet those who merely “vented” about trauma, or who wrote on superficial events, saw no such benefit.

Another of his studies focused on almost fifty professionals (average age fifty-two years) who had been laid off from a computer company in Dallas, where most had worked for thirty years. All were fired the same day, with no warning, and, as Pennebaker noted, were “among the most bitter and hostile group of adults I have ever seen.”

One group was instructed to write about “their deepest thoughts and feelings about getting laid off,” for thirty minutes each day for five days. Another group wrote about time management. And a third (control) group didn’t write anything. Within three months, 27 percent of the first group had found jobs, while only 5 percent of the second two groups did. Several months later, 53 percent of the first group had jobs, compared to 18 percent of the other groups.

Having kept a journal since my late teens, I found this fascinating. Writing in it has always made me feel better, though while I was doing it I had no idea why. I told myself I kept it to collect material that would later become essays and stories. But honestly, there was never much worthwhile in those pages. Mostly it was just me trying to figure out why I felt so bad, or working through problems, or trying to figure out what kind of person I was. I rarely looked at the pages I left behind.

But I kept writing in the journal, first when I went overseas alone, then again when I traveled with my wife. Not long after we returned to the States, having settled in Madison, Wisconsin, I stopped journaling without knowing why. Whenever I opened the pages, it seemed tedious, pointless, and painful. The little I did write felt trivial. I wondered for whom I was
writing: Who would care about these things? I started losing touch with old friends and made few new ones. I had no  idea who the audience for my stories might be.

Fortunately, I still had an audience of one—my wife—who grew alarmed at the dark turn I had taken, which showed no sign of passing. I felt a strange, new kind of hopelessness that went all the way to my fingertips. Soon she insisted we leave Madison, and within a few weeks our house was on the market (we had one daughter and another child on the way). This time we moved to Minneapolis, and after that things slowly began to improve. Fitfully, I started writing in my journal again.

All this made more sense when I read Pennebaker’s work. But it made even more sense when I stumbled into the field of “self-affirmation” research (not to be confused with “self-esteem”), which uses short writing exercises to change the way people see themselves. One of the most common is to write for ten minutes or so about your values, about why they are important to you, or about a time when those values came into play.

Repeated just a few times, these exercises can have significant effects. They can boost students’ gpa for years. They can improve subjects’ health and relationships. The reasons for their power are not fully understood, but it seems to have something to do with expanding your sense of self, of who you are, and of what caused you to become that person.

In a 2014 overview of this research, Geoffrey Cohen and David Sherman noted that “the self” can be best understood as a kind of “storyteller” with “a powerful need to see itself as having integrity.” We need to believe we are good people, moral people, and that we can achieve the goals we set for ourselves. This is what Cohen and Sherman call a “narrative of personal adequacy.”

Yet the world does not always confirm our adequacy. In fact, it often tells us the opposite, in the clear language of failure, rejection, exclusion, pain, and other unpleasant things. These can threaten the idea of our self. And when the idea of our self begins to crumble and we can’t quite hold it together, it can take an emotional and physical toll. Long before anyone talked about this kind of thing, the psychiatrist George Engel looked at cases of 170 people who died suddenly and unexpectedly. He found that there were various circumstances that precipitated death: the loss of a spouse, child, sibling, or friend; denial of a promotion; loss of a job; a robbery; the demolition of a hotel where one man worked for thirty years; and a reconciliation with long-lost family members. Engel noted that these episodes marked periods of extreme excitement, loss of control, or “giving up.” Many involved the sense that the person “no longer has, or no longer believes that he has, mastery or control over the situation, or even over himself,” Engel wrote. In other words, when your sense of self unravels, your actual self can too.

Writing affirmations seems to offer some protection from these slings and arrows. In one study that Cohen and Sherman cited, both affirmed and non-affirmed people were shown a live caged tarantula. The affirmed group correctly judged the distance between themselves and the spider. Non-affirmed people saw the threat as physically closer than it really was. When the story we’ve told ourselves about who we are is threatened, the world feels more dangerous. Things can look more dire, more risky, more hopeless than they are. That’s a feeling I remember clearly. It’s one I’m sure my grandma knew well.

Culture-bound or not, depression is a complex beast. Even today there are no known physiological causes, despite our perennial assumption that these will soon be found. There is no biological test you can take for it. That’s why, for me, the intersection of narrative and neurology is where a key piece of this puzzle can be found.

Surely nothing as simple as a notebook and a pencil could have saved my grandma, just as when things turned darkest for me, my wife had to intervene. Yet I still feel lucky that I became a writer when I did. Because for years those journal pages helped me hold myself together when the world pulled me apart. They helped me figure out who I was, who I wanted to be, and how to bridge the distance between the two.

But most important, I see now that in all those years when I thought I was writing one kind of story, I was writing another. Now when I open my journal, I know which story that is. I know why I’m writing it. And I know the end is still a long way off.

Frank Bures is a contributing editor of Poets & Writers Magazine.

Why We Write: In the Presence of Living

by
Lise Saffran
3.1.11

Until the summer my grandmother was dying, my children were the only people I had ever watched sleep. I used to lie beside them at nap time, taking shallow breaths, while I waited for a thumb to fall away from a mouth or for a jaw to drop open: the signal that they had drifted off. I willed them unconscious with all the silent concentration that a white-knuckled passenger in the back row uses to fly a jetliner. Sounds from outside the room seemed magnified then; a distant door slamming or a slightly raised voice threatened to wake them. In the presence of my sleeping grandmother it was altogether different. Even nearby noises—a car starting in the lot outside her window, the phone ringing—seemed curiously muffled. A neighbor down the hall conducted mysterious business in his home office, but his voice sounded as if it were coming from far away. I adjusted the fan toward her bed and covered her legs with the sheet. I watched my grandmother’s breath enter and leave her body and willed it, not to steady into the even metronome that accompanied my children’s dreams, but to stop.

She was dying at home, and home was a shady one-bedroom apartment crowded with books. The shelves in her front room were heavy with story collections from the forties and fifties, the works of Shakespeare, Beowulf, The Adventures of Augie March, and tomes that promised cures for back pain, leg pain, and, though they did not promise but implied it, the indignities of old age.

She kept a handful of favorite books in her bedroom, as well as the latest reading assignment from the literature course she’d taken at the local community college for the last sixteen years. Volumes of contemporary poetry sat next to Portnoy’s Complaint, Dubliners,The Leopard by Giuseppe di Lampedusa, and a long-ago gift from me: An American Childhood by Annie Dillard. My grandmother’s all-time favorite book was Isak Dinesen’s Out of Africa. It came up so often during discussions of my writing (she liked a lot of my work but I was no Isak Dinesen) that I often teased her by intoning in a nasal imitation of Meryl Streep in the movie version, “I had a farm in Africa, at the foot of the Ngong Hills.” She always laughed.

Early in the summer I had thought to bring my laptop over and work while she slept. When she woke she’d call my name. Sometimes she needed help getting up from the bed into her chair. Sometimes she just wanted to make sure she was not alone. I brought my machine into the back room and showed it to her. She was suspicious of computers. I told her I was working on a novel. She brightened and urged me back to work. She wished me luck.

Luck was just one of the things I needed. I write about the challenges of parenting wild teenage girls, and late-life love, and the dramas of living in a close-knit community. I asked myself who could possibly care about such made-up stories when this flesh-and-blood woman I loved (who had secured her own release from the hospital with the firmly delivered words “I’m not interested in staying safe, I’m interested in staying sane”) had received a terminal diagnosis? Her decline was so swift that each day rendered yesterday’s arrangements obsolete. The nursing student my mother hired to pop in twice a day to help with the washing up became the home health aide to administer baths became the person to sleep on her couch at night became the twenty-four-hour companion who meted out morphine at two in the morning. All within a few days.

I arrived one morning midway through the summer and found my grandmother sitting on the edge of the bed. Josie, the night helper, stood beside her. I bent to put my arms around my grandmother’s waist. This was how we lifted her onto her legs: one, two, three, hup. Josie waved my arms away. No more. It took me a few moments to understand. Sometime during the night, it seemed, my grandmother had lost her ability to stand. She sat. We waited. She was groggy, as if she had been woken from a deep sleep. After a while we lifted her legs into the bed. Josie left to get her bus. My grandmother dozed. I reached for An American Childhood and read the opening paragraph:

When everything else has gone from my brain—the President’s name, the state capitals, the neighborhoods where I lived, and then my own name and what it was on earth I sought, and then at length the faces of my friends, and finally the faces of my family—when all this has dissolved, what will be left, I believe, is topology: the dreaming memory of land as it lay this way and that.

She’d loved these words as I did, but I doubted she’d have any use for them now, if she could even hear them over the Morse code of pain that her body was sending her. For most of the rest of that day, and the days after, it was hard to gauge how conscious my grandmother was. Her eyes opened only partially, if at all, and when they did she seemed to be gazing at something far beyond her quiet bedroom.

My mother came to take over, and with only an hour left before I had to pick up my youngest child from camp, I headed to a reservoir located near where she lived, just north of San Francisco. The sunny fire road was patrolled by biting blackflies that I had to jog to outrun. I was sweating by the time I reached the path around the lake. I worked the muscles in my legs hard, charging in and out of shadow and leaping over roots and rocks. My grandmother’s life was falling away from her like acorns from a chinquapin, and music, literature, and art seemed to be the lightest of objects. They made hardly a sound when they hit the ground. My mother was singing to her when I left. She had been holding her hand and singing in the voice she used with me as a child when I had a fever. I stumbled and my hand clutched at the spongy bark of a redwood.

As a writer who was also the mother of two small children, I was no stranger to the nagging fear that time spent spinning tales might be better spent spinning lettuce. In the presence of my grandmother or my children or even the blue-bellied lizard that skittered over the path and into the brush, the balance seemed to tip decidedly toward lettuce. The next day, when I got in the car to go to my grandmother’s apartment, I left my computer at home.

As a writer who was also the mother of two small children, I was no stranger to the nagging fear that time spent spinning tales might be better spent spinning lettuce. In the presence of my grandmother or my children or even the blue-bellied lizard that skittered over the path and into the brush, the balance seemed to tip decidedly toward lettuce.

My grandmother stopped drinking water shortly after her legs failed. Her spells of consciousness were briefer and less frequent. Each breath seemed to cause her pain. The hospice people assured me that she could still hear my voice. They told me to tell her that she could let go and I did it, thinking that if there was anything I could give her that would help her die, I did not want to hold it back. I told her that my mother would be all right. We will take care of her, I said. We will take care of each other. I turned to other subjects for relief. To the antics of my children. To books. I told her how much I liked Billy Collins, whom I had moved on to after Annie Dillard. He was funny and sneakily profound. In the tradition of the writers I loved most, he led the reader to surprising places with deceptively simple language, like a child who tries to describe what he’s seen and finally just grabs your hand and takes you to it. 

My mother stood with me in my grandmother’s bedroom and I told her about Billy Collins, not because she was a particular fan of poetry (that gene seemed to have skipped a generation) but because I was searching for something cheerful to say. On the spot, I decided to read her the poem “Dharma,” which begins, “The way the dog trots out the front door / every morning / without a hat or an umbrella, / without any money / or the keys to her doghouse / never fails to fill the saucer of my heart / with milky admiration.” Billy Collins deserves a dozen yellow roses, I thought, just for making my mother laugh. Between us lay my grandmother. I looked down and saw that her eyes were wide open, as they had not been in days, and that they were filled with tears.

The next day and for the remaining days of my grandmother’s life, I read aloud. From An American Childhood and from Sailing Alone Around the Room. One day I read a poem titled “Fishing on the Susquehanna in July,” which began: “I have never been fishing on the Susquehanna / or on any river for that matter / to be perfectly honest.”

I finished the poem and read another and then another.

Cleaning the apartment with my mother after my grandmother was gone, I would find several copies of Out of Africa and ask myself with reproach why I had not read to her from it. Grief and remorse sit close to each other on the scale of human emotions; they are easily confused. Only later would I realize that the thing I was feeling at that moment was loss rather than guilt. I would turn to “I had a farm in Africa, at the foot of the Ngong Hills” and read on until the words began to blur. This was the compelling voice of a mature woman with a story to tell and it is not something that you can easily set aside before the end. It was clear to me then what I must have suspected before: My grandmother and I had not had that kind of time.

Those last days passed in high summer and the trees next to her back deck dropped layers of pollen-covered pods. I slipped outside whenever my brother the doctor would call from the East Coast with instructions to increase her Ativan and morphine. Each time I came back inside I brushed the layer of gold dust from the bottom of my bare feet. I watched my grandmother shrink on her hospital bed. I read aloud.

“You’re not alone,” I reassured her, after a prolonged silence. “I’m just resting my voice. I’m still here.”

“I know,” she said. She had long ago stopped accepting water or food; she had not responded in days. Her body was gaunt and her voice was parched but unbelievably, it was her own.

“Grandma?” I laced my fingers through hers, talking, talking, talking, hoping for more. More never came.

What had made me think there was a difference, I wondered then, between the love that we had for each other and the words we used, or tried to use, to express it? It was the searching for words that was so uniquely human and precious—it was the very audaciousness of trying to capture feeling into something as tangible as a poem or a story that meant so much. I returned to my imagined mothers and children, to all the characters in my head, and greeted them with renewed affection and respect. There are worse ways to spend one’s brief time than in the attempt to write something good. After all, is it so very disappointing if the amazing thing a child drags you to see is something as ordinary as a hummingbird or a snail? What matters is the taking of your hand.

Lise Saffran is the author of the novel Juno’s Daughters, published in January by Plume. She is a graduate of the Iowa Writers’ Workshop and has published stories in a variety of literary journals. She lives in Missouri with her husband and two sons.


AN INVITATION

If you’d like to share your story of perseverance or offer some perspective on why you continue to write despite rejection, lack of recognition, or other challenges, e-mail us at whywewrite@pw.org. Your essay could be the next installment of Why We Write.

The Tunnel


Robin MacArthur

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Robin MacArthur reads a love letter to her home state of Vermont for an episode of State of the Re:Union with music scored by Red Heart the Ticker, MacArthur’s band with her husband Tyler Gibbons. MacArthur’s debut novel, Heart Spring Mountain (Ecco, 2018), is featured in Page One in the January/February 2018 issue of Poets & Writers Magazine.

Camilla Grudova

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“When I started university, I wanted to be an art historian and classicist, I thought my first book would be about Greek sculptures, not a work of fiction. The places I love most in the world are museums. I love the tin cans and bits of wrought iron at the Victoria Albert Museum; Sir Hans Sloane’s collection of leaves, shoes, shells, and ancient vases at the British Museum; and this collection of strange Victorian cat paintings at a tiny museum in rural Ontario. I love the act of translating an object into words, the goal of doing it well enough that it will rebuild itself in the reader’s head. I love how characters and odd situations that don’t exist sprout from artifacts and artworks like moss when I look at them. When I look at a piece, I think, I want to make the written equivalent of that, like elderly Bergotte in Proust’s The Captive who becomes giddy looking at a ‘little patch of yellow’ wall in a Vermeer painting, regretting that he did not write as it was painted. I suggest to any writers that they go to a museum soon, and find an equivalent of elderly Bergotte’s little patch of yellow wall before they meet their demise, as elderly Bergotte did, on the floor in front of the painting.”
—Camilla Grudova, author of The Doll’s Alphabet (Coffee House Press, 2017)

The Backward Index

Agent Advice: Annie Hwang of Folio Literary Management

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Annie Hwang

To submit a question for the next featured agent, e-mail agentadvice@pw.org or write to Editor, Poets & Writers Magazine, 90 Broad Street, Suite 2100, New York, NY 10004. Questions accepted for publication may be edited for clarity and length.

Areas of interest: Literary fiction with a hint of genre (speculative, historical, thriller, mystery), upmarket fiction, narrative nonfiction (science, pop culture, history, technology), prescriptive nonfiction (lifestyle, health, fitness), humor, illustrated, essays

Looking for: Query letter and first ten pages, all in the body of an e-mail

Preferred contact: E-mail annie@foliolit.com

Agency contact: 
Folio Literary Management
630 Ninth Avenue
Suite 1101
New York, NY 10036
www.foliolit.com

 

I have been told by several agents that they rely on Nielsen BookScan to check an author’s previous sales and often base their reactions to queries accordingly. How widespread is this practice, and can you share your thoughts about how an author can overcome an early record that isn’t his or her fault?
Laury from Highlands, New Jersey
More often than not, if a writer mentions a previously published book in a query (and you should, of course), I check its sales numbers. That said, before I do, I first fully consider the project that writer is querying me with before I take the author’s previous track record into consideration. If I love the project, chances are that overcoming a previous track record is just a matter of strategy that the author and I would discuss once we are officially working together.

What’s the best way to change agents? My existing agent specializes in thrillers and nonfiction. My literary debut, which she sold to an editor I had a history with, did well both critically and commercially. I don’t want to seem ungrateful, but I’ve suspected for a long time that we aren’t the best fit. Is it wrong to want to seek new representation? And what is the most civilized way to go about it?
Annie from California

It’s not wrong to want to seek new representation, but it is important to go about it the right way to avoid leaving a negative impression. The best way to begin that process is to have an honest and professional conversation with your current agent about what is and what is not working for you in your partnership and why. Once you and your agent have reached an understanding and are able to part on amicable terms, then begin querying other agents whom you feel would be a better fit for you and your projects.

Will agents work with writers whose initial work is a collection of short stories? Are short story collections ever considered by agents for a writer’s first publication?
Michael from Studio City, California

I cannot speak for all agents, but I certainly would—especially if there’s a novel attached. The truth is, I adore short stories, so while collections can be difficult to sell, if I absolutely love the writing I’m not one to shy away from the challenge. After all, I am not looking to represent this or that project. I’m looking to represent an author’s entire literary career and everything that entails.

If one agent turns me down, should I expect others to do the same?
James from Albany, Georgia
Absolutely not. It is so important to keep in mind how subjective our tastes can be. I tell writers all the time that just because a project isn’t right for me doesn’t mean that another agent will feel the same. However, if you are receiving unanimous feedback from a number of agents about why your project isn’t working for them, it might be
worthwhile to take their feedback into serious consideration and possibly revise before sending out your project more widely.

Agent Advice: Kirby Kim of Janklow & Nesbit Associates

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Kirby Kim
4.12.17

To submit a question for the next featured agent, e-mail agentadvice@pw.org or write to Editor, Poets & Writers Magazine, 90 Broad Street, Suite 2100, New York, NY 10004. Questions accepted for publication may be edited for clarity and length.

Areas of interest: Literary and commercial fiction for children and adults, narrative nonfiction by journalists, science, and pop culture; generally no romance and no picture books

Representative clients: Ted Chiang, Malcolm Brooks, Karolina Waclawiak, Tracy O’Neill, Peter Bognanni, Craig Davidson

Looking for: Query letter with the first ten pages in the body of an e-mail

Preferred contact: E-mail kkim@janklow.com

Agency contact:
Janklow & Nesbit Associates
285 Madison Avenue
New York, NY 10017
www.janklowandnesbit.com

 

Should I finish my manuscript or is it okay to submit with just the required amount for a query? Should I get a head start with an agent?
Mitch from Leakesville, Mississippi
I think there are some exceptions to this (nonfiction is generally submitted to publishers by proposal), but I’d say finish the book. Sounds like you’re referencing a novel or a memoir, in which case I would say take some time away from the manuscript after you’ve finished it, then read it again and revise. Then step away and come back. And revise again. Do this until you can’t see anything wrong with the manuscript. Or recognize there are things wrong but you don’t know how to fix them. Then maybe share it with a couple of brutally honest readers who won’t just admire you for filling up a few hundred pages with text but who will critically review the book and tell you what works and doesn’t work. Then, you guessed it, revise. Don’t rush the process. 

At what point in the process of writing a potential book series should the writer attempt to find an agent—after the first book is done or after there is a more complete series to present?
Catherine from Boise, Idaho
Probably after the first book is done. I generally don’t go to publishers with more than one manuscript at a time anyway. And I think most agents would rather know you can execute one killer book that can stand alone as opposed to being able to envision a series. Also, that first book may change a lot after an agent and an editor give you notes, so it might be premature to write subsequent books in the series before the first one is sold. Cart before horse and all that. 

Is there still a market for serious, intelligently written horror fiction, in the same vein as Stephen King or William Peter Blatty, or should a writer focus on a smaller publishing house?
Kevin from Phoenix
Putting aside the question of what constitutes “serious, intelligently written horror fiction,” I think there’s a market for anything if it’s done really well. But horror is a tricky category. There are writers such as Nick Cutter, Benjamin Percy, Paul Tremblay, Seanan McGuire, Sarah Pinborough, and Josh Malerman doing the kind of thing you’re referring to at large houses. Then there are writers such as John Langan, Laird Hunt, and Gemma Files who are doing great things but for whatever reason go primarily with smaller houses. I’m guessing your question stems from the experience of not seeing much horror fiction from general trade publishers breaking through the noise. But those houses do take chances—one just needs to know who to ask and where to look. 

Are there any resources that are particularly helpful about learning what agents like and their tastes and what they specialize in?
Jared from Los Angeles
Publishers Marketplace, with its database of deals, is probably the most comprehensive and up-to-date way of seeing who agents are representing and how active they are. I think agency websites are pretty informative as well. A subscription to the former doesn’t cost much and is worth the investment for any writer trying to land an agent. And, of course, the database at pw.org is a useful resource as well. 

Agent Advice: Jennifer Carlson of Dunow, Carlson & Lerner

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Jennifer Carlson
8.11.10

To submit a question for the next featured agent, e-mail agentadvice@pw.org or write to Editor, Poets & Writers Magazine, 90 Broad Street, Suite 2100, New York, NY 10004. Questions accepted for publication may be edited for clarity and length.

Areas of interest: Literary fiction and narrative nonfiction; also young-adult and middle-grade fiction

Representative clients: Kevin Brockmeier, Paula Chase-Hyman, Marisa de los Santos, David Lida, Robert Neuwirth, Mary Quattlebaum, Jon Raymond, Paul Reyes, and David Schickler

Looking for: Query letters; sample page for fiction is acceptable; unknown e-mail attachments will not be opened

Preferred contact: E-mail mail@dclagency.com; postal mail

Agency contact:
Dunow, Carlson & Lerner Literary Agency, Inc.
27 West 20th Street, Suite 1107
New York, NY 10011
(212) 645-7606
www.dclagency.com

What are you looking to see in a writing sample, specifically in the first five pages?
Wikidd from Meriden, Connecticut

I want to see that it works: characters, narrative voice, the opening strokes of plot—all grooving in unison like the opening to a great song, no matter what genre (though admittedly, heavy metal is not for me). Or, to put it another way, I’m looking for pretty much the same thing you’re looking for when you browse the bookstore, randomly picking up books and glancing over the first page. Do you keep going or do you put it down? Whereas you’re thinking, “Do I want to buy this?” I’m thinking, “Can I sell this?”

Do you think it’s a good idea for people who are not completely confident in their work to make an attempt at soliciting an agent? Is it worth the effort to try? Which raises the question: What evidence would one need to consider oneself worthy in the first place?
Jon from New York City

Think about it this way: If only supremely confident people attempted to put their work out there, then we’d hardly have any books. Is it worth the effort to try? As I once heard Andrei Codrescu, in an NPR commentary, quote Heraclitus: Who can stop the sea from rising? Which is to say, though sadly lacking his thick Romanian accent, this is a rhetorical question. So why not try? As for your last question, I fear it is too existential to take on in this brief format. I’m going to refer you to my colleague Betsy Lerner’s blog, www.betsylerner.com, where you can see an agent who is also a writer deliver counsel to writers with humor and honesty.

I’m a self-published author who just completed his second novel. An agent once told me I shouldn’t state that I’m a self-published author in my query letter because it shows that no one has taken an interest in my writing and therefore I had to publish my own books. Apart from being rather insulting, does this agent have a point? 
Ammanuel from Baltimore 

Yes, it’s a little slighting. Am I guilty of countless acts of the same? Um, yes. This may change as the definition of self-publishing evolves, but we’re not all the way there yet. So unless you’ve sold a zillion copies of your self-published book, best not to bring it up too soon. 

For an unpublished writer, does it cost more to seek a literary agent abroad or would it be safer to self-publish first in the home country before seeking an agent in another country?
Daisy from Rustenburg, South Africa

I’m not sure about the words cost and safer that you have chosen to use here. Do you mean them literally, or metaphorically? If you have e-mail, it shouldn’t cost you much. And unless there is a terrific home country–based agent (they are less common where you are, no?) whose loving advances you are rejecting, I don’t see any cost to your career, either. The United States, of course, imports little in the way of books, though we do get serial crushes on various areas around the world (India, Africa, e.g.) and then suddenly there’s a lovely burst of publishing activity centered on works and writers from those regions. I’d advise doing some research to look for U.S. and U.K. agents to approach (for those writing in English, anyway) who have international client lists. 

Agent Advice: Danielle Svetcov of Levine Greenberg Rostan

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Danielle Svetcov
4.15.15

To submit a question for the next featured agent, e-mail agentadvice@pw.org or write to Editor, Poets & Writers Magazine, 90 Broad Street, Suite 2100, New York, NY 10004. Questions accepted for publication may be edited for clarity and length.

Areas of interest: Fiction, journalism, science, adventure, sports, memoir, illustrated, food, humor


Representative clients: Taffy Brodesser-Akner; Jodi Angel; Kasper Hauser; James Nestor; Eben Weiss, aka Bike Snob; State Bird Provisions

Looking for: Chatty query that conveys your abilities as a writer and tells me who you are and why you have written what you’ve written, plus proposal and/or small sample from the book

Preferred contact: E-mail dsvetcov@lgrliterary.com

Agency contact:
Levine Greenberg Rostan Literary Agency
307 Seventh Avenue, Suite 2407
New York, NY 10001
(212) 337-0934
lgrliterary.com

How strongly do you believe in paying to have a manuscript edited? 
Richard from Wichita, Kansas

One way or another, you need to have your manuscript edited before you send it to an agent. That edit may come from your writing group (free) or from a talented writing friend who owes you a big fat favor (free), or it may come from an experienced editor, ideally one who’s worked as a professional book editor for a long time (not free). The thing about the last option is: You usually get what you pay for. A paid editor will think about grammar, syntax, main and secondary characters, theme, plot, chapter length, order of events, etcetera, and will hopefully point out some of your unfortunate tics. It’s a rare writing group or friend-bound-by-favor that hits all those…on every page. There’s no shame in hiring an editor either. The best of the best pay editors to improve their work. (Yes, you read that correctly: Famous authors with advances from big houses pay freelance editors to clean up their work…and then they send their work off to their assigned editors at the publishing houses.) It doesn’t make a person less of an author; it doesn’t reduce your ownership of the text. If you have a burning desire to get your book published by a big press, and you have the money to pay an editor, spend it. It’s worth noting that once you land an agent, he or she will likely edit your book too (free, but often bloody).

Are queries sent via snail mail viewed any differently than those sent via e-mail? 
Marcia from Uniondale, New York

When I began working as an agent’s assistant in 2002, my boss was still receiving queries by snail mail. They stacked up on her side desk, looking wretched and appropriately yellow. It was obvious that the envelopes and queries in them had been mailed numerous times before arriving at our door. Bent and worn SASEs. Wite-Out over addresses. Were we the second recipients? The thirty-third? Many of the queriers used typewriters to prepare their letters and address their envelopes. Some handwrote their queries. The Internet hadn’t been around all that long, but already it was clear that madness resided in the snail-mailed queries, and sanity was reserved for the e-mailed variety. Do I believe in snail mail? Yes, I do. For postcards, love letters, notes from camp, condolences, thank-yous, and estimated taxes. But when it comes to queries, send them by e-mail. It’s a modern convenience that has eliminated the indignities of the SASE (which no honest human can claim to miss). And when we agents love something sent via e-mail, we can reply immediately; we can transmit our unbridled joy and surprise with the speed of our unromantic cable connections.

Can I send a query for my book to more than one agent? 
Russell from Coral Springs, Florida

You bet. And if, later, you find out that multiple agents are reading and loving your book, e-mail all of them (separately) and say something like, “Most exciting news to share! You are not the only agent enjoying my manuscript. Let’s set up a call as soon as you’ve finished reading, as I’m in the most unexpected, thrilling position: I get to choose my agent.” Avoid maniacal glee. You get the idea. 

Agent Advice: Betsy Amster of Betsy Amster Literary Enterprises

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Betsy Amster
10.14.15

To submit a question for the next featured agent, e-mail agentadvice@pw.org  or write to Editor, Poets & Writers Magazine, 90 Broad Street, Suite 2100, New York, NY 10004. Questions accepted for publication may be edited for clarity and length.

Areas of interest: Literary fiction, mysteries and thrillers, narrative nonfiction (especially by journalists), research-based psychology and self-help, cooking, design, gift


Representative clients: Elaine N. Aron, Margaret Leslie Davis, Christopher Noxon, María Amparo Escandón, Tanya Ward Goodman, Joy Nicholson, Louise Steinman 



Looking for: Smart, businesslike query letter sent by e-mail with the first three pages of any narrative work (fiction or nonfiction) embedded; for nonnarrative work, the proposal overview embedded

Preferred contact: E-mail b.amster.assistant@gmail.com

Agency contact:
Betsy Amster Literary Enterprises
6312 SW Capitol Hwy. #503
Portland, OR 97239
www.amsterlit.com

If I have many different forms of writing (self-published memoir, finished screenplay, completed short stories with an outline for a full short story collection, already produced commercials, and short films) how do I approach an agent with the work? Do I focus on one form, or is it acceptable to send all projects, as a portfolio of sorts, to the agent?
Armand from Austin, Texas

Trying to flog too many projects at once tends to be a red flag for agents. We don’t mind learning how broad your accomplishments are in your query letter, but we want you to seek representation for a single project. Also, most book agents don’t handle screenplays, short films, or commercials, so by putting any emphasis on these, you may inadvertently suggest that you don’t understand our business.

I have a draft of a memoir that has been in progress for several years. Does the draft need to be near perfect before seeking an agent to read it?
Rhonda from Richmond, Virginia

“Near perfect” sounds…well, perfect. Agents, particularly those with an editorial background, are often happy to help you put the finishing touches on a manuscript. But you need to take it as far as you can first. It shows that you’re serious and that you know how to self-edit.

If I am in the process of writing a work of fiction, at what point should I submit the project to an agent? Should I wait until I have a completed first draft? A more complete second draft? Something printable? Or should I just go for it with a bucket of disassembled scenes and a half-cooked idea of how they all tie together?
Irving from New York, New York

Ha! Something tells me that you’re going to write a great query letter. All joking aside (you were joking, weren’t you?) please see the answer to the previous question.

My manuscript is currently posted online (as a serial novel). Can I just put the link to it in my query for the agent to take a look at?
Heidi from Grand Junction, Colorado

Most agents react badly to this because it’s a one-size-fits-all approach. If you don’t tailor your approach to our submission guidelines, we inevitably wonder whether you’re blanketing the universe with queries.

Should one submit a query to a particular agent, or to his or her agency?
Rich from Long Beach, California

Agents within agencies aren’t fungible. Part of the fun of this business is that it’s so taste-driven, and we each have different tastes. If you don’t take the time to research us individually, chances are we’re going to get cranky.

What do agents find annoying? What would make an agent not consider my work?
Samuel from Sacramento, California

Don’t try to pitch your project over the phone. (Even more egregious: leaving a message after hours to ask if the agent will call you back to answer “just a few questions.”) And don’t try to pitch something in a category the agents you’re approaching don’t handle. This happens more often than you would think, even though agents post their submission guidelines and areas of interest on their websites.

Agent Advice: Anna Ghosh of Ghosh Literary

by
Anna Ghosh
12.14.16

To submit a question for the next featured agent, e-mail agentadvice@pw.org or write to Editor, Poets & Writers Magazine, 90 Broad Street, Suite 2100, New York, NY 10004. Questions accepted for publication may be edited for clarity and length.

Anna GhoshAreas of interest: History, science, current affairs, multicultural young adult, narrative nonfiction and memoir, occasional literary fiction

Representative clients: Chris Impey, Alia Malek, Mirta Ojito, Thai Jones, Deepak Unnikrishnan

Looking for: Query only first

Preferred contact: E-mail submissions@ghoshliterary.com

Agency contact:
Ghosh Literary
(415) 742-1270
annaghosh@ghoshliterary.com
www.ghoshliterary.com

Agents for poets seem almost nonexistent. Why is that?
Dan from Hagaman, Illinois

The answer to that question lies in the fact that very, very few people buy books of poetry by contemporary authors, especially by those who are not friends, relatives, or winners of the Pulitzer Prize. Book publishing is ultimately a business, where book sales largely drive what book editors acquire, and agents are able to sell. In other words, your book purchase pays for the salaries of the employees at a publishing house and the commissions earned by an agent. There are a few publishers, such as Graywolf Press, that have been successfully publishing contemporary poetry (Graywolf also happens to be a nonprofit publisher) so there are venues, but simply not enough for agents to get involved or to be able to make a living representing poetry. Now, it is possible to imagine a world where people read poetry on their iPhones instead of tweets and Facebook updates….

I am preparing query letters for my recently completed novel. Agent instructions typically want a portion of the novel “pasted” into the query e-mail. But pasting changes the format, and I’m worried that will cause rejection. How do I handle this problem?
Mike from Niceville, Florida
A formatting glitch will never be the reason for a rejection, unless of course the query was transformed into something that no longer resembled English and was illegible. It is the content that matters. That said, agents read a lot and having something clean and easy on the eyes is always appreciated.

Do all publishing houses have an up-front charge for publishing a book?
Manuel from Ogden, Utah
No, on the contrary, publishing houses will often give you money up front (it is known as an advance payment against royalties) for the rights to publish your work, and you will also be entitled to royalties and other payments as negotiated in your publishing contract. Publishing houses that charge to publish your work are known as vanity publishers and, perhaps more commonly, as self-publishing platforms. Such publishers are a subset of the publishing landscape and generally differentiated from traditional publishers. The challenge with the kind of publishing houses that pay you an advance (or at least don’t charge you to publish your work) is that they have to accept your work.

Is there such a thing as being too young to be an author? I just finished writing a story that is over 78,000 words and I’m worried that publishers won’t take me seriously. I just turned twenty-one and I’m a bit concerned that my age will turn publishers away. Should I be concerned?
Anthony from Lowell, Massachusetts
David Foster Wallace, Helen Oyeyemi, Mary Shelley, and many, many others published their first books in their early twenties. Agents will not say no to precocious talent, but it has to be in evidence. In your case, if you have just finished writing your first story, you may want to take some time honing it and your craft and ensuring that it is truly ready for publication before approaching publishers. Completing a draft for most writers is the first step in a long journey of becoming a published author.

Agent Advice: Anna Ghosh of Ghosh Literary

by
Anna Ghosh
12.14.16

To submit a question for the next featured agent, e-mail agentadvice@pw.org or write to Editor, Poets & Writers Magazine, 90 Broad Street, Suite 2100, New York, NY 10004. Questions accepted for publication may be edited for clarity and length.

Anna GhoshAreas of interest: History, science, current affairs, multicultural young adult, narrative nonfiction and memoir, occasional literary fiction

Representative clients: Chris Impey, Alia Malek, Mirta Ojito, Thai Jones, Deepak Unnikrishnan

Looking for: Query only first

Preferred contact: E-mail submissions@ghoshliterary.com

Agency contact:
Ghosh Literary
(415) 742-1270
annaghosh@ghoshliterary.com
www.ghoshliterary.com

Agents for poets seem almost nonexistent. Why is that?
Dan from Hagaman, Illinois

The answer to that question lies in the fact that very, very few people buy books of poetry by contemporary authors, especially by those who are not friends, relatives, or winners of the Pulitzer Prize. Book publishing is ultimately a business, where book sales largely drive what book editors acquire, and agents are able to sell. In other words, your book purchase pays for the salaries of the employees at a publishing house and the commissions earned by an agent. There are a few publishers, such as Graywolf Press, that have been successfully publishing contemporary poetry (Graywolf also happens to be a nonprofit publisher) so there are venues, but simply not enough for agents to get involved or to be able to make a living representing poetry. Now, it is possible to imagine a world where people read poetry on their iPhones instead of tweets and Facebook updates….

I am preparing query letters for my recently completed novel. Agent instructions typically want a portion of the novel “pasted” into the query e-mail. But pasting changes the format, and I’m worried that will cause rejection. How do I handle this problem?
Mike from Niceville, Florida
A formatting glitch will never be the reason for a rejection, unless of course the query was transformed into something that no longer resembled English and was illegible. It is the content that matters. That said, agents read a lot and having something clean and easy on the eyes is always appreciated.

Do all publishing houses have an up-front charge for publishing a book?
Manuel from Ogden, Utah
No, on the contrary, publishing houses will often give you money up front (it is known as an advance payment against royalties) for the rights to publish your work, and you will also be entitled to royalties and other payments as negotiated in your publishing contract. Publishing houses that charge to publish your work are known as vanity publishers and, perhaps more commonly, as self-publishing platforms. Such publishers are a subset of the publishing landscape and generally differentiated from traditional publishers. The challenge with the kind of publishing houses that pay you an advance (or at least don’t charge you to publish your work) is that they have to accept your work.

Is there such a thing as being too young to be an author? I just finished writing a story that is over 78,000 words and I’m worried that publishers won’t take me seriously. I just turned twenty-one and I’m a bit concerned that my age will turn publishers away. Should I be concerned?
Anthony from Lowell, Massachusetts
David Foster Wallace, Helen Oyeyemi, Mary Shelley, and many, many others published their first books in their early twenties. Agents will not say no to precocious talent, but it has to be in evidence. In your case, if you have just finished writing your first story, you may want to take some time honing it and your craft and ensuring that it is truly ready for publication before approaching publishers. Completing a draft for most writers is the first step in a long journey of becoming a published author.

Agent Advice: The Complete Series

by
Staff
6.1.17

The industry’s best and brightest agents respond directly to readers’ questions in this regular column dating back to 2010. To submit a question for the next featured agent, e-mail editor@pw.org

Annie Hwang of Folio Literary Management
12.13.17
A literary agent answers readers’ questions—from how seriously agents consider a writer’s previous sales to how to responsibly seek new representation.

Kirby Kim of Janklow & Nesbit Associates
4.12.17
A seasoned literary agent offers valuable counsel on when to query, how to keep revising, and whether horror fiction is a genre worth pursuing.

Anna Ghosh of Ghosh Literary
12.14.16
Anna Ghosh answers readers’ questions—from why poetry agents are seemingly nonexistent to whether or not it is possible to be “too young to write.”

Betsy Amster of Betsy Amster Literary Enterprises
10.14.15
The agent of authors such as María Amparo Escandón and Joy Nicholson offers advice on query letters, editing, and what not to do when submitting a manuscript.

Danielle Svetcov of Levine Greenberg Rostan
4.15.15
Should you pay to have a manuscript edited beforehand? Are there benefits to querying via snail mail versus e-mail? Danielle Svetcov of Levine Greenberg Rostan answers readers’ questions about what (and what not) to do when trying to find an agent.

Meredith Kaffel Simonoff of DeFiore and Company
8.20.14
An agent representing authors such as CJ Hauser and Cecily Wong answers questions about writing in multiple genres, agents’ fees, and publishing work in online journals.

Amy Rennert of the Amy Rennert Agency
3.01.14
The agent of authors such as Diana Nyad and Herman Wouk answers questions about self-publishing, age restrictions, and working with an agent remotely.

Chris Parris-Lamb of the Gernert Company
10.06.13
Chris Parris-Lamb of the Gernert Company offers advice on submitting query letters and manuscripts, and when to embrace or eschew self-promotion.

Lucy Carson of the Friedrich Agency
9.01.13
Lucy Carson of the Friedrich Agency discusses e-book publishing, when to send a sample to an agent, and more.

Matt McGowan of Frances Goldin Literary Agency
5.01.13
Literary agent Matt McGowan, who represents Eula Biss, John D’Agata, Brian Evenson, and many others, answers writers’ most commonly asked questions.

Rebecca Gradinger of Fletcher & Company
10.17.12
Literary agent Rebecca Gradinger explains why writers need agents and offers tips about best practices for finding one.

Douglas Stewart of Sterling Lord Literistic
4.12.12
The agent of Jami Attenberg, David Mitchell, Carolyn Parkhurst, Matthew Quick, and others offers guidance about publishing credits, MFA programs, and unagented submissions.

Jenni Ferrari-Adler of Brick House Literary Agents
3.01.11
Does your book need to be finished before you seek representation? Do agents really read synopses? Agent Jenni Ferrari-Adler, whose clients include Lauren Shockey and Emma Straub, answers these questions and more.

Terra Chalberg of the Susan Golomb Literary Agency
10.15.10
When is the best time in your career to look for representation, and when should you call off an author-agent relationship? Terra Chalberg, whose clients include Lori Ostlund and Glenn Taylor, tackles these questions and more.

Jennifer Carlson of Dunow, Carlson & Lerner
8.11.10
The agent of authors such as Kevin Brockmeier and Marisa de los Santos offers her thoughts on self-publishing and what she looks for in the first five pages of a writing sample.

PJ Mark of Janklow & Nesbit Associates
5.01.10
The agent of authors such as Samantha Hunt, Dinaw Mengestu, and Josh Weil offers advice on shaping a query letter and when to follow up after pitching your book.

Katherine Fausset of Curtis Brown, Ltd.
3.01.10
Agent Katherine Fausset answers questions from readers about the agent's role in submitting work to literary magazines and how writers can choose agents based on their client lists.
 

Agents & Editors: A Conversation With Four Literary Agents

by
Michael Szczerban
6.17.15

Since the financial crisis of 2007–2008 and the recession that followed, the book business has shuddered through intense turbulence: corporate mergers, acquisitions, spinoffs, and bankruptcies; startups that sizzled and then ceased; the fall of Borders and the rise of Amazon; new book formats, business models, imprints, and agencies; litigation; technological upheaval; and a host of other unexpected challenges and radical transformations.

And yet writers keep writing and readers keep reading. In the midst of such tumult, that’s just about all the stability I could ask for—and perhaps all our business really needs.

But what of the publishing professionals who came of age in the business during those disruptive years? Could it be that the agents and editors who took root in this new climate are of a hardier stock, and that their perspectives on culture and commerce will differ significantly from the generations that preceded them? As this group of up-and-comers becomes the establishment, they will shape what gets published, why, and how.

I recently invited four young agents—Claudia Ballard, Seth Fishman, Melissa Flashman, and Alia Hanna Habib—to my office to talk about what it means to be a literary representative today. Each of them has achieved success in the postcrisis years. Over a couple of six-packs of beer and some chips and cookies (blame the new economy for my chintzy spread) our conversation took off. Here are brief biographies of the participants:

Seth Fishman started his career in publishing at Sterling Lord Literistic in 2005, and has been an agent at the Gernert Company since 2010. His authors include Kate Beaton, Anna Bond, Ann Leckie, Randall Munroe, and Téa Obreht.

Claudia Ballard is an agent at William Morris Endeavor, where she has worked for nine years. Her clients include Marie-Helene Bertino, Marjorie Celona, Amelia Gray, Eddie Joyce, and Emma Straub.

Alia Hanna Habib became an agent at what is now McCormick Literary in 2010, after working for five years as a publicist at Houghton Mifflin. Her clients include John Donvan, Ophira Eisenberg, Elizabeth Green, Josh Levin, and Caren Zucker.

Melissa Flashman became an agent at Trident Media Group in 2002, after working as a “coolhunter” and an assistant at ICM. Her clients include Stephanie Mannatt Danler, Kristin Dombek, Stanley Fish, Emily Gould, and Kate Zambreno.

Let’s start with your first interaction with a writer. How does their material find its way to you, and when it does, what makes you respond to it?
Fishman: I was all about the small magazines when I first started out. My first client came from reading Tin House. People ask now whether those magazines matter; they do. Even if we don’t have time to read them now to look for new clients, our assistants are reading them—at least I hope they are. That first client led me to a number of other clients, including Téa Obreht and her book The Tiger’s Wife, which was my first sale. Those connections are incredibly important.

Habib: Whether I’m reading the Atlantic or a literary journal, if something grabs me the way it would grab anyone as a reader, I’m going to write to that person. Don’t we all look for clients that way? But I do a lot of nonfiction, and in many ways that process is different.

Aren’t there also many similarities: story and voice and that elemental thing that makes someone pay attention? What’s universal about how you respond as a reader and an agent?
Habib: I’ll give you an example. I was reading an article in the Atlantic about the first diagnosed case of autism by two writers, John Donvan and Caren Zucker, at a moment when I thought I had read more than enough about autism. The first line caught my eye. The reader in me noticed that I was reading the article really quickly. Then the literary agent part of me asked, “How do I help make this a book a lot of people will want to read?” I think our job is partly to see what the writer doesn’t see.

Ballard: There’s also a real community of writers out there, and incredible resources for unpublished writers to connect to the publishing community so that agents can find them. Tin House is a fantastic magazine for that, because they publish new voices every issue. It isn’t easy for writers who are just starting out, but writers refer other writers. The more you are tapped into a community, the more you’ll benefit from that flow. It’s about getting your feet on the ground and getting your name out in the universe.

Flashman: Two questions always come up when I’m at writers conferences. People in MFA programs always ask if they need to be in San Francisco or New York City, and people in New York always ask if they need to have an MFA. I don’t think either one matters, necessarily. What matters is that they are both cultural ecosystems. Maybe you don’t have an MFA and you live in Austin or Louisville. What matters is being around other writers, supporting one another’s work, and reading. Maybe you start a literary magazine, or maybe someone gets into the Oxford American, and through that door, three more writers come in. That’s how it works. 

What about social media?
Habib: Social media can create those communities too. Roxane Gay did that so brilliantly—she created a ready readership for her books by engaging so openly and honestly on Twitter. She’s not my writer—I wish she were! But that’s another way to open the door.

Fishman: I’ve learned that different social media systems are for totally different things. For me, Twitter is for professional contacts, and Facebook is personal. I’m an agent but I also write, and when I put something on Facebook about my book publication day, I get three hundred likes—it’s like a super birthday. But if I put it on Twitter, I might get six retweets and fifteen likes.

Ballard: I don’t tweet, but I use Twitter to see what everyone else is talking about.

Flashman: I make secret lists on Twitter for different ecosystems. For instance, I’ve been thinking about a type of fiction you might call an art-school novel, and where to find the girls who like reading it. I know where they are on social media, and I know there are certain publishers and editors who can publish that type of book well. And I keep track.

So, social media is a way of being part of a community, rather than what publishers might call “platform”—thousands and thousands of followers who are primed to click Buy?
Ballard: Being tapped in doesn’t necessarily translate to platform. It’s a way in which you can engage. It makes it a lot easier for people who don’t live in places where a lot of writers happen to congregate. Still, when a writer sends me a query, I connect first and foremost with the writing.

What’s important for you to see in a query from a writer?
Fishman: All I want from a query letter is reasons to go to the next page—reasons to read the book. While I’d like to say I read everything, I have an assistant and we have interns who look at things first. When I look at a query letter, I read the first and third paragraphs. I don’t care about the synopsis—not because I don’t care what the book is about, but because a lot of writers don’t know how to write a good synopsis. The first paragraph is where writers will tell you about any direct connections to you.

Flashman: It will also tell you if this book is even in a category that you represent. I wouldn’t know a good science fiction novel if it punched me in the face. So if someone is pitching me science fiction, either there’s a connection or they liked one of my other novels, in which case I might be interested. But if there’s no connection to any of the authors I’ve represented, I’m just not the right agent. There is a great agent at my agency, John Silbersack, who does science fiction. He represents the Dune estate. He’s edited Philip K. Dick. He is the man. Those writers should be e-mailing him, not me.

How much material comes in to you in comparison to what you take on?
Ballard: Well, if your name is listed on the Poets & Writers website, you will get a lot of queries. I probably get a query every ten minutes. I have to engage with them very, very, very quickly. It’s important to make your query succinct and to target the right agent for you.

Fishman: Otherwise it’ll just get put away. My assistant filters things for me. Now I probably get only three or four every other week that the assistant thinks are good enough. I’m not looking for much more to represent right now. But the last book that my assistant brought to me and said, “You have to read this now,” I stopped what I was doing, read it, loved it, and sold it.

Ballard: I personally read all my queries, but it’s hard. It’s a volume game. But when you have a lot of volume, you pick out the things that you feel most connected with even more quickly. I do take referrals more seriously. It’s a two-way street. You want to feel a connection to the work, but you also want a writer to feel connected to you.

Do writers need to write better query letters to get your attention, or do they just need to write better books?
Flashman: They need to approach the right agents. I think there’s a way of focusing queries to ten or fifteen agents: Sit down with a legal pad, or your iPad, and find roughly ten novels that are similar. Writers usually thank their agent at the back of the book. Keep a running list of novelist, novel, agency, agent. Go to the Internet, make sure the agent’s still alive and taking on clients, and go from there.

Habib: I’d add, when you’re looking at those books that you love, to also look at lists of successful debuts and see who represented them. I think we’re all saying that when you get a query, and it’s from someone who’s read and liked one of your client’s books, it helps.

Fishman: There are so many other simple things. Make sure the person is the correct gender!

Flashman: “Dear Mr. Flashman…” no.

Fishman: And sure, we’re overwhelmed, but we want to find something good. We want that desperately. We’re not being assholes. We’re just being human. We connect with the things that we connect with. We have bad days; we have good days. If someone goes online and says, “Don’t submit something to me today,” on Twitter, then you shouldn’t, because that person’s really trying to tell you something. 

Let’s talk about MFAs. Seth, you have a master’s in writing, and Melissa, you wrote a great essay about them in the anthology MFA vs NYC.
Flashman: I think some people might think I’m on Team NYC, and against MFAs, because I’m here in New York publishing. But I’m actually very pro-MFA, because I think some of those programs are like the WPA for writers—the good state programs especially, where they give writers money to go study. You don’t need to go when you’re twenty-two. It’s often better to go when you’re thirty, thirty-five, when you have more of a life behind you. But you don’t need to go to an MFA program at all. You can hang out with other writers and write anywhere.

Ballard: My take is that MFA programs attract like-minded writers. People who want to be a part of the writing community, or want to take the time to say, “I’m going to focus on this.” It doesn’t create talent, but it can provide you a lot of feedback and time. Some people feel the workshop scenario is not for them, but I find that people who are serious about a writing career tend to seek them out. It’s not a necessity. But it signals seriousness to an agent. Seth, you went to one—what do you think?

Fishman: I don’t necessarily perk up based on where a writer went. We’ve all seen work from writers who went to the famous places and we’ve passed on it. There are other hybrid programs that I would like to recommend, though. In the speculative-fiction world, the best thing I’ve seen is called Clarion. It’s five thousand dollars for six weeks, and features huge teachers like Neil Gaiman and George R. R. Martin. I represent a lot of people from there. It’s like a boot camp.

Flashman: So you’ve found that ecosystem.

Fishman: Right, I’ve found the ecosystem that’s perfect for me. And I love it and I shouldn’t be telling anyone about it. At the same time, I’m sure there are versions of it in other genres. There have to be.

Ballard: There are also writers conferences like Bread Loaf or Sewanee where writers seek out like-minded people who can’t take much time away from making a living, but are often incredibly talented. 

Habib: And to get back to query letters: At least in our office, our assistants and interns do give a closer read of the material in the slush pile that says the writer got an MFA.

Fishman: I’m looking for expertise. If a book is about geology, I want to know if you’re a geologist. Same with fiction and an MFA. 

What else matters?
Flashman: Like all agents and editors, I want a novel that, as one of my writers said, “has blood in it.” I want a novel that’s very deeply felt and urgent. I went to a PhD program almost right out of college and realized very quickly I did not want to be an English professor. There’s a tendency among writers to go straight into an MFA program, and for some writers, like Téa Obreht, it’s great. She had a great story and something urgent to tell. But a lot of writers don’t know their story yet. It might not surface till later.  

Habib: I was a publicist before I became an agent, and when we’d have to publicize novels, the goal for fiction was always to develop a nonfiction hook. That’s the stuff that you can talk about in interviews, and it can develop naturally with writers who have life experience. When a book lands at a publisher and the writer has had a world of experience and can talk from a place of knowledge, that’s gold. That gets publishers excited to publish a book well.

When I read submissions, I try to say no as quickly as I can—because the most fun, and most time-consuming, part of my job is to say yes to a project I’m excited about. That could be because the writer has made something I didn’t know I cared about seem urgent or relevant, or demonstrated undeniable artistry, or shared some unique expertise on a subject of interest. Projects that I immediately connect with are rare, but they’re what editors live for.
Fishman
: The hardest query to get is the average to just-above-average one, because you have to read the whole thing, thinking, “Well, maybe I can do something with this.” By the way, I think it’s okay to get rejected.

Ballard: Also, taste is incredibly subjective. We see things that we’ve passed on go on to sell all the time, but if you aren’t the person who believes in the book, you should not be selling it. And that’s the bottom line. 

Flashman: The trick is, if you’re a writer, you don’t just want an agent who could sell it. You want an agent who must sell it. We all get query letters, and think, “Yeah, I could probably sell this.” But are you really the best agent for it?

Editors know the difference between the agents who represent whatever they think they can sell and the ones who are more selective.
Fishman
: I think the easiest thing to do, in a lot of ways, is to sell a good book. Everything else is the hard part.

Ballard: I often take people on and then work with them for a very long time. The first novel I sold this year was something I had worked with the author on for four years. It wasn’t that I was editing every line. We just had to find out what the story was. I work very closely with my clients, and I bet everyone in this room does. The better you make the book, the better the sale. 

Flashman: Your point is really important because sometimes writers think, “Oh, I’ve got an agent! We’re sending it out, it’s going to be a best-seller tomorrow!”

Habib: There’s a lot to be said for the long game. Look for an agent who’s in it for the long haul.

What has been most surprising to you since you became an agent?
Ballard: It’s surprising that the most beneficial thing for my long-term career was, in a funny way, to get promoted in 2008, right when the financial crash was happening. It felt like everything we knew about publishing was going to change dramatically. I remember some older agents bemoaning the fact that things used to sell more easily, that there was a guaranteed number of hardcover copies sold if you were paid a certain level advance. But all those guarantees went out the window. I don’t know if that’s a good thing or a bad thing. But I didn’t have any false expectations of what success would look like in the industry. I think that agents who came of age in the nineties experienced a very different business than what we’re experiencing right now.

Flashman: Another thing that’s surprising is the sales numbers. When you compare movie box office receipts to how many books you have to sell to hit the New York Times best-seller list—it’s pretty astonishing.

The best-selling books aren’t reporting millions of dollars of sales over a weekend like the top movies do.
Flashman: Right. And I’ve had books that end up in what I hear publishers call the “power backlist,” where they maybe hit the list once but then go on to sell and sell and sell just beneath that level. And sometimes the literary novel that you hear about everywhere and think will be a massive best-seller ends up selling four thousand copies.

Fishman: I think literary fiction in particular is a big echo chamber in New York. I represent a lot of literary fiction at different levels of success, and I love it. But when I send out a science fiction novel, I can send it to five, six people in a first round. I can send a literary novel to fifteen to twenty people. And you can pour your heart and soul into a literary novel and be shocked by how few sales there are. In other genres that have dedicated groups of followers, you may have less shelf space, but if you get on that shelf, you sell more copies at a minimum. Each genre has its own dynamic.

Flashman: Each industry is weighted to different sorts of backgrounds, too. One thing I realized pretty quickly when I got into publishing is that it’s heavily weighted to English majors. I love literary fiction, but I don’t ever worry that there aren’t going to be enough editors to buy literary fiction. I do worry about books about science and technology.

Fishman: I want to comment on what Claudia said a minute ago, because I came up in 2008 as well. A lot of people from my class—the people we were drinking with when we were starting—are all moving from publisher to publisher now. When you sell a book, you sell it to a house. The editor is the point person, but editors move quite a bit. That’s been a learning process for me. Now it’s not just “Are you the right editor for this book?” but also “Are you going to be around at this place when the book comes out?” In the last two years I’ve had eighteen orphaned books.

Habib: The last, like, five books I sold were orphaned.

Flashman: I’ve had books become best-sellers that were orphaned. Sometimes those books have even had three editors.

Ballard: You just want the house to carry on the enthusiasm of the original editor.

How do you conceive of a perfect match between author and editor?
Habib
: A lot of us go to a lot of lunches with editors, and when I go out to lunch I want to get know the person. I hate talking about their list. I want to hear about the books they loved as a child. I want to hear about their dog. I want to hear about their quest to find the perfect preschool. Part of it is just matchmaking—some nebulous quality that helps give you a sense that an editor and an author will understand each other. That is, that the editor will understand the author—but also be able to crack the whip. 

That’s important. I’ve been too close to a book before.
Ballard
: I think that’s an interesting thing about our relationships with writers, both on the editorial and agenting sides. You have to feel close to the work, almost as close as the author, but never quite as close as they do. Because it’s not originating with you. It’s not your art. You’re art-adjacent. I come from this place of being a deeply sympathetic reader: Do I love reading this book? That, to me, is always the first indication of a match. And that registers in an editor’s first phone call to you, and that letter expressing their love for the book. The feeling in-house. It is this connection that has to really feel organic and real and based in a deep reading of the book.

Habib: Some writers think that an agent can somehow convince publishers to buy their book, just by their sheer charisma and personality and power. The real thing we do is find the most sympathetic reader for the book, the editor who will best help the writer. I’m not going to convince someone your book is good. That’s your job. I can convince them to read it, and I can help make it the best book possible, but my job is to find the best reader for you. 

Fishman: We build lists over a long period of time, and people pay attention to your track record. There’s also another level that we mess around with, which is our experience. Every day we work with someone, we find out whether we want to work with them again.

So, do editors still edit?
Fishman: Yes!

Habib: Of course!

Ballard: Yes!

Flashman: And we know who edits more. 

Do you mean there are editors who don’t give their all to a book?
Flashman: Well, there are editors who buy books that don’t need very much editing. Sometimes that’s just a whole different business. They might be books that have outside editors or ghostwriters on them, so there’s a lot of editorial processes happening before it ever gets to the editor. And they’re in the business of making a certain kind of hit at a publishing house. But editors totally edit, Poets & Writers readers!

Fishman: There are some editors who are better cheerleaders than other editors in-house, which is totally different. They all edit, but in addition to good editorial vision, I’m looking for the editor who has the muscle and excitement to get something happening in house.

Habib: One of the things I was surprised by when I moved over to the agenting side was the skepticism a lot of first-time writers have about publishers. They’ve heard all these horror stories, so they think editors don’t edit. They think publicists don’t care. They have this hierarchy of who’s good: Publicists are the lowest, then editors, and then agents. The writer trusts the agent to find them a good home. I want to believe that all of us do that in good faith, knowing that editors do edit. Ideally, the publicity and marketing department will do their best job, and if they’re not, we try to help them, and to be there, and to be honest about when it’s not happening.

Flashman: If editors wanted to make a lot of money, they would have gone into another business. The people who work in publishing love books. They really want to make it happen. They love to edit. I think most editors wish they had more time in the office to edit because they’re doing a thousand other things.

What qualities do you try to bring into your own practice as an agent?
Ballard: I think that the people who’ve lasted in the business are the people who conduct themselves in an honorable way and are deeply passionate and incredibly knowledgeable about their field of interest. It’s meaningful to say that we all do what we love, and that you see agents who have achieved a lot of success in the industry who really love and care about it. When I first started out in the business, I thought for sure I was going to be an editor, just because I was an English major. I didn’t realize how much editing happens on the agenting side, or how much I valued the kind of personal relationship you have with your writers.

Flashman: I think we’re somewhere between a shrink and Karl Rove. Nothing about my politics, but there’s a lot of strategy and a lot of psychology.

Fishman: Yeah. I don’t know if writers realize how collaborative being an agent can be, especially within an agency, because we really do work together.

When do you feel competitive with other agents?
Flashman: When we’re competing for the same project! Which we often are.

Habib: I never ask who else is offering to represent a book.

Flashman: I don’t either, but some agents do. I don’t want to know. 

Ballard: I tend not to ask until the very end, or right when I sign the person. I’m curious. We’re inherently competitive, and I think you want a competitive agent because she is going to be that way for you no matter what situation you face.

Fishman: I don’t want a book to go to Claudia when I competed against her for it. Heartbreaking stuff. 

Ballard: But also, if Seth wins something over me, it’s a sign that it was a good book. 

Flashman: You’re like, “I was right!”

Ballard: “I cared about this, but at least I lost it to someone whose taste I really respect and feels similar to mine.” 

Flashman: And if you lose it to someone who you don’t respect, you’re like, “Oh, that writer is just making bad choices.” 

Fishman: That’s true!

Ballard: Look, I would rather be in the mix and lose than not be in the mix at all. 

Fishman: Every once in a while there’s an author who leaves his or her agent for some reason, and I didn’t even know, because I don’t want to poach. I don’t want to be an aggressive person.

Ballard: And sometimes you’re going to lose something just because it just goes more quickly than you can read it. That’s because we’re busy human beings. We’re not reading machines. We have, hopefully, rich lives outside of work where we have families and friends and hobbies and pastimes.

That’s not so different from competing for a book as an editor.
Ballard: The problem is that the decision isn’t based on money, so when we do lose, it’s all personal.

True—but as an editor, if you lose to an underbidder, it’s even worse!
Ballard
: Then you can take it personally!

Fishman: I’ve done that twice.

Flashman: I’ve had someone take a lower advance…maybe never?

Habib: Oh, I’ve had that happen a couple times.

How do you describe your agency in the context of others that authors might sign with?
Fishman
: I try to think honestly about what other places offer. There are positives and negatives for everything. I don’t just try to point out the negatives. I try to point out how The Gernert Company specifically can address any of the things an author might bring up.

Flashman: As an agent, and as an editor, you have to figure out what’s important to each writer. 

Ballard: Ultimately, what you get is representation from me. That’s more important than the size of the agency—if anyone ever feels lost at a big agency, then they’re just not being represented by the right agent at that agency. You’re first and foremost represented by me as your agent, and I’m the leader of a deep well of resources that exist within my agency, including UK representation, foreign representation, first serial rights, marketing. 

What are some common mistakes that beginning writers can avoid?
Flashman: I’ve had this fantasy that someday I’m going to take a three-day vacation upstate, to a place like Woodstock or Phoenicia, and write a manifesto of my ten rules for writers. The biggest rule will be about finding the sweet spot of perfect communication with your agent and with editors. Some writers undercommunicate, and I call this a “high-school-girl” theory of being in the world—you want everyone to come to you and recognize how great you are. But you have to be out there with other writers and communicating with your agent. If you publish a piece in the New York Times, I really want to know about it so I can tweet about it and tell your editor and tell my foreign-rights people. For those people, I would say be less of a “high-school girl.” Be like a “high-school boy” who wants all these girls to know who you are. I don’t mean that in a sexist way. And then, on the other hand, there are writers who are trying to manage their anxiety and send seventeen e-mails a day to me, the publicist, the editor. We get so much e-mail, and we just want to make sure we’re answering everyone’s questions. When we get seventeen e-mails, we don’t know where to put our focus.

Fishman: A lot of authors don’t fully realize that we work for them. It’s a weird relationship because at the beginning, they’re trying to impress us. But the truth is that we work for them.

What about issues of craft?
Fishman: I think focusing effort on trying to grab someone at the beginning of your manuscript, instead of focusing on the actual story, is a problem. This is a personal thing, but I often see that issue in prologues that take something exciting from later in the book and move it to the front. I know there are exceptions. I admit to the exceptions. I have clients who have exceptions. But I always make my clients think about whether that prologue needs to be there, and where the beginning of the story really is.

Flashman: It is a subjective industry. Especially with literary fiction, we all have this sort of thing we gravitate toward. For me, it’s elegiac fiction. If your intro sounds like the beginning of The Great Gatsby or The Secret History, I’m a sucker for it. I call it “book voice.” I read the intro to Gatsby along with one of my author’s intros this weekend out loud just for fun. I’m not a poet—I don’t know much about poetry besides English 201—but I love that voice.

Ballard: I ran into Rob Spillman, the editor of Tin House, recently, and he was telling me that he’s teaching a class at his MFA program this semester that’s all first paragraphs.

Habib: That is brilliant!

Ballard:All you can bring in is the first paragraph, and those paragraphs are all you workshop the whole semester. I think that is so brilliant. That is the thing that’s going to hook you, that you form that snap judgment on, whatever you’re reading—even if it’s a book that’s been published and widely acclaimed.

Habib: In some ways your experience as an agent should mimic the experience of a reader who picks up a book at a bookstore. I often read e-books, and, before I buy a book, I download the free sample. That’s how I decide. So, for me, I’d say, “Really think about your first twenty pages.”

Fishman: I read books that are not my own all the time because I want to find a query that makes me stop reading that other book. If I’m bored I will pick up my regular book, and enjoy it. If there’s something that keeps me from it, that’s a real sign.

What other advice do you have for authors?
Flashman: I’m always telling authors to storyboard their books with big Post-It notes. That’s valuable when I’m working on big-thinking narrative-nonfiction books—to look at a really great book and see the architecture underneath it.

Ballard: I think that story is undervalued, in literary fiction at least. The writing, obviously, is key. But you need to tell a really good story. It’s hard to do.

Habib: Story is undervalued in nonfiction, too.

Ballard: I actually think it can be simpler than you think it’s going to be—or, it can be more classic than you think it’s going to be. Your voice and your telling of it are going to make it more interesting. Some people are trying to whiz-bang their way through a novel. Others are just so quiet that it doesn’t matter how pristinely beautiful the writing is—it doesn’t have that thing that pulls you through.

Habib: The number one bad habit I see with nonfiction—the habit I have to break my writers of—is they all want to do a series of profiles instead of telling a story. Every submission comes in as, “I’m going to do a series of profiles that explains X problem.” But most readers are not going to finish a book unless there’s a narrative thread that brings them through to the end. It has to have a story.

What about bad habits in editors or publishers—the things we do that make you grimace?
Ballard: The good thing is that it’s not that easy to quantify. Any frustrations I have are specific to the occasion or relationship.

Fishman: Sometimes there is a feeling of defensiveness with agent involvement. I’m sure that is based on prior experience with other agents, but there have been a number of times that I would have loved to participate in the publication of the book in a more creative and collaborative way. I don’t want to just sell the book and step back. I like to be hands-on in publicity and marketing. In certain categories, I feel like I know a lot about those things. I get frustrated sometimes when there’s defensiveness in response to an honest attempt to make the book as good as possible.

Flashman: Writers may not realize that editors and agents tend to be specialists, but publicists are often just assigned to books. There are exceptions, but a publicist might be working on a novel, a cookbook, a diet book, a book on pets….

Habib: I worked on all four of those as a publicist. And, you know, publicists often don’t get the glory. It’s a pretty hard job. The publicist usually only gets a phone call from the agent when something has gone wrong. That’s not the way the model should be. A mistake that editors and publicists can make is trying to spin how a book is doing, or what’s happening with it, to the agent and author.

Fishman: Whatever it is, I’d much rather know. 

Habib: Just tell me!

Fishman: The writing is on the wall pretty quickly. From what I understand, a marketing and publicity base budget is established early on. A lot of the goal, in my estimation, is to tick that up every second of the day. It’s very hard to do, and it takes a lot to make that happen. I focus on trying to get the publisher to a place where they’re excited about the book beyond what happened when they bought it.

Habib: Publicity is not always about the budget. It’s about how the book is being perceived, how it’s being pitched, and what the response is. Sometimes the publicist, for whatever reason, doesn’t understand the book and isn’t pitching it well, or it’s not going well and the publicist is too terrified to say, “No one cares about this. What are we going to do?”

Ballard: Having gone through that now a few times, unfortunately, you can tell when the energy’s there and when it’s not. It’s not manufacturable. You go to a publicity meeting and people ask, “Do you have a Twitter account? Are you on Facebook?” And you're like, “Oh, my gosh. That’s a very basic question, but yes, thank you.” What are the things that we can actually do to make this more tenable out there in the world? It’s hard. 

I’ve asked agents to help push to increase a book’s promotional budget, but the best thing for a book sometimes has little to do with money and everything to do with creativity and effort. Money won’t improve a book that, God forbid, just doesn’t deliver, and it won’t create an awesome pitch or fix an uninspired marketing plan on its own. But it can make people pay closer attention and try harder.
Ballard
: Not to turn the tables on you, Mike, but when do you feel frustrated? One of my frustrations is occasionally that the cover options presented to us are basically final. I’ve never really gotten into a situation where it’s been a problem. It’s just something that authors really have opinions about. And so, you are the representative for their artistic vision for this book, and the publisher has their own very strong opinions of how it should look.

Designing a book jacket can be like walking a tightrope. Editors stand right where the artistic ambitions of the author meet the commercial ambitions of the publisher, and we try to make everyone happy. But those ambitions are often signified in visually different ways, so it’s hard to have a compromise design that is crisp and strong. I’m sure you’ve seen covers that look like a hodgepodge of competing ideas and lose some power as a result.
Fishman
: I wonder about designers at the publishing companies, and what happens before an author ever sees a jacket. Designers are probably the people I am furthest from and connect with the least. Yet they are arguably some of the most important contributors to a book’s success.

What has gotten easier since you got into the business?
Fishman: Submissions. When I was an assistant, we used to print out every manuscript and put them all in boxes and put labels on them. It would take all day to do a submission.

Ballard: For me, as someone who does a lot of literary fiction, there’s this incredible part of our industry that is so supportive of new voices, and so interested in publishing difficult literary fiction. The importance of those indie publishers has grown exponentially since I started. The ways in which they care about the creative atmosphere. The ways in which they’re perpetuating these incredible voice-driven authors who may not find a home in the mainstream. They have made my job easier, because I know that my author is going to find a home. You just have to sometimes dig a little deeper to find it. 

Michael Szczerban is an executive editor at Little, Brown and Company.

Agents & Editors: A Q&A With Agent Georges Borchardt

by
Jofie Ferrari-Adler
9.1.09

Every industry has its share of hidden gems—those people who are cherished by their colleagues and peers but barely known outside of the business. Book publishing is no exception, which is why the name Georges Borchardt probably doesn't ring a bell unless you've worked with him or are lucky enough to be one of his clients. Relatively unknown outside of publishing circles for more than fifty years, he seems to lack the gene for self-promotion.

Borchardt was born in Berlin in 1928. His early life, spent in Paris, was marked by war and heartbreak: His father died of cancer when he was eleven, and his mother and much of the rest of his family was killed in the concentration camps. As a teenager, Borchardt spent almost two years in hiding at a school in Aix-en-Provence, where his name did not appear on the official roll. "I was a sort of nonperson," he says. After the war he moved to America and found work at a literary agency that specialized in foreign writers. (When he arrived, it had just sold Albert Camus'The Stranger to Knopf for $350.) Borchardt served as the agency's assistant and soon began to look for authors of his own. In 1953 he came across an Irish playwright and novelist who wrote in French and, after selling three of his books to Grove Press, American readers were introduced to the work of Samuel Beckett. Other early authors included Laurent de Brunhoff, Marguerite Duras, Eugène Ionesco, Jean-Paul Sartre, and Michel Foucault. In 1959 Borchardt took on the task of finding an American publisher for Elie Wiesel's Night. After numerous rejections, he finally placed the memoir with a small press, Hill and Wang, for an advance of $250. Since then the book has been translated into more than twenty-five languages and sold more than ten million copies in the United States alone.

Over the past half century, Borchardt; his wife, Anne; and their daughter, Valerie (who joined the Borchardt Agency in 1999) have built a staggering list of clients. They include poets John Ashbery, Robert Bly, Rafael Campo, and Philip Schultz; fiction writers T. C. Boyle, Robert Coover, David Guterson, Charles Johnson, Ian McEwan, Claire Messud, and Susan Minot; nonfiction writers Anne Applebaum, Stanley Crouch, Susan Jacoby, Tracy Kidder, and Kate Millett; and the estates of Hannah Arendt, Samuel Beckett, Robert Fagles, John Gardner, Aldous Huxley, and Tennessee Williams.

While Borchardt's credentials are impressive—and go a long way toward explaining why he is considered a luminary within the industry—they pale in comparison with his extraordinary charm and personal magnetism. His laugh, a high staccato that welled up frequently during our conversation, is a particular delight. T. C. Boyle has especially strong feelings about his agent, once describing him as "the most wonderful man who ever lived on this earth." After spending just a little time with him, I can understand why.

Your background is quite different than a lot of people in publishing.
My background is different primarily because most literary agents in America have English as their native language. But I started out without knowing the language. I grew up in Paris. I was in France during the war, so I spent pretty much two years in hiding. My father died early on, when I was eleven, and my mother and most of my family were deported to the concentration camps and died there. But I had two older sisters who survived. I was in hiding in Aix-en-Provence. I was at the lycée there. Through connections, the head of the lycée had allowed me to stay there as a boarder. But I wasn't on any roll. In other words I was a sort of non-person. So as a result I was able to get my two baccalaureates. And when I went back to Paris, my sisters and I actually got our apartment back, but it was emptied of all its furniture and it was rather gloomy to camp in the empty rooms. I went to law school for a year but I was really too young for it—I was seventeen—and too unbalanced by what had happened. I really didn't like it. My sisters had worked in the American field hospital in Aix-en-Provence when France was liberated, where they had met all of these gorgeous American G.I.s who were distributing marvelous goodies like Spam and Wonder Bread, and they dreamed of going to America. We had relatives who had gone to America. So I figured I'd go with them for a year, which would be an honorable way of not continuing with law school.

When was the first time that you were really aware of books? Were you interested in them as a young boy?
Books were a big thing in my family. Today if you give a book to a child for his or her birthday the child feels rather annoyed. It's like a punishment. But when I was a child I had a list of books that I wanted for my birthday. I would sometimes ask if I could have one of my favorite books bound—French books are all softcover—and then it was a matter of going to a shop and selecting the leather and the endpapers and so on. I liked books as objects. I liked to read all the things that boys liked to read then. Alexandre Dumas. James Fenimore Cooper. I remember one novel that I particularly loved called Ivanhoé, which I think in English is called Ivanhoe. So I was interested in books but not any more than anyone else. When I was sixteen or so, like most of the more literate people my age, I was totally in love with André Gide. I remember walking down the street in Aix-en-Provence and sort of reciting as a mantra the opening line of Gide's Les Nourritures Terrestres: "Nathanaël, je t'enseignerai la ferveur." Well, Nathanaël, of course, in English is Nathaniel, but somehow Nathanaël has much more resonance than Nathaniel, which sounds ordinary. Nathanaël sounds like the trumpets in a Handel piece. I don't think I ever really thought about the meaning of the sentence; I just liked the way it resonated.

In France when I was in school, every year you read a play by Molière, a play by Racine, a play by Corneille, and you also had a special subject called "recitation" for which you memorized either poems or parts of these plays. In France you got not only a grade in every subject but you also got ranked. So you could be first in your class or twenty-eighth, or somewhere in between. It was a sort of public humiliation. Being first didn't make you popular but being last made you ridiculous. And in recitation I was practically always first. I was always assigned the major parts in these tragedies, which was usually the female role because in most of the plays, certainly the Racine plays, that was usually the central character. So I think language was always very much a part of what I was interested in. But I certainly never thought of working in publishing and didn't know anything about publishing. I thought I would work in the music industry because my father was the head of a phonograph record firm. So I always had a lot of records at home. It was mostly classical music except that the star of the firm was Édith Piaf, so I had a bit of everything.

What year was it when you came over?
It was '47. I knew some English because I'd had it for six years in school, just as I had Latin for six years, and I knew English pretty much the way I knew Latin. I was very good at both, in school, which meant translating texts from Latin into French and from French into Latin as well as from French into English and from English into French—and maybe memorizing the occasional poem about daffodils. But I didn't speak the language. It wasn't taught that way in French schools at the time. So when I came here, to my great chagrin, I didn't understand a word of what people were saying. It would always take me a long time to get a sentence together in my head. By the time my sentence was ready and polished, the conversation was already miles away from where it had been, and what I was going to say no longer fit it. I would also mispronounce things and, as I'm sure you know from traveling in foreign countries, when you mispronounce something and people start laughing, it's very embarrassing.

How did you get into publishing?
A friend of mine helped me compose two ads that I put in the New York Times. I don't remember exactly what they said but it was something like,"Nineteen-year-old Frenchman blah blah blah," and the other one would have said something similar.

These were ads that people would place when they were looking for work?
Yes. They would say, "This is who I am, and I'm looking for a job." There was a lot of that going on. I'd gone to various employment agencies and they all said, "What is your American experience?" Well, I had no American experience. When I put the ad in the paper I expected a good amount of mail. Still, I figured I could carry it by myself, so I went to Times Square to get it. There were only two letters, one for each ad, but both from the same person. The letterhead said "Authors and Publishers Representative." One said, "If you're interested in the letterhead, come in next Tuesday at ten." The other one said, "If you're interested, call for an appointment." My English was not very good, and it was even worse on the phone, so I decided to go in person. The woman who owned the agency was named Marion Saunders. She was the daughter of a British Foreign officer, so she'd spent a lot of time in Berlin and Paris and all over. She spoke quite a few languages, and she enjoyed speaking them, and our interview was primarily in French so that she could practice her French. She was very pleased with the way it went, and at the end of the interview she said, "I think I'll probably offer you the job, but I wrote to one other person from whom I haven't heard yet." I took out the other letter and said, "I am the other person." So that's how I got into publishing.

What was the agency like?
It was primarily doing foreign rights for other agencies but also representing a French literary agent who controlled most of what was coming out of France because, in France, most authors don't have agents. They give the rights to the publishers. And this agent in Paris, who was represented by my boss in New York, had an arrangement with Gallimard, the main literary house in France, to represent all of its authors. The husband of the Paris agent had been a friend of Hemingway's and various other American authors who had been in Paris at the time and had sold Hemingway, Dos Passos, and practically all of the other major American authors of that period to Gallimard. In exchange, Gallimard was giving her many of its French authors who had come out of World War II, people like Sartre and Camus. When I got there she had just sold a book by Camus called The Stranger to Knopf for, I think, three hundred fifty dollars. I was nineteen and I was amazed that you could get paid to read books. Although I was also a gofer. I did all the dirty work. I did the filing. I did the bookkeeping. I'd go to the post office to get stamps or to the bank to get money because in those days you still used those things. But the main thing I liked was reading the books that came in. And instead of just limiting it to the books that came from the agent in Paris, I started going through the French equivalent of Publishers Weekly to see if there was anything else that might be interesting. I had no idea what we could sell, but when I'd see something that I wanted to read, I would ask for a sample copy. It was a good way to build up a little personal library. You have to remember that books were extremely valuable in France because during the war there was no paper. There were really small printings. So if you owned a book by André Gide, for example, all of your friends would want to borrow it. You owned something really valuable.

So I'd go through these catalogues and if something caught my eye I'd ask for it. At one point I asked for three books by this Irishman who was writing in French called Beckett. I read them and thought, "This is really quite interesting." I started sending them around—they were in French—and I'd get letters saying, you know,"Pale imitator of Joyce" or "Unreadable prose." Finally, one day, a man named Don Allen came to the office. He was working for Grove but on a freelance basis. He was doing the same thing for New Directions. He saw these worn copies of the three Beckett books on my desk and said, "Oh, you have Beckett?" I probably said, "You've heard of him?" He took the books and about a month later Barney [Rosset] called and said he wanted to buy them. He made a very generous offer: a thousand dollars for the three of them. Since everybody knows that novels sell better than plays, we divided it up so it was two hundred dollars for Waiting for Godot and four hundred dollars for each of the novels, which were the first two novels in the trilogy, Molloy and Malone Dies. The third one, The Unnamable, wasn't written yet. And then it took ages for the books to be published because Beckett decided he wanted to translate them himself, which meant rewriting them.

Who were some of the other writers who were important to the early part of your career?
There was Camus. There was Sartre.

Did you have relationships with those guys?
Not with them. Sartre did actually come to New York during that time. But he stayed in a cold-water flat that had no telephone, so it was difficult to communicate and I didn't get to meet him. I was only at the agency for three years before I got drafted into the army. This was in 1950 during the Korean War. I had a choice of serving in the French army or the American army. The French consul told me that I would be better fed and better paid in the American army, so I decided to serve in the American army, and I did for two years. I was sent to Fort Devens for basic training and was put in a Tennessee National Guard unit that had been activated and needed to be brought to full strength with draftees. We were sent to Iceland to defend Keflavik Airport against a possible Communist takeover. This was in the days before jet engines were common and planes couldn't cross the Atlantic without stopping somewhere. When we got to Iceland, the army, which was not any more efficient than publishing, realized there was no one to pay the troops except for a warrant officer who was leaving. They looked for a volunteer to take over the job. Most of the Tennessee boys were totally illiterate and couldn't do arithmetic, so I started paying the troops. And when the air force came in, they kept me because I had all the records. I was in charge of a little division that looked after travel pay. I would compute officers' claims for reimbursements or per diems and so forth. I had two air force people working under me as well as an American civilian girl named Bunny, who I didn't consort with after hours because she'd go to the officers mess and...who knows what she was doing. [Laughter.] Anyway, I was very good at my job and the officers loved me because they usually had a hard time getting their money. As a result of that I got two thirty-day leaves to go to Paris, hitchhiking on air force planes. So I spent two longish periods in Paris and got to meet the French publishers for whom I'd been selling books in America. One was rather terrified when he saw me because he was a member of the Communist party—he was the rights director at Gallimard—and to be seen with someone wearing an American uniform did not give him much pleasure. Those trips were very useful because I'd corresponded with these publishers but I hadn't met them.

When I got out of the army, I'd agreed to go back to the agency for a year, but I didn't really want to. I thought maybe I would work for a publishing house instead. But nobody seemed particularly interested in hiring me because having a language was not considered any more useful than it is now because nobody wanted to do translations. So when I left the agency after another year, I got a letter from the head of one of the French publishing houses, Editions du Seuil, that said, "Should you decide to start your own agency, I'd like you to represent us in America." I was sort of amazed by that because I was shy, I was in my early twenties, I didn't have much self-confidence, and the idea of somebody else having any confidence in me seemed amazing. So I decided to do that, sort of on the side, while also taking advantage of the G.I. Bill of Rights and taking courses toward a master's at NYU, where I'd already, at night, gotten a B.A. in English. When I went down to NYU I met a woman in the elevator named Germaine Brée who had just become the head of the French department that day. We started chatting and I said, "Let me know if you ever need somebody to teach a conversation course. I'm very shy and maybe that will help me get over it." She said, "Fine," and the next day her secretary called and said, "You've got three courses." But they weren't conversation courses—they were languages courses. So that's what I did. I got a master's and taught French for six years and did agenting on the side. But I only represented French publishers. No one else was doing that. I would go over catalogues and go to France twice a year, which was tax deductible. Not that there was much to deduct since none of this was bringing in much money. But I was actually being paid by the G.I. Bill—it was different than the World War II G.I. Bill—and I didn't have to pay for my courses since I was a graduate student. I was getting a bit of money from NYU, maybe a thousand dollars a year, a bit of money from the government, and a bit of money from selling the occasional book for very little money.

Tell me about some of the editors you were getting to know.
The one I knew best, and the one who was incredibly nice and generous to me, even before I went into the army, was Mike Bessie, who was then at Harper and later started Atheneum and then went back to Harper. He was very interested in France. He'd been a journalist, he was fluent in French, he'd been in army intelligence in World War II, and he was very cultured. I did, of course, meet Blanche Knopf, who was also fluent in French but knew very little about literature. I was somewhat intimidated by her but I also found her slightly ridiculous. With Sartre she had decided that he was a novelist and a playwright but systematically turned down all of his nonfiction. So all of his essays and philosophical writings were published by minor firms like Philosophical Library or Citadel. When I took him over it was with The Words, which I sold to Braziller. But all of those books should have been with Knopf. I remember having lunch with Blanche. She was extremely gracious. If we had lunch in a restaurant she'd say, "Last year when we had lunch you ordered gigot, but I remember that you like it rare and I don't think they do it very well here. Maybe you should try...." She was sort of amazing in that way. But I also remember having lunch at her apartment, which was in the building where Michael's is now, on Fifty-fifth, where the Italian Pavilion used to be. It would be the two of us and her poodle, Fifi. She'd say, with her raspy smoker's voice, "Mr. Borchardt, what is interesting in Paris right now?" I'd say, "Well, there's Michel Butor, who's just written a new—" She'd lean over and say, "Fifi! Don't do that! This is my Balenciaga suit! I'm not going back to Paris until next spring! You were saying, Mr. Borchardt?" [Laughter.]

What other editors and publishers made a big impression?
I became very close with Bob Gottlieb, who was at Simon & Schuster. He knew French, and his French was particularly fluent if he'd had a drink. At one point later I was very impressed when he decided to memorize the whole of Valéry's "Le Cimetière Marin," which is a very long French poem. That was really quite impressive. He was a junior editor at Simon & Schuster when I started agenting on my own. I had been introduced to someone important at Simon & Schuster, who of course didn't want anything to do with a somewhat useless agent who had practically no books, and she handed me off to Bob, who then called about once a month and said, "They just gave me money to take someone out to lunch. When are you free?" I think he called me so often because he couldn't take out a real agent, who would have been insulted to be seen at lunch with this kid, who not only was fairly young but looked ten years younger. He may have been twenty-five, but he looked fifteen. He wore sneakers when nobody was wearing sneakers. He looked terribly unimportant. And he was fairly unimportant, although by then I think he was already allowed to buy the occasional book. So we would have lunch, sometimes in a restaurant and sometimes in Central Park, and I actually sold him Michel Butor and eventually de Gaulle's war memoirs, even though the first volume had been published by Viking and had done very badly. He also asked me to help out a friend of his named Richard Howard, who stupidly enough had translated a short novel by Jean Giraudoux without checking to make sure the rights were free. But they were, and I got it published by a little firm called Noonday Press, which was an independent house at the time. And then this same Richard Howard started translating other books, many of them for Grove. He also translated de Gaulle's war memoirs for Bob and he got invited to the Elysée in Paris.

So there was Bob. There was also a very smart editor at Knopf who spoke French named Henry Carlisle, who was the father of Michael Carlisle and who later became a writer. But the editors were all sort of in the background. They weren't listed in the Literary Market Place. Editors were considered, by many publishers, a semi-necessary evil who were nearly as unpleasant to deal with as authors or agents. [Laughter.] Agents were at the bottom, then authors, then editors. If all three of them could have been gotten rid of, publishing would have been a nicer, more clubby industry. I remember selling Henry a book calledThe Notebooks of Major Thompson that became a mini best-seller. Knopf had this little bulletin in which Alfred would write a letter, and in one of them it said, "Next spring we are publishing The Notebooks of Major Thompson by Pierre Daninos, which Blanche snapped up in Paris on her last trip." I remember calling Henry and saying, "This is outrageous! You bought this book here, from me, and you should be the one who gets the credit." He said, "Oh, no, calm down, that's just how it is...." [Laughter.]

I've already mentioned Mike Bessie. I was able to sell him The Last of the Just, which was Atheneum's first best-seller. There were the Wolffs at Pantheon, Kurt and Helen, to whom I tried to sell Night. But nobody wanted Night. I have a letter from Blanche Knopf saying something like, "You're wasting your time with Elie Wiesel. He will never find an audience in this country." I have a long letter from Kurt Wolff, which unfortunately says nothing. It says, "You're right. This is a great book. Usually when you send a book you don't make many comments. I assume that if you're sending it, it means you feel we should publish it. In this case you said it's something we have to publish. And you're right. But for reasons that I'll explain to you the next time we have lunch, we just can't do it." I don't remember if we ever had that lunch or if he ever explained their reasons, so I'm afraid that will be missing from your interview. I could, like most people who write their memoirs, invent a nice story. I've never understood how people can write their memoirs in such detail. I don't remember details about 99 percent of what has happened in my life.

There's Braziller, who bought a lot of French things even though he didn't know French himself. From time to time he would take out an ad in the French equivalent of Publishers Weekly, and many French publishers thought he was one of the biggest American publishers. Dick Seaver worked for him for a while before he moved over to Grove, where I dealt with him a lot because he was Barney [Rosset]'s French guy. Barney knows some French but Seaver was really quite fluent and he'd lived in Paris. Dick and I were friends for years and years.

Do you have any great stories about Dick or Barney?
With Barney the relationship always had its ups and downs. I liked him a lot, and I liked the books he did. I also sold him a lot of books, including Story of O, which, later, during one of his bankruptcies, he had to give to Random House. It's still selling very well. I remember him often being angry at me for one reason or another. I remember complaining to Don Allen once and saying, "What's wrong? I'm bringing him all these books and I'm certainly not hurting him in any way...." Don said something like, "Barney is a rooster. You can't have two roosters in one henhouse." [Laughter.] I think that is sort of true of Barney. But Barney can also be very generous. And I like him.

But there were moments when he would get very angry at me for one thing or another. I remember once going down to Grove Press because they hadn't paid their royalties or something. The first thing Barney said was, "I never bought a book from you that I hadn't heard about before." I said, "That may be true, but you still owe me...." [Laughter.] But to some extent he was probably right. It was sort of irrelevant, but he was probably right because everybody had potentially heard of these French books. They were published in France. And I had heard about them and asked to represent them. Although by then I had exclusive arrangements with several of the publishing houses, two of which we still represent: Seuil, the original one, and Minuit, who have been Beckett's publisher and also publish Elie Wiesel's Night. Night, incidentally, now sells about six hundred thousand copies a year in its Hill and Wang trade paperback edition in America.

How did you meet Elie Wiesel?
I met him because I was trying to sell Night, unsuccessfully. The French publisher wrote to me and said, "Elie Wiesel now lives in New York," where he'd come from Paris to be the UN correspondent of an Israeli newspaper. One day he came over to my apartment, which was also my office at the time, limping with a cane. I thought it was the result of his concentration camp experience but it turned out that he'd been hit by a taxi and broken practically every bone in his body and was still recovering. I have a letter, actually, where I wrote to the French publisher saying, "I met Elie Wiesel and you're right, he seems quite nice." We finally sold the book to Arthur Wang.

How much did you get for it?
Two hundred fifty dollars, payable in two installments and on condition that I find a British partner to share the translation cost.

[Laughter.] How much money do you think they've made on that book?
That's the irony when you see how publishing works. You don't necessarily make the money out of the flavor of the month. The real money, if you're in it for the duration, comes from books like that—from books nobody wanted—be they by William Faulkner or Elie Wiesel or Beckett or many others. Unfortunately, that argument is totally unconvincing to publishers now. If you're an editor at Random House or one of the other large firms, you can't say, "We're not going to make any money on this book for the next three years, but in ten years everybody will be envious of us for having it." The guy you're saying it to has two years to go on his contract, which is about to be renegotiated next year. What good does it do him to have a book that will bring in money ten years from now? He couldn't care less! He wants the book that makes money now so he can tell his bosses, "You should give me another contract for five years at twice the salary." So it's become different, and I think that's what's weighing on publishing, more than any of the other crises that come and go.

Did you become close with Wiesel?
I did. We were both bachelors at the time. We had the kind of relationship where you call up at six o'clock and say, "Are you doing anything tonight? You want to meet at the Italian place on Fifty-sixth?" He lived in a one-room studio on upper Riverside Drive. It wasn't much bigger than this room but it was filled with records and books. For some reason he had a car and would sometimes drive me to the airport. I was living, before getting married to her, with a woman who had been a student of mine at NYU. In Elie's memoirs he says something like, "I drove Georges and Anne to the airport and during the drive Georges mentioned that Anne had decided to change her last name to Borchardt. That's how I found out that they had gotten married." Whether that's true or not, I don't know. It could be. But we had, indeed, gotten married, partly because we found it too complicated not to be married. I would be invited to dinner by, say, Roger Straus. FSG was also buying French books, and Roger had been very nice to me and would invite me to dinner parties at his townhouse with really important people like George Weidenfeld. These were fairly formal dinners and it was awkward to say, "Can I bring a date?" If I was invited it was probably because they were a man short, and by bringing somebody you upset the balance of the dinner. It seemed simpler to be married. People had to invite both of you. So one day we went down to City Hall and got married and then went back to work. [Laughter.]

My wife and I did the same thing.
You probably had the same experience. It gets too cumbersome to always have to explain the situation. And your wife meets people who might ask her out for a date. It's just simpler if you're married. I remember we were at a party, maybe at Henry Carlisle's, and there were several people there. Somebody told Anne about this new firm that was starting: Atheneum. But by the time we got home, she'd forgotten the names of the people who were involved, including the name of the person who had told her, who had also asked her for a date, which she had turned down. I said,"This one you probably should have accepted! I want to know who's starting the firm!" [Laughter.]

Did you make any big mistakes when you were starting out that you look back on with regret?
I probably should have started to take on English language writers sooner. But I was sort of nervous about it. There were all these brilliant agents who had gone to Harvard and were members of the Harvard Club, where all the editors would meet. Everybody in publishing had gone to Harvard. Except the people at Scribner's, who had gone to Princeton. [Laughter.] I was a sort of outsider, and I thought I'd remain an outsider, so it took me a while.

How did you come to represent John Gardner?
We had a group of writers who came more or less at the same time that included Stanley Elkin, Bob Coover, John Gardner, and Sol Yurick. For some reason I seem to remember that Sol Yurick came to us through George Steiner. He was a very close friend of Bob Coover's, who had been with Candida Donadio but became disenchanted with her. Bob had met a marvelous editor named Hal Scharlatt who was at Random House at the time. He had a collection of stories called Pricksongs & Descants. He told Hal Scharlatt that he was sick and tired of agents and wanted to do the deal with him directly. Hal said, "You can't do that. If you do the deal with me directly, I'll have to screw you [on the terms of the contract]." Hal told him to come and see me. To humor Hal, he came to see me, having already decided to tell Hal that it would not work. But for some reason he decided to come to us, and he's been our author ever since. He also sent us Tom Boyle. They tend to come to us through each other. I can't remember exactly how John Gardner came to us.

Tell me about your experience with him.
His editor was David Segal, who was good friends with Hal Scharlatt. They both had been editors at McGraw-Hill and I think both of them had been fired from there. The three of us became friends. We were all sort of outsiders. They were interested in writers whom nobody else wanted, and I was interested in the same writers. And since nobody else wanted them, they were also the only writers I could get, particularly since people would probably discourage American authors from coming to us by saying, "Oh, isn't that the French agent?" If you say that in a certain way it becomes very negative. It took us a while to change that image. So John probably came to us through David Segal. I know that David had published one of John's books by the time John sent us two manuscripts, The Wreckage of Agathon and The Sunlight Dialogues. I also remember, quite vividly, that, being an extremely kind person, I gave Anne the shorter book to read, Wreckage of Agathon, and decided to work my way through the long one, Sunlight Dialogues, not realizing that I'd given myself the much better book. [Laughter.] And I loved that book. By then David Segal had been fired by McGraw and gone to NAL [New American Library]. The person who had fired him at McGraw had just been appointed editor in chief at NAL. David called me and said, "I'll be the first editor to be fired twice by the same person." He had probably called many people saying the same thing, and he didn't actually get fired, but I think agents stopped sending him books because they figured he would. Then he moved to Harper, which always seemed to have, at least briefly, a literary sort of editor, although they were mainly doing nonfiction. And he acquired nothing but duds. Not only did he publish John Gardner, but also Cynthia Ozick and Fred Exley and other people who lost Harper money. So he got fired again. Then he got hired by Bob Gottlieb at Knopf. But while he was at Harper I sent him Wreckage of Agathon and Sunlight Dialogues. He said, "I can do the short book but until this author acquires an audience we wouldn't be able to price the long one." So he only bought Wreckage of Agathon. When he left and went to Knopf, I sent him Grendel and Sunlight Dialogues and he said the same thing. I said, "You can't do that. You have to publish Sunlight, too. If you want to, you can publish Grendel first." So he talked Bob Gottlieb into giving us a two-book contract. They published Grendel, which did quite well—it probably sold about twelve thousand copies, which was good, then or now—and then David died, in his early forties, having pretty much drunk himself to death. Hal Scharlatt died at age thirty-eight, walking off a tennis court. Those were big losses, two superb editors with good taste and good noses. You need instincts in this business. It's so unscientific. You can never really explain why you love something. It's like any other form of love: you can't really explain why you're in love with somebody or something. I think of the often-quoted sentence by Montaigne, when he was asked about his friendship for La Boétie. He said, "Because it was he, because it was I." That's about as close to explaining it as you can get.

Did you become friends with Gardner?
We became good friends. I remember he and his first wife taking our daughter and their two kids to the circus when they were in New York. I remember going to Chinatown with them. They'd just been in Greece, and his daughter was being very obnoxious—she isn't anymore, she's very sweet—and trying to get attention by offering her Greek change to a Chinese vendor. I have letters from John saying, "I know I'm one of the major writers of my generation. All these people who don't recognize me will regret it." Of course he was right, and one of the admirable things about writers is that they really know they're writers. I mean, any normal human being would just give up. Why would you do something that nobody wants? But they do, and they have this sort of inner feeling. He was one of a kind. People often ask me, "What kind of relationship do you have with your authors?" Well, each one is different, just as you have a different relationship with each one of your friends. And you're not exactly the same person for each one of them, either.

Do you have any great stories about Coover?
One amusing story about Bob comes to mind. Some years ago he was asked by the New York Times to write an op-ed piece about the Intifada and Valentine's Day. The dates coincided. It was to run on a Monday, which was Valentine's Day. He called me on Friday evening to say that he had just heard from the editor that they'd killed the piece because some higher-up at the Times objected to its ending, which was something like "as the birds do, do." Evidently the juxtaposition of the two dos was just too much for the Times. So they killed it. Bob asked me what I could do. I said, "What can I do? It's Friday night. Valentine's Day is Monday. The most we can probably do is get a story about what the Times did published in a magazine. But that would be months from now."

I sort of tossed and turned all night, and the next morning I went to the office. It was Saturday morning. I remember that it was snowing. I called Jack Miles, who was also one of our authors and whom I'd met when he was the book review editor at the Los Angeles Times. Now he was a freelance writer for them and he knew everybody there. I told him the story and said, "I know the L.A. Times hates the New York Times. This is a very good piece. Do you think they could run it on Monday?" He said he'd make a phone call. I walked home for lunch in the snow. The minute I got home, Jack called and said they wanted me to fax the piece so they could read it. So I went back through the snow to the office. When I got there I realized I'd never used the fax machine, which at the time was fairly new. So I called Anne on the phone and eventually managed to fax the thing. By then I'd gone back and forth through the snow several times and wasn't in a very good mood. I knew nothing would happen anyway. We were having dinner with friends that night, and five minutes before we went off to dinner, the phone rang. It was the L.A. Times. They said, "We'd like to run the piece, but we can only pay three hundred fifty dollars." Well, the New York Times, at the time, paid two hundred fifty dollars, which I was going to make them pay anyway because they'd really accepted the piece. So now Bob would be getting six hundred instead of two-fifty. I said, "Oh, that's okay." [Laughter.] I remember telling the story at dinner that night. When I was finished my friend's husband said, "But how much money do you make out of this?" I said, "Normally we would have gotten twenty-five dollars before expenses, but this way we get sixty dollars before expenses." He looked at me as if I were totally insane. But to me this was one of the highlights of my career.

You also represent T. C. Boyle. Didn't he say somewhere that in his opinion you are the greatest person who has ever lived?
He tends to exaggerate, a little bit, from time to time. But most of the time he's right, of course. [Laughter.] When I first met him, he was the assistant fiction editor at the Iowa Review and Bob Coover was the fiction editor. But Bob had moved to England and Tom was doing most of the work. I think Tom was impressed by the fact that I was actually submitting short stories to the Iowa Review, which was paying something like thirty-five dollars a story. One day he wrote me and said he had a collection of stories. Many of them had been published in literary journals but also magazines like Esquire, maybe Playboy, but not the New Yorker, which at the time wouldn't have touched any of these authors because they were using words that the New Yorker didn't recognize. And we managed to find a publisher for his collection without too much trouble. Maybe three people turned it down. We sold it to Peter Davison at Atlantic Monthly Press. Then he wrote a novel called Water Music, which was also published by Atlantic. But Peter didn't like his second novel, Budding Prospects, so we had to find him a new publisher. We sold it to Amanda Vaill at Viking. Paul Slovak was the publicity director. He and Tom, both towering over everyone else, got into the habit of hiking together and became good friends. And then Paul later became his editor. Tom doesn't really require much editing. His books come in pretty much ready to go. And Tom and I have become close friends over the years. It's been great fun, and we've been able to get him published all over the world. He's a real writer. I often say to people in the office that the kind of writer I like to take on is somebody whose book you can open to any page, read a paragraph, and say, "Here's a writer."

You also represent one of my favorite nonfiction writers, Tracy Kidder. How did you meet him?
Tracy, too, is a superb stylist. And there, too, we've become good friends. He had written a book for which he had an agent. I don't remember who published it or what it was about, but it was a terrible experience and he doesn't want to hear about that book anymore. Then he wrote Soul of a New Machine, which he sold to Atlantic-Little, Brown himself. I don't know how he got my name, but I remember that he came to see me, feeling that he had made a big mistake, that he should have used an agent, that the publisher wasn't going to do anything for the book. This was before it was published. He was very upset. I said to him, "There isn't much I can do at this point. The first thing you should do is call them and ask what the book's advertising budget is." In those days publishers still had individual budgets for each book. Sometimes it was zero, but they still had it. Now they just advertise their two main books and do nothing for the others. But I told him that, and maybe one or two other things, and within two weeks—I think the book had become a main selection of the Book of the Month Club—he sent me a bottle of wine with his thanks. I had really done nothing. I explained to him that he was more grateful to me for having done nothing than most of my authors were when I actually had done something. [Laughter.]

Then he sent me three proposals for his second book. Two were business books and one was a book about building a house. Well, to me, building a house was of no interest whatsoever. In France, if you want a house, you buy some old stone thing and make something out of it. But putting all this wood together? I don't know. To me it was totally uninteresting. And, in addition, the obvious commercial follow-up to Soul of a New Machine was another business book. So he'd asked me to rank them, and I ranked the two business books first and House third. Two weeks later he called me and said, "You know, House is really the book I would like to write." I said,"That's fine. We'll get you a little less money, but we'll definitely get you a contract. Don't worry about it."

Had Soul of a New Machine already won the Pulitzer?
Probably. I think that had already happened. Anyway, I think he felt a little annoyed by my reaction, and he then produced the most amazing outline I had ever seen for House. I called him and said, "I've changed the ranking. This is now number one and the business books are two and three." How he did it, I don't know. It was an impossible book to write a proposal for because it was going to be an account of what would happen but hadn't happened yet. I got him an enormous contract for the book. He was very surprised. He said, "Are you sure?" and so on. [Laughter.]

How did you sell it? Was it an auction?
No. We just sent it to Atlantic-Little, Brown, which had just been bought by Mort Zuckerman. We asked for a certain amount of money and they reluctantly gave it to us. Mort Zuckerman even came to see me at the time of the negotiation. It didn't start out very well because he saw a copy of Harper's on our reception table and said, "Why do you have Harper's and not the Atlantic?" I said, "Because Harper's is giving us a free subscription and the Atlantic is not." [Laughter.] I thought he wanted to meet because he might want to renegotiate the advance. But not at all. He wanted to see about the possibility of getting first serial rights for the Atlantic. He didn't realize that if they had asked to make that part of the contract I probably would have thrown it in. But they hadn't. [Laughter.] So he went back to Boston with his scalp—that is, my concession that he could have first look at first serial—and I did end up selling them first serial for another twenty-five thousand dollars or so, even though the book itself ended up being published by Houghton Mifflin. We've been Tracy's agents ever since. And he's lovely.

Are there any writers who got away? Whom you wanted desperately?
Oh, many. The one I probably regret most is Jhumpa Lahiri. She would have been perfect for us and vice versa. She just did a marvelous interview with one of our authors, Mavis Gallant, for Granta. I got the impression that Mavis Gallant is her favorite author, and it sort of reopened the wound because I thought, "Did I mention to her that we represent Mavis Gallant? Would that have made a difference?" But maybe not.

You've witnessed such a long arc of contemporary literature. You've seen fads come and go, seen various schools of writing come and go. I'm curious about what seeing all that has taught you about the craft of writing and what makes great writing.
It's a gift, and I don't know where it comes from. I don't think the writing schools bring you that gift. They may help you develop it in some way, and they put you in contact with other writers so that you feel less isolated and less lonely, but essentially what makes a Cézanne a Cézanne or a Picasso a Picasso or a Proust a Proust or a Joyce a Joyce, I don't know. I can't tell you.

So there's nothing specific that you're looking for in a piece of writing?
No. I just want to fall in love with it. Ask an eighteen-year-old kid who tells you that he wants to fall in love, "What do you want to fall in love with?" What is he going to tell you? You don't know until you've found it. But when you find it, you know. How, and why, I don't know.

I'm curious about your take on nonfiction with regard to memoir and the issues of truth and accuracy that are always being raised now, especially because you come from Europe where there are different traditions.
I'm certainly not in favor of lying. I think, basically, that nonfiction should be truthful. There are certain liberties that the reader will accept. It's a sort of silent covenant between the reader and the writer. The reader cannot really expect the author of a memoir to remember absolutely every detail. The reader has to allow the author to say, "It was a very gray morning when I was taken to jail" even if it turns out to have been a sunny day if you look up the weather in the almanac. I don't think that sort of thing really matters. There are things that are more and less important. But I don't think the author should deliberately lie to the reader.

I recently read a rather interesting book that the author quite honestly calls a novel. It's been published in France but doesn't exist in English. It's by the Moroccan writer Tahar Ben Jelloun, and it's a book about his mother. His mother was not literate. She was married twice, had several children, and lived a long life. He wanted to tell her story, about how she was sort of married off. He says himself that she wasn't going to tell him the whole truth, and he had no way of finding it out. She's not a historical figure. There are no records. He said, "I'm telling the story as I see it, and I'm filling in some of the details with what I imagine it must have been like." That, I think, is fine. Even if he didn't call it a novel—which it isn't, totally, either—all he has to do is write a brief foreword to explain how he approached the story. He's not cheating. He's just giving his subject a bit more body and substance. And there is a truth that you can find in fiction that is just as powerful as the truth you find in nonfiction.

But you can't change things. I feel very strongly—it's one of my strongest feelings, I think—about lying. I absolutely hate lying. But we all lie in a way. As I'm talking to you, I'm not telling you everything I think. Nor are you telling me everything you think. But I don't consider that lying. It's part of social discourse. I lied constantly during the war, but it was a question of survival. I think that's fine. It's unfortunate, but I had no choice. But I despise gratuitous lies or lies that are meant to make you sound better than you are or, in a book, add more panache to a story that might not work otherwise. If you need to do that, you should write fiction. It's a question of not betraying the trust of the reader. But the fact that there's an error? That doesn't bother me at all. The writer says there were eight people at the party and it turns out there were twelve? I couldn't care less. We don't have perfect memories. You probably haven't been married very long, but you will find out that when you go to parties, your wife will tell a story about something that you remember being totally different. There may be elements that are the same, but it didn't happen when you were in St. Louis, it was when you were in Ottawa. As you get older there will be more and more of those things. You will also realize that you're not 100 percent sure that you're totally right either. And in the end it doesn't matter. In the early part of your marriage, which you're still in, you will still tell your wife, "That isn't the way it happened!" But after a few years you'll realize that it really makes absolutely no difference.

Let's talk a little about the industry. You've been in it for several decades, over the course of which it's changed a lot, or at least that's what people seem to say. What's your take on that?
It has changed. Mainly it's the shift from individual ownership to corporate ownership. The individuals who owned the firms were, for the most part, the sons of millionaires. They didn't need to take money out of the firm. They lived well before, they lived well during, and they had something very valuable afterward. Knopf became very valuable. Farrar, Straus became very valuable. So the heirs, I suppose, got a good amount of money. But the purpose [of founding those firms] wasn't really to make money. The purpose was the excitement of publishing. It's totally different now. Not so much at Grove/Atlantic or Norton—those are two firms for which what I'm saying doesn't apply—except that they are competing against these giants. So if Grove/Atlantic has a book that becomes a major best-seller, it can't hold on to the author, even if the author has made lots of protestations about how he will never leave the firm because he's in love with all the people who work there. Either he, or his agent, or both, will decide that rather than taking a million from little Grove/Atlantic, they're better off taking six million from somebody bigger. So they are affected by it too. The corporate thing has sort of poisoned the whole industry.

What has that meant for writers?
It's mainly meant that they've become products. And that their main relationship is more with their literary agent. In a way it has worked well for the agents. Their main relationship is much more seldom with the editor because the editor's position is very precarious. You've already changed jobs like four times. That was most unusual when I started in publishing. If you were an editor at Knopf, you stayed an editor at Knopf. There are still editors at Knopf who have been there forever: Judith Jones; Ash Green, who just retired; Bill Koshland, who was not an editor but more the business person. When Bill was chairman emeritus, well after Alfred had died and Bob Gottlieb had taken over, he would still take all the royalty statements home and look at them to be sure they were right. Now there's no one on the editorial side of a publishing house who even sees the royalty statements. They have no idea what's on them. They have no idea whether the reserve for returns is outrageous or justified. The person who decides on the reserve doesn't know either. The whole climate has changed.

What else has it meant for writers?
Even the little things have changed. There used to be a publication date for a book. Now nobody even knows what the publication date is except when there's an embargo. The pub date used to mean the author would get a bouquet of roses or there would be a party. There was practically always a party for the author. The birth of the book was something to be celebrated. Now it's just the question of "Do we admit to the author that the actual printing is only one-fourth of the announced printing?" It's totally different. In fact, even the idea of two different figures for printings—the announced printing and the actual printing—has come with corporate publishing. Before, you printed a certain number of copies and that was what you printed. There wasn't the lie and the truth.

You've always been a champion of so-called midlist writers. Has it become more difficult for those writers to sustain their careers today?
I think publishers used to be more committed to a specific author. But not always. I think the authors who are really successful are even more successful today, in financial terms. Among our authors, people like Tracy Kidder or Ian McEwan or T. C. Boyle. The authors like Stanley Elkin always had to support themselves by teaching and would have to today. So that isn't very different except for the fact that maybe they see one of their students being offered a six-figure advance all of a sudden because he or she is doing something that a publisher thinks it can really sell. Now, if the book doesn't work, that's the end of that career, half the time.

It's different. As I've already told you with examples like Beckett and Elie Wiesel, the doors were not wide open to those people either. The success of Grove Press, when it started, was due to the fact that there were all of these marvelous authors who nobody else wanted. Evergreen Review was a marvelous enterprise that not only opened its doors to interesting writers but also fed writers into the publishing company. Nobody has that kind of thing now, even though Evergreen Review was not unique at the time. There was also Ted Solotaroff's American Review and New American Review. I think Ted was the first to publish Ian McEwan, Philip Roth, Kate Millett. These publications were very, very important, and there's nothing like that now. There isn't any publisher who's really interested in doing that—in nursing these seedlings and planning for the future. Everybody wants instant gratification. So of course that has affected the authors too.

But, in general, good authors have always been fairly miserable. They are now. They were then. It's always been a somewhat alien existence. Most authors still need to have a profession, usually in academia but not always, to sustain themselves. Especially the better ones, who don't want to compromise and just want to write what they feel like writing. But I don't think it has become much more difficult. It has always been difficult. I would not advise any of my friends to become writers as a career.

I think you're an artist because you have to be an artist. I don't think it's ever been easy. It's not easy for musicians. It's not easy for painters. But it has never been easy for those people. When Cézanne showed his first paintings, people laughed at him. They thought they were ludicrous. Van Gogh only sold one painting in his lifetime. To be an artist has always been difficult. To be an artist in the United States has been probably even more difficult than elsewhere because the arts are not considered all that valuable here.

If somebody asks you what you do and you say, "I'm a writer," the next question will be, "But what do you do for a living?"

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How has your job changed as the industry has changed?
I think there is more frustration. We have to deal with all kinds of bureaucrats. We spend a lot of time arguing about contract clauses. Every time a publisher hires a new lawyer or contract manager, they decide to have new clauses and you have to argue about the wording. And the bigger the firm, the less flexible it will be. Also, there aren't that many publishers around, so they're all, in a way, in cahoots. It's not that they would sit down together and say, "From now on we're going to do this," because then they would have the antitrust people after them. But they might ask the assistant house counsel to call his or her buddy who's the assistant house counsel at such-and-such house and say, "What do you people do about this?" And they find out that everybody—that is, the six big firms—are now paying, say, 25 percent of net receipts on electronic rights. Okay, so there may be a smaller firm that pays 30 percent, but why can't they all pay 50 percent of net receipts like they did a few years ago? They can't because they have done a very close cost analysis and come to the conclusion, after weeks of analyzing—analyzing what, nobody knows, because there are no figures to use for this—that this is the figure. That it really should probably be between 19.25 percent and 23.2 percent, but rounding it out at 25 percent is a generous gesture and, in addition, that's what everybody else is doing. Now, does this matter at all, since there are no sales of electronic books to speak of? I don't know. But we spend a tremendous amount of time dealing with these things because it might be worth something and, like everybody else, we agents feel that if the publishers think it's worth something to them, it must be worth something to us.

But basically we do what we've always done. I remember something my French mentor said to me years ago when there were other issues. He said, "In the end the only thing that really counts is the poor author in his attic in front of his typewriter with his blank piece of paper and what he puts on it." The only thing that has changed is that maybe now he is no longer writing in the attic, and he has a computer instead of a typewriter. But it's still what goes on the page that counts. And everything else really doesn't. Eventually publishers sort of have to do what the more important authors want. Look at the electronic thing. If electronic publishing really takes over, the authors may discover that they don't need the publishers at all. But the publishers will always need the authors to write something.

What would you change about the industry if you could change one thing?
I would love to see half a dozen sons or daughters of millionaires start their own firms, the way it used to be. I think it would put pressure on the established houses to pay attention to things they don't pay enough attention to anymore. But I don't think that will happen. This question also isn't something I think about very much because of my own temperament. I'm very empirical. I feel that you deal with a certain situation and make the best of it. I don't really spend much time dreaming about what could be. I'm not really interested in that.

One thing that always interests me is how people view their jobs and their various responsibilities. How do you view yours?
The main thing, obviously, is to do the very best we can for our authors. To advise them as best we can. It's really different from author to author. It's not necessarily advising them to do what brings in the largest amount of money in the shortest period of time. We have to think of their career—where they are, what their needs are—so it's different with each one. It's not as complicated as it may sound. It's usually fairly clear and simple. But you have to be able to figure it out, and then you have to find a way to come as close as possible to getting them what they want. Practically any of our more successful authors could make more money by moving to another house—you always get more when you're auctioning the rights. But you don't want to do that with every book. With some authors the amount of the advance is not the essential point because there's a constant flow of money coming in from their earlier books. For some authors, ego is the main concern and the mere thought that someone else may be getting more money is much more important. So everything has to be taken into account.

It feels like there are a lot of different threats to authors out there today. What do you think is the biggest?
The main issue is that people may read less. But there's nothing I can do about that. It's true—it's always been true in this country—that people seem to read a lot in college and then get out of college and get a job and basically stop reading. We have two granddaughters. They read when they're on vacation, and one of them—the younger one—has been reading all of these Stephenie Meyer books. But they don't read the way I read or their mother read. They don't read regularly or with the same kind of passion. They're busy with their computers and phones. They're constantly chatting with each other in one way or another. And all of that is changing reading. On the other hand, I'm encouraged by the fact that more and more people are going to college. Some of our books that are read in college—the Michel Foucault books, for example—are probably read more from year to year. Beckett is probably read more. So all of the signals are not bad. But there's no point in worrying too much about things over which you have no control, and where your opinions have absolutely no effect one way or the other except possibly to get you depressed.

Do you feel competitive with other agents?
I don't really feel competitive. I sometimes feel envious. Most people don't like to admit to one of the cardinal sins, and envy is perhaps the worst, but I think we all feel envy. Authors feel envy when they see a book, even if it's by a friend of theirs, reviewed on the cover of the New York Times Book Review. We're all human. So yes, of course I feel envy, just as you would feel envious if one of your best friends, who is an editor at God knows where or even at Grove, gets a manuscript that becomes a hit and is written up everywhere.

Are editors different than they were thirty or forty years ago?
I think they used to feel more self-confident because they were rarely fired. Now, nobody knows if they'll still have a job the following week. I think they used to be allowed to spend more time with their authors. In the old days, saying, "I don't know how Joe is progressing with his book and I'm going to spend a week with him to find out" would not have been considered just another expression of the editor's laziness and unwillingness to do some real work in the office. The editor might even have been encouraged to spend time somewhere with the author. Maxwell Perkins, who is always held up as an example even though he turned down Faulkner for Scribner's, spent a tremendous amount of time editing two of the authors for whom he's best known, Fitzgerald and Wolfe. But now I think Maxwell would be called in to his boss's office: "You're wasting too much time with this author. His previous books haven't sold very well and this probably won't do any better. Can't you bring in somebody like Dan Brown who will really bring us money?"

What do you think the best editors do for their writers?
First of all, they encourage them. They stay in touch with them without nagging too much. You have to find the right balance. It varies with each author. But they should try to spend some time with them. I think most authors would like to have a close relationship with their editor. I have several authors who were so disgusted with their editors that they have an editor whom they pay to edit their books before they get sent in to their editor at the publishing house. Nobody ever hears about it, and if they win the Pulitzer Prize or whatever, the official editor is the one who gets the credit.

You're not going to tell me who those writers are, are you?
No. [Laughter.]

But can you tell me what editors you work with in that capacity? Is it people whose names we would know?
The one who has done quite a bit of this and is supposed to be terrific is Tom Engelhardt, who used to be at Pantheon years ago. But there are others. Many editors who have been fired do it.

What is your biggest frustration with editors today?
The main frustration is one I share with them: They can't make a decision on their own. They have to go to marketing people or other people who know nothing about what the editor and I are talking about to get an offer approved. It's not even just the amount—different firms have different rules about whose approval you need in order to go above a certain amount of money—as much as it is the mere decision. When Bob Gottlieb was at Knopf, I'd send him something and he'd call me three days later and say, "Why should I be publishing this thing? This is not for me. This is not for Knopf." Or he'd say, "Okay, what do you want for it?" I'd tell him. He'd say, "That's fine" or "We can't pay that much." One time I even remember him saying, "The author can't do this book for that little. I'll give you such and such," and it was more than the amount I'd asked for. But the whole thing would take five minutes. When Jim Silberman was the editor in chief at Random House the negotiation would take two minutes.

Now you have the feeling that it's such a cumbersome process. Unless you have an auction going for a book that everybody wants. Then, of course, it immediately moves to the upper levels within the publishing house. I remember that Valerie had an auction for a book that we'd gotten from England, and all of a sudden she had six or eight editors bidding on it and people whom I won't name but who are known to be totally unreachable were calling her and saying, you know, "Just call me on this number and I'll do blah blah blah." But that involved seven figures. At that level everything is different. But at the normal level, things are more complicated and you feel less of the enthusiasm. The enthusiasm gets eaten away by the bureaucracy. But there's still some of it. The amazing thing is that publishing still attracts a lot of really good people—young people, interesting people—who really love to read and want to make it work. They just accept that it's more difficult. And so do we. There's no choice.

That's a frustration you share with editors. Is there anything that frustrates you about the way editors have changed, or the way that younger editors are?
They aren't very different than they were before. I mean, some start speaking this sort of corporate language but others remain themselves. There are some things you see less often now, but you didn't see them much before either. I can give you two examples. One involved Bob Gottlieb when he was the editor in chief of Knopf. He was doing a book of ours by a French doctor that was called Birth Without Violence. It was a new method of giving birth that involved giving birth in the dark and so on. I remember that Bob called me and said, "We just got the cover in for this book. I think you'll love it. Are you in the office? Can I bring it over?" There is no editor in chief in New York today who would do that. But there wasn't anyone else then either.

I also remember—I probably shouldn't say nice things about other agents, but I can't help it in this case—something that Steve Wasserman did when he was an editor at Random House. I sent him a long manuscript by Ted Draper, who used to write for the New York Review of Books. Steve called me the next day and said, "I started reading this in the office yesterday and all of a sudden I realized that it was eleven o'clock at night. This is terrific. Of course we want to publish it." I don't remember if he'd actually finished it, or if it took another week to do the deal, but that's the kind of reaction I'd like to get more often: people who act on their instincts; people who are genuinely excited about something. I don't get it often, but I never got it often.

Who else do you admire in the industry? And what makes you admire them?
I admire people who have managed to stick to their guns and do, essentially, what they set out to do. People like Nan Talese, Kate Medina, Jonathan Galassi, or several of the editors at Knopf. Of course they're influenced by the environment—we all are—but they've essentially been doing what they've been doing all along. So has Morgan, for that matter. I don't really know Morgan all that well, but I'm sure he could have chosen an easier way of living. But he's stuck to it. I greatly admire Drenka Willen. The main reason I'm not mentioning other agents is that I don't really know them that well. Editors know agents much better. We know of each other, but we don't really know what we're like. I've never seen another agent dealing with his or her authors. I've never seen an agent dealing with an editor.

Tell me about some of the high moments in your life as an agent.
One was meeting General de Gaulle when I was in my early twenties. When I was a kid during the war, he was God, and the only hope one had. If I'd stayed in France, of course, I never would have met him. But because I'd come to America and done this thing that nobody else was doing, it sort of made me different. So after I'd sold his war memoirs here, his French publisher took me to see him. He was not in power then, but he had these offices on the Left Bank. He was surrounded by nothing but people who were six feet five and six feet six and so on. I went with his publisher, who came from Monte Carlo and had this short Mediterranean build. So there we were: two dwarves in the land of giants. That was incredibly exciting and heady for me. There was also an interesting moment. The publisher, like many people from southern France, had a tendency to talk a lot and very freely. He accidentally mentioned the name of a magazine editor or journalist who was quite prominent at the time but had been a collaborator during the war. When he realized what he'd done he tried to sort of backtrack. But de Gaulle said, in a very kind voice, "Well, I know he was a collaborator. But he isn't a collaborator any more." [Laughter.] So that's one highlight. I realized that I'd done something with my life that led me into territory where I never would have been otherwise.

But as the years have gone on I think I've become a bit blasé. There have been many highlights—when my authors have won prizes and so on. It gives me great pleasure, but it has become more frequent. For example I was with Anne Applebaum when she won the Pulitzer Prize for Gulag. But I was also with her for the National Book Awards when she didn't win. I was with her at the Los Angeles Times Book Prizes when she didn't win. I may have been with her at the National Book Critics Circle Awards when she didn't win. And just as I suffer from envy, I'm also a sore loser and I don't like to go to these events unless my author wins. But the Pulitzer Prize is much more civilized because you know in advance and it's not a public humiliation. So that was wonderful.

I also remember when Charles Johnson was nominated for the National Book Award for Middle Passage. I pretty much knew he wouldn't win because you only have one chance out of five and why would your author win instead of the four others? It's a black tie event and I hate wearing a tuxedo. I was trying to put on the little studs in the shirt that are very pretty and belonged to my father, one of the few things I have, and I was having trouble with them. I asked Anne to help. All of a sudden I saw that my white shirt had little pink polka dots all over it. Anne had pricked her finger with one of the studs and there were little spots of blood all over my shirt. So I had to change the shirt. Thank God I had a second one. I don't even know why I did because I never wear the wretched things. I thought we'd be late and I was in a foul mood. We sat at the Atheneum table. Atheneum had been bought by Scribner, which had been bought by Macmillan. The head of Macmillan was there, and the editor of the book and the publicist. But the head of Macmillan, who didn't know either of them, thought they were a couple. They were just two employees. But they happened to be young and good looking, so I had to explain to him that they were his employees and not a couple. Anyway, the whole thing was stupid and ludicrous, and I was becoming more and more annoyed, and somebody made a long speech, and then Charles won the National Book Award. [Laughter.] The mood changed totally. I can't remember any moment in my life when I had such a quick change in mood. The book had sold six or seven thousand copies and I remember that people came over from Macmillan saying, "Barnes & Noble just placed an order for x thousand copies" and so on. All of a sudden the book had become a best-seller. I remember Charles asking me, "What's happened? Isn't it the same book anymore?" And I said to him, "No, it isn't!"

When are you the most proud of what you do?
It's usually when we have a new author and I feel that we have really been able to change his or her life. That would not really be true of people like Elkin and Coover and Gardner and Yurick who had already been published. But it happens sometimes. I recently met a writer whose life I feel I sort of changed because she didn't have a life as a writer before in a sense. It's a young woman named Olivia Judson. She is the daughter of a friend of Mike Bessie's, who as I told you was one of my mentors. He called me and asked if I'd be willing to see her as a favor. She had a doctorate in biology from Oxford and had been deputy science editor of the Economist and was coming to America and needed some advice. I immediately knew that she was incredibly bright. The Economist had allowed her to do two columns under the name of Dr. Tatiana. They were a sort of mixture of Dr. Ruth and Dear Abby. Animals would write in about their sexual problems and Dr. Tatiana would give them an answer that was totally accurate scientifically. They would ask something like, "My wife bit off an important part of my anatomy last night. What do I do?" Dr. Tatiana would say, "Well, that's what women are like, but don't worry about it, you'll grow it back." I'm making that up, but I do remember learning from her that most seagulls are lesbians. I was so surprised that I'd gone through life without knowing that. Anyway, I told her she should write a book. We sold it to Sara Bershtel at Metropolitan. It was called Dr. Tatiana's Sex Advice to All Creation and it did extremely well. We sold it all over the world. It was serialized in France in Le Figaro, which is a daily Parisian paper. We sold movie rights to the Canadian Discovery Channel, although the result hasn't been shown in this country because the Americans found it too obscene. Now she's writing another book for Metropolitan. She's written a number of op-ed pieces for the New York Times. She's making a living as a writer. And she's become a good friend. I love the idea of improving somebody's life.

There's also Bob Fagles, who did the translations of the Iliad and the Odyssey. I met him at a dinner party. He was complaining about the fact that he'd translated a play that was supposed to be part of a series of translations for Oxford or somebody. But nobody else had delivered their translations so the project was stuck. He was very frustrated. The next year I met him again at the same friend's. Nothing had happened and he was even more frustrated. I said,"I'm sure your contract must have a pub date. You can probably cancel it and take the book somewhere else. Show me the contract." I sold the book to Viking, and then he did another one, and then he did the Odyssey, and then the Iliad, and then the Aeneid, and it totally changed his life.

What is the most rewarding part of your job?
It's when you can bring good news to one of your authors. Their book just went into a fifth printing. We found a home for that short story that we both liked but so-and-so didn't want. Or we just sold, say, Catalan rights to their book. Or Basque rights. I didn't even know there was such a thing! I knew there was a Basque dialect but I didn't know that people actually read in Basque. To be able to make those phone calls gives one so much pleasure. Every day brings some kind of crisis and unpleasantness, but just about every day also brings something like that. I don't make the calls about the translation rights anymore because that's our daughter Valerie's domain. But I get a vicarious pleasure out of the pleasure she feels, and the author feels, when she gets to make one of those calls.

Jofie Ferrari-Adler is an editor at Grove/Atlantic.

Agents & Editors: Georges Borchardt

Jofie Ferrari-Adler is back with another installment of his series of interviews with publishing professionals. For the September/October 2009 issue, he visited legendary agent Georges Borchardt at his New York City office and talked with him about changes in the publishing industry, the importance of independent presses, and the question facing readers everywhere: Should I switch to a Sony Reader or Kindle?

Agents & Editors: A Q&A With Four Young Literary Agents

by
Jofie Ferrari-Adler
1.1.09

It must be obvious to anyone who has been following this series that I have an unabashed affection for the old guard of book publishing—and an endless appetite for their insights, their war stories, and their wisdom. But after a year in which "change" of one kind or another was never far from anybody's thoughts, it occurred to me that the series could use a shake-up. Why not give the graybeards a breather and talk with some younger agents and editors? And while I was at it, wouldn't it be more valuable to writers if I could get a few drinks in them first?

With that idea in mind, I asked the editors of this magazine to select four up-and-coming literary agents to take part in a roundtable conversation on the fine points of contemporary writing and publishing. One night after work we rode the subway to Brooklyn and congregated in the offices of the literary magazine A Public Space—located in a renovated horse stable with huge wooden doors that swing in from the street, vast ceilings, and an abundance of modern furniture and art—which were loaned to us for the evening by its gracious founder and editor, Brigid Hughes.

Within moments of making the necessary introductions, it became clear that I would need to confiscate everyone's BlackBerry if we were going to get anything done (a problem that had not arisen in my previous interviews). Then the panelists sat down to a spirited conversation that was fueled by Mexican takeout, multiple bottles of wine, and several highly off-the-record digressions—some of which appear as anonymous exchanges at the end—that are probably inevitable at gatherings of this sort. Here are brief biographies of the participants:

JULIE BARER spent six years at Sanford J. Greenburger Associates before starting her own agency, Barer Literary, in 2004. Her clients include Zoë Ferraris, Joshua Ferris, Kathleen Kent, and Gina Ochsner.

JEFF KLEINMAN was an agent at the Graybill & English Literary Agency for seven years before cofounding Folio Literary Management in 2006. His clients include Robert Hicks, Charles J. Shields, Garth Stein, and Neil White.

DANIEL LAZAR is an agent at Writers House, where he has worked for six years. His clients include Tiffany Baker, Ingrid Law, Jennifer McMahon, and Matt Rothschild.

RENEE ZUCKERBROT was an editor at Doubleday before founding her eponymous literary agency in 2002. Her clients include Harley Jane Kozak, Kelly Link, Keith Lee Morris, and Eric Sanderson.

Let's cut right to the chase. What are you people looking for in a piece of fiction?
BARER: I like what Dan has on his Publishers Marketplace profile: the book that makes me miss my subway stop. I think everybody's looking for a book that you can't put down, that you lose yourself in so completely that you forget everything else that's going on in your life and you just want to stay up and you don't care if you're going to be tired in the morning. You just want to keep reading.
ZUCKERBROT: Doesn't that have to do with voice? It's about the way that somebody tells a story. It's about a person's worldview. There are probably very few new stories. We're probably all ripping off the ancient Greeks—tragedy, comedy, yada yada—but it's the way someone sees the world and interprets events. It's their voice. It's how they use words. It's how they can slow things down when they need to. It's how they build up to a scene. It's how they describe ordinary things. Walking down Dean Street, for example. If I described that it would be the most prosaic description on the planet. But a really gifted writer will make me see things I've never seen even though I may have walked down the street a thousand times. At the end of the day, for me at least, it comes back to voice.
LAZAR: On my Publishers Marketplace page I say—because I'm so wise and pithy—that I want writers to show me new worlds or re-create the ones I already know. I generally find myself liking books that are not set in New York. Give me a weird little small town any day of the week.
BARER: That's why I love international fiction. I love reading a book where I don't know anything about the setting. I have this wonderful novel I sold this year that's set in Sri Lanka. I didn't know anything about Sri Lanka when I read it. Anything international, anything historical, anything set somewhere really unexpected. This is going to sound crazy, but I read a novel this summer that blew me away, and it's science fiction. I'm not usually drawn to science fiction, but it was so inventive and original and smart, and it took me somewhere I'd never been. Finishing that book and having it blow my mind was such a reminder of why I love my job: You can read something so unexpected, and fall in love with it, and think, "I never would have thought this would be my kind of thing, but now I can't stop talking about it."
KLEINMAN: That's my second criterion: can't-stop-talking-about-it. I have three criteria. The first is missing your subway stop. The second is gushing about it to any poor slob who will listen. The third is having editors in mind immediately.
BARER: That's soimportant. If you can't figure out who you're going to sell a book to from the get-go—if you finish it and think, "Who on earth would buy this?" and you can't come up with more than three names—it's a bad sign.
KLEINMAN: Not only that. I want to be thinking, "Oh my God, I've got to send this to so-and-so. So-and-so would love this."
BARER: I have found myself going on and on about books I don't even represent, books where I've lost a beauty contest. I remember one book I was going after. I was so obsessed with it that I couldn't stop talking about it. I'd have lunch with this editor, dinner with that editor, and then I lost the beauty contest and the book went out on submission and five editors e-mailed me and said, "This was the book you were raving about, right? It's awesome."
LAZAR: What was the book?
BARER: It's an incredible debut novel that's coming out with Ann Godoff called The Selected Works of T. S. Spivet. Denise Shannon sold it and she did a fantastic job. It's just one of those incredibly original books and I couldn't stop talking about it. It was the same thing with The Heretic's Daughter. I kept being like, "The Salem witch trials! Oh my God! Did you know that they didn't burn people, they hung people? I didn't know any of this!" You couldn't shut me up. I was probably really annoying.

Aside from referrals, where are you finding writers?
LAZAR: I get most of my fiction through slush.
BARER: I found The Heretic's Daughter in the slush pile. The author had never written a novel before. She had never been in a writing class or an MFA program. She came out of nowhere. She simply had this incredible story, which is that her grandmother, nine generations back, was hanged as a witch in Salem. Just because you have that great story doesn't mean that you can necessarily tell it well, but it was an incredible book.
ZUCKERBROT: I still read literary magazines, and I'll write to people whose work I like to see if they're working on a novel or a short story collection. I found one of my clients—he's a landscape ecologist who has a book coming out with Abrams—when he was profiled in the New YorkTimes.

Where else?
BARER: Bread Loaf. The Squaw Valley writers conference. Grub Street, in Boston. I found the Sri Lankan novel at Bread Loaf last summer. I heard the author read for five minutes and was so blown away that I was basically like, "You. In the corner. Right now. Don't talk to anybody else!"
LAZAR: I got a query through Friendster once. It was a good query, so I asked to read the book, and I went on and sold it. This was two or three years ago, when Friendster was still cool.
BARER: I have a lot of love for certain MFA programs. Columbia. Michigan. I try to go to those schools at least once a year and maintain relationships with the professors so they might point out people to me.
ZUCKERBROT: I actually found a writer who had a short story in A Public Space. I'm going to be going out with her collection soon. She's been published in McSweeney's, Tin House, etcetera. But I also have a lot of clients who send me writers. I hear things from writers I used to work with back when I was an editor. People in my family will tell me about writers. You sort of hear about writers from everywhere.
BARER: That's exactly right. Clients come from everywhere and anywhere. And I think that's one of the biggest misconceptions about agents that some writers have. They think we're off in our ivory towers and our fancy offices in New York City. But the truth is that we're looking for them. We're waiting for them to come knock on our doors. I don't mean our literal doors. Please don't show up at our offices.
LAZAR: I once found a client through a mass e-mail forward. It was one of these funny e-mails. It had pictures of kids sitting on Santa's lap and crying. It took me almost a year to track down where it came from, and it ended up being an annual contest that's sponsored by the Chicago Tribune. So we put together a proposal and had a nice auction and Harper is publishing it this fall. It's all pictures of kids sitting on Santa's lap and crying. If any of my clients ever win a National Book Award or a Pulitzer Prize, nobody's ever going to know it because I will go down in history as the agent who sold Scared of Santa.
BARER: I think finding an agent is a little like applying to college. If you know anybody who knows anybody who knows somebody who's heard an agent speak somewhere, you want to try to use those connections. And there are so many resources now. There are so many books and Web sites. The more research you can do to target your query to the right agents, the better chance you have. The thing that frustrates me is when I get queries for the kinds of books that I just don't do. Ninety percent of my list is fiction, and my Web site says I don't represent military books or self-help books or prescriptive nonfiction. When I get that stuff I think, "Wow, you just wasted all this time. You should really be focusing on the agents who clearly have done a lot of books like that."

When you're looking at all these query letters, what are some things that make you sit up and pay attention?
LAZAR: When Evan Kuhlman wrote to me about Wolf Boy—this is a novel that Shaye Areheart published—he wrote a description of the book, and you could tell from the letter that he was a lovely writer, but I remember that he wrote about one character and the "museum of fucked-up things." That one line stuck with me. I thought it was very specific and evocative. I think that's what makes the best query letters. It's hard to distill your magnum opus that you've been working on for ten years into one letter, but it's great if you can get some of the specific details in the letter.
BARER: As a writer, you should be able to articulate what your book is about in a few lines. Obviously, great novels are about a lot of things. But if you can't articulate the essence of what the story is, then maybe you haven't figured that out, which signals to me that maybe the book isn't coming together.
ZUCKERBROT: We don't need to hear about all of the characters. You guys probably get the query letters that are like, "Suzy, the housewife..." and it goes on and on and you hear about everybody in the book. I mean, we don't really need that.
BARER: It should be like flap copy. It should give you just enough that you want to read the book, but not so much that you feel like you already know everything about it.
LAZAR: I disagree with that a little bit. I've taken on lots of clients who sometimes have written rambling and kind of disorganized query letters. But there will be lines that jump out at you and you think, "Oh, I need to read this." Even if the manuscript comes in and it's rambling and long, if it has that spark that I saw in the query letter, then I don't care if it's rambling, because I can fix that. But I can't fix a lack of spark.
BARER: The one thing that scares me is query letters that come in with accoutrements. Pictures. Little food samples. And the letter is all design-y.
ZUCKERBROT: Or they come on pink paper. All that stuff is a distraction from what's important. It just tells me that they're not real writers. I mean, could you ever imagine Marilynne Robinson sending out a query on pink paper? It's not about the pink paper, and it's not about the fancy font you choose. It's about what's on the page.
KLEINMAN: I just think that when somebody knows how to write, it's so freaking obvious. It's in the voice, it's in the rhythm, and you know it immediately. It has nothing to do with anything else. It can be a letter that's three pages long or a sentence.
LAZAR: Exactly. I would buy a shopping list if it was written by Stephen King.

Tell me ten things in the query process that can make you want to reject something immediately.
ZUCKERBROT: When I get an e-mail that says, "Dear Agent..." and I can see that I'm one of seventy agents who got it.
KLEINMAN: Bad punctuation, bad spelling, and passive voice.
BARER: Is it wrong of me to say that handwritten letters make me uncomfortable? Does that make me ageist?
LAZAR: Writers who will have a lawyer send you something "on their behalf." It's ridiculous, and you also can't get a sense of the author's voice, which is what the letter's all about.
ZUCKERBROT: When people talk about whom they would cast in the movie version of the book. I received three of those this week!
BARER: Anything that says something like, "This is going to be an enormous best-seller, and Oprah's going to love it, and it will make you millions of dollars."
KLEINMAN: Desperation is always good. "I've been living in a garage for the past sixty years. Nobody will publish my book. You have to help me."
BARER: I love it when they tell me why nobody else has taken it on—when they tell me why it's been so unsuccessful.
ZUCKERBROT: Or they've come close and they will include an explanation of who else has rejected it and why. "Julie Barer and Jeff Kleinman said..."
LAZAR: If they're writing a children's book, they'll often say, "My children love this book."
BARER: Right! I don't care if your children, your mother, or your spouse love it. All of that means nothing to me.
KLEINMAN: When it's totally the wrong genre. When they send me a mystery or a western or poetry or a screenplay.
BARER: Don't lie. Don't say, "I read Kevin Wilson's short story collection Tunneling to the Center of the Earth and I loved it so much that I thought you'd be great for my book." Because guess what? That book isn't coming out until next April. You just read that I sold that book, and you suck. You're a liar! That kind of thing happens because everybody subscribes to Publishers Marketplace, and nothing against Publishers Marketplace—I live for it, it's a very useful tool for me—but I think for writers it perpetuates this hugely obsessive cycle of compare and despair.

How else has technology changed things from your perspective?
BARER: The thing about technology that makes me sad is that we used to have a lot more conversations with people. And there are a lot of ways to misinterpret an e-mail. I sometimes have to stop and remind myself to pick up the phone. "It would be nice to catch up with this person and see what else is going on in their life. And we might get more out of it."
KLEINMAN: I have a question. One of the things that drives me crazy is when editors don't respond to me. What do you guys do?
[Expletives. Laughter.]
LAZAR: I have a trick that works every time. I use it a lot, so I should probably retire it at this point. But I write in the subject line, "People who owe me a phone call." Then they open the e-mail and number one is "The Pope." Number two is "Britney Spears." Number three is "You." Then I'll say, "If you can explain numbers one and two, that would be great, but I'll settle for number three. I'd love to hear from you." They always get back to me. [Laughter. Compliments.] It's good because it's a little passive-aggressive, but it's also polite.
BARER: I know an agent who once sent an editor who wouldn't call the client a fake phone and phone card and a whole little package of messages. Like, "Hello? Pick up the phone!" It's just astonishing and insulting.
LAZAR: I went over somebody's head once. I went to the publisher.
BARER: I hate doing that!
ZUCKERBROT: I think it's okay if you give them warning and say, "If you don't call the client, I have no choice."
BARER: But what about the editors who you leave a message with and say, "I have an offer on the table, are you even interested?" and they don't call you back. Oh my god! It takes five seconds to shoot me an e-mail or have your assistant call me if you're too busy.
LAZAR: I bide my time, and it never fails that a year later they're going to come crawling back when they need a book. "Why didn't you send me that?"

Why is that problem so common in our industry?
LAZAR: I think it's common in every industry.
BARER: There's no such thing as too busy. I have colleagues who are such huge agents, and they all find the time. I think it's an ego thing, to be honest. They feel like "You're not important enough. I don't have to call you back." Or sometimes it's because they don't want to give you bad news. That's the other thing.

I can attest to that.
BARER: The truth is, I would rather have the bad news.

In my head, I know you would.
BARER: But it's hard to give it.
ZUCKERBROT: I think it's just bad business sense. I had the good fortune of working for a publisher once who returned every phone call, no matter who it was from, because it's good business.
BARER: You never know where that submission is coming from. As an editor, obviously you're inundated with material and you have thousands of agents calling you every week trying to sell you stuff. It must be hard to figure out how quickly you need to pay attention to something from some person you've never heard of. But the truth is, great things come out of nowhere. I always say to my authors, "Be really nice to your editor's assistant. Because one day that editorial assistant is going to be an editor, and they might just be yours. This is a team sport, and if you don't play well with others and give everybody respect..."
ZUCKERBROT: I also tell them that it's nice to call your editor sometimes and just say, "Thanks. I'm really happy. I love what you're doing." That's really unusual, and as someone who used to be an editor, that goes a long way. Thank the publicist. Send a letter to the publisher. Tell them how beautiful the book looks.
KLEINMAN: I like that moment, you know, when life is going along and you have this grateful author, and all of the sudden there's like this switch. You can almost hear it—click—and all of a sudden they become entitled. It's so cool to watch that. They become demanding. It's like, "Hold on. You were really grateful last week. When did the switch go off?" I've started having conversations with authors about this.
BARER: I think that's good. There are about five minutes where they're so bowled over that they have a book deal, and then, five minutes later, not so much. What also happens is that they start to compare themselves to everybody else. "How come so-and-so got a Janet Maslin review? How come so-and-so got an ad in the New York Times Book Review? How come this person got that advance?" You know what? Stop looking around. Focus on your own book. Focus on your own career. It's not about what everybody else is getting.

Tell me some common problems that you see in the work of beginning writers.
ZUCKERBROT: In a lot of cases, the story just sort of wanders off. You can say, "Well, there's great dialogue. There's great this or that." But if there's no real story anchoring it, who really cares, at the end of the day? You can have great characters, you can have interesting ideas, but there needs to be some narrative momentum, some narrative thrust.
LAZAR: I would say to start the story where the story starts. So often, the story doesn't actually start until page five. Sometimes it doesn't start until page fifty, but page five can be just as bad. As a reader, you just don't get that far.
KLEINMAN: The big problem I see is that people don't spend enough time with their books before they send them to agents. People are way too focused on getting published and not focused enough on really working on their craft.
BARER: You should revise it, and then you should put it away, and then you should revise it again. If you're going to come back to me in three months and say, "I have a better version that you should look at," then you should not have sent it to me in the first place. It's amazing how many people do that.
KLEINMAN: Or they say, "I knew there was something wrong and I was hoping you wouldn't notice."
ZUCKERBROT: I get those queries that say, "I just finished my novel...." And I think, "Well, now you need to write it three more times."
BARER: Keep working on it for another year. Show it to everybody but me.

Talk to me about your ideal client.
BARER: I think an ideal client is somebody who is obviously an incredibly gifted writer who also understands that, these days, being a writer is more than just writing a book. A writer who is willing to participate in the publication. Brainstorming. Working with their publicist. Working with their marketing department. Getting themselves out there. Using their connections. It's hard because I think a lot of writers happen to be introverts who are shy and kind of just want to be left alone to sit at their desks in solitude. I think it's somewhat unfair that the business has changed so much and that we now rely on them. But we do. And, truthfully, the writers who are the most successful sometimes are the ones who are really willing to be a part of the business aspect of it.
ZUCKERBROT: It's a business.
KLEINMAN: I would go a step further, or several steps further. I think it's not just the author who's really well connected—it's the author who's so well connected that he's sleeping with a producer at ABC News or something.
ZUCKERBROT: You have to get out there. Now is not the time to sit at home and catch up on Sopranos reruns. If you have a high school reunion or anything where you can spread the word about your book, get out there.
BARER: If you've written a book, you should want people to buy it.
ZUCKERBROT: From reading Publishers Weekly and Mediabistro and all the newsletters we get, it seems to me that people are still looking for the magic bullet. It's not Twittering. It's not videos for books. It's not whatever the latest trend is. So a lot of that falls on the shoulders of the author.
KLEINMAN: I want somebody who's well connected and whose subject matter appeals to a specific audience.
BARER: And you have to think about what that audience is and then say to yourself, "Okay, I've written a memoir about my mentally ill son. Now I'm going to write an op-ed piece about what happens when you're poor and a single mother and the state fails you, and then I'm going to write a Modern Love column about how I met my husband and how I should have seen the signs that he was also mentally ill but I missed it and then I realized it when my son became mentally ill...."
LAZAR: This is a real client?
BARER: Yeah!
KLEINMAN: This is her life she's telling you about. Her life.
BARER: My life. But yeah, this is a client, and she's doing all of those things. She's saying, "I want to do outreach to the mental health community."
KLEINMAN: But that's a memoir. The issue is novels.
BARER: But even novels. Look at The Heretic's Daughter. The author was like, "I'm going to reach out to genealogical websites. This is a story about my ancestor and I'm going to reach out to all these places." And her publicist and online people were amazing at helping her.
LAZAR: See, that's the thing about these kinds of books. As much as an author can do, you've also got to have Little, Brown paying a million dollars for the book and having everybody focused on it.
BARER: Yes. That is absolutely true.
LAZAR: An author who really hustles can sell maybe five thousand copies on their own. But you don't have a best-seller that everybody's talking about without having a publisher who's really throwing down. And they start throwing down by paying for it. Look at a lot of the books that work in a really big way.
BARER: You need the in-house support. Whether they paid five thousand dollars or five hundred thousand dollars, you need the whole company behind it.
ZUCKERBROT: It starts with the editor.
BARER: It starts with the editor. You need to have an editor who has passion, you need to have a publisher who's behind the editor, you need to have a sales force that loves the book, and you need a publicist who really decides to put their reputation on the line for the book. Without that entire team support, it's incredibly hard.
LAZAR: Can I clarify something? I'm not saying a book needs a million dollars. When I say a million dollars, I'm pulling a number out of the air, even though it's not so out of the ordinary these days. I've never sold a book for a million dollars. [Author's Note: This conversation took place two weeks before Lazar sold Anne Fortier's novel Juliet to Ballantine for seven figures.] But you hear about these books—Jeff—that sell for a million dollars. [Whooping. Laughter.] And that's how you focus people. Unless you're an Algonquin and you're smaller and more nimble and you can get the independent booksellers behind a book. Did anybody read that long article about what they did for Water for Elephants? They didn't pay a lot of money for that book—actually, for them they paid a lot of money—but they made a concerted effort that a larger house usually wouldn't make unless they paid five hundred or a million.
BARER: It's not so much the money, it's whether or not the house decides, "We are really putting all our energy behind this book. When we go out to lunch with [New York Times book critic] Dwight Garner or People magazine, we are going to talk about this book."

But that usually only happens for a few people a season at a house.
LAZAR: Exactly. It's a lottery.

So what are the other people supposed to do?
LAZAR: They've got to hustle.

Give me specifics. Tell me what they're supposed to do.
BARER: In those situations, I end up on the phone with that author brainstorming our asses off. Using every connection I have. Calling the editor and asking who they know, who their friends are. Calling the publicist and saying, "Please, we've got to come up with something."
ZUCKERBROT: You can do a bigmouth mailing on your own.
BARER: You send an e-mail to every friend and family member in your address book and say, "Help this book out."
KLEINMAN: At Folio we have a marketing director, and this is what she does for a living. But even then, there are certain titles for which there's nothing she can do. There's just nowhere to get a toehold. As opposed to books where you can say, "Okay. We have a clearly designated market for this novel, and we can clearly go after x."
LAZAR: Is there a book that she did that especially well for?
KLEINMAN: Yes. She worked on this Civil War novel I sold, Widow of the South, when it came out in paperback. She went and got a mailing list of five thousand Civil War groups and we sent them postcards and e-mails. Who knew there were five thousand Civil War groups? The point is, if you can figure out who the market is, you can go after them in a systematic way.
ZUCKERBROT: But sometimes publishers do that.
KLEINMAN: Publishers don't do that. Publishers never do that.
ZUCKERBROT: Okay, maybe not five thousand.
KLEINMAN: They're way too busy. They're going to pay for the co-op and everything else, but they're not going to do specific, grassroots marketing. They just can't. But the main point is that you've got to get a grasp on the audience for a book.
BARER: But that can be hard for literary fiction. Sometimes you have a literary novel that doesn't have a specific audience.
ZUCKERBROT: That's where the independent bookstores are still so valuable, even though there aren't as many.
BARER: But here's the thing. I am the biggest lover of independents ever. I worked in an independent bookstore. Toby and the people at my local independent bookstore, Three Lives, hand-sold Joshua Ferris's novel like nobody's business. But at the end of the day, there's a limit to the amount of stock that they are physically able to move. I think the ABA and IndieBound are amazing, and they're looking for ways to build their presence and be a powerful force, but I think it's still in development. They aren't always able to move the same number of copies as a B&N Recommends pick. Unfortunately. I think they should. I think more people should be giving them business. Can I get up on a little bit of a pedestal for a minute? This is something I say at every writers conference I attend. If you're a writer and you want to be published, go out and buy a hardcover debut novel and short-story collection tomorrow. And next month, do it again. Buy one every freaking month. Because if you want to be published and you want people to buy your books, and you are not out there supporting fiction and debut authors, you are the biggest hypocrite in the world and I don't know who you think you are. I mean, come on, people!
ZUCKERBROT: But when you're talking about literary fiction—books that can't be boiled down to a sentence, and where you can't target a specific group—how do books like that find their audience? You're saying it's not independent bookstores anymore. Do you think reviews still play a part?
BARER: I think it's word-of-mouth. I think word-of-mouth does more than anything else.
ZUCKERBROT: But where is that word-of-mouth happening now? The Internet?
BARER: Everywhere. It has to be one of those books where everybody you know is talking about it, you see it everywhere you go, it's being reviewed on every Web site.
ZUCKERBROT: Exactly. And the publishers are asking, "How are we supposed to get that buzz going when there's so much noise and everyone is buzzing?"
KLEINMAN: You know what the answer is? The answer is the editor. I'm convinced that if you have a choice between an editor who is a great editor—who really understands fiction, how it works, how to shape it—versus an editor who is a cheerleader, I will always, from now on and forever afterward, take the cheerleader. For a long time I kept thinking, "It's so important to have an editor who can shape the book." I was such a moron.

But let's talk about what your authors are doing that's working. What are your authors teaching you about selling books today?
ZUCKERBROT: I have a client who everybody really likes. She's smart. She's thoughtful. She's genuinely nice. Across the board, wherever she goes, everyone just wants to support her. That's a huge part of it. You've got to be on your best behavior, even if you're in a crappy mood. Always write thank-you notes. Help other writers. I have another client who's like that too. So aside from being smart and writing something really terrific, I think you have to have people rooting for you.
BARER: I'm going to say something that I think will be really unpopular. It always surprises me when seemingly smart writers—I can't believe I'm saying this, it's probably because I'm drunk—who are obviously really talented choose the worst subject matter to write about. I want to say, "Look around you." I respect and understand that some writers don't like to look at other books while they're working on something. But think about who wants to read about this character. If you have spent four hundred pages writing about a deeply unsympathetic person, or an event that's already been written about ten times, or...I mean, the unlikable character thing is really hard for me to understand. If I don't like a character, why would I want to spend four hundred pages with them? Why would you write a whole book about them? Am I wrong about that?
LAZAR: No, not at all.
ZUCKERBROT: But there are some authors who you tell that to—"This character isn't likable"—and they think the character has redeeming qualities and is likable. I have an officemate who has this wonderful nonfiction writer who was working on his or her next book and picked some subject matter that was so obscure. The agent said, "Who is the audience for this?" The writer explained that he or she was really passionate about it. The agent said, "But who's supposed to read this? You may be passionate about it—"
BARER: But you do want people to buy the book.
ZUCKERBROT: Right. It's not that you have to write for your audience. But you have to keep your audience in mind. That's a distinction you have to make. Every once in a while I'll go to a writers conference and meet someone who says, "I don't read contemporary fiction." I think, "Next." I don't want to hear that you're mired in the classics. The classics are great. They're an amazing foundation to have. But if you are not reading what is being published today, and what is selling, who are you writing for?
KLEINMAN: It just depends on what you want as a writer. If you want to write literary fiction that's beautifully done but will be published by a university press and won't get a big print run, then that's great. But don't come yelling at us because we can't sell something that's not commercial enough. I just think it's a different marketplace and a different kind of attitude.

I hear a lot of writers complain about how hard it is to get an agent. What do you guys think about that?
BARER: Try how hard it is to sell a book!
ZUCKERBROT: When you see a great query letter, or a book that's really great, it stands out from the pack. Everyone's all over it. Part of the problem is that most of the query letters we see are sort of generic sounding. People say, "I've written a book" but don't tell you anything about who they are. They don't list credentials. They don't have to have credentials, but they should just say, "This is my first novel." It's not easy, but just try to write a really smart and thoughtful letter. I always think about the people in all these writing groups who spend years working on something. Share your query letter with the people in your writing group. Does your letter interest them?
BARER: I would also say that the first twenty pages count more than anything. As an agent, you have a limited amount of time, and if those twenty pages don't blow you away...
ZUCKERBROT: And you get these people who say, "I enclose the first twenty pages, but it doesn't get good until page seventy." Wrong answer! I think, "Ditch pages one through sixty-nine." I can't send this to an editor and say, "Here's this really great novel, and it gets good on page seventy."
KLEINMAN: But on the other side of the coin, it feels like what people don't want to hear—readers, editors, agents—is that the premise has been done. Or that it's so bizarre that you can't figure out what to do with it. I'll give you an example. I went to this Web site for writers that I spend a lot of time on, and one writer had written a query letter about his book. The character is this guy who is sitting and trying to do something, and this client of his comes in, sits down, and blows her brains out in front of him. That's how the book starts. It's sort of interesting, but there's also this huge yuck factor. You're reading it and thinking, "Okay, I can't imagine calling up an editor and saying, ‘So, I have this really yucky book....'" This author is having a real problem selling the book. No agent wants to even look at it. So what's he doing wrong? According to everybody else, it's all about writing a great letter. And that's what he keeps doing: He's going back again and again and again to work on the letter and make the letter great. Dude, the problem is—
BARER: You have to think about the story.
KLEINMAN: Exactly.
BARER: Every once in a while I think you can transcend that. You'll have an author like Elizabeth McCracken who writes a memoir that sounds so devastating and yet she's so gifted and it's so well done.
KLEINMAN: But that's not even the same universe as what we're talking about. We're talking about first novelists.
BARER: That's right. You're right.
ZUCKERBROT: The thing is, I don't think there are any hard-and-fast rules. There are guidelines.
KLEINMAN: Do you think The Lovely Bones would have been published if it had been her first book?
ZUCKERBROT: I don't know what it looked like unedited, so it's hard to say. I only read the edited version. But I read it in bound galleys and I was hooked from the first sentence. I couldn't put it down.
KLEINMAN: Well, I so could put it down that I actually threw it out the window. I didn't even want it in the house with me.
BARER: I was a very bad judge of that book. I really liked it, but I thought, "This will be really hard to break out because it's so upsetting."
KLEINMAN: "I've got this great book about a dead nine-year-old girl."
BARER: It's so hard to say that to a woman. And let's just put it on the record right now that women buy fiction and men do not. Step up to the fucking plate, men out there, and start buying some fiction—I mean literary fiction—because otherwise we're all just going to keep that in mind when you're trying to get published. Show yourselves! Apparently, for some reason, they aren't. I don't know why. You have these incredibly talented young male writers like Ben Kunkel and Nat Rich who are publishing books, and where are the young men who should be buying them?
KLEINMAN: Totally playing video games, and I don't blame them.

What do you mean by that?
KLEINMAN: I just find that so much fiction these days doesn't capture me.
ZUCKERBROT: Have you read Knockemstiff? Donald Ray Pollock, debut collection, set in Knockemstiff, Ohio, in the sixties and seventies? I read a lot of things and think, "Eh, I like it but I don't love it." I went gaga for this book. It's one of the best collections I've ever read. I read it and thought, "I'm jealous that I didn't represent this." Now, I don't know who's buying it. It's probably women like me who love Lee K. Abbott, Ray Carver, Richard Ford, those kinds of writers.
KLEINMAN: See, I don't want to read short fiction. I don't want to curl up with a collection of short stories. It's totally boring.
BARER: You're what's wrong with literary fiction today.
ZUCKERBROT: It's not boring at all! How can you say that?
KLEINMAN: I want to get captured by a book and find myself five hundred pages later—
BARER: You can be captured by a short story collection.
ZUCKERBROT: You totally can. Did you read Kissing in Manhattan by David Schickler?
KLEINMAN: No, I keep falling asleep before I can get started on those things. I see their covers and I want to fall asleep.
BARER: Lorrie Moore? Alice Munro?
ZUCKERBROT: Did you ever read Eudora Welty?
BARER: This is why story collections are so fucking hard. Ninety percent of the world doesn't want to read them.

Tell us what isn't captivating you.
KLEINMAN: If I want to read a book, and I'm going to spend thirty bucks, I don't want to read about a bunch of characters who are going to come and go. I want to fall in love with these characters. I want to fall in love with these characters and the world they're living in so completely—
BARER: Julie Orringer! Jhumpa Lahiri! Nathan Englander! There are so many great collections out there.
ZUCKERBROT: What about the people who say, "I don't have time to read a novel"? Short story collection! You can start and finish in a short period of time.
KLEINMAN: No, to me the reason they don't have time to read is because the books are not keeping their interest.

What is not keeping their interest?
KLEINMAN: I think there's so much MFA stuff with such a standard voice and such a standard protocol. Everything is—
BARER: Jim Shepard's last short story collection!
KLEINMAN: I'm falling asleep already.
ZUCKERBROT: I think it's so personal. Seriously, that's why I love something and another agent turns it down. It depends on your life experiences that you bring to that book at the moment. Does it speak to you or does it not? It's the same thing with movies. There must be movies you love and I hate. It doesn't mean they're good or bad. I think that's the case with a lot of literary fiction.
BARER: Fiction is subjective, and I really believe that part of what I take on and what I pay attention to depends on the mood I'm in and what's going on in my life. If I have just had a horrible breakup, and a novel comes in that's all about some incredibly intense love affair, I'm probably not the best reader for that book.
KLEINMAN: I think it's much wider than that. I think the problem is that we're all sheep. I think we're all coming from the same complex. We're all either in New York or affiliated with New York and have the same kind of vision because "this is the stuff that sells." I think there's a uniformity.

Now you're talking about a problem with the publishing industry.
KLEINMAN: Let me tell you what I mean. I have a house in Virginia, and I have friends come down and visit. I had this friend of mine who edits diet books come to visit. We went to IHOP for lunch. She ordered an omelet. Have you ever had an IHOP omelet? You get an omelet and pancakes and toast and all this other stuff. When it arrived, she was frantic. She was like, "Oh my God, I can't believe there's all this food. What are we going to do? How can these people do this?" She sells diet books. That is her market. That's what she does for a living. I kept thinking, "You sell diet books and you don't even know that this is how America eats." And I honestly feel that's how it is with fiction, too.
ZUCKERBROT: People in New York are out of touch?
KLEINMAN: New York is a whole different planet. And I don't think writers and publishers are thinking about the market.
BARER: I disagree. I think there are still—and these might not be the seven-figure or even the six-figure deals—but there are still editors out there who fall in love with a story and feel there is at least enough of a hook that they can use as their marketing angle to take a chance that a book might be the next big thing. Or even if it's not the next big thing, it's still a worthy book to pursue. I have sold novels for not a lot of money to editors who feel like, "I just love this story and I can't let it go. I can't give it up." And maybe it'll be huge, because of some fluke, and maybe it won't, but clearly this writer is gifted and this is a wonderful book and hopefully they will go on to do bigger and better things and turn into somebody like...think of all those writers for whom publishers got in on the ground floor.
LAZAR: Stephen King.
BARER: Ann Patchett.
ZUCKERBROT: Lorrie Moore.
BARER: Writers who were published for years and years and somehow their third or fourth book exploded, and it was because somebody stuck with them.

But now there's so much emphasis on the first book because of how bookstores are ordering based on the sales track. If the first book doesn't sell, you can be in trouble.
LAZAR: My first New York Times best-seller was by a woman whose first book sold for not a huge sum of money. But the reason it worked was because her editor, Jeanette Perez at Harper, threw down for that book from beginning to end. She was there from the beginning of the publication to the end of the publication. She bought the author's next book, and she bought the author's third and fourth books. On the first book, they changed the title three times. They changed the cover four times. And because they didn't pay so much money for the book, it could have fallen through every single crack in the publishing floor. But Jeanette just did not let it happen. She's wonderful to work with because she will get behind a book and push and push and push. An author can make a world of difference, but the level of success we're talking about requires a publisher to get behind a book and get a lot of copies out there.
BARER: Put that book into stores. Convince your sales force that they need to convince booksellers to order that book. If the book is in stores, it has 100 percent more chance of selling than if it's not in stores. If you only print ten thousand copies and people walk into Barnes & Noble and look on the tables and it's not there, how are they supposed to know to buy it?
KLEINMAN: The publishers pay for that co-op.
LAZAR: Co-op is the most amazing thing. I have a couple of books that I'm watching, and these are not authors who are huge sellers. But they got three or four weeks of co-op and the books are selling twelve hundred or fifteen hundred copies a week. The week the co-op ends, the sales go down to two hundred. It's like the book just disappears. That's why I think it's fair to let authors know that distribution and placement are so important. If you put something in front of people's faces, they'll buy it.
BARER: Having worked at an independent bookstore, I think it's true that a lot of people don't know what to read. They want to buy a book but they don't know how to pick a book. And the easiest way to pick a book is if it's on a table. I think a lot of book buyers don't know that the reason a book is on a table is because it was paid to be put there. And I think publishers even choose which books are eligible to be paid for.
LAZAR: This is a really interesting subject because it's something we all know about and talk about all the time, but as agents, we have very little control over. As an agent, one thing that I like is having control over things. Sometimes, watching a publisher publish a book, and knowing everything that we know and all the tools you need and all the things that should fall into place, and just watching a book...it's so amazing when it happens and it's so painful when you can just feel in your heart that it's not happening.
KLEINMAN: That's the reason we started Folio. I was going so insane thinking about all these things that weren't happening. I kept thinking, "Why aren't people doing something?" So we have a marketing person, a lecture agent, a bunch of things like that.
BARER: You took it out of their hands and put it in your hands.
KLEINMAN: When Harper was publishing The Art of Racing in the Rain, they published the James Frey novel on the same day. I was just ballistic. But I could call up the publisher and say, "Okay, I know you have a book that is going to be much more media important for you," and I could at least say to them, "Let's use my person." It was this amazing power thing. All of a sudden I could feel the balance of power changing. "Oh, it's not always begging the publisher to do something." That was cool.

Do you guys think editors still edit as much as they used to?
ALL: Yes.
BARER: I think it's a myth.
ZUCKERBROT: I think it's a myth that might have been started by dissatisfied and unhappy authors.
KLEINMAN: Who says that stuff?
LAZAR: Just from having read [Michael Korda's] Another Life, it sounds like in those days, on a scale of one to ten, if a book was at three, an editor could buy it. Today a book has to be at six or seven and then the editor can take it to ten.
BARER: The difference is not that they don't edit. The difference is that they can't buy it if it's not at a certain level.
LAZAR: Yeah. They aren't any more or less talented than editors fifty years ago, but their hands are tied when a book is not at a certain level. That's why we have to spend so much time on the editing.
ZUCKERBROT: Also, editors today, as opposed to editors fifty years ago, spend most of their days in meetings. Editing is done at night and on the weekends. It's a very different thing.
BARER: I think Dan's point is really true. I will not send out a book until I've done three line edits and I cannot think of a single other thing that I can do to help it.
LAZAR: And the writers sometimes get—
BARER: They're ready to kill me! They're like, "Please, please let it go. Please, can't we just try it?" No! I will not send it out until it is perfect to me, and then it will be edited again by your editor. But it will have a chance at actually selling.
LAZAR: What Renee said about meetings is so true. This week, for some reason all of these foreign publishers are coming to meet with us. Yesterday, I had five meetings not including my lunch date. My e-mail piled up, my desk piled up, and I remember getting back to my desk and calling someone back after the whole day had passed and thinking, "I will never again get mad at an editor I like who takes a day to call me back." Now I understand that I may have caught them on the day when they had their editorial meeting, their jacket meeting, and their positioning meeting, and they just physically were not able to call me back. I remember getting back to my desk and going, "Where the hell did my day go?"

How else have things changed? Did everybody read that end-of-publishing article in New York magazine?
LAZAR: I read it and couldn't decide if I should buy up every issue I could get my hands on and throw them off the top of the HarperCollins building, or if I should throw myself off and make it faster. But I talked to Amy Berkower and Al Zuckerman and Robin Rue, who have been in this business for a lot longer than I have, and they all said, "We read that same article every single year."
BARER: People who are not in the business say that to me all the time. "Oh, isn't publishing dying?"
ZUCKERBROT: But the music industry is dead. Of all the media that's really dying or dead, it's music. Books are healthy compared to music. But when people talk about the Kindle and the Sony Reader? Books are pretty much a perfect technology. So all this stuff about how e-books are going to—
KLEINMAN: You freak! What are you talking about? These things [grabs a book] are Paleolithic!
ZUCKERBROT: It's portable. It lasts. If you want to read something, what's broken about it?
KLEINMAN: I don't want to read it there. I can't search that. It's heavy.
ZUCKERBROT: Are you serious?
KLEINMAN: I'm totally serious.
LAZAR: I agree with you, but I don't think the Kindle is the answer. It's going to be something that's not here yet.
ZUCKERBROT: Maybe in fifteen or twenty years.
LAZAR: But whatever the iPod of books is going to be, it's going to come sooner than we think. It's going to change things.
ZUCKERBROT: But does that change the fact that people don't read the way they go to the movies or the way they buy music? That's the question.
KLEINMAN: No, the point is that you simply have to make the device and the medium more interesting to people who do listen to music and go to the movies.
ZUCKERBROT: Don't you have to make the words on the page more interesting? Or is it a combination of the two?
LAZAR: Yeah, I think it's both.

I just don't see how the iPod-for-books analogy works. Books and music are different. The problem with music was that you had to carry around all these CDs or tapes. But you're only reading one book at a time. Most people, anyway. And you want people in the café to be able to see what you're reading so you can look cool and pick up girls.
BARER: It's always all about picking up girls.
KLEINMAN: My wife and daughter do books on tape, and they love them. They take them to the car, then they carry them in to the CD player in the house, then they carry them upstairs and listen to them in the bedroom. The idea that an audio book is different from a printed book strikes me as just ludicrous. They're the same thing.
LAZAR: I listened to audio books all through high school, and I loved them. But it's different.
KLEINMAN: It's a different experience, but it's the same stuff, whether it's on the page or you're listening to it. It's the same book. I'm saying that we should be thinking about something totally different. There should be a device that deals with the text in whatever medium it's in, and obviously that's why Amazon bought Audible.
ZUCKERBROT: Reading the words on a page and listening to them are not the same experience. I wish I was a neuroscientist so I could really explain it.
KLEINMAN: You're doing the head of the pin thing. It's not important. The point is that you have content that you're downloading into your brain, and it doesn't matter if you're reading it or listening to it or touching the page with Braille. Words are traveling into your head, and however they're getting there, they're getting there. We need a single device that will do that and make it somehow interesting and exciting and fun and interactive. There's all this stuff that books can do, and they're not doing it. The answer is always, "This [holds up a book] is the perfect device. It's perfect. It's been perfect for five hundred years...."
ZUCKERBROT: What I meant is that when we talk about how to create more readers, people aren't not reading books because carrying them in your bag is so difficult, or opening it to the page is so difficult.
KLEINMAN: I think it is.
ZUCKERBROT: It's not. This is a technology that's been around for a long, long time, and it works, unless you happen to leave it out in the rain.
LAZAR: I bet the Kindle would break if you left it out in the rain, too.
ZUCKERBROT: The point is, how do we create a new generation of readers? That's one of the many reasons why Harry Potter has been so fabulous. We have to grow new generations of readers. And technology can help. I'm a dinosaur. I grew up with books and typewriters. But this new generation wants all the gadgets. They want to be able to play with it and they want to be nimble.
BARER: I have to say, I really hate this debate of either/or. That we're either going to become this electronic world or we're going to be dinosaurs. Hopefully we will continue to grow readers, and people will read in several mediums, whether it's on their computers or on their e-book-version whatevers or on the printed page. The goal of agents and publishers is to keep finding ways in which we can reach as many of those readers as possible and provide as many opportunities for them to read our books as we can. Not just one way, but many ways.
KLEINMAN: That's the problem. I don't think that's what publishers are doing now. They are going by the same old Paleolithic ways of doing things. They are translating this ancient technique of reading into the Kindle. But it's the same thing. And I think it needs to be something different.

How do you feel that the consolidation of publishers has affected being a writer today?
KLEINMAN: It's totally a drag.
ZUCKERBROT: As an agent, you have fewer places to submit. It's supposed to be about competition. But if you go to Penguin, only one imprint can bid. At Simon & Schuster there's a house bid.
BARER: At Random House they can bid but they can't be bidding against just each other.
KLEINMAN: It's not just that, it's the loss of personalities.
BARER: They all used to have such distinctive personalities.
ZUCKERBROT: And now every house has like twenty-five imprints. The editors have their own personalities and their own styles, but sometimes I can't differentiate which houses want what because there's so much crossover. After a while, they lose their identities. What's the difference between Imprint A and Imprint B?
KLEINMAN: It's so insane when you go to these various imprints that sound so similar—they're doing the same kinds of books—and they say, "This isn't the kind of book we publish. This isn't right for our list." You're like, "Dudes, your lists are all generic now. What are you talking about?" You don't always get that, but sometimes you do.
BARER: Look at Houghton Mifflin Harcourt. I love HMH. But I loved being able to go to both of them because I felt like they had distinct flavors.
ZUCKERBROT: It goes back to what an agent can do with your book, and how to place it. That's where it hurts writers.
BARER: Here is what kills me: Everybody is looking for a big book. Nobody wants to take the chance on a kind of unknown, odd debut novel that maybe you don't pay a lot for. Even the houses that you used to think of, now they read the book and say, "We're not sure we could get out fifteen thousand copies, and if we can't do that, we don't really want to do it." It's like, how do you know you can't get out fifteen thousand unless you buy the book and convince yourself to try? They want a sure thing.
KLEINMAN: But you don't know who the market is, you don't know how to position this thing, you don't know how to sell it to somebody. It's a commodity.
BARER: But I also think it's about the fact that every publisher wants a book that everybody reads. And when we're talking about fiction, it's impossible to know.
KLEINMAN: No. They just want books for which you can clearly delineate the market. It has nothing to do with everybody.
BARER: But I'm talking about literary fiction where maybe...I'll give you an example. Ishiguro's Never Let Me Go is one of my favorite books of the last decade. I must have recommended that book to at least fifty people, half of whom were like, "You're right, this is one of the best books I've ever read," and half of whom were like, "You're fucking crazy. I don't get it. It's weird. What is this book supposed to be? Is it science fiction?" If that was a debut novel, if it wasn't Ishiguro, and I had said to a publisher, "Here's a book that some people are going to love and some people are going to think is fucking weird," it's possible that a publisher would have said, "We're looking for something that everybody's going to love. We want a book that has mass commercial appeal." That is not that book, and the times when publishers are willing to take chances on those books are fewer and farther between.
LAZAR: It's true. But I think one of the reasons why agents exist is that after a while, fingers crossed, you get to a point where something like that can be a big book because you say so. "Because I say this is a big book, this is a big book." Even if it's weird. Look what Eric Simonoff did for The Gargoyle. Whether or not it sold well, he said, "This is a big book," and it was.
ZUCKERBROT: If Nicole Aragi says, "This is a big book," you don't think editors sit up and listen?
BARER: Now we've just convinced all these writers to send their books to Nicole and Eric instead of us!
ZUCKERBROT: Everyone already knows who they are.

That's an interesting point. How do you guys compete with people who have been around longer?
LAZAR: I compete. I either lose the author or I win them over with my enthusiasm, my speed, my ideas for their book, and the books I've done that I can point to.
BARER: I am so picky about what I take on. I really don't take on a lot of stuff. So if I am so crazy about a book that I want to take it on, somewhere deep inside of me I believe that it's not possible for somebody else to be as crazy about it as I am. So you will never have as passionate an agent as you will have in me.
ZUCKERBROT: But you also talk to them about your vision for the book.
BARER: You do a lot of editorial work with them.
LAZAR: You give free notes.
ZUCKERBROT: And sometimes you lose.
BARER: Sometimes it works against you. Some writers don't want those notes. I have lost books where I have said, "Here's what this book needs. I know exactly how to take it to the next level."
LAZAR: Then you know what? You would not have been the right agent. For example, when I read The Art of Racing in the Rain, I admired it very much but I thought it needed a little more x, y, z, let's say. I remember writing a very nice note to Garth and saying, "This is very impressive, but blah blah blah." Well, the next thing you know, some other motherfucker sells it for $1.25 million the way it was. [Laughter.]
KLEINMAN: Call me a mofo.
LAZAR: Okay, a mofo. If I had taken that book on the way it was, I either would have put him through editorial hell or I would have sent it out the way it was and maybe—not intentionally—underpitched it and if someone tried to preempt it for, you know, a hundred thousand dollars, I would have been grateful.
KLEINMAN: You want to know how I handled that, just because I think it's kind of interesting? I read the first fifty pages and knew exactly what was wrong with the book. I called him and said, "Here's what you need to do to fix it." He said, "Do you want to see the rest?" I was like, "No. There's no point. I know you have to fix this first." He was like, "Yeah, you're right. I see exactly what you mean." All I can say is, I don't feel like I'm competing against other agents.
BARER: You never feel like you're competing against them?
KLEINMAN: I don't want to think about it like that. I feel like I've got to have a relationship with the author, and it's me and the author.
BARER: Do you ever lose things?
KLEINMAN: Constantly.

Do the rest of you feel competitive?
LAZAR: I feel competitive with a certain pool of agents.
BARER: I feel competitive all the time. But some of the people I compete with the most are the people I admire the most. So when they get a book that I really wanted, I feel validated and really happy for them. But it's impossible to not feel competitive in this industry.
KLEINMAN: What I hate is when you don't know if something is out with other people. I had this woman, and I should have known that she had her book out with other agents. I wrote her this nice rejection letter, gave her my comments, and thought I was sort of done. Then she calls me up and we have a conversation about the freaking book. Then we meet at some conference and I talk to her about the book. She implements everything and sends me the book, and a week later I get, "I have an offer of representation."
ZUCKERBROT: But maybe she was taking comments from a whole bunch of agents.
KLEINMAN: Probably.
ZUCKERBROT: And you could have asked her.
KLEINMAN: Oh, yeah, I totally should have. But I don't think about it.
BARER: You don't have to give exclusives to agents, but you have to be up-front and say, "Other people have this."
ZUCKERBROT: I hate it when I'm in the middle of reading something and somebody e-mails me and says, "I just want to let you know that I've received an offer of representation and I'm taking it."
BARER: Yeah, kiss my ass! Thanks so much for giving me an opportunity! But I think it's okay to say, "I've gotten an offer, I'm considering it, and I'd love for you to read it as soon as possible and let me know."
ZUCKERBROT: That's the way to do it.
BARER: There's no clock on this. If one agent offers you representation, and you have the book out with other people, that offer, if it's genuine, will not evaporate. Take your time. Ask questions. Give other agents a chance. Don't jump at the first guy who offers you a ring.
ZUCKERBROT: But they get scared. The other thing to remember is that you're hiring an agent to work for you. It's been flipped in such an odd way. You have all these writers who are so desperate. But the truth of the matter is, they're hiring us to work for them.
KLEINMAN: So much of it's about responsiveness. My favorite story is about this book I got from a doctor in San Francisco. He'd written this novel. He sent it to me on a Wednesday, and I was doing the whole "I'm going to be an important literary person" thing and I thought, "I'll read it on my at-home reading day on Friday." So I took it home on Friday and read the book and totally loved it. I called the author and said, "I would love to represent you." He said, "Well, Elaine Koster just offered representation, and I'm going to go with her."
LAZAR: Oh, man.
BARER: Not even a conversation.
KLEINMAN: The book was called The Kite Runner. [Extended whooping and laughter.] And I think he did absolutely the right thing. She was totally on the ball.
LAZAR: You lost The Kite Runner? I lost The Art of Racing in the Rain, but you lost The Kite Runner? That trumps everything.
KLEINMAN: The point is, I think so much of this business is egotistical agents who make writers wait.
BARER: But you weren't making him wait.
KLEINMAN: I totally did. I was like, "I'll read it on Friday."
ZUCKERBROT: But that's only forty-eight hours!
LAZAR: You know what? Thank God for those agents who make people wait. Because then we have an advantage. We're faster.

What should writers know about agents that they don't know?
ZUCKERBROT: We're human.
KLEINMAN: Nooooo.
LAZAR: Don't tell them that.
ZUCKERBROT: We're overworked like everyone else?
BARER: We're subjective readers.
ZUCKERBROT: We're basically decent people who are just overwhelmed with submissions. What I always hear is, "Agents never get back to me. They don't do this, they don't do that."
BARER: I had 175 e-mails today. I just can't humanly get back to everybody in one day!
ZUCKERBROT: We're always looking for new writers, but our priority is our existing clients. It's a balance between taking care of our existing clients and finding new writers.
KLEINMAN: I have two things to say. First of all, I think all agents are sheep. I think they all follow the herd. They're subjective, but they're subjective within a limited vocabulary. They want to do certain kinds of things. So if they do commercial fiction, they like the same kind of commercial fiction. Because they know it sells. So that's the first thing—agents are sheep. And the second thing...crap, I had this really good second thing and now I can't remember what it is. Forget it, there's only one thing.

What about you, Dan?
LAZAR: I'm so irritated by what he just said that I can't think of anything.
BARER: I have to agree. I think that's so wrong. I'm not a sheep.
ZUCKERBROT: Maybe a lemming.
BARER: I'm not a sheep or a lemming!
KLEINMAN: I just remembered the other thing. I think agents are absolutely no busier than any other human being in modern times. So Julie got 175 e-mails today. I'll bet you most first-year lawyers get 175 e-mails a day. I honestly think it's a job like everybody else's—it just may take a little longer than others.
BARER: I'm not complaining about the fact that I get 175 e-mails a day. But I do want to speak to the busyness. Just because it may take me two or three days longer than another agent to read your material doesn't necessarily mean that I won't be the best agent once I read it and fall in love with it.
KLEINMAN: I actually agree. Because you could have a bad agent read it fast.
BARER: Absolutely.
KLEINMAN: However, I think responsiveness is important. I think there's a huge problem in this business because the balance is so shifted. I have gone out to lunch with big agents and felt like we had to order for three—me, the agent, and the agent's ego.
BARER: But to me it's not about ego. To me it's that I want to give all my clients everything I have. I spend my day giving my clients as much attention as they need. Which means that it's harder to find the time for new writers.
LAZAR: It's also supply and demand. There are just a lot more writers out there who need agents than there are agents.
BARER: But the thing is, I'm always looking for new writers, and I want to represent new clients, but I really want to take care of the clients I've already made a commitment to. So if I have a client who calls me and is having a meltdown because they're stuck in Arizona or something or they can't finish a chapter....
LAZAR: What are you, a travel agent?
BARER: Yes! I am shrink and mom and lawyer and editor and marriage counselor. There are days when I spend five hours handling problems for somebody.
KLEINMAN: I think that's a woman thing. I don't feel like I do that at all.
BARER: That is 50 percent of my job.
LAZAR: That's a dangerous thing to say: "I think that's a woman thing."
ZUCKERBROT: You don't get calls from clients who say, "My husband's left me," or "Oh my God, my house burned down"?
BARER: "I'm stuck on this chapter and my kid's in school now and I think that's part of what's making it so hard"? My job is to help them get through that.
LAZAR: You do become sort of an amateur therapist and an amateur financial advisor.

What is getting harder about your job?
BARER: Selling books. Selling good literary fiction is getting harder.
ZUCKERBROT: BookScan. If you have a literary writer with great reviews, but the sales aren't going in the right direction, it's really tough. The editor punches in the ISBN and there's the sales history. It's really tough if the writer's third book hasn't taken off.

So what are you guys doing, or trying to do, for writers who find themselves in that situation?
KLEINMAN: This is why we have people on staff. We have a marketing person and a lecture person. I think it's really important for people in this business to be thinking outside the box. I really feel like so many of these agents are dinosaurs. They have a model that works for them because they have a huge backlist. Those backlist books keep selling, and that's the way they work. But I don't think that's going to work in ten years. I think you have to be thinking of other ways of doing it. One of them, for instance, is speaking. People are speaking in different kinds of venues and selling books. The question is, How can you get those books tracked through BookScan? But there are answers to that kind of thing.
BARER: I think it's important to think carefully about what the next book is. I often say to my writers, "What are you thinking about writing next, and why?"
KLEINMAN: But that's still passive.
BARER: I disagree. I've had writers who had first books that didn't perform extraordinarily well hand me fifty or one hundred pages of their second novel and I've said to them, "This will not break you out. I can sell this book. It will keep you in the midlist, but it will not help your career. Put this book aside and start something else." And they have.
KLEINMAN: Can I ask a question here? I want to figure out how to change the dynamics of the power. Because no matter how you're doing it, it's, "Okay, write another book." It's always us saying to the publisher, "Please get that co-op." It's all about distribution. And we are powerless.
LAZAR: We aren't powerless. But we can't do everybody's job. If that were the case, then I should just quit being an agent and become a publisher and do it myself. Which I'm not going to do, because I don't know how to do it.
KLEINMAN: If you do, can I come work for you?
LAZAR: No.
KLEINMAN: He means that in a nice way. But to me a lot of it has to be a question of shifting the power and figuring out what the publisher can do really well and how we can get them to focus on the stuff they do really well. And the stuff that they can do really well and we can't is distribution and co-op and getting those books into stores.
LAZAR: And they can do it aggressively and excitedly when they have a book that's exciting. I think Julie's point is a good one. I had an author whose first book, without going into too many details, just tanked. It probably sold less than a thousand copies. We had a long, long talk, and she's really smart, and she changed her new book around. She got a new idea. She looked at books that were working and changed the way she constructed her second novel. And if that first book sold under a thousand copies, the new one isn't going to sell a million copies, but it's probably selling between five and ten thousand copies. Which is a step in the right direction.
BARER: It can sound really crass to talk in those kinds of terms. Sometimes I'll meet writers and they'll say, "Well, you're not talking about the craft, you're talking about the commercial aspect." No, I'm talking about both. If you're a really strong writer, then you should be able to really think about story. What story is going to appeal to a large number of people and what story is going to appeal to five people? The books that don't work these days are those wonderful little books that I loved in the eighties—those very quiet, introspective, interior, family coming-of-age books. I loved those books. But they just don't work anymore.

What is the worst part of your job?
LAZAR: Rejection on a book you love. When no one can see how brilliant you are. You think, "This book is brilliant and I'm brilliant for loving it," but nobody agrees.
KLEINMAN: For me it's getting fired. I've been fired by two authors so far, and I will never, ever forget it.
BARER: I would say that not being able to sell a book and having a book that you've spent two years editing, selling, and publishing die upon publication are equally horrible experiences. The other thing that writers may not realize about agents is that I lie awake in bed at night and I think about the books I couldn't sell or the books I sold that didn't work and it's all I can do not to cry myself to sleep. It hurts us as much as it hurts them.
ZUCKERBROT: And you do postmortems. I sometimes think, "Why doesn't everybody see this book's brilliance? Did I somehow not do my job selling it?"
BARER: "Did I let the author down? Was there another editor I could have tried?"
ZUCKERBROT: "Did I go to the wrong editor at this house?"

What's the best part about your job?
ZUCKERBROT: Discovering a great new voice and having lots of editors want to buy the book and then making a great deal. That's really what it's all about.
BARER: I have to agree. I think the first part is the greatest part of the job. When you finish a book and think, "Oh. My. God. This book is so amazing, and right now I am one of the few people in the world who knows how incredible it is, and pretty soon everybody will know. And I will help make that happen." But nothing comes close to calling a writer and saying, "Your book is going to be published."
LAZAR: Selling the book that you've had a hard time selling, and then having it work. Calling the author is really cool too. Their reactions are so funny because they range from dumbfounded silence to screaming in your ear. I'm like, "I'm not fucking kidding you, I'm not fucking kidding you." One of the absolute coolest things is being on the subway and seeing someone reading one of your books.
KLEINMAN: I like plotting. I love the whole process that you're all talking about, but I also love when you're sitting down with this team of people and coming up with these plans, and you're thinking it through, and you feel like you're all working together. That's really cool.
BARER: Acknowledgments! I love the acknowledgments! I love going to a bookstore and being like, "Look, there's my name!"
LAZAR: Authors should always do that. When I get a finished copy of a book and it doesn't have acknowledgments, I don't feel bad, but it feels much better when you get acknowledged.

page_5: 

AGENTS ANONYMOUS
In the third hour of the conversation, glutted with food and alcohol, the panel agreed to speak anonymously on a range of subjects that would be awkward to discuss for attribution. The participants swore a blood oath never to reveal who said what, and a number of verbal tics have been altered in order to throw any sleuths off the scent.

Tell writers something they should know about editors but may not.
Editors are worried about their jobs. It's a fact of life. It's a business, and they can get fired, and they have to keep their jobs.

You're probably going to have your agent for a lot longer than you're going to have your editor.

The smaller the editor's list, and the smaller the imprint, the more freedom they have to be selective about what they take on and the more time they have to be really responsive and really detail-oriented. It's a lot harder for an editor who's under pressure to buy a lot of books to be able to really be with you every minute.

Tell me about some editors who you think are really good for fiction.
I really like working with Stacy Creamer. I think she's really smart and has a great commercial eye.

Reagan Arthur. She's really selective, so when she loves something, you know that she's insanely in love with it. She will go to the mat and do anything for the book. And I never feel like she is lying to me or giving me company bullshit.

The best editors are the ones who can get people in-house to pay attention. And they have the track record to show for it. You said Reagan, who has an amazing track record, and I would say Sally Kim.

I would sell a kidney to have a book with Courtney Hodell. She's one of the smartest, most interesting people I know. When she buys a book, she is so passionate and articulate about it.

When writers are trying to pick an agent, what are some warning signs that they should watch out for?
They try to charge you money.

They promise you the sun, the moon, and the stars. They say, "I can get you six figures. I can get you national media."

Agents who say, "This needs an edit, and let me recommend you to someone" who will charge you ten thousand dollars. A real agent should be able to help you shape something.

Somebody who says, "I'm really excited about your book and I'd like to sign you up," and then three months later you still haven't heard back from them.

Tell me how you feel about lunch.
Lunch is part of the job. Some days it's really fun and you come back totally energized and inspired, and some days you come back and think, "In six months, that person is leaving publishing and I will never send them anything, they will never buy anything, and that was an enormous waste of my time."

Sometimes you come back from lunch and you feel small and insulted and insecure.

It's like having five blind dates a week.

Sometimes you score big time, and sometimes you're like, "Could I have the waiter call me on my cell phone and pretend that I have an emergency?"

My most terrifying lunch, which turned out to be absolutely terrific, was when I had worked up the guts to start submitting to Julie Grau. After a while she invited me out to lunch. She called me the day before and said, "I'm going to bring Cindy [Spiegel] with me, too. Is that okay?" It turned out to be lovely, but I was so scared.

I had that same lunch with Sonny Mehta. I was like, "I...I...I...I'm not even sure I'm going to be able to get through this lunch and speak coherently."

What are the dumbest mistakes that writers can make in terms of dealing with their editor or agent?
Saying bad things about them. Ever.

Sending seventeen e-mails about seventeen different things in one day. I mean, put it all together in one e-mail and think about whether you really need to be asking these questions. Think about how busy your editor is.

Going over your editor's head unnecessarily.

When they don't tell you about their next project. For example, they've written a great thriller that you sell, and then they write a horror novel. They say, "Guess what? I just wrote a horror novel." You're standing there with this horror novel and thinking, "What am I going to do with this?" They have to communicate about what they're thinking about doing next.

Be very careful about what you blog. Not just talking about the publisher once you're being published, but even before that. If I am submitting your book to publishers and an editor wants to buy it, they're probably going to Google you before they even call me. And if they find things out there that are curious or disturbing? Just know that whatever you're putting online is going to influence their perception of you.

If you take my rejection letter and post it on your Web site, there are few other agents who are going to be willing to put anything in writing to you. We look upon those writers in a bad way.

What are the biggest things that editors do that drive you crazy?
Besides not getting back to us?

I hate when an editor calls me and says, "I'm really, really excited about this project," and then a week or two later they call back and say, "On second thought...." That usually means the publisher shot them down. A lot of young editors do this. They think that if they call back and say, "My publisher shot me down," I won't send them anything else. In reality, it's the exact opposite. I'd much rather hear them say, "I love this book. I fought for this book. But the publisher said no." What better excuse is there?

At least I'll submit to you again. But if I think of you as a flip-flopper?

I hate it when editors toe the corporate line. They give you, "We don't do that. At our house, we don't do that." Or they say, "We're doing a great job. We are doing everything we can. I don't know what you would expect from another house. We are doing everything that any other publisher would do." You know what? It's not true. You people only know what you're doing, and I know what everyone else is doing.

I'd rather hear them say, "I have fought tooth and nail for more money for marketing, and they will not give it to me. I don't know what to tell you." At least they're being honest. In those situations I blame the marketing department, I don't blame them. Some of the most powerful editors in the world aren't necessarily going to be able to convince the publicity or marketing departments to give their books more money.

Then they can come to me and say, "Here's the thing. I fought tooth and nail for x, y, z. I couldn't get it. You might consider—off the record—calling so-and-so or emailing so-and-so. Or going to your author and asking if they can contribute some funds to this."

The editor who is honest with you about the real situation is giving you an opportunity to fix that situation.

But just to play devil's advocate, I will call editors up and say, "Look, it's just you and me here. We're working together. We both want this book to succeed, despite the fact that your marketing and publicity people suck." And the editor will say, "We're doing everything we can," as opposed to saying, "Okay, here's the problem." But if the agent is a certain type of very loud and powerful person who will go over the editor's head and cause problems, then I can see why they don't want to level with you.

But if you have a good relationship with the editor and they say, "Listen, here's the deal. We have these five books all publishing this month. The other ones have really obvious hooks. Ours doesn't. Sales is not responding to it. I don't know how we're going to get it attention," then at least try to do something about it. But if you hide behind the corporate façade, then there's no chance the book will ever work. And I will always feel like you are that team's player and not our team's player.

Are writers conferences useful for writers?
Yes, but not for the reason they think. The problem with writers conferences is that most of them are aimed toward getting the book published, and they should be aimed toward forming a community of writers who can communicate and help one another get endorsements and things like that.

When you're on the fence about taking something on, what are the things that will push you one way or another?
Am I still thinking about it when I wake up the next morning?

I think, "I shouldn't be on the fence."

For me, "maybe" equals "no."

Jofie Ferrari-Adler is an editor at Grove/Atlantic.

Agents & Editors: A Q&A With Agent Molly Friedrich

by
Jofie Ferrari-Adler
9.1.08

A few months ago, I was at lunch with a literary agent who shall remain nameless, and the conversation turned to the subject of our favorite movers and shakers in the industry. When Molly Friedrich's name came up, my lunch companion—no small dealmaker herself—lowered her voice and said something that surprised me. "If I were a writer, I don't see why you would sign with me or any other agent when Molly is out there. What else could you possibly want in an agent?"

It's a sentiment that's hard to dispute. The daughter of two children's book authors, Friedrich was born in London, raised in suburban Long Island, and graduated from Barnard in 1974. She began her career in publishing a few days later as an intern at Doubleday. Over the next two years she was promoted twice, first to assistant editor and then to director of publicity at the company's paperback imprint, Anchor Press. After a year in publicity she took another new job—and a risky step backward—as an assistant to the agent Phyllis Seidel. Soon she moved again, joining the Aaron Priest Literary Agency, where she remained for the next twenty-eight years. In 2006, she set out on her own and formed the Friedrich Agency.

I don't think I can adequately convey the whirlwind of charm, passion, and sheer personal magnetism that Friedrich has spent the last three decades unleashing on the publishing world in service of her clients. Like many of her authors—Melissa Bank, Sue Grafton, Frank McCourt, Terry McMillan, Esmeralda Santiago, Jane Smiley, and Elizabeth Strout among them—she is a force of nature. But behind the deep voice and the big laugh, there is also a Long Island girl who was forced to grow up fast under challenging circumstances; a young wife who left the corporate world because she didn't want to raise her kids by telephone; a brass-knuckle agent who admits she will go to the wall for any novel—flawed or not—that makes her cry three times; and a mother of four who wrote a children's book, You're Not My Real Mother! (Little, Brown, 2004), after her adopted daughter told her precisely that one day.

When I arrive at Friedrich's office in New York City for our conversation, I am ushered in by another of her daughters, Lucy, who just graduated from college and is working as her mother's assistant for the summer. Friedrich's office is bright, warm, and unpretentious. The walls are painted with wide yellow-and-white stripes that run vertically from floor to ceiling. But its most remarkable feature has to be a memento that hangs on a wall in the corner: a framed newspaper clipping from Christmas Day 2005, when two of her clients' books, Sue Grafton's S Is for Silence (G. P. Putnam's Sons) and Frank McCourt's Teacher Man (Scribner), sat side by side atop the New York Times best-seller lists for fiction and nonfiction. As my lunch companion might have observed: How the heck are you supposed to compete with that?

I always like to start with a little background. Where are you from?
I'm the daughter of two writers. I grew up in a family in which language was very important. The one who is known, my father, is the one who got published and didn't raise the children. My mother, Priscilla, is the one who raised us. The two of them collaborated on thirteen children's books. The best book they wrote is called The Easter Bunny That Overslept, and it's been in print since 1957. It has been illustrated not once but three times and was even made into a miserable television show for a while.

The first exotic thing about me is that I was born in London. My parents met in France and were married in Paris—they were both writing, my mother was painting—and they lived a kind of faux-glamorous expatriate life. They had three children in quick succession. The first was in Frankfurt, I was in London, and my brother was in Paris. Then they moved from Paris to Long Island, and they were penniless. They had no support from either set of parents. Those were the days when even if you were educated and had children, you were expected to suck it up and fend for yourself. The first place they lived was with William Gaddis's mother. She had a home in Massapequa and her house had an unrenovated barn. And that's where we lived—in the unrenovated barn. My one claim to literary fame is that apparently there is a scene in The Recognitions in which the main character is describing a naked two-year old on a summer lawn who's putting pennies into a Woolworth's plastic beaded purse. Apparently that is yours truly. When I learned about it I thought, "God, full circle! Even then I was counting money!" But I haven't gone back to see if it's true. It's a piece of family lore. I'm not going to egomaniacally go back through that very long book searching for a possible portrait of my two-year-old self.

I guess the point is that I grew up very comfortable around books, comfortable around writers who would come out to dinner parties and were always sort of around. My father started out at Newsweek and then was at the Saturday Evening Post for years. He started writing books then. He wrote a couple of honestly not-very-good novels and then he wrote many books as a cultural historian. But he never gave up his journalistic work. He needed to earn a steady, consistent living because by then there were five children, the third and fourth of whom were retarded. Today I am their guardian. The fifth child was born eight years after the fourth one, and he's the one who died in a plane crash. So it's a large and noisy family that's complicated in the way of all interesting families.

Where did you go to college?
I went to college at Barnard and graduated with a BA in Art History. My father would not allow me to major in English. He felt very strongly that if he was going to pay tuition, which he did, and that if I was going to be reading books all my life, then there was absolutely no reason for him to underwrite four years of studying Melville. So I tried to figure out the thing I could study that would be the one thing he didn't know about, and that was art history. I studied the early Italian renaissance. Then, of course, there was the question of "What do you do?" What do you do with a BA in Art History from Barnard, when you basically can't do anything but analyze the diagonal composition of a great painting? Not useful! My parents were very consistently clear that when we graduated there would be no support. We were not to have any kind of meltdown, we were not to reveal any learning disorders—if we had them we were to keep them to ourselves. We were to get on with it, and sort ourselves out, and always live within our own incomes.

How did you get started in publishing?
When I was still in Barnard I was renting a room from Connie and Tom Congdon, who was an editor in the apex of his fabulous commercial book editing life because he was the editor of Jaws. Tom said, "You should go into publishing." I called my father because he was the one who could be counted on for an honest response. He said, "Absolutely not. Publishing is what people go into when they don't know what else to do." I said, "But that applies to me!" Congdon said not to pay attention to my father. He said he'd get me an interview at Doubleday. And I do give good interview, as you will learn by the end of this evening. I was a great interview—very confident—and I had done all kinds of interesting things because I'd been working every summer from the age of thirteen on. I'd also gotten pretty poised about being around adults, kind of old beyond my years, I guess, especially with my brother and sister as they were.

But then I had to take the typing test. They knocked off ten points for every mistake, which gave me a score of negative thirty-five. They said, "We'd love to hire you, but..." and I went away. I decided to spend the second semester of my senior year typing the op-ed page of the Times every day. I went back for that typing test two more times, and I was finally hired at thirty-seven words per minute as an intern at Doubleday. I think I was hired really for tenacity alone. It was a great program that they have long since discontinued. You got to spend about two weeks working in every conceivable department: the different editorial departments of Doubleday, the copyediting department, rights and permission. You got to go out to Garden City and deal with the purchasing offices. You got to go on the road with a sales rep and watch books not get placed. Even back then, in 1974, books were skipped. It was really a devastating experience to observe secondhand.

At the end of four months you got to choose where you wanted to go, and naturally I said editorial because I have no imagination. I had the choice of working either in Doubleday trade or Anchor paperback, which back then was about eleven people. It was really big. I went to work as the assistant to Loretta Barrett, who was the editorial director. It should be noted that almost everybody who was at Anchor at the time—aside from Bill Strachan, who has no sense—has become an agent. Marie Brown, Elizabeth Knappman, Loretta Barrett herself, Liv Blumer. We are all agents.

Tell me what those early days were like for you.
Anchor's list was fairly academic back then. There were about 135 books published a year, of which 60 percent were reprints and 40 percent were trade paperback originals. The fact is, I had grown up in a family of extremes. My youngest brother, Tony, was brilliant, and so was my older sister, Liesel. I didn't test well. I didn't learn easily. And I didn't consider myself especially bright. But I was a huge overachiever. It wasn't until I went to college that I realized that if I simply worked harder than anybody else, I would do fine. I saw the same thing at Doubleday. It was great. People would give me work and I would do whatever I was told. I had all kinds of time because my husband was still a sophomore in college—I'd gotten married by then—and he had no time to talk to me anyway. In those days you also got paid overtime, which was essential because I was making six thousand dollars a year. We were really quite penniless, and overtime was what kept the wolf at the door. So I did whatever I was told. I wrote flap copy. I put books into production. I consulted the art department on jackets. I gave books their titles when no one else could think of one. I read whatever I was told to read and even what I was not asked to read.

Mostly, I taught myself how to do the job. When I started working for Loretta, I had inherited this adorable little office—it was really an outer office—with a huge window. But I had no view because the window was blocked by old filing that was stacked up and covering it. I decided that I was going to see my view by the end of six months. That was my goal. Very Prussian. So every night I would stay late and file. And I never filed anything without reading it. That's how I learned how things worked. I learned how people were presenting books, who was buying what books, what Sam Vaughan had decided to publish as opposed to what Lisa Drew was doing in trade, etcetera. I honestly had nothing better to do than to be ferociously ambitious. And there was nothing stopping me.

And you immediately knew that you enjoyed the work?
Oh, yeah. It was great because everybody was so grateful. People were so happy that I was there. Loretta would always thank me. The authors were grateful. But even then I think I had a sense of myself. I remember there was this one agent who called up for Loretta. I guess Loretta hadn't returned her call, and the agent just started screaming at me. I said, "Excuse me. You are not speaking to Loretta. You are speaking to Loretta's assistant. You may not talk to me like this. Would you like me to have her return your call? And if she doesn't, you can count on the fact that it is not because I didn't tell her. But do not scream at me." This woman immediately backed off. When I met her years later, I said, "You're the screamer!" She had no recollection of it at all. But I guess even then, if I think about twenty-two-year-olds and how easily frightened they are, I had one thing that was working to my advantage. I didn't realize it was an advantage until I was in the business a little longer: I had a really good voice. I had a voice that was low, and a voice that bespoke an authority I did not feel. I could use my voice to help me wing it. I would speak to authors who I had never met—they were all over the country—when I was impossibly young as though I knew what I was talking about. I would just try and get the job done, solve the problem at hand, give my boss as little as possible to get aggravated about. And the response from Loretta was enormous gratitude.

So I'd put books into production. I'd say, "Would you like me to edit this book?" She'd say, "Well, yeah." And why not? Who says that I couldn't edit? Why not learn by doing? What is editing, really, except an experienced eye learning how to respond to a manuscript? Learning when a passage in a manuscript simply falls apart. Obviously Loretta read all the editorial letters that I wrote at midnight and one in the morning, showing off for her. My job at Doubleday was to distinguish myself. And I did.

How did you work your way up?
Oh, fast. They had a sort of indentured servant system. You know, first you were an intern, then an assistant, then an assistant to the editor, then an editorial assistant, then an associate editor.... I mean, talk about hierarchical! You could die waiting. You could be thirty. I had no time for that. I'd been there for about two years. Everything was going very well. I was a fully contributing, noisy person. I went to all the editorial meetings. People were learning that they could count on me. If somebody gave me something to read, I would never let them down. I might let them down with my opinion, but I wouldn't let them down by making an excuse of my life. I made it clear that I was somebody who could be approached for almost any problem. I spent a lot of time socializing, going to the cantina, whatever. I'm very social.

So then the Anchor Press publicity director, Liv Blumer, left to become the director of publicity for Doubleday trade, and I was offered her old job as head of publicity for Anchor. That was a big jump. I wasn't sure that I wanted to be in publicity, but I recognized it for what it was, which was a big jump. It seemed like a really good thing to do—to learn how to run something, to hire people, to learn how to promote and publicize books. And I knew I'd be good at it. That job was very good training for me when I became a baby agent, a year later, because it taught me how to present books that no one really wanted to hear about.

Did you like doing publicity?
In my opinion, the two jobs that are the most exhausting in this business are the jobs of the foreign scout and the publicist. The reason is that there is never an end to the job. If you're a scout, there is always another book you can cover, another house you can do well by, another report you can write. If you're a publicist, for every eighty letters you write, and eighty ideas you try, there are seventy-nine that don't work. But the only ones that the author hears about—and the editor hears about and your boss hears about—are the ones that work. It is a thankless and really difficult job. But I did it.

Were you any good at it?
I had one fabulous moment. I'd started, and I was doing everything. I had hired a woman who had no experience in publicity. She had just finished getting her MA in Shakespeare's Apocrypha at NYU, which proved to be totally useless. So there were the two of us—clueless. Meanwhile, the big book on Doubleday's trade list that year was Alex Haley's Roots, so no one wanted to listen to a publicist for Anchor Press. Everyone was deliciously over-focused on Roots.

After six months at the new job, I decided I had earned a vacation. One of the books I had been publicizing was from the "Foxfire" series. It was a wonderful book by Eliot Wigginton called I Wish I Could Give My Son a Wild Raccoon. In my reading I had come across a newsletter that was written by a woman named Kay Sexton. It was a newsletter called the "B. Dalton Newsletter" that was put out by the bookstore chain. I read the newsletter and thought, "This woman really needs to know about the specialness of this book." So I wrote her one of my two-page letters introducing myself and telling her what the book was about and why she had to know about it and get behind it. "All the proceeds are going to Reading Is Fundamental.... Eliot Wigginton is wonderfulness himself...." I never heard a word from her. So I was going on this two-week vacation, and before I left I told my assistant that I was going to call at the end of the first week to check in. This was in the days before cell phones, obviously. So I called my assistant from a payphone in a bathing suit and said, "Anything going on?" She said, "Molly, you won't believe it. You've got three bouquets of flowers!" I said, "What?" She said,"It's so exciting—your entire letter is the subject of the ‘B. Dalton Newsletter.'" Kay had written something like, "In all my years of doing this newsletter, I've never heard from anybody at Doubleday until I finally received this extraordinary letter from one Molly Friedrich, who urged me to take a serious look at I Wish I Could Give My Son a Wild Raccoon. Her letter is so powerful that I print it here in full. Please adjust your orders accordingly." The reason I was getting flowers is that you could see a direct difference from before the newsletter came out and after. Usually, the marketing people, who pay the advertising people, are always taking credit. You never know whether you have actually, tangibly made a difference. Except this one time. So that was my terrific moment in the sun.

Why did you leave Doubleday to become an agent?
I did the publicity job for a year and then I got a phone call from an agent at the time, Phyllis Seidel. She worked out of her Upper East Side brownstone and she'd never had anyone work for her. She said that she was interested in turning her cottage industry into something a bit more fast-moving and professional, and she said she'd heard wonderful things about me from two people who were so different that she was intrigued. She asked if I would come up for an interview. By this point I had learned that it is incredibly important to never say, "No," and I'd been in the business long enough to see that agents were really essential to the industry. I had also been in the business long enough to see that, on the publishing side, there were a lot of meetings. There was a lot of time spent gathering your insecurities together and having them reflected in a group meeting where you got to shore yourselves up. You know:"Well, nineteen of us like the jacket, what do you think of it?" That kind of thing. There was a lot of inefficiency.

Plus, I was married by then and knew I wanted children. I didn't know if corporate America was that hospitable to having children, at least for somebody who really wanted to be around them and actively help them grow up. There weren't a whole lot of senior people at Doubleday at the time who had young children. I decided that I wanted to find an angle of this business that would allow me to continue working but to work around my life and my children. It was a really conscious decision. I also had been exposed to a lot of agents—some of them wonderful, some of them appallingly bad—a whole raft of agents from the sublime to the really questionably professional. But I had been around that angle of the business long enough to see that if you really worked hard to build up a stable of great writers, it might be a good way to earn a living.

So with that sort of young, unformed knowledge in mind, I took the subway up and interviewed with Phyllis. She offered me two things. First, she was willing to allow me take on writers of my own if it didn't intrude with the business. That was really important to me because, after all, I had been a boss already and this was already taking a step back and becoming an assistant again, apprenticing myself to her in order to learn the business. And second, she said she would give me 4 percent of anything I brought in, which was kind of the carrot before the donkey's nose. It wasn't going to cost her anything to give me 4 percent, and I don't think she even thought I would bring in anything interesting. So she did it. But it sure was useful later on, and it set a precedent that I used as part of my negotiation when I left a year later to join Aaron Priest. I took that 4 percent commission with me as part of my negotiation.

Tell me about some of your early clients.
The very first client I sold was Phyllis Theroux, who has a book right now that I'm trying to sell and will die trying. I began working with Aaron Priest in 1978, and six months into working for him—it was just Aaron and me, impossibly small—Aaron decided that he wanted to move to California to open an office in L.A. This was a huge job change. He had made it very clear when I started that he did not want me to take on clients. He wanted me to be his assistant. I said, "Fine. But can I work on finding clients as long as it's not at your inconvenience?" He said, "I don't care what you do, just don't inconvenience me." So I would work at night because my husband was busy with law school I was writing letters to short story writers at Redbook, all that stuff. When Aaron got in his car and was driving across the country with his wife and kids, he would call once a day. He'd say, "Hi. I'm in Iowa. Anything doing?" I'd say, "Nah." But by the time he got to California, five days later, I had sold three books. I had literally been waiting to be released. And the first book was Phyllis Theroux's, which I auctioned to Julie Houston at Morrow for twenty-five thousand dollars. It was called California and Other States of Grace. It was absolutely wonderful, and she went on to write others. But that was my first book, which makes me sentimental about selling all of her books.

Eventually it became clear to Aaron that I might be more valuable as a baby agent than as only his assistant. I said, "Come on, let me hire an assistant part-time. It's not going to cost that much." Then, when Aaron came back from California six months later, there was no question. I wasn't going to go backward. I got very lucky that way. I could have been his assistant for four or five years without ever having the opportunity to really step out. It was his decision to go to California that really gave me the breathing room I needed to show off. To show what I wanted to do. To show what I could do.

How did you build a list in those early years? Were you getting referrals, was it the letters you were writing, were you reading the slush?
Certainly I was reading slush, and nothing was coming out of the slush. Some of it was the letters I was writing. And I never said, "No." Let me give you an example of what I mean. There's a movie agent named Geoff Sanford. One day he came blowing through the Aaron Priest offices. When he walked in, Aaron wasn't around. Don't forget that I had this scary voice, the gift of gab, the ability to make someone feel at home, whatever you want to call it. I said, "Geoff! Come on in! How are you?" We talked for a while and he said, "Oh, you're going to be great." We didn't do any business, but about a year later he called me up and said there was this writer named Sue Grafton. He said he really liked her, she was a really good egg, and she had written a book called A Is for Alibi. Then he told me she was leaving her agent and asked if I might want to take a look. I said, "Are you kidding? I'm starving to death. Of course I'm interested." But I also said, "Why does she want to leave her agent?" And Sue had told him and I can tell you because Sue has always been very straightforward about it. Kathy Robbins was her agent at the time, and Kathy was in the process of taking her authors from a 10 percent commission to a 15 percent commission. Sue liked Kathy enormously, but she felt, like death and taxes, that no one should ever charge more than 10 percent. She just felt very strongly about it.

I love finding something and getting the whole world to read it. Changing somebody's life. Changing a writer's life.

What is the lesson there, beyond never saying "No"?
When you're an agent, you must be open to every single person. There is no one who doesn't have an opportunity to see me. I really mean that. There is no little person who will be turned away by me. I mean, why not? What on earth does it cost me? The business of being an agent is the business of forming relationships, and everything is a seedling. If you go to a writers conference, as faculty, you will probably not take on anybody at that writers conference. But within five years, if you have done your job and been open to the universe—not to sound too California—you will eventually have a terrific client approach you who knew somebody who was the brother of someone who was at the conference five years ago and scribbled down your name. This has happened over and over and over again.

I'll give you another example. Many years ago, an editor at the Atlantic suggested to me that there was a writer named Elisabeth Hyde who was working on a novel. He thought I should check it out. So I wrote to her immediately. You know, "I hear from so-and-so that you're working on a novel." It turned out that she had just signed on with an agent. The letter I wrote back was something like, "Oh, drat. I have a two-year-old so I'm not allowed to swear. Well, best of luck to you, be well, blah blah blah, and I'll look forward to reading your book between hard covers." Well, she held on to that letter. A couple of years ago—when my daughter who was then two was now twenty-five—Elisabeth Hyde wrote back to me. She sent me the letter I had written to her more than twenty years ago. She said her agent retired, and she inherited another agent who didn't much like her work, and then she went with another agent who didn't like her novel at all. She asked the agent if it was all right for her to try to sell the book on her own. This agent, apparently, said, "Yeah, sure. Fine." She said, "If I find a publisher, will you help me with the contract?" He said, "Yes." So she finds a publisher on her own, MacAdam/Cage, and the agent negotiated the contract for zero advance, a fifty-fifty world rights split, and took 15 percent. I mean, honestly! At that point it occurred to Elisabeth that maybe she should find an agent who really liked her stuff. So she went back to her file and that's when she found my letter.

See how important it is to be remembered in this business? When you interact with someone, you want to make the molecules in the air change a little. You want somebody to say, "God, she's good!" You want to be remembered. You want to make an imprint. As an agent, you have to be able to do that.

I just read this great novel you sold by James Collins calledBeginner's Greek. He came to writing late, and I'm curious how he came to you.
He came to me recommended by a magazine editor. I'm not going to tell you who it was because if I do, then all the hard-working agents, if they're really doing their jobs, will call this editor up and ask to buy him or her a meal. I have to keep some of my fabulous contacts to myself. But I was totally in love with this book and really, really wanted to get Jim Collins. I knew that he was seeing three or four other people, and I knew that he was well connected. I knew that my competition was going to be horrible. Hateful. You always want the competition to be someone who is really different from you, not just someone who is another version of you. So I didn't know what to do to distinguish myself. Jim decided to come to New York to meet with people. Of course I had read the book really carefully. I thought, "I'm going to take this guy to lunch. I've got to get this guy."

So I blow-dried my hair and put on a suit and put on Erase under my eyes. I'm taking him to Patroon—this very manly place, a guy place—and of course I get there early because I'm nervous, which is so typical of me. I don't know what he looks like. I'm waiting in these seats against the wall. There's a guy next to me who is also clearly waiting for somebody. We're both waiting. So I decide to balance my checkbook in order to stay calm while I wait. A guy walks in and I ask him if he's Jim, and he says no. He goes off and sits with this other guy. About five minutes later, another guy sits down. And I say, "Oh, I love your book." He says, "You do?" And I start to go on and on and on about how amazing his book is. He looks at me and says, "I can't tell you how sorry I am not to be the person you are expecting." I say, "You're not Jim Collins?" He says, "No. I'm the owner of the restaurant. You ate here once before, so you're in the computer, and I was coming to introduce myself and say hello." I couldn't believe it. I was like, "Now I've lost all my mojo! Get out of here!"

So finally Jim came in and I said, "Are you Jim? You had better be Jim Collins." I was so exhausted by then that it was just ridiculous. But it was him. He looked kind of formal, in a double-breasted suit, and very tall, and slightly nervous, but in a way that was deeply appealing. I was just as nervous as he was. And we just talked. I asked if I was his last meeting—I wanted to be his last meeting—and then I told him that I thought he should not be allowed to leave the table without saying yes to me. "Just say yes!"

You said that?
What did I have to lose? I think he was charmed, and he could see that I was serious. What does a writer want? A writer wants your passion. They want you to see the book in the same way that they've written it, and they want you to go to your death trying to sell it. They want to see that you are able to speak coherently and articulately about why you love the book. And I told him it was too long. I told him he needed to do this, that, and the other thing. I told him there were places where it was overly precious, where there was too much throat-clearing. I was very open with him. But he didn't disagree. So I did the best I could to win him over. He was one of those very intimidating people because he really listened. I hate it when people listen too well because then I tend to fill in the blanks and start talking too quickly and get really Latinate and formal and nervous. Anyway, it was a great meeting. I said, "You have to let me know. I really don't wait well. Please." And I told him something else. I told him there were other agents who could sell this book as well as I could, but nobody could sell it better. And then he called me up. Now it's in its fourth printing. It's doing very well, and it's gotten very widely reviewed, and we've sold it around the world. It's just been great.

You also represent Melissa Bank, who has gotten all tangled up in this issue of chick lit. Tell me what you think about that.
I don't consider her chick lit. I don't know what chick lit is. First of all, is there anybody out there who doesn't know that the easiest thing to sell is plot? But the thing that everybody wants is an original voice. And the thing that's kind of stuck in the middle is character. So here we have a collection of short stories—The Girls' Guide to Hunting and Fishing—that doesn't have a single plot because it's made up of loosely connected short stories with one story that isn't even part of the rest of it. But what everybody loved about that book is what is absolutely not genre. I mean, chick lit has become a category, right? But I didn't sell that book as part of chick lit. First of all I wasn't even sure that I knew what chick lit was. And the thing that everybody, to a person, loved about Melissa's book is that it had an original voice.

Now, what is an original voice? Well, think of it like this: Go to Bonfire of the Vanities and close your eyes and pick a page and have someone read you two paragraphs. If you can't identify those paragraphs as the rhythms and cadences that belong to Tom Wolfe, you're finished. I'm convinced that eight times out of ten, with Melissa Bank, you could do the same thing. Now that is saying something. So I don't know. What is chick lit? Does it mean fiction that primarily attracts the interest of women readers? Well, that would include Jane Austen. Is Jane Austen chick lit? Absolutely not. Has Jane Austen ever written about anything other than marriage proposals, linens, china, and who has a good dowry? No. I adore her. I read her every year. But that is what her books are about. So is she the queen of chick lit? I don't know. It seems kind of silly to me, to be honest. If I read a short story by Melissa Bank, I can always identify it as Melissa because of the voice, and my view of the world is altered for having read her work. That's a lot for a short story to have succeeded in doing, and that's what her stories do. So I don't know, and I don't care, whether Melissa Bank is considered part of the chick-lit world. What I do know is: One, that I love her; and two, that I respect her. And there are many writers who I love and many writers who I respect. But there are very few whom I both love and respect, and Melissa is in that small group.

Tell me how Terry McMillan came to your attention.
Terry was recommended to me by a young editor at Houghton Mifflin named Larry Kessenich. She had sold her first book to Houghton Mifflin, and she didn't like the contract and she didn't like the agent. Right in the middle of the deal, she decided that she didn't want anything to do with the agent, and it just fell apart. She wasn't under contract yet, and it just fell apart. Larry put my name out there as an agent she should talk to. I always tell editors, "You don't have to recommend me exclusively. I know that's a terrible burdensome thing for you if things don't work out. But just put me on a short list. Or put me on a long list. Just put me on a list. I promise you I will read this quickly. I will not embarrass you. I will read this well. And if it's really wonderful, I won't necessarily send it to you exclusively, but I won't fuck you over, either." I was always good to my word, so it was easy for me to be recommended.

With Terry, I was on a short list of maybe six agents. I loved the pages, and she came to meet me. I said, "Oh, you're great. You're going to be a star. I don't know how effective I can be, but I will fight very hard on your behalf." She had already seen four people and she said, "I want to go with you. I like your energy." But I said, "No. Wrong. You've already made an appointment with this last person, who comes very highly recommended, and I want you to see that last person." She said, "Why?" I said, "Because if you and I ever have a fight, or a temper tantrum, I don't ever want you to wonder what that other agent would have been like. I want you to come to me with a full education of having met five other people who were highly recommended to you. Besides, you made an appointment and it's wrong to cancel your appointment. Go ahead and continue your education of finding an agent." So she did, and in the end she came back and told me that she still wanted me, which was great.

What was it about her writing that you responded to?
I fell in love with Terry's writing because she had an original voice. Go back and read the first page of Mama, when Mildred, the mother, is wielding an ax. It's like, "Whoa!" It springs off the page. That's why it happened. But Terry built a career by believing in herself more than anybody else did. She really worked hard. She had a two-year-old son, and she was living in a sixth-floor walk-up in Brooklyn. She was doing programming or something in a law office. Things were not easy for her. But she just got on the phone with all these bookstores and said, "I want to set up a reading" and"You're going to want me" and "You must want me."

I remember that Houghton Mifflin got an offer of ten thousand dollars for paperback rights. This was before we knew how Mama would perform. I called them up and said, "No, no, no, no, no. You have to understand who you are dealing with. You are dealing with a force of nature, and it's a force of nature has not been felt yet. You will make a terrible mistake if you sell reprint rights for ten thousand dollars. Believe me, if you hang on a little bit longer, you'll be rewarded." And they did, and they were.

So to go back to your question about how you build up a list, the answer is that you just keep fighting on your authors' behalf. Sometimes the fighting is not effective—it doesn't work, it doesn't matter, it doesn't make a difference. But sometimes it is effective, and when it is, and your efforts have been proven right, people start to remember. They start to think, "Maybe she knows what she's doing." Then it gets to the point where it gets out of control with editors who want to see your submissions and become really upset if they don't.

Tell me about that.
I remember one editor who started to cry at lunch. This was one of the people to whom I did not say "No." She's crying and she says, "I just really want to know what I can do to get on your submission list." I thought, "This is really appalling. I am now in an official tight spot." Sometimes you have lunch with people and you know by the time the breadbasket is empty that you will not be submitting to them anytime soon. It's usually when somebody says, "So! Tell me about your list!" I think, "You jerk. You moron. How dare you have lunch with anybody and not know that stuff." When I have a first lunch with anybody, I know what they've published. I know how to spell their name. I take the time to learn who my audience is.

But when this person started sobbing and saying, "What can I do?" I was very gentle with her. I said, "The thing is, it's not easy." I'm not a mean person, and there is a part of me that's deeply maternal. But I knew she was a disaster. I said,"You have to find your own people in the beginning. You can't expect agents to just submit their most beloved thing to you. If they haven't done business with you, that is a huge risk for them." I said, "Tell me about some books you have published that you have found on your own and won and done well by. Books that you've really published well. And this is not a test. I don't mean to put you on the spot. But if you don't have an answer—and I suspect you don't because you are, after all, very young—then two things have to happen. One is that you have to build a list a little bit, and the other is that you have to be right about a book at least two times in the next five to seven years. If you do that, people will start to send you things, because you will have stepped out on an editorial limb and proven yourself right. That's the way to get attention. You have to be right."

I think that's how it works. You hang around long enough, and you insist, like Scarlett O'Hara just before the intermission, "As God as my witness...this book will sell!" And if it does sell, and you were right, and everyone else was wrong, then you build up credibility. But it takes time. Here I am, thirty years later. I'm old! I'm fifty-five years old! But seriously, it is a business of staying with it long enough to really build up credibility and respect and a reputation for honesty. Always for honesty. God, this is a small business. I can tell you exactly which agents exaggerate the interest they have. I can tell you who lies. They're out there. I know who these people are. It's my job to know.

How should an author choose which agent to go with?
First of all, I don't think an author should approach an agent before they have a manuscript. I had an author come to me who didn't think he'd be ready for seven to ten years. He'd had a huge first success and he was leaving his agent and wanted to sign on with somebody new. I asked him why he was leaving his agent. It was clear the agent had done a wonderful job selling the book, a wonderful job on foreign rights. And now the author wanted someone new to exchange letters with him—talk to him, be his friend, be his sponsor—for five years or seven years before his next book was ready? He said, "I've left that agent because I want someone more prestigious." I said, "I don't want you. I don't want to read what you've written. I don't want to read what you will write in seven years. I don't want you. I want you to go back to that first agent and show some loyalty, because you have a really shabby reason for leaving that agent. That agent has done everything possible to secure and establish your career. You've done something too—you've written a good book. You have every reason to write a second good book. But for you to leave because you want someone more prestigious? That sucks. Bye!" He wrote me a letter saying he admired my moxie.

But you know what's really sad? That author did go with someone else, a very well-known agent, and that very well-known agent sold the book for three hundred thousand dollars. So you know what? I'm sorry to say it, but this author was sort of right. Not right to leave his agent, but right to think that going with an agent who was very well known might have helped him. We'll never know what the poor, sad, sorry, hardworking first agent who would have gone to bat for life for this guy would have done. But would that editor have paid ten times what the first book was sold for? I don't know, but it really stinks.

So how is an author supposed to know whom to choose?
Okay, so the first rule is that an author should never approach an agent until they have something. If I met every person who wanted to just have a chat before they sent their book, I'd go out of business. If they have a book and they are sending it out, they should always say in the letter if they are doing multiple submissions. That is common courtesy. I would also say that I want to know the circumstances under which I am reading something. Have you sent this to ninety-five other people? Have you sent this to one other person? Do I have this exclusively? Because if I push aside my own reading, which is the tyranny of all our lives, in order to be fast, at least tell me what I need to do. The other thing is that the author should agree—if the author is playing consumer here and sending it to five agents who want to read it—that he's not going to make a decision until he has heard from all five people. You should respect an agent's time. Do we get paid for our time? No. Respect a busy agent's time. The thing I want to kill someone for is when I read something over the weekend and I'm about to pick up the phone to tell them it's the most wonderful book since War and Peace, and they say, "Oh, sorry, I've signed on with Joe Blow who called on Sunday morning." No. No, no, no, no, no. That is really wrong. Be fair. If you are going to put us on the spot, give us all a fair chance.

The first thing you are going to look for is: Who responds? The second thing to look for is: What do they say? And what do they think about the book? Now this is where it gets murky, because a lot of agents get the author by saying, "Oh, it's wonderful! Wonderful, wonderful, wonderful!" Then they sign the author on and begin the hard work of getting the book into shape. That tends not to be my style. I tend to be very up-front about what I think the book needs from the very beginning. And I have lost authors because of it. Sometimes I wonder,"Should I become dishonest?" Should I say, "It's great!" to get the author and then deconstruct the manuscript over the course of twenty painful weeks? I don't know what the answer is. I know you always have to be true to yourself and your own style, and my style is to be utterly frank about what I think the manuscript requires, how I would position the book, and what I would do on its behalf.

Then the author may say, "Oh God, I can't decide! You're all so wonderful!" If that's the case I would say to get on a plane and come meet us. Figure it out. You should never be afraid to talk to your agent. Some authors are terrified of their agents. On the other hand, there are some agents who have very different styles and are overly friendly. They become "the girlfriend." They become so close with their authors that we arrive at what shrinks call "the boundary problem." This is also problematic, because then the agent loses the authority they are supposed to have in the author's life.

What kind of questions should an author ask potential agents?
You are fully within your rights to ask an agent whom else he represents. You are also within your rights to ask an agent to tell you about a couple of authors whose books he's sold recently. You can't live on your laurels and sit around bragging about your top five best-known clients."What have you sold recently, and how'd it go?" And maybe ask, "What did you love that you weren't able to sell?" Everyone thinks I sell everything I touch. Wrong, wrong, wrong. There's loads of stuff I take on and don't sell. It's extremely painful. So I think it's fair to talk about these things. I think you want to see what kind of a match you are. Can you talk with this agent frankly? Do you feel comfortable?

But it also goes the other way. It's a mutual interview process. There are many people I talk to and realize that I may love this person's work but I do notlove this person. This person is going to be trouble. Big trouble. I had one author who I took on. It was a beauty contest, and I won her. She was a nonfiction writer, and I don't have much nonfiction, so I want nonfiction. She'd been published before and had a raft of fabulous journalistic credits to her name. I worked with her a little bit on the proposal—you know, shoring it up—but she was a true pro and didn't need much help. I got three offers and sold the book for six figures. It was great. But by the time the contract arrived, this woman had so exhausted me that I called her up and said, "I'm not going to tell the publisher this because I don't want the publisher to be nervous about it, but once the contract comes in and it's signed, I want you to know that I am leaving you. I'm giving you my full 15 percent. You can take it. I want you to thrive. But you have exhausted me. I'm sorry, but it just isn't a good match." Nonfiction books don't take six months to write. They take years to write! And the prospect of having this woman in my life for years filled me with such a chill that I thought, "I can't do this. Let's solve this."

Tell writers one thing they don't know about editors, something that you know and they don't.
I would say that they must view the fawning, deeply complimentary praise that marks the honeymoon phase of their relationship with an editor for what it is. They must not buy into it. They must realize that editors will say almost anything to get a book when they have to have a book. The problem is that what you need from editors is to have them be there for the long haul. Not just the long haul of the publication process, but for the next book and the book after that as well. When the first review comes in and it's terrible, you need your editor to say, "That fucker! He didn't understand the book at all. Ignore it and go on." An editor needs to be deeply, lastingly loyal to an author and a book that he decides to buy, because bad things will happen and that loyalty will be tested.

Tell me what you're looking for when you're reading a first novel or memoir.
That's so easy. I'm looking for the first page to be good. Then I'm looking for the second page to also be good. Really! The first page has to be good so that I will go to the second page and the third and the fourth. It's true that sometimes I get all the way to the end knowing that I'm going to turn a book down—I've come under the book's spell but the spell is not holding me—and then I may feel committed to reading it and showing off with a fabulous editorial letter. That does happen. But the main thing I look for is immediate great writing.

I think the world of memoir is divided into two camps. One camp is the memoir of an unbelievably fascinating life. Huge! Can you top this? Death, famine, child abuse, all kinds of terrible and extraordinary events...but the author can't write. In the other camp you get beautiful writing—magnificent writing—with a kind of pointillist attention to every marvelous detail in the course of a life in which nothing interesting has happened. It's usually one or the other. So when you can combine those two things in one book—an interesting life and good writing—then you have pay dirt. But it's hard. It's hard to sell memoir, especially if it's not big in an obvious way.

What about with fiction?
Fiction is being published less and less. The stakes are higher. All editors say the same thing to me. They say, "I've got money to spend. I'd really love to do business with you. I'd love to buy a book from you." That's code. What they mean is they'd love to buy a book, for which they can possibly overpay, that is big in obvious and immediate ways. And most books are not big in obvious and immediate ways. They simply aren't. Something has to change.

I have sold books for many millions of dollars and I have sold books for two thousand dollars and pretty much everything in between. I have experienced the fantastical joys of selling books for a whole lot of money. It is a joyous moment. But it isn't necessarily the best thing in the world. It isn't. Perhaps it's blasphemous for me to say that. But if you sell a first novel for a million dollars, you are putting so much pressure on that book to perform at a certain moment, in a certain season, at a certain level. And most books don't perform immediately. Something, I think, has to give.

If I'm going to say that maybe we shouldn't take a million dollars for a first novel, that we should take less money, then it seems to me that we all have to think more imaginatively—we agents and editors and publishers, all of us collectively. I think the place to do that is in the royalty rate. You're always taught, coming up as an agent, that the royalty is the thing in the boilerplate that essentially doesn't change. You know: 10 percent on the first five thousand copies, 12.5 percent on the next five thousand, 15 percent after that. We are told that these percentages are pretty inviolate, certainly for most fiction. But where is it written that you have to stop at 15 percent? If you don't want the burden to be up front, with the large advance that sunders all plans if it doesn't work out, then change the royalty structure. Give the writer 20 percent. Go on, do it! And if you're a small publisher, definitely do it. Hold on to your writers!

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But don't you think most writers want the big advance?
Not necessarily. You need to be able to read your author. Some authors don't want the big advance. Don't misunderstand me. I'm not talking about going from an advance of a million dollars to an advance of ten thousand. It's really unfortunate, but to some extent an advance is How much do you love me? I decided about ten years ago that the differential of love in an auction is about seventy-five hundred dollars, which is really unfortunate. So sometimes when I'm in an auction, and I know that the author really wants to be with a certain publisher but the underbidder is determined to have the book and will offer more to win the author, basically I go to the underbidder and say, "Don't offer any more. Don't do it." Because the author has made up her mind and I don't want the editor to be humiliated. I don't want them to be embarrassed. I don't want to financially mug a publisher, get the top amount, and then say, "Hey, guess what? Thanks for letting me use you, but actually we never wanted you in the first place!" That's terrible. I have to stay in business with these people. My job is to do the best job I can for my author without ever being in collusion with the publisher. That's a very tricky business.

Tell me something that you often see beginning writers doing wrong.
I think they can over-hype themselves. If they have a writing teacher, a letter will arrive from the writing teacher. It's so transparent. It's not genuine. It feels like a form of logrolling. And it doesn't really work with me. Or they will make false comparisons between their book and other books.

This is the magazine's Independent Press Issue. As you've watched the industry become more and more corporate over the years, do you think it's been a good thing or a bad thing for writers?
It's been a terrible thing for writers.

Why?
First of all, there are fewer publishers. When I started out, there were publishers all over the place, all kinds of publishers that were legitimate companies, in business legitimately, in New York. I mean, what's happening at Harcourt and Houghton is just another nail in the coffin. I remember having a drink with Dick Snyder maybe twenty-five years ago. He said something that I found appalling at the time. He said that in twenty years—remember that this was twenty-five years ago—there would be four publishers left. And we're not that far away from that. We're really not. It's bad for writers in the same way that it's bad for publishers to pick one or two big books and dump all your efforts and resources into those books. It's great if you're the agent of one of those books. It's terrific. Enjoy the ride. But you too will be on the other end of it if you stay in this business long enough.

But I think the main thing that has been lost is a sense of diversity. I mean, everybody complains about this. There just seems to be a terrible sameness, and maybe it's because of the book groups and book clubs in this country, but it feels like readers in America are only having one of three or four conversations a month. Look, I love Khaled Hosseini. I love Elaine Koster. I love Susan Petersen Kennedy. I love everyone connected with The Kite Runner. But I read that book in bound galleys four or five years ago, and really, if one more person comes up to me on the beach this summer and says, "Oh! I love books too! Have you read The Kite Runner?" I really will kill myself. The opposite of that are the people who come up to me all the time saying that there is nothing to read. There is so much to read.

But what are the implications for writers? Why is it bad?
It's bad for writers because there is a sameness to conversations in the larger public. And also because they have fewer choices. If you look at Publishers Lunch, you'll see nonfiction, nonfiction, nonfiction, romance novel, paperback original, nonfiction, nonfiction, and then there will be one novel that was sold. Everybody wants it to be obvious and easy, but most books aren't. It would really be interesting to see whether a book like The Beans of Egypt, Maine would be published today. It's a great book. Or take Annie Proulx. How about that? Try describing that to your editorial department and see how far you get. She's an extraordinary writer, but you wouldn't get far at all.

So where do we go from here?
I guess you have to just keep putting your face to the wind, and never stop trying, and you have to give publishers a chance to build an audience and a sense of family. I mean, were doing that with Leif Enger's second book [So Brave, Young, and Handsome]. Paul Cirone, in this office, is the agent. Honestly, we could've had an aggressive auction for that book. The trade paperback sales of his first book [Peace Like a River] is one of the great sales stories of all time. Do you know what the returns on that book are? They're zero! It's sold eight hundred thousand copies! But we didn't shop him around. We wanted to do what was right for the author, and the author was very comfortable with the deal we came up with. The deal we came up with wasunorthodox, but why not do that if you can? And Grove was very happy. Their first printing is very hopeful, and it's on the extended New York Times list, and he's doing this huge tour. It might be a slightly old-fashioned business model, but it's one that works for that particular author and that particular house. So why not stick with it? I think that loyaltyis very important. Just like reader loyalty is important, loyalty to a publisher is important.

How has technology changed the business from your perspective?
I'll tell you, what is hard about being an agent now is the Internet. The Internet is both the joy and the bane of everybody's existence. The bane part of it for me, for an agent, is that it used to be that authors were in isolation. Which was partly bad, obviously, but it was also a good thing because they really got to focus on their work and confront what was on the page. They weren't distracted and hyped up by too much information. Today, if you are a writer of a certain genre, you feel that you've got to get blurbs, you've got to cultivate all these people, you've got to go to this or that event, and on and on. So you have writers who aren't really being given enough time to write the best book they can write. And meanwhile they have become a kind of awful consumer. There are a lot of conversations about who has what. Like, "Well, Joe Blow has shelf talkers. Why don't I have shelf talkers?" No! I don't want to hear about Joe Blow's shelf talkers. You don't have shelf talkers because your career is set within an entirely different context than the person you just mentioned. They all compare notes. They compare advances. Part of it is that they have been told it's no longer enough to just write a good book. They are told that they have to get out there, press the flesh, have blogs, have Web pages, and get advance quotes from everybody and their dogs. Then they're told, "By the way, don't you think it would be a good idea to do two books this year?" This is insane! It is altogether too fast. Everything in this business is too fast.

But how can you build a career anymore if you don't do that stuff as an author?
You can. You have to have some luck. I mean, look at Paul Cirone's author, Megan Abbott. She's building a career. She's on her third or fourth book. She just won an Edgar. She's under contract. She's with the same publisher. She hasn't had outrageously great sales, but she's building an audience. She is a great, edgy, funny, noir mystery writer.

What about for a literary writer? Maybe a writer who has published a couple of books that haven't sold too well?
They are in trouble. I'm not going to soft-pedal that. It's very, very, very painful.

So what do they do?
Well, thirty or forty or eighty years ago when people said, "Don't give up your day job," there was probably some wisdom to that. Certainly, if you get a large enough advance and decide to recklessly give up your day job, at least don't give up your insurance. Hang on to one writing class, which gives you insurance and protects you and gives you the potential for tenure. Don't give it up. The first thing I tell my authors when they sell their first book is to try to live as though they don't have the money yet. Don't start building additions on your house. Don't start taking expensive trips to Sicily. Try to remember that this might not happen again. It's very important to me that people live within their income, whether your income is thirty thousand dollars a year or thirty times that.

Tell me how you spend most days.
I would say being on the phone. Of course I do a lot of e-mail now, and I see the advantages of hiding behind e-mail. A lot of the day is spent getting information. Learning. I really read every catalogue that is sent to me. I genuinely want to know what people are doing. From the moment I take a project on, there is not a book I'm reading—if it's remotely relevant to building an argument or a case for positioning that book—that won't in some way inform or aid me in selling that book, or in understanding that project or the marketplace. A lot of time is spent doing that, and getting information. Who's selling what? The stuff in Publishers Lunch, I'm sorry to say, is rarely the big deals. Those can be the people who want the publicity, they want to be out there. It's great for them. Good. Fine. But it's not the big deals. Sometimes the big deals aren't even in the rights guides.

What is the hardest thing for you about your job?
The whining. I won't have it. I don't whine. I don't want whining from editors. I don't want whining from my authors. I don't want to read about authors I don't represent who whine. I want every single person who gets published to be grateful that they get to be published, because many of their colleagues don't get to be published. I don't want whining about money or any aspect of the business. Of course that doesn't mean I don't want to know when you have a problem. It is my job to help you figure out whether a problem is legitimate or whether it is just nervousness, paranoia, insecurity, fear, dread, the sense that the world is passing you by and you haven't heard from anybody. You've got to get a writers group, a mother, a spouse. You have to seek your support system elsewhere. Because that's not the job of an agent. When I see a problem, believe me, I'm already going at it. The question is: Do I get on the phone with the editor or do I get on the phone with the author and tell him I'm going to get on the phone with the editor, and then not have time to get on the phone with the editor? In other words, you have to trust that your agent is doing her job. When your agent says, "I will take care of this," chances are really good that the agent will take care of it. But at the same time, you can't assume that agents are always effective. I can howl, scream, beg, sob, and implore, but it doesn't always mean that my howling will make a difference. Sometimes the answer is just, "No. We've decided not to publish this book in paperback. The sales of this book in hardcover were three thousand copies, and we won't publish it in paperback."

What do you love most about your job?
Here is the thing about me as an agent: I am not only looking for literature that may be a contender. If I cry at three different points in a manuscript—even if it is lumpy, and overlong, and deeply flawed—then I am going to go to bat for it. I love finding something and getting the whole world to read it. Changing somebody's life. Changing a writer's life. I love the thrill of loving something and really believing in it, and then selling it really well. All agents know when they've done a good job. They know when they've done a crappy job too. They know when they've let their author down and when they've let themselves down by extension. It doesn't matter if you've sold the book for a song or really aggressively. You know when you've done well by a book and the book's author. And then having it all work out? Having it be published well? Being part of that ride? I mean, it's great to be right. It's wonderfully validating. It's thrilling to share in an author's success. Frank McCourt is an obvious example. What gets better than that? And to have an author who remains unspoiled, like Frank has? It is just a joy to represent an author like that. He always has been. He's so appreciative and never complains. And when he does complain it's because he's making a joke out of it. He called me up one time, maybe a year after Angela's Ashes had come out, and he said, "Oh Lord, Molly, the taxes." And I said, "No, no, no, no, no. If you're making enough money to complain about taxes, you don't get to complain about taxes." He laughed and said, "All right, fine!" He's just a joy to work with.

Is there anything you haven't accomplished that you still want to?
No. I just want to always be in the game. I want to work for at least another ten years. I don't want to retire when I'm in a walker. The reason why this is such a great job, first of all, is that I've been able to work around my children and my life. I have been able to call my hours my own to an unusual extent, in a way that would not have been possible if I stayed at Doubleday. But I have a very highly developed work ethic. I work really hard. What is extraordinary about this business is that we get to be more interesting than we would otherwise be. Because of our work. That's really important. In other words, we do go to dinner parties, and we do meet interesting people, and reading remains and will always remain a great common currency. It's fantastic to work in the world of ideas, and great plots, and the great insights that are given to us by writers. I don't ever want to be far away from that. And I won't be. I refuse. I feel deeply privileged to be in this business. So what if it's changing? I'm not going to change as quickly as it changes—there's room for troglodytes like me. And I'm never going to rest on my laurels. Because if you aren't always excited to get something in that is fresh and new, then you shouldn't be in this business. If you're just going along like a hamster in a wheel, then you've lost the pure white heat that makes this business so much fun. And it should be challenging. That's what separates the great agents from the good agents.

Jofie Ferrari-Adler is an editor at Grove/Atlantic.

Agents & Editors: A Q&A With Agent Lynn Nesbit

by
Jofie Ferrari-Adler
1.1.08

On a recent afternoon, I walked up Park Avenue from my office in downtown Manhattan to interview the literary agent Lynn Nesbit. The agency she founded almost twenty years ago, Janklow & Nesbit Associates, occupies an entire floor of a large office building on the corner of Fifty-seventh Street. In the elevator, I couldn't help but think of the celebrated authors who must have taken the same ride to visit Nesbit, and my mind wandered to some of their memorable opening lines: "We were somewhere around Barstow on the edge of the desert when the drugs began to take hold" (Hunter S. Thompson). "That's good thinking there, Cool Breeze" (Tom Wolfe). "It is easy to see the beginnings of things, and harder to see the ends" (Joan Didion).

For Nesbit, the beginnings of things were no less evocative. Raised in the small town of Dundee, Illinois, and educated at Northwestern, the Sorbonne, and in the Radcliffe Publishing Program, she came to New York in the fall of 1960 and took the first job she was offered. The position, as an editorial apprentice at Ladies' Home Journal, was unsatisfying. She badgered Sterling Lord—even then a legendary book agent—for a job as his assistant, but he had nothing permanent to offer. So, in her spare time, she read manuscripts for him in French. Eventually a position opened up, and Nesbit leapt at the opportunity, despite a salary cut of ten dollars a week.

She worked her way up to being an agent in Lord's office; her early clients included Donald Barthelme, Michael Crichton, Frederick Exley, Hunter S. Thompson, and Tom Wolfe. In 1965, she left Sterling Lord to start the agency that would become International Creative Management; in 1989 she joined forces with Mort Janklow to found another new agency, Janklow& Nesbit Associates, which remains one of the most successful in New York. Over the years she has guided the careers of luminaries such as John Cheever, Joan Didion, William H. Gass, Shirley Hazzard, and Gore Vidal; younger writers such as Ann Beattie, Stephen L. Carter, Jeffrey Eugenides, Jayne Anne Phillips, Richard Price, and Scott Spencer; commercial superstars such as Robin Cook, Richard Preston, and Anne Rice; and nonfiction heavyweights such as Robert Caro, Jimmy Carter, Jonathan Kozol, and Gay Talese.

In this, the first in a new series of interviews with veteran book editors, publishers, and agents, Nesbit talks about her life, her career, and her authors, reflecting on the past, present, and future of the book industry and what writers can do to thrive in today's publishing world.

Why don't you start by telling me a little about your background. Where did you grow up?
I grew up in Illinois, in a town thirty-five miles northwest of Chicago called Dundee.

And you went to Northwestern?
I went to Northwestern because I wanted to be a drama major. But then I quickly learned, once I was involved in it, that I didn't want to do it. It was such a serious professional school. So I switched my major from theater to oral interpretation of literature. You'd do chamber theater, for example. You'd take Don Quixote and present it as a chamber theater piece. I was in a production and I played all of the women roles. Of course they were all variations on Dulcinea or his fantasy. It was an extremely good way to learn about the construction of a narrative. Because when you're breaking it apart, often you will characterize or have an actor play the narrator's role, so you learn a lot about voice.

What brought you to New York?
I always wanted to come to New York. When I was a child I used to listen to Grand Central Station—"Crossroads of a million private lives"—and think, "What could be more exciting than New York?" I was wandering through the English department my senior year at Northwestern and saw something about the Radcliffe Publishing Program. I thought, "Hmmm, I want to come to New York, I love to read books, this sounds like it's for me."

How did you get started in the industry?
At the Radcliffe program, they told you to take the first job you were offered because there were no jobs in publishing. They've been saying that for forty, fifty years. Sterling Lord was the agent who came to speak to the students, and I thought—I don't know why, I've thought about this over the years—but I thought, "Agent, that's what I want to do." But Sterling said he had nothing to offer. So I took the first job I got, which was as an editorial apprentice at Ladies' Home Journal. And I hated it. It just wasn't for me. So I kept hounding Sterling. And I read French quite well then. He was representing a couple of people who wrote in French, Tereska Torres and Juan Goytisolo. So I would read the books and write readers reports on them. And I hounded him. After three months at Ladies' Home Journal he offered me a job, for which I took a ten-dollars-a-week salary cut. I became his receptionist, his typist, his file clerk, and I had to weigh the packages and stamp all the letters.

Was Sterling Lord your primary mentor in the industry?
Sterling wasn't very interested in fiction, which helped me. He was immediately turning some things over to me. After I'd been working as his assistant for a month or two, he went to the Staten Island Writers Conference and came back and just threw these stories down on my desk. He said to read them and write to any of the writers I liked. One of the stories was"The Big Broadcast of 1938" by Donald Barthelme. And I read it and thought, "This is extraordinary." So I wrote, Dear Mr. Barthelme, I'm an agent and I just read this story and I think it's extraordinary and blah blah blah and I'd love to represent you. And he wrote back and said, "Fine." Now I don't think that happens today. There would be thirty agents crawling all over that story today—there are more agents than writers. And there are more writers than readers. I'm convinced of that.

Was Donald Barthelme your first big client?
Donald was very important because I sold the first story of his that I represented to the New Yorker. And he went on and became such an important force in the short story. But my first really big client—big in every way—was Tom Wolfe.

How did you meet him?
I pestered Byron Dobell at Esquire. I told him I wanted to meet Tom Wolfe. This was probably 1963. He'd published "Kandy-Kolored Tangerine-Flake Streamline Baby," the piece, in Esquire, and every other agent was after him too. I still ask him, to this day, why he signed with me. He says it's because I'm the only one who suggested he do a book, which is hard for me to imagine, but that's what he says. He was older than I was, and already a big deal, and I was just this kid.

The other big writer that I got young was Michael Crichton. I left Sterling Lord in, I think, 1965, to start a literary department for Marvin Josephson. It was called Marvin Josephson Associates. The head of his television department was a man named Ralph Mann, and he had a friend who had been a television agent at the William Morris office, whose daughter was Michael's first wife. This man was determined to find Michael the biggest agent there was. Of course he knew everyone. So Michael was interviewing all these people and he interviewed me, too. He was in medical school then and he had published one of his paperback John Lange thrillers, and he only had one other contract. So he came back for a second meeting and said—and this I remember very well—he said, "Let's grow up in the business together." So that was great.

Who was Marvin Josephson?
He was a very mild-mannered, shy, rather diffident television agent. He went around and bought these other agencies. He bought CMA, Monica McCall, Ashley-Famous. And this became ICM, this big corporate behemoth. He was never really an agent; he was a deal-maker, a buying agency.

And when you went there, you were the head of the agency right away?
I started the literary department for them at age twenty-five. They didn't have one. I went there and I was this kid. I was really young. I got there because I was dating an agent who worked for Marvin who said,"You should hire Lynn Nesbit." That's how I got there.

Tell me about some of the big personalities from those days in the book world.
Well, there were a lot of them. Bob Gottlieb was a genius.

From your perspective as an agent, what is his genius?
In the first place, he, like Michael Korda, who is my client actually, could read an eight-hundred-page manuscript in a night and come back to you the next day and give you a perfect analysis. Also, Bob never let a manuscript lay around. You would never hear from him, "Oh, I have seven manuscripts on my desk, I can't get to yours until a month from now." Bob also has such an incredibly big personality. And I always said that Bob has a big ego, but he can lend it to his writers, so they can share it. Bob Caro is one of my clients, and it's written into his contract that he has to have Bob as his editor.

A lot of people lament how the publishing industry has changed over the years. Your career seems to very much bridge all that—from the small independent shops to the corporatization of it all.
I say to Bob Gottlieb, who's still a very close personal friend, "You couldn't stand to be in publishing today." And he says, "I know." It is very corporatized. We all began to think about that in those days. What was going to happen? These big conglomerates, synergy, all that. People began to worry about it.

The first novel is the easiest to sell. But if it doesn't do well, you're up a creek. You have to reposition the author...because the publisher doesn't want to take another bath.

Tell me about some more of the big characters.
We just don't have them anymore. Morgan [Entrekin] is as close as we have. And Sonny [Mehta]. There were so many: Henry Robbins, Ted Solotaroff, Joe Fox, Sam Lawrence, David Segal. Even Dick Synder is a lot more colorful than Jack Romanos, who is now gone. I mean, they had passion, they cared about literature. Even Dick, who's not an intellectual. He cared. He was a madman. I mean, we need a little bit more…. Who is a madman now in publishing? Peter Olson, but of a very strange type. I mean, Morgan's eccentric, Sonny's eccentric. Morgan's less eccentric than he used to be. He's getting very conventional now with the wife and the child. It was just different then.

So you miss the personalities
Yes. I miss the fun. I tell Tina [Bennett] and Eric [Simonoff], "You missed the good days." When I worked for Sterling Lord, I had a loft, a sort of duplex loft apartment on Barrow Street. And Michael Sissons, who's now the head of Fraser & Dunlop, and Peter Matson, who's also an agent, used to give these parties at my house. They would make these drinks of half brandy and half champagne, and people got so drunk. One night Rosalyn Drexler, the lady wrestler and the novelist, picked up Walter Minton and just threw him against the wall. I'll never forget that. There was just more of a sense of fun.

So why was that lost?
It's the corporate thing. People are too scared. It doesn't attract eccentrics anymore.

Where are the eccentrics going?
The movie business. [Laughs.]

When did you start to represent Joan Didion and John Gregory Dunne?
My daughter is thirty-seven and John told this story—it's still difficult for me to talk about John—he told this story himself. He said, "Remember what I said to you when we were talking about you representing me?" I said, "No, I have no memory." He said, "Don't you remember when I said, 'What if you were to have a child?' Nobody would dare ask that question of a woman today! You would be stigmatized!" So I've represented him since before my first child, and she's thirty-seven.

At that point were you already representing Joan?
No. I didn't represent Joan until the book After Henry, when I came here. It's been a long time now, about eighteen years. They were very good friends of mine. I knew Joan very well. She was represented by Lois Wallace. Well, first Helen Strauss at the William Morris Agency, and then she was inherited by Lois, and then she came to me. It's been a long time now, but not back into the dark ages like it was with John.

Were you surprised by the phenomenal commercial success of The Year of Magical Thinking?
Yes. So was the publisher. The first printing was supposedly thirty-five thousand copies, then the Times magazine piece came out and they upped it to fifty thousand, then if you look at later editions and the number of printings.… It obviously touched a chord in so many people—young, old, people who hadn't even had anyone die. I think the honesty of her voice, the way she directly addressed the reader, without any sentimentality, was so moving.

How did you meet Hunter S. Thompson?
I don't know how Hunter came to me. I can't remember the sequence. I don't know who would have suggested it. Hunter was such a larger-than-life character. I always said that he was the one writer who always tried to say, "Oh, that didn't really happen"—talking about his escapades—but unlike most writers, they probably did happen. With most writers it's the opposite. He liked to go to these very chic restaurants in New York. I can remember taking him to the Carlyle and he'd be snorting cocaine right off his watch. He'd order six bottles of beer, two margaritas, and some salad. But the funny thing is, often he wouldn't even touch the stuff. Lunch would go on for hour after hour and he really wouldn't be drinking all that much during that time.

I read somewhere that you represented Fred Exley—and you sold A Fan's Notes?
That was when I was a kid too. That was very early. I don't remember the date, but that was when I was still at Sterling Lord, I think.

Do you remember how you met him? Were you close?
Oh, yes. I had an incredible correspondence with him. Fred was a terrible alcoholic and a tortured soul. Even more with Fred than with Hunter, there was a very, very tender part of him. Very sweet. Fred showed it more than Hunter did. I think that they couldn't deal with their vulnerability, therefore they drank. Or in Hunter's case, he drank and did drugs and everything else. They just couldn't cope with it. A Fan's Notes got tons of rejections and finally I sold it to David Segal, who was great. David was an eccentric. We need more people like him. He started his career at New American Library, which was a rather commercial imprint. But David had such a passion for literature and good writing. For instance, he picked up Cynthia Ozick when no one else did. And Fred. And Bill Gass.

You represent so many of the original New Journalists. What was it like to be at the center of a movement like that?
When I first represented Tom Wolfe, I was younger than Tom. I was a kid. And when I went to sell Tom's first book, his editor, Clay Felker, was the most important magazine editor in New York. I sent Tom's book out for auction. Viking, with whom Clay had an arrangement as sort of editor at large, brought Tom in for a meeting with Tom Guinzburg. But on the auction day, Viking didn't bid. So I thought that was curious. But they didn't, and the book went to FSG.

A few days later I went to this big literary party at Rust Hills's. I will never forget walking in. It was jammed with every writer and editor in New York. Clay was then dating Gloria Steinem, and Clay walked right over to me—this is like two days after the Tom thing—and he said, "You fucking cunt." I thought, "Oh my God!" I saw Tim Seldes coming up, so I said, "Tim, do you know Clay Felker?" And I walked away.

So what happened—the reason Clay was so furious—was that he thought he could deliver Tom Wolfe to Tom Guinzburg without anyone else looking at it. So of course he got mad at me instead of Tom. He was furious! Tom Guinzburg was furious too.

Now I'm going to skip forward many, many years. It's the publication party for Barbara Goldsmith's book Little Gloria…Happy at Last. It's a dinner at Phyllis Wagner's house. There are fourteen people invited. When she tells me the names, one of them is Clay Felker. And I said, "You know, he and I haven't spoken in years." And she said, "I think he thinks it's time to make up." So I go to the party and he comes over to me for the first time and says, "I'm really sorry about that. It wasn't your fault. It was that fucking Tom Guinzburg!"

But Clay's hatred of me got me a lot of good clients. Because around New York magazine he would scream that I was the toughest, bitchiest agent in town.

And it helps to have a little edge to your reputation?
Of course it does.

Why did you eventually decide to leave ICM and start Janklow & Nesbit? Was the decision affected at all by how the publishers were doing that—combining forces and becoming conglomerates?
No. My decision to leave ICM was more because I wanted to become an equity partner. I didn't want to just work for a big organization as a salaried employee. That's pretty much what drove it. And I'd probably been there long enough, and it was getting very big. I like the way we can focus more here. I have much more time to focus on the clients here because we have such a strong back office. It frees me to do more representation, not to worry about things.

Looking back, what would you say were some of the crucial turning points in your career?
Going to Marvin Josephson was a big turning point—getting to start a literary division. And then I got Charlie Portis and True Grit. That was a big deal. I had him from the beginning too. Tom [Wolfe] was a big thing. He was a big deal before I signed him. Michael [Crichton] wasn't. Victor Navasky was my first client. He was very helpful in introducing me to people in New York. We used to have this thing at the Algonquin, the round table—Victor tried to resuscitate the Algonquin round table. Christopher Lehmann-Haupt and I used to go, Kurt Vonnegut, Bud Trillin, Marvin Kitman, Knox Burger. People would come and go. We'd have it like once a week. This was in 1961, when Victor was starting Monocle and signing a lot of good people on.

Donald Barthelme was a big turning point. Donald was the one who introduced me to William Gass. That's another book that was turned down everywhere and David Segal signed it, Omensetter's Luck. That was a huge literary event. David was crucial.

I never thought, "Oh, here's an obstacle." I didn't think about building a career. It just sort of evolved. James Mills became a client. He wrote Panic in Needle Park. That was a big book. That was when I was at ICM. And Joan and John wrote the screenplay. That might be how I met John, by representing Jim Mills.

When did you meet Jimmy Carter?
I met him when I was at ICM with Marvin Josephson. He was just leaving the White House and Marvin and I went to the oval office to meet with him. I said to him, "You know, I'm one of the few Protestants in New York publishing." And I think he liked that. So he signed with us and Marvin and I divided the selling of the presidential memoir. After that, he began to write more and I completely took him over, and then he came with me here.

How do you see your principal roles and responsibilities as an agent? Have they changed over time?
You are part of a writer's support system—a very important part. The role of the agent is more important today than it was when I was starting out. Because the publishing world is so corporate, and editors move around so much, you are increasingly the only fixed point for the writer. That's one way it's changed. Another thing that I notice here, with younger agents like Tina and Eric, is that they do a lot of editing, and we didn't do that when we were young. I think it's partly because of the editors. There is such pressure on editors to come in with something that's almost ready to go that the agents are assuming part of what the editors used to do.

When did you start to recognize that as a phenomenon?
Probably just in the last eighteen years, or ten years.

Did you ever edit?
Not to the extent that they do.

What is your editorial process like? Will you give notes?
Oh, yes. For example, Andy Greer is a young new client of mine. I've read the draft of his new novel, which is coming out next spring, five times. That doesn't often happen, but with Andy it did. It was fascinating because I kept seeing how he kept enhancing and changing it.

What kind of specific thoughts would you give?
Just sort of general thoughts. Is this character really working here, or what about this scene.

But what you see with younger agents is more getting in there with a pencil and editing?
Especially on proposals.

What are the implications of that?
I think the implications are that editors need to see something very polished because everyone is so nervous. Books are an endangered species, especially fiction. I do think that younger agents work more on the nonfiction proposals, with extensive notes, before they go out. But with fiction, everyone is so nervous about it.

What do you mean exactly by "nervous"?
Nervous that fiction is very difficult to sell. An editor wants to see something that's more near completion, that the idea or the thrust behind a novel is more fully realized. Twenty-five years ago an editor would say, "Oh, this has promise," and sign it up. Today, editors want to say no rather than yes. Unless they see it as a big book.

And this is because of corporate pressures? Profit pressures?
Profit pressures. You must know that fiction is very hard to sell. Today it's almost that fiction needs to seem like it's going to be an event. It almost has to open like a movie, on the commercial side, or else the editor has to be convinced its going to get such praise, such positive literary acclaim, that even if it doesn't sell a lot you're launching a real voice.

Everybody talks about how the model for a writer's career has changed. You just talked about a book opening like a movie. There's this blockbuster mentality, especially for debut novels, with astronomical advances and very high sales expectations. How do you feel about that in relation to writers and their careers over the long haul?
Well, if it works, it's fine.… If they spend a lot and the book works, then everyone's happy and your career is launched. If they spend a lot and the book doesn't work, then it's a problem. Because as you know, everyone can see the numbers today. There is no fudging. And that's because of the chains. There are two or three big outlets. It used to be that we couldn't sell as many copies per book. We could argue that this is very good, this new chain system, because you can sell more copies.

Tell me how you feel about these changes, the blockbuster mentality.
I think it's kind of unhealthy. Because a movie is a movie, but when you're building a writer's career…. As I said, if it works, it's great. If it doesn't, I think it's a huge black spot on that writer's career. Everybody knows what's gone on. In the old days, we could fudge it a bit better. But today everybody knows if a book's been a success or a failure. There's no fudging. The problem is not the first book. It's the second. At least nobody asks me that question anymore, "How hard is it to sell a first novel?" The first novel is the easiest to sell. But if it doesn't do well, you're up a creek. You have to reposition the author, probably move them to a new house, because the publisher doesn't want to take another bath. So you sell it to a new house and say X overpaid and maybe they didn't do as good of a job as they should have, and the author probably understands that he probably has to take less money.

If you were a first-time writer and you were offered a big advance, would you be wary of it?
I think I would probably take it. There are very few who could resist it. Sometimes an author—and it's happened here at the agency—they'll take a somewhat smaller advance because they prefer the editor or the house or whatever. But it's never that much less. It's not a hundred thousand dollars less. Maybe it's twenty thousand dollars less. But you never know what will happen. The Elizabeth Kostova book worked. I mean, I don't think that's literature. It's sort of what we call, you've heard this term, faux literature. But it sold. Can we think of a book that was a real bomb?

It can be devastating to an author's career.
Well, not devastating, but not hopeful. Let's put it that way.

In terms of the book industry itself, what would you say are the most troubling or frustrating changes today?
What worries me is that there aren't as many younger people who want to become editors as there used to be. Because at a certain point they get frustrated. There's not enough money to make the job palatable, and they don't have enough freedom. So they feel that they have this corporate bureaucracy imposed on them and yet they're not making a decent enough salary. What I see is this flow of young editors becoming agents. There are hundreds of agents. I can't believe how many there are. When I was starting out, there were agents, but not at the number there are now. Because today they can operate out of their apartments with a telephone. Or they think they can. I can't imagine that because in an agency you do need a big support staff of people who handle the foreign rights, the first serial, the permissions. We have two lawyers on staff who go over the contracts. So I can't imagine operating that way.

What other changes are you seeing?
I said this earlier as sort of a joke, but I'm beginning to think there are more writers than readers. I get these e-mails pouring in from people who want to write their life stories. It's because of the memoir. Everybody thinks they have a story. I also feel there are fewer and fewer civilians—I mean people outside of our business—who I meet who have time to read. They all say, "I'd love to read, but I'm just too busy." What worries me is that people are on blogs, Web sites—there is a lot of that going on—but they aren't reading books. That phenomenon, to me, is not a product of the industry, it's a product of how our culture is changing. People's attention spans are getting shorter and shorter. And everybody has their specialty. I don't ever look at blogs or Web sites because I would never get anything done. I'm tempted to because I hear about these great things.

What does that mean for the future of books and reading? A lot of people seem to think an iPod-like device will come along for books.…
Great. That would be terrific. I have no problem with that. The more forms in which people can read intellectual content, the better. I don't care if they read it in a real book or on an iPod. If they're more likely to read it on some device, great. I have no fear about that. I have no idea why people do. It's the content that matters, the intellectual content. As long as we can keep it copyrighted. I also look forward to books on demand. Jason Epstein has been working on this machine for years, and he tells me that other people have been trying to do it too. The modes of distribution are so antiquated.

Epstein also seems to think that publishers are getting too big and will eventually collapse from their own bigness and fracture into smaller shops.
Like what's happened in Hollywood. I think it will happen. I think it's happening now, with all these imprints. There are so many imprints. And once they get the distribution figured out…. If these machines really do become effective, and there are more efficient ways of distributing books, then I think there will be more and more independent producers. And independent producers use a distribution outlet. So the publishers will be more like distributors. I think it could happen. I don't know because this business is so primitive—the publishing business—so unsophisticated. It takes so many years to make a change here that I don't think it's ten years away.

I'm always thinking about this issue of distribution—and returns, which is this convention that came about in the Depression that allows bookstores to return unsold books for full credit. It's very complex, very fraught, and it's a huge problem. But nobody really talks about changing it because it would scare booksellers.
I think the only way to solve the problem is these machines, books on demand. Then we won't have to have returns. We'd have a storefront with a display of books, and you'd go in and print out the book you want.

But what would that mean for booksellers, and for the aesthetics of being a book lover?
I'm right next to Borders. To go in there is such a nightmare. I love to go in and browse up near my country house in Millerton, New York. We have quite a good bookstore, an old-fashioned one. But even with these machines, they'll still probably display books. There will probably be some stores where people can go in and browse. I think it's going to hurt the chains more than anyone. Or maybe it won't. Maybe Barnes & Noble will get this machine. If there were print on demand, maybe some independent stores would come back. I mean, people want to go in and physically pick up a book, and it's hard at a big chain store. It's so big and the sales clerks don't want to help you.

What effect has the decline of independent booksellers and independent publishers had on books in this country?
I'm not sure which is the chicken and which is the egg. Of course Barnes& Noble and Borders—the chains—helped kill the independent bookseller. But on the other hand, there are so many stores available to people—in shopping malls, in places that probably didn't have a decent independent bookstore. So, in a sense, we can say the chains have helped the book business. They certainly have been able sell a lot more copies. The blockbuster books sell commensurately much more than they did thirty years ago.

I don't think that many people have a real sense of what agents do all day. Obviously all days are different, but walk me through a typical day.
You spend most days divided between things. You're reading the final draft, talking to the editor and to the writer. I'm having dinner tonight with Jayne Anne Phillips, who just delivered the final draft of her new novel. I read about five drafts of this one, too. And I was talking to her editor, Ann Close, yesterday. Questions like, "When are we going to publish this?" The question of course this year is the election, which is not always the case. Ann is sort of pushing for fall of '08, and everyone is sort of nervous about it, but on the other hand, is the election really going to affect a novel? Maybe it's a good time to publish them, Jayne Anne's included. You have all these questions. Then you have the question of the cover. We often have to go through many sketches before we get a cover. We also have to send the books out for first serial, which is right at the time when we get the manuscript in. And then we start thinking about foreign rights, and we try to submit a manuscript to the U.K., because the U.K. edition should come out simultaneously. So we hope that the U.S. pub date isn't so close that we can't have our best shot at getting a U.K. deal. And then in some cases there's a question of movie rights. In most cases with literary fiction you want to wait until there's some buzz.

So you spend your day deeply involved...
Yes. Deeply involved in all the minutiae—it's important minutiae—of the print runs, the jackets, the timing of the pub date, first serial, foreign rights. And then, if you've represented an author for a number of years, you have their backlist. Someone wants to make a movie out of Ann Beattie's "The Burning House." So you're dealing with that.

Say you have a novel from a new writer. How do you typically go about selling it? Do you pick up the phone and call one person, or five people, or ten people?
If it's of literary quality but I don't think it's going to be a megabuck sale, I probably submit it to the key editors who I think would respond to it at maybe a half-dozen houses.

How do you make those decisions—about which editors you send it to?
It's part of my job to know editors, to know what they respond to and what they like. I just intuitively know that from working over the years.

Are you ever consciously trying to match dispositions or personalities between a new author and an editor?
That wouldn't be my primary concern, but I think of that as a secondary problem. Will this person really mesh with so-and-so?

What's your style when you have several publishers interested in a project?
I would want the author to meet the editors, and probably the publicists, and maybe the marketing people. Then we would make a decision together, or the author may have strong feelings about who he or she wants to be with. I think you have to get a feel for it.

Do you know how many new clients you take on in, say, a year?
I really don't, because sometimes I'll take on an odd project. I took on Sherry Lansing's book. I mean that's a one-off. Or perhaps she'll do another book. That can happen. Right now I have two new authors I'm ready to go out with pretty soon. I don't know how many I take on.

How are new clients finding their way to you at this point?
They come in recommended. A client of mine will recommend them to me. A lot of my writers teach, like Deborah Eisenberg, Ann Beattie, Roxana Robinson, André Aciman—a lot of them. So they'll recommend someone and often I'll give them to some younger agent here. I mean, Vikram [Chandra] came to me through Barthelme and I gave him to Eric. And Edward P. Jones came to me and I gave him to Eric.

Tell me about some of that, about some of the mentoring you're done over the years.
I hired Binky [Urban] and Esther [Newberg] and trained them.

But what does that amount to?
They weren't agents. They were working in other jobs. Esther had been in politics, Binky had been working at New York magazine. I hired them when I was at ICM, and they would tell you I trained them. I hired Suzanne Glück and trained her. John Sterling worked for me at one time at ICM as an agent.

What do you look for in an agent?
Enthusiasm, energy, commitment, and taste. Eric and Tina are probably the two stars. Do you know Tina? She was with my daughter in graduate school at Yale. Tina was a few years older. Priscilla called me and said "Mom, you've got to hire this woman." Mort and I looked at her resumé and said, "This is amazing." And Eric should be an editor! He was at Norton.

Now put yourself in an author's shoes, an author who finds herself in a situation where she's lucky enough to have her choice between a few different agents who want her. What are the factors you would use to make the decision?
I think a lot of it is chemistry between the two people. I would also want to know a lot about how the office works, how much of a support system there is. I don't want to just sing our own praises, but I think our agency offers that more than any other agency because we are completely book oriented. There is not another book agency in New York that has two lawyers and a paralegal devoted to our authors and their contracts. We have four people in foreign rights. I would want to know, "How does this agency work?"

What other factors?
I would obviously want to know the agent's reaction to my work. I think it's important to feel out the level of commitment they have. Unlike twenty or thirty years ago, the agents now—at least here—are not going to take you on unless they're going to go gung ho. Because they know how tough the market is. They're not going to speculate.

What about in the industry at large?
I don't know. I can't speak to that. But I have a feeling that some of these more independent agents who are just starting out will take more people because they need it more.

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What can a writer starting out today do to put himself in a position to find an agent?
They can send stories to the Paris Review, Conjunctions…there are so many places. If you're writing short fiction, once you have two or three short stories in those magazines, and you're working on a novel, then agents begin to wake up and say, "We'd like to see this." So they have an entrée right there from the quarterly world. And I think everyone is desperate to find a good novel. We are more desperate than ever.

Do you feel a sense of competition with other agents and agencies?
Well, yes. I think all agents feel some sense of competition. As publishers do. If we didn't, I think we'd be very lazy and lax in our jobs. I think everyone feels they have to be on their mark today. You can't ever get complacent. You can't ever say, "Well, I've got enough clients and they're all wonderful and they love me." They could march off the next day. One doesn't know. It's like a marriage. Friendships break up. It's personalities. And they're professional and personal. The thing about our business is it interweaves the professional and the personal life. That's the way in which it is incredibly different than other businesses.

What is the single biggest problem with the book world today?
Distribution. Especially for smaller books. Because the bookstores won't take a chance. And if a writer has a not-so-rosy track record, then they won't order more and it becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy. Then, if the book happens to get good reviews, you're caught out of print and have to reprint and maybe the books don't get to the stores fast enough. And distribution is a problem on the other end, too, with books that are overprinted, books that may get on the best-seller list. It may look good to the outside world, but the returns may negate the rosy picture.

One of your agents here, Eric Simonoff, has sold a novel by James Frey to HarperCollins. Tell me about that decision, the decision to represent him. Is that something you sign off on?
I don't know anything about it. I haven't read the book. Eric can do anything he wants. He's codirector of the agency. Tina and Eric are very important forces in this agency. I don't mind it anyway. Get over it; it's fiction.

But tell me how you feel about him, about Frey?
I have no feeling. I haven't read the novel. But Eric says it's brilliant. And he wasn't going to take him on until he read the novel. I didn't want to meet with him early on. It's very interesting because Nan [Talese] backed him so much and Gay was so opposed to him. But Gay is a consummate journalist, and this memoir thing is another thing. Memoir involves such an unreliable narrator. And of course James Frey got into problems because he kept defending himself. But do I think everything in A Fan's Notes happened? No.

Nor A Moveable Feast. Actually one of your clients, Nancy Milford, wrote a piece about this in the Washington Post during the Frey thing, which I thought nailed it. But tell me how you feel about this move toward nonfiction and memoir.
I think it's unfortunate. I think it's mirrored in every part of our culture. Look at the reality programming on television—people want to know the truth, they want to identify. This memoir craze has eaten away at fiction. A lot of people will read memoirs but they won't read a novel.

What do you read for pleasure?
I mix it up. I try to read books that are current that I don't represent. For example, I read Eat, Pray, Love. I read Larry Wright's book [The Looming Tower]. When I travel, I read books about where I'm going, or maybe a piece of fiction. I read Joseph Roth's Berlin diaries when I went to Berlin. But I have to read so many manuscripts that I have to squeeze them in.

Who are some of your favorite editors to work with today? Who is doing interesting things, who is effective in how they're publishing, who are you admiring?
I like a lot of people. They all bring different things to the table. I like Jonathan Galassi [at Farrar, Straus and Giroux] as long as Jeff Seroy's there. Jeff Seroy is an incredibly important part of the way they publish. Now Jeff is much more than just head of publicity, he's vice president. Jonathan is an old-fashioned editor, which is great, but when you run into problems you need somebody like Jeff, who's dogged, who will take them up. I do a lot of business with FSG. And I do have a lot of authors with Knopf. I work with various editors there. I represent Gita Mehta, Sonny's wife, and I know the Mehtas very well. Alice Mayhew is who I do Carter with, and I've know her for years. She's an eccentric. But she doesn't do fiction. I think Paul Slovak is a very committed publisher and editor. I think Molly Stern's kind of great. I moved Susan Choi to her. Molly's very energetic, she can really dig into the publishing process as well as be an editor, too. Frances Coady is a consummate editor. And Jonathan Galassi is a wonderful editor, there's no two ways about that. But in this current era we have to talk about people who also involve themselves in the publishing process, which is what Jeff does. Sarah Crichton has been a very good addition for them.

Can you pinpoint any mistakes you've made in your career?
Sure. I turned down Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil. And I read it in many drafts, which perhaps colored my opinion of it. I mistakenly read it as a true crime book, and there wasn't really a payoff for that. I didn't understand or respond enough to the atmospheric quality of the book, and the fact that it was a roman noir in its way. So we all make mistakes.

Do you have anything to share with younger editors and agents starting out today, maybe to help them avoid mistakes in their own careers?
I feel sorry for editors who want passionately to take on a project that the house makes them turn down, and it goes on to be a big best-seller.

That happens all the time.
I know. So that's a mistake. Not a mistake, but it's a problem.

What about younger agents?
I think they can take on too many clients. I think that can be a problem. You have to be selective. If you're not selective, you have too many people who perhaps you don't care enough about, and you don't give them good enough service, and their books don't sell, so they blame you.

But you do have to rely on your gut.
You do. And if you really feel passionate, okay. But you can't just sort of throw a fishing line out.

How do you know when a book has you. Is it a visceral feeling?
Yes. It's about the voice. You think, "Oh my God. This is an arresting voice." To me, voice matters almost more than narrative. Because it shows an originality. Many people can write good narrative—actually not many people; it's hard to write good narrative. But to have a style? Voice is what makes Joan Didion a great writer. Andy Greer and André Aciman have it. Have you read him?

No.
Oh, you should. Call Me by Your Name is a brilliant novel. And Out of Egypt is now considered a classic. It's wonderful. It's just so much fun to read. Tina Brown e-mailed me this week and said, "I'm so glad you told me to read André Aciman's book, it's brilliant." But it had a hard time breaking through because of the subject. It's not a gay novel. He gave this to me—he's under contract to FSG for a very long novel, it's about New York life, it's very layered—but he brought this novel Call Me by Your Name to me two summers ago. He said, "Look, I wrote this novel in a month, two months. Read it and tell me if you think I should publish it." I took it home that night. It was a hot summer night, I remember. And I wasn't going out. I read the thing straight through. Oh my god. I called him up the next day and said, "André, of course you have to publish this. Are you joking?" He said, "Well, let me see what Susan says." He hadn't told Susan, his wife, about it. He comes back and tells me that Susan said yes. So then I gave it to Jonathan [Galassi] and he said, "Of course we're going to publish it." It's unlike anything you've read.

People have such romantic notions about the publishing world. To you, what are the things that ultimately make it special?
It's given me a fantastic life. I have met so many interesting people. I have gone to so many interesting places. It just continually opens doors for me. I just came back from George Weidenfeld's eighty-eighth birthday party in Berlin with Springer-Verlag. Angela Merkel gave one of the toasts. It's a wonderful life because you're dealing in ideas, with literature, with interesting people.

Is there anything you'd still like to accomplish?
I'd love to find and represent a couple of new extraordinary young writers. It's exciting; it's fun.

Anything else?
I just want the business to keep going. I want it to flourish. I just hope people continue to read books and see them as a source of pleasure and not as some daunting task.

Is there a memoir in your future?
Definitely not. I don't think I would have the patience to sit down and write a book. I admire people who can. And I promised my mother I would never write a memoir. I'm joking, but I did promise my mother that.

Any final thoughts?
What makes me happy is seeing these agents I've trained doing so well. It's been great with Tina and Eric—seeing their careers flourish. I certainly know with Tina and Eric that they care deeply about the business, they're 100 percent committed to the writers, and that they're thoughtful, intelligent people. So that makes me happy.

Jofie Ferrari-Adler is an editor at Grove/Atlantic.

Agents & Editors: A Q&A With Editor Pat Strachan

by
Jofie Ferrari-Adler
3.1.08

In an industry known for its larger-than-life personalities, Pat Strachan, a senior editor at Little, Brown, is something of a revelation. Born and raised in the suburbs of St. Louis, and educated at Duke University and the Radcliffe Publishing Program, Strachan moved to New York City in 1971 and spent the first seventeen years of her career at Farrar, Straus and Giroux (FSG), starting as an assistant and rising to vice president and associate publisher by editing top-shelf writers such as Joseph Brodsky, Lydia Davis, John McPhee, and Marilynne Robinson. Over almost four decades in the business, she has edited some of our most celebrated poets—Donald Hall, Galway Kinnell, Philip Larkin, Czeslaw Milosz, and Grace Paley, to name a few—and an equally impressive roster of prose writers, including Ian Frazier, Jamaica Kincaid, Rick Moody, Edna O’Brien, Jim Shepard, Tom Wolfe, and Daniel Woodrell. In 1982, she was awarded the PEN/Roger Klein Award for Editing. Yet despite these accomplishments, she remains a gentle and unassuming presence—an echo of Max Perkins in the era of Judith Regan.

When Strachan leads me into her office, the first thing I notice is that her large, L-shaped desk is neat and uncluttered. She explains that many of her manuscripts are at home, where she does her reading and editing. The office is decorated with dozens of framed photographs, drawings, and other mementos from a life in books: here a black-and-white photo, taken in the 1970s, of Derek Walcott at the Trinidad Theatre Workshop; there a shot of Padgett Powell and his beloved pit bull, Spode. On the wall to my right is a poem by Seamus Heaney titled “A Paean for Pat,” which he presented to her when she resigned from FSG in 1988 to become a fiction editor at the New Yorker. In 1992, after four years at the magazine, Strachan returned to book publishing, holding senior-level positions at Harcourt and Houghton Mifflin before moving to Little, Brown in 2002.

Shortly before this interview went to press, the literary world was shocked by news that Tom Wolfe, whose books Strachan edited at FSG, had left his publisher of forty-two years and given his next book to Little, Brown for an amount of money that anonymous sources have placed at between six million and seven million dollars. Sara Nelson, the editor in chief of Publishers Weekly, speculated in her weekly column that “by choosing Pat Strachan, wherever she is, Wolfe is declaring that sometimes it’s the editor, even more than the house, that counts.” I dropped Strachan a line to ask if she thought that was the case. True to form, she ducked the opportunity to take any personal credit, replying, “I can barely believe my great good fortune in being able to work with Tom Wolfe again. His new novel will be both an enormous amount of fun and an important reckoning with our times, as readers know to expect of Tom.”

In this interview, Strachan talks about her years at the New Yorker, the art of editing literary fiction, and what authors should consider when trying to land a publisher.

Maybe you can start by telling me a little bit about your background.
I was born in Kirkwood, Missouri, which is a suburb of St. Louis. Marianne Moore lived there when she was young, with her brother and mother. They lived with their uncle at the parsonage at the First Presbyterian Church. I only learned that later, when Mr. Giroux went to her funeral and brought back the program. Basically it was a postwar suburb. I went to public schools all the way through and then Duke University. At Duke, I found a flyer advertising the Radcliffe Publishing Procedures course. It was run by a woman named Mrs. Diggory Venn, which I think was a pseudonym. So fate took me to that course, and that’s where I met my husband, who was also taking the course. There were seven men out of seventy-seven students, and he was one of them. We met and married a year later, when I was twenty-four. That’s the nutshell story.

Did you know you wanted to go into publishing when you were growing up?
Oh, no. Books came into the house via an aunt. My father died when I was small—five—and this aunt from afar sent us books all the time for some reason. She would send us the Caldecott and Newbery award winners. So I read Thurber, for instance. My mother was a reader but she was more a periodical reader—the New Yorker was always in the house. But she preferred to read to learn something. A third grade teacher, Mrs. Hunter, somehow spotted me as a reader and encouraged me to read as much as possible and kept feeding me books. You know, this was third grade, so it was Little House in the Big Woods. She was extremely influential. In fact, I went back to St. Louis last April to see Kathryn Davis at Washington U. Kathryn asked me what I wanted to do most when I was back, and I said I’d like to see my third grade teacher. So we found her and went to see her. She turned one hundred in July. And she’s still reading and she’s still bright as anything. So, that, I think, indicates how much I felt I owed her.

The second teacher was a high school English teacher, Miss Andrews, who was a fanatic about literature and especially Moby-Dick. There was a harpoon over her desk. She was very passionate, and she encouraged me to work with the literary magazine as an editor—really as an editor more than as a writer. I was a timid writer, and we didn’t really do creative writing in high school. A few people did obviously or there wouldn’t have been a magazine. She pushed me. She pushed me to become involved. And the goal for women in those days when you went to college was to become an elementary school teacher if you were a reader, or if you were an action person to become a nurse. And Duke had a nursing school and an elementary education division. So you majored in English if you wanted to teach elementary school. I knew fairly quickly that I didn’t want to do that.

One day I went to a lecture by what we used to call a woman lawyer with my roommate. I walked out knowing I didn’t want to become a lawyer, but that’s when I saw the flyer for the publishing course. It was a eureka moment. So I went to Boston. It was a six-week course, and after it was over, my husband—my future husband—got a job at Anchor Books with Anne Freedgood, a wonderful, wonderful editor. So he moved to New York and I stayed in Boston and worked in the Radcliffe publicity department for a year. And then it was another fateful moment when my boss at Radcliffe—she knew I wasn’t very suitable for that job—told me Mr. Giroux at Farrar, Straus and Giroux had an opening. She reviewed books for the Boston Globe and knew what was happening in publishing. So I basically just flew down there fast.

Had you been to New York before?
To visit Bill but not to live. So I flew down, got that job, and moved to New York. That was 1971. And it was very lucky.

Did you like New York right away?
No.

It was a pretty scary time to be here, wasn’t it?
It was extremely dangerous. We lived in a group house on the Upper West Side on a block that is now quite nice, West Eighty-fifth Street, but was then deemed the most dangerous block in New York City. And yet we got used to it. We got used to it fairly quickly, and then Bill and I got our own apartment. And, of course, the wonderful thing about those days was that you could get an apartment for practically nothing. We made nothing and the apartment cost practically nothing, so living was a lot easier. Union Square, where I worked, was very rough. No one would walk across it except Roger Straus—in his ascot. He had no fear whatsoever. And now, of course, it’s beautiful. It looks like an English garden now.

Tell me about your first impressions of Farrar, Straus and Giroux.
I felt as if I were in heaven, really. Mr. Giroux (whom I call Bob to his face but still call Mr. Giroux in public, as I first addressed him) was very supportive and kind and kept giving me more things to do. Mr. Straus was a character—very brilliant, very outspoken, very self-confident, and very personable. He walked around the office twice a day and said hello in one way or another to everybody.

Michael di Capua, who was mainly doing children’s books, was a huge support. He always pushed me to try to do more, to try to acquire—to do this—and gave me a great deal of help and confidence. So I was very well taken care of. I remained an editorial assistant for five years, which is sort of unusual, but I just didn’t see why I would leave. At that point I was taking care of some of Mr. Giroux’s authors, some of the poets, and then when Tom Stewart left, I was promoted. Tom Stewart was taking care of—I say taking care of rather than acquiring—Tom Wolfe and John McPhee at the time, and I inherited them. So really, am I not the luckiest person in the world? Now the trick was to start acquiring.

What were some of the first books you acquired?
A book about the Cajuns. I liked Cajun music and decided that there should be a book on the Cajuns and their story should be told. I found a writer at an alternative paper in New Orleans—his name was William Faulkner Rushton—and he said yes, he would do the book. We had a gumbo party at my apartment when it was published. The book was in print for about twenty-five years, so it was a good book.

Basically you had ideas and Roger [Straus] would throw you things, like, “Here’s a great book on papier-mâché, baby.” And you would edit a book on papier-mâché. I edited a book by Aldous Huxley’s widow, Laura Huxley, which was a self-help book about getting closer to your true feelings.

[Laughter.] Those were the days.
But that’s how you prove yourself as a worker. You will do anything and you will get these books into shape. It was fun, really. Then Larry Heinemann’s book Close Quarters landed on my desk—the first Vietnam War novel I had read. Ellen Levine sent it to me, probably as a single submission. I just adored it and was able to buy it for a very low price. This was maybe 1977. The book was basically about a grunt’s tour of duty—very vivid language—and his next novel, Paco’s Story, which I also edited, won the National Book Award. I believe that was the first serious book I acquired. The second also came from Ellen Levine, whom I owe a great debt, which was Marilynne Robinson’s Housekeeping.

That was the second book you acquired?
Yes, the second serious one. It was possibly a single submission as well, for a modest price, and there was no question that it was a great book. I read it, and Mr. Giroux read it, and we signed it up. But, you see, things were a lot easier in those days. There wasn’t the same competition. You had time to read it, consider it, and you could buy it if you liked it.

At the time, did you have any sense of what Housekeeping would become?
I thought it would last. It’s not just the writing, but the feeling. It’s a rendition of loss without heaviness, and of course loss has a great deal to do with all of our lives. It was just too gorgeous and affecting not to last.

Was there any real editing to be done?
Let’s put it this way: Marilynne and I sat at my dining room table and did some back-and-forthing. And I would say in 99 percent of the instances of questioning, Marilynne’s opinion stood. The book is really almost the same as it was when it came in to me. I have notes and papers and some record of our back-and-forthing that wasn’t done at the dining room table, which is really wonderful. She’s so articulate in explaining why she had done what she had done, why she had used that word rather than another word. She’s just brilliant.

Was the title always Housekeeping?
It was always Housekeeping and the title was questioned. The questioning was put to rest because that was the title Marilynne had always had while she was writing the book. So Housekeeping stayed. And the jacket process was basically, “Marilynne, what would you like to have on your jacket?” She said, “I’d like the bridge across the lake,” which was roughly Sandpoint. So we commissioned someone to paint the lake and the bridge. It was an oil painting. Someone asked me recently, “Where is that painting?” Well, I don’t know.

It’s probably in the art director’s apartment.
You know, maybe not. Maybe it was tossed. Who knows? In any case, that was the second book. And then there was a cluster around then, late seventies, early eighties. Jamaica Kincaid. I read one little story called “Girl” in the New Yorker, found out who the agent was, made an offer, and signed up the book. Edna O’Brien was also around that time. Of course she wasn’t a first novelist, but she’d switched publishers one too many times and was sort of at sea. We put together her collected stories and got Philip Roth to write the introduction and got a front page TBR [Times Book Review review]. And then there were Ian Frazier and Lydia Davis and Padgett Powell. So you had this base of authors and they would write other books, obviously, and it was a wonderful base to have.

Tell me about working with John McPhee.

John had been published at Farrar, Straus for several years before I got there. I can’t tell you who first acquired him. I think it was Hal Vursell. And then Henry Robbins and then Tom Stewart. I took him over with the book about general practitioners. John is a perfectionist, and he had very strong opinions about things, but always in a very nice way. He didn’t want his picture on his book jackets, though I think we finally broke him down on that. He didn’t want any pictures in the books—he was doing it with words and didn’t want to compromise that. He was very particular about his jackets. If we sold reprint rights, for instance Coming Into the Country, he said, “I just want to make sure that the paperback publisher doesn’t put an Eskimo with a ruff on the cover.” I said, “Just talk to them about it. Just say, ‘There’s one thing I really don’t want: an Eskimo with a ruff.’ ” And then the cover came. You guessed it. I can’t remember if it got changed or not.

I got very sick in 1994 and had to go through the whole treatment and surgery and everything. And John called me—at that point I was unemployed, Harcourt had let go of almost everybody in New York—and asked if I would edit, together with David Remnick, the second John McPhee Reader. He was basically giving me a job when I was in a bad spell, both professionally and with my health. So he’s a really good guy.

And now his daughters are writing. He had four daughters, and his wife had four daughters, so there were eight girls. And when my daughter was born I remember he said, “Congratulations—you have fourteen years before she’s fourteen.” So he’s also really funny.

Coming Into the Country was his first best-seller. That was very exciting. That’s probably the peak of excitement on a certain scale—when a company has published twelve books and the thirteenth becomes a best-seller. And then all the books thereafter sell better.

When did you meet Tom Wolfe?
He was working with Tom Stewart, who left the house, and I stepped in starting with The Right Stuff, which was so great. He had done a serialization of The Right Stuff in Rolling Stone but then revised it completely. Tom is a reviser. So the deadline is coming up and the book is expected and he’s revising up to the last minute. My job with Tom, mainly, was to make sure that nothing had slipped up in the revision process, that there weren’t any inadvertent repetitions or timeline problems. The wonderful thing is that he revised in different colors. He must have used some kind of soft colored pencils because the lines were thick—it wasn’t this stingy little pencil line—and there would be several layers on the manuscript of green, blue, red. It was beautiful to see. The copyeditors loved it too. It was a terrible inconvenience, of course, but nobody seemed to mind because he was, and is to this day, I’m sure, extremely courteous with everybody and so apologetic that these further changes had come forth. He was a pleasure to work with. After The Right Stuff there was From Bauhaus to Our House and then Bonfire of the Vanities.

That must have been a big book for you. Or was The Right Stuff the bigger book?
Well, The Bonfire ended up selling more copies. They were both big books. I guess The Right Stuff must have been a best-seller as well. I forgot about that. I remember when Bonfire was out and I was sitting at my desk typing something and young Roger, the sales director, came in and kissed me on the forehead. I said, “What’s that all about?” He said, “You’re number one.” And I didn’t know what he was talking about. Bonfire had hit number one on the best-seller list, but I didn’t viscerally relate to that.

Why?
Because it had been a long time since the editing and I was already on to something else. Of course it was wonderful for Tom and wonderful for everyone involved, but my work was pretty much done. I had nothing to do with it becoming number one.

That’s interesting because today editors are so involved in the promotion and the talking and the chatter, getting everyone fired up. Has that been a change in the space of your career?
That is a bit of a change. I mean, I always did a lot of hobnobbing on my authors’ behalf and that never let up. We were not quiet and genteel at FSG. We were very fervent and committed. But my basic job had been done, in that particular case, and now it was up to someone else to make it a best-seller. And Tom didn’t need my help. He didn’t need quotes. He was already a well-known writer. But we hobnobbed in different ways. It was less within the house than it was outside the house. It was like each editor was his or her own brand. The decision on what to publish was pretty much up to you, and therefore you had to justify your decision. And the responsibility was all on your head for every book you signed up. Certainly fiscal responsibility reigned at a small, private house where, you know, the bank was at our door a lot. So those profit-and-loss statements—whatever they called them then, before you signed up a book—were important. You saw what the last book did and sort of tailored your advance to that. We were very careful with money.

Roger was notoriously stingy.
[Laughs] He was careful with money. John McPhee actually called him McStraus, and he called him that to his face, and we all laughed. But John never had an agent. John just took the deal every time and eventually we had the best-seller with Coming Into the Country.

How did you actually learn to edit? Was there a mentor?
The mentor, initially, was Mr. Giroux. I would Xerox his manuscripts after he edited them. He took the month of August off every year and would edit three or four books during that time. But the closest teacher was a woman named Carmen Gomezplata, who was our chief copyeditor. We were the children, and we and Carmen were in and out of each other’s offices all the time. We would ask her questions and as we grew into our roles we continued to ask her questions. She really taught us to see those copyedited manuscripts in great detail. In those days, you went over them and then sent them to the author. You really learned. That was a valuable experience. That’s the technicalities of editing. The editing itself—I mean, not the punctuation and if you put the possessive here or there, but the instinctive editing—is hard to explain. That has to do with your own ear and your own sense of the language. Every editor is different, and the editing is generally subjective and instinctive, which is why everything is pretty much put in a question form. That’s what I call the slow reading, rather than editing—slow, slow, slow reading. You have to have a very long attention span as you know and just not get up for a long time to keep the continuity. And if you are a sedentary person anyway, which I am, it’s a marvelous, marvelous job.

Did you know that you liked it right away?
I did. It’s because the writers were so wonderful. One after the other would come into the office—most of them did, anyway—and they were so interesting and so fun to be with. It’s not as if the editing of their books was the penance part, but the association was such a joy, and I knew I wanted to be among that group of people who were writing and publishing books.

You were also editing a fair number of poets. How did you come to meet Seamus Heaney?
I met him through his books. Seamus had been distributed by Oxford University Press—his Faber and Faber editions—and Faber had for a while wanted Farrar, Straus to publish him. I started publishing him with Field Work, which was maybe 1978. And that was really, really a wonderful opportunity. He’s so kind, and so funny. This is what I find about a lot of poets: Before the kind, the funny. Why are poets so funny? Joseph Brodsky: hilarious. Derek Walcott: hilarious. Mark Strand—they’re all funny. Even Gjertrud Schnackenberg is funny. Grace Schulman’s funny. They don’t have as much at stake as far as becoming financial successes. There is a limited readership, even with someone like Seamus. They are jealous about prizes and jockey in that sort of way, but basically they’re pretty satisfied with what they’ve chosen to do in life. It’s a choice that was almost made for them. It’s who they are.

I have to confess that the idea of editing poetry is mysterious to me. What does it amount to?
It shouldn’t be mysterious. Because once again it’s just slow reading. If there’s a dangler in there, the poet doesn’t want that dangler. “No, I didn’t mean for that to refer to that.” I think it’s basically just catching mistakes. If there’s something you really, really think should be clear—it’s meant to be clear but it’s not, it’s coming forth as obscure—then you ask. And if they say no, it was supposed to be at a slant, that’s fine. But you just ask. Editing poetry to me was asking the dumb question again and again and again, and having absolutely no pride about that. So that the poet knows that everything there is what she wanted to say. It’s asking a lot of dumb questions. And there is work to be done with poetry, work that’s very concrete, just like any other piece of writing. And you would find that too if you sat down with a manuscript of poems. All the mystery would go away.

You also edit the novelist Daniel Woodrell.
Daniel is new to me. I can credit my husband, Bill, for Daniel. Bill was editor in chief at Holt when Dan was published there by Marian Wood. He really liked his work and met him and liked him very much. After his seventh or eighth book, Daniel decided that he wanted to try a new publisher, which is very common and often legitimate. Just to see if another sales force might do better. It had nothing to do with the editor at all. So a partial of Winter’s Bone was submitted to Little, Brown. And the partial was so strong that we bought the partial and an unwritten novel. And with fiction, that’s very unusual. Obviously he’d written books in the past, but we hadn’t worked with him in the past. It turned out to be wonderful. We’ve been able to at least double, if not triple, his sales. We were able to do the same thing for Rosemary Mahoney with her travel memoir Down the Nile.

Tell me about that. What do you do for a writer who’s maybe midcareer, whose career may have stalled a little bit in terms of sales?
It’s tough. Getting new sorts of support for the writer that he or she hadn’t had before is sometimes helpful. For Winter’s Bone, Edna O’Brien gave a comment. I know her, but she’d never read Dan before and would not have praised the book if she didn’t really love it. So to have a blurb from Edna O’Brien, that sort of points to something about the language in the book, whereas people may have been thinking, “Oh, does he just write country noir? Or are these crime novels? Or are they mysteries?” I’m also very proud to have gotten Tom McGuane, who I don’t know and who doesn’t know Dan, to read it and write a comment about it. That in turn helps the reviewers to think about the writer again. And we got a ton of reviews, and big ones, and really nice ones, for this book. And reviews do sell books at a certain level. So it’s a very gradual sort of chipping away process and nothing is really guaranteed. You can’t make someone give a blurb. I’ve always regretted that—that you can’t write the blurb yourself and sign it.

You also had a very close relationship with Laurie Colwin, the late novelist and food writer.
Our children started it, the first day at City & Country School, on Thirteenth Street. Our children were barely two years old. She needed time to write and I needed for my child to have some action other than the babysitter. We sort of circled each other. I knew she was a writer, she knew I was an editor. And we were very standoffish at first. This is all about the children. This is not about business. And then it was clear we were just made for each other. As mothers. As friends. She did teach me a lot, as a friend, about what the writer’s life is like, how challenging it is, even for such a popular writer. How Spartan it can be. Of course she countered that by making things nice, and often it was through food. Food was very important. Halloween was very big in her and Juris’s part of Chelsea, and so the Halloween meal would be served at their apartment. You never had a drink before dinner at Laurie’s. You just sat down and had dinner and got right to it. And then you talked and talked and talked. She was a very dear friend. A lot of my writers were friends. Laurie wasn’t my author, so that was a different situation. I was constantly amazed that she was interested in anything I had to say. Because she was so interesting, and I’m just an editor, a boring person who works at a company.

Take me back to the early part of your career and talk about the atmosphere of the industry in those days.
Well, I must say that there were a lot of parties. There were those George Plimpton parties. It was to celebrate writers. That was the purpose of the parties. Publishers would give parties at their houses and invite total strangers. George Plimpton was one of those people and Roger Straus was one of those people, too. Roger actually had a standard poodle named Schwartz who was sent downstairs at eleven o’clock to sort of herd people out. Eleven o’clock was the time you were supposed to leave if it was a dinner party. The parties may not have been very useful, but you met people. You met friends of your writers who might want to publish with you. You met people who might want to support your writers. That sort of networking was very easy to do because of publication parties. If a party was at the National Arts Club, every editor at the house was invited, as well as all the publicity people. It wasn’t very focused, frankly. Everybody came: the young people, the older people, everybody. It wasn’t just for the press.

This was all over the industry?
I think it was fairly industry-wide that publication parties were expected. I’m not saying it’s a huge loss that we don’t have as many publishing parties as we used to, but the kids had a lot of fun—the younger people, I shouldn’t say kids—because you got a lot of free food and you met a lot of people you wouldn’t have met otherwise. It was a benefit, it was definitely a benefit. And people did have fun outside the office. Michael di Capua was just a workaholic in the office. You couldn’t get him to look up or stop yelling about something that went wrong. But outside the office, we would costume up and maybe go to Studio 54. And you didn’t talk about work outside the office. You may have talked about books, but you didn’t talk about the office. It was a different time. This was the ’70s and ’80s.

In those days, who were you were looking up to in the industry? The way that someone my age would look up to Galassi or whoever.
Cork Smith—Corlies Smith—everyone called him Cork. He was an editor at Viking for many years. He was just an addictive reader. I remember him saying to me once, “I know it’s bad, but sometimes I finish the manuscript when I know I’m not going to buy it.” Because he just couldn’t stop reading! He always wanted to know the end of the story. He was very laconic and he looked like…what did Cork look like? He was extremely handsome. As Elisabeth Sifton always said, “Well, just stand in line, because there are a lot of people in line and he’s been married to Sheila for many, many years.” He looked like Marlon Brando, only tall and thin. That’s pretty good looking. And everybody really admired him.

Alan Williams was another one. Alan was at Viking as well. He had a piece recently, I think in the Yale Review or somewhere, about his career—he died a few years ago—saying, “All right, here’s what my liberal arts education did for me. I learned how to talk about anything for five minutes and to talk about nothing for more than five.” And that’s the definition of a trade book editor. You’re constantly becoming an expert in every area. You can do fiction and nonfiction, which we all do, and there’s this continuing education aspect to it. Bob Gottlieb was always highly admired for being interested in everything—interested in the way the ad looked, interested in every aspect of the process. He had very catholic, broad taste—he could publish a thriller or anything else. Peter Mayer at Penguin was also extremely well-respected and liked.

What was it about Peter that you admired?
His commitment. That publishing was his life, is still his life. And that’s really the only way you can do it. You know, you don’t go home and switch on the TV every night. You’re always thinking about how you might push this book, how you might help the book, how this world event might help. There’s an article in the paper about Polish workers in London, and I think, “How can I attach that to Rose Tremain’s book?” And of course you can’t. But it becomes habitual that you are always thinking about the publishing process and the books that you’re working on. It’s that way-of-life mentality of some publishers. Roger Straus. Bob Gottlieb. Cork Smith, who was more an editor than a publisher. Alan. Peter Mayer. There must be others I’m leaving out, certainly Roger Straus and Bob Giroux. You know, as Edmund Wilson always said, “Literature is life,” and in some ways if you’re in publishing, publishing is life. And it gives back. You’re constantly learning.

Do you have any great Roger Straus stories that you can tell?
He was extremely personable. He loved people. He was a liberal at heart in the way that he trusted people. He trusted other people’s opinions, not just his own. And I think in a way, like Alfred Knopf, who probably wasn’t as friendly, he depended on advice, and that was a way to build a great house. Whether it was the CIA people he had out there in Italy finding Alberto Moravia, or later it was Susan Sontag and Joseph Brodsky advising, he trusted other people. Not that he couldn’t judge for himself. But why not get the people who write for a living and read for a living, the total-immersion people, to tell you who’s best of these twenty Italian writers? And he was self-confident enough to do that, to take advice, and Knopf did the same thing. That’s how Roger built up his European list. And he trusted his editors. Now, of course, if you didn’t get the good reviews, he would stop trusting you. So that’s why your standards became very high—because you didn’t want to disappoint him. And a bad review was not acceptable. He wouldn’t say anything, but you knew he was disappointed, and that was a great motivation to sign up the best things you could find and not take it lightly.

Do you have any sort of guiding philosophy that shapes your editing?
Not a guiding philosophy, but I do think it’s extremely dangerous to mess with a novel structurally, because it’s close to poetry in that it’s almost pure consciousness. The way it comes forth from the writer is the way it should probably be, even though maybe the beginning is unclear or not enough action happens in this part or whatever. With a literary book—I hate to say literary, but a piece of serious fiction that isn’t genre fiction—I try to stay away from structural suggestions because they can be very damaging. One big change can make the whole house of cards fall apart. So with literary fiction I really try to stick to line editing. I also think the less done the better, and I consider myself a fairly heavy editor. But I do as little as I can do, because a work of serious literature is a very fragile construction.

I have a few little bugaboos. I learned one of them at the New Yorker. It’s called the “stopper.” A stopper is usually a graphic or upsetting image that causes the reader to stop and read in a daze over the next pages. The reader has a visceral reaction. And you don’t want to do that and follow it up with important stuff. You don’t want to do that too fast, you don’t want to do it too soon—especially in a story. It’s more than prudery. There are certain rules about how a reader is actually reacting, that I have in my own mind at least. But the stopper was a New Yorker term, and I thought it was really very wise.

Who was editing the New Yorker when you were there?
It was Bob Gottlieb, lots of fun, and the deputy was Chip McGrath, marvelous, and Roger Angell was the head of the fiction department, which he probably still is. Alice Quinn was there doing poetry and some fiction. Linda Asher and Dan Menaker, lots of fun, plus assistants and about three people who did nothing but read.

Why did they call you? This was after Bonfire?
Yes. It was right after Bonfire, which was my first best-seller after Coming Into the Country and my last best-seller. I knew John McPhee very well, and they were looking for a fiction editor and John, I know, recommended me to Roger. And I knew Chip fairly well. They may have thought I might have been unhappy because I was passed over for the editor in chief job at Farrar, Straus, which was offered to Jonathan Galassi, who’s done such a beautiful job ever since. Because of the length of time I had been there, they may have thought my nose was out of joint, which it really wasn’t. But the opportunity presented itself and it was lovely. The magazine was more limited in some ways, but it’s more expansive in that you had an audience for each story of possibly eight-hundred-thousand readers. Now I think it’s up to nine-hundred-and-something thousand. The idea of distributing a piece of fiction that you love to so many people is alluring. For selfish reasons, it’s nice because the piece of writing you’re working on is very short. There’s no interior design to be fooled with. There’s no jacket. There are no reviews, no subrights. Being a fiction editor at a magazine is a very distinct task, as opposed to books. Surely there are people who can’t image the sluggishness of our process—“How can you have the patience to work with books?”—but that was what I was used to. So that’s why I left after four years, very tearfully, because I loved the people and I loved the magazine but I knew I wanted to be back with books.

How did it work at the New Yorker in terms of deciding what got published?
The way it worked then, which was 1988 to 1992, was that when you found a story that you liked you would write a little report on your manual typewriter—maybe we had electric by then—fold it over, and pass it on to the next reader. All the editors read all the stories, and the report would circulate with the story. The next editor would read the story, open up the piece of paper, and add his or her paragraph. It would go all the way to the top that way, to Chip McGrath and eventually Bob Gottlieb, and Bob would make the final decision. We rarely talked about the story until the process was over, which must have come from years of experience, from knowing that talking about fiction can often lead you into an emotional tug-of-war, that the responses to fiction are very often psychological, and the discussions could become very heated and the opinions just wildly divergent, even within the fiction department at the New Yorker. So it was best not to talk about the stories until it was over. Then you could say, “What did you think about that?” when the stakes weren’t quite so high and there was either a yes or no already. I thought it was a very elegant way to do things, and they may not have even been aware of it.

What was it like to work for Bob Gottlieb?
I wish I had seen more of him. He was very busy because he ran the whole magazine. He was absolutely ebullient and excited about just about everything and very outspoken when you eventually got to speak to him. But I felt that I was working more for Chip and Roger and those people because Bob had the responsibility of the whole magazine. He did say, when we moved offices—we moved from 28 West Forty-fourth Street to offices overlooking Bryant Park—I remember him saying, “We are going to have individual radiators and individual air conditioners, just as we did in the old office, because I don’t want to do climate control issues.” He was so wise. I don’t want to do climate control issues. That’s usually what the discussion is in every office—whether it’s too cold or too hot.

Getting back to books, I wonder if you would walk us through your day a bit to give us a sense of how an editor spends her time.
We don’t read or edit in the office. If someone asks you to read something really quickly for them, you might stop and read, but you want the leisurely hours to read. We have meetings: editorial meetings, acquisitions meetings, marketing meetings, focus meetings, meetings about the jackets, meetings about the titles. There are lots of meetings and often there’s preparation for those meetings—we don’t just walk in cold. An agent or two may inquire about one thing or another: distribution of the book internationally, some question about the catalogue. Usually there are several agent inquiries a day. They’re trying to keep on top of what’s happening with their clients’ books.

I correspond with writers, obviously. I do miss the phone contact, but e-mail has become so much more efficient. If they’re not home—and they’re often not home—the e-mail is still there. So that’s a lot of the day. We always look at Publishers Lunch for too long. Rejection letters. Rejections are things that you try to compartmentalize and not think about too much. It’s probably the least pleasant part of the job. It takes a lot of tact to do it without hurting anybody’s feelings. Doing it so that the author could possibly see the letter and feel encouraged rather than discouraged is time-consuming. It’s anonymous, unsung work. Everybody in the company knows what you signed up, but they don’t know what you didn’t sign up. There are also lunches. Lunches are the best. That’s with the writers or the agents. Lunches are always interesting to me, and I feel really privileged that I get lunch. You get your bearings back when you inhale a little oxygen and actually talk to people. I don’t think lunch is a universal love, but it’s certainly one of mine, and it’s very useful.

Tell me about your most memorable lunch.
Maybe it was my first lunch with Tom Wolfe. Of course, I took the subway. I was headed to the Four Seasons. And the subway got stuck. Tom, the most courtly of men, was waiting at the Four Seasons for forty-five minutes, close to an hour, and he didn’t leave. And when I finally arrived it was memorable for its tension released by his gallantry. Another was with Joseph Brodsky, when he learned at lunch that I didn’t know much about classical music. He was really horrified. After lunch, he took me to a record store and bought me a basic set: Pergolesi’s Stabat Mater, Purcell’s FuneralMusic for Queen Mary, Brahams’s Third Symphony. A few basics to get me started. And I’ve been listening ever since. My daughter is addicted, has to go to sleep by it. So I guess that was a life-changing lunch in terms of my cultivation level. The horror on his face! I loved a lunch with Jamaica Kincaid. I think it was my introductory lunch with Jamaica. We were at the Gotham on Twelfth Street, and we both ordered rosé, and the waiter brought red, and she looked up and said in her beautiful Antiguan accent, “You must think we look stupid!” That was all she said. And the red was exchanged for rosé.

Book editors serve all kinds of different masters: the authors, your bosses, the agents. I wonder how you think about those allegiances and responsibilities.
An editor always wants to make their writers happy. That is a priority. There’s had to be some adjustment and adaptation to the systems as they work now. For instance, the attitude toward the book jacket is more sophisticated than it once was. Today we wouldn’t necessarily get someone to paint an oil of a certain scene for a jacket. It’s become more sophisticated. So the editor’s role, in part, is to translate for the writer the logic behind certain decisions on the house’s part. There’s more gentle persuasion that needs to take place for jackets, titles. But that’s about it. The rest is between the editor and the writer.

How many new books do you try to buy in a year?
As many as I love, really, and it varies from year to year. I might buy four one year and eleven the next. Sometimes they come in clumps. The books you like come all at once. And that can be awkward sometimes. You’ve just signed one up, why should you be signing up another one? Well, it may be six months before another one comes along. So the acquisitions rhythm can be jerky.

Take us behind the scenes at an editorial meeting. I think a lot of writers would be very interested to know what happens.
There are two levels of meetings. First there’s an editorial meeting, where the editors and the editorial assistants basically air their views on significant manuscripts that have crossed their desk in the last week. Often it’s to find out if your colleagues might have a particular interest in, say, Rufus Wainwright, because you know of this Rufus Wainwright book that’s going around. And if there’s significant interest then you might chase it more readily than you would otherwise. So that’s sort of determining subject interest, topic interest. Even now and then with fiction writers, you’ll get a manuscript and want to know if other people have read the writer and what their opinion was. It’s sort of just airing things so there’s a forum for all the material that’s coming in every week. Every now and then, someone will mention a significant turnaway—a reluctant or significant rejection—that sort of thing. “I passed on this even though it’s going elsewhere…” It’s like our live newsletter—what’s been happening at your desk. And it’s not so much a decision-making meeting. Every now and then our editor-in-chief, Geoff [Shandler], will say, “I wouldn’t pursue it. I don’t think it’s right for us.” But not too often. Everybody likes to talk. We talk a lot. It’s a little bit of togetherness, and then we retreat back to our lonely desks.

The acquisition meeting is a decision-making meeting, and we prepare fairly rigorously for it. We write our opinion of the book. We do a description of the book. We give some background on both sales and critical reception for the author’s previous books. We make a profit and loss projection—always an estimate, but something to go by. Every acquisition meeting varies from one company to the next as far as I can tell, but generally a decision is made in the meeting whether or not we’re going to make an offer for the book, and about how high we would be allowed to go to buy the book. So it can go either way. It can be yes or no. And you have to be very manly about it. If I’m unable to sign up a book I want, that’s when I have to be my most manly. And everybody has the same experience. It’s not always a book the company can do, or feel it can do well. But the main thing, your main desire, if you love a book that isn’t signed up by your house, is that it be signed up at some other house. And there are very, very few titles that do get lost. So while it’s a disappointment, it’s not tragic, generally, if your book is turned away. If that’s the worst sort of trauma we have to suffer, it’s not so bad.

So are these decisions made, on some level, by consensus?
On some level. Different voices speak up. Editors. Publicity people. Salespeople. And everybody’s just sort of gently giving their opinion. Then our publisher has to make the final judgment. But it’s often the result of what’s gone on before.

Do you feel a sense of competition with editors at other houses?
That’s a good question. I can’t say that I do. If I admire an editor, and I can’t do a book and they can, I have to honestly say I’m happy for the book, because the writer landed with a good editor. So I don’t really feel competitive. There are some moments when I feel envious, but I don’t feel active competition.

Say you get a debut novel or a debut collection of stories. What is it about something that gets your attention, compared to all the other ones that don’t?
Well, take this collection of stories by Peter Orner, Esther Stories. It was sent by Rob Preskill, an agent in San Francisco who I’d never done any business with and didn’t even know was in business. The stories came out of the blue. I started reading them, and I just found them enormously emotionally affecting. They’re very spare, and the writing is fantastic but not fancy. I just found them very serious—I mean, sometimes they’re funny—but the intent behind them is very serious. They’re basically about families. I was able to find another reader, Eric Chinski, who also loved them, went completely berserk over them, and I was able to buy them at Houghton Mifflin. We put them into an original paperback and lots of wonderful things happened for this book. I published his second book last year. Esther Stories was a very pure acquisition. I’d say that’s about as pure as you can get. Never heard of the agent, no stories published in major magazines.

If you’re talking about a more obvious way of having a book of stories come to your attention, there’s Uwem Akpan. This is a Nigerian writer who is also a Jesuit priest and who got his MFA from the University of Michigan in 2006. He’s written a collection of stories called Say You’re One of Them. It’s about children in various African countries who are in crisis because of conflicts they can’t control. I read the one story, “An Ex-Mas Feast,” in the New Yorker. I read many New Yorker stories, but this one really bowled me over, in, again, a visceral way. And I couldn’t stop reading once I started. So we took action fast. Michael Pietsch, our publisher, felt the same way about the story. I wrote to Uwem. We waited. We waited until the second story came out. Then he got an agent. We waited at auction. We bought the book. It was as if it was fated—it was going to happen. But a lot of publishers wanted a story that was so powerful, and a collection that also had the New Yorker imprimatur.

On the other hand, what is the most common problem with first books?
They can be too controlled. I find a lot of first novels too careful and too polite. I mean, let’s face it, Housekeeping is a wild book. I don’t think Marilynne had ever published anything before, even short pieces. She was doing what came from her mind and her experience. Larry Heinemann’s book is another example, a graphic war novel, but just gorgeous. Sometimes others can be a little tight and a little fearful of being messy.

Do you think MFA programs contribute to that problem?
I don’t think so. I think they’re trying to counter it in some way. I think they try to coach the students to…Look, any time you do something for the first time, you’re more fearful than you are the second time. So the feelings often don’t come forth right away.

But in your opinion are MFAs a good thing for a writer to do or a bad thing?
I think it doesn’t hurt if you have the time. If only to meet other writers and to meet writers with more experience. To learn to talk about writing and the different ways people approach it. I think it’s a good thing. I don’t think it damages writers. I don’t think you can teach anyone how to write, but it can certainly teach people what to expect from themselves, and give them a communal feeling—that this isn’t easy—and give them some endurance power. I don’t think there is a plethora of the programs. I’ve been to several and I always find the writers so alive.

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I read somewhere that you can tell if you’re interested in a novel within the first two pages. Is that true?
Some part of my brain really responds to an interesting sentence. Over two pages, if there isn’t an interesting sentence or thought or description, or if there isn’t something vivid, it doesn’t mean that I’m going to stop reading, because that would be wrong—there are certainly worthwhile books that don’t impress you with the language in the first two pages—but I pretty much know if I’m interested or not, even though I’ll read to the end in many cases anyway. Some books are more dependent on story than other books, and it can really depend on the outcome. You read the entire book because the outcome might be smashing—the cumulative power of what comes before. But certainly, stylistically, I know pretty quickly whether or not it’s a book I’m going to love. I would say two pages is an exaggeration. Probably ten pages.

How important is it to you that your books sell well?
It’s important to me because I want people to read them. Because when they do, and I get reactions, it makes me feel good, as if I did something valuable. And it’s most important to me for the writer, because the writer wants readers. It’s usually not about the money at all. They want as many readers as they can get. It’s hard to project what’s going to sell and what isn’t, so I just assume that what I buy is going to sell sufficiently to not create a debt at the house. That’s my job. That’s my professional job—not to lose money—and I try very hard not to lose money. And having a great big book to offset some of the books that sell less well would be wonderful. I think I have some lurking in the future.

Agents have assumed a new primacy for writers in the last several decades. How do you feel about that?
I’m very glad to have the agents’ help. The agents know much more about publishing than the writers do, obviously. Some of them have worked at publishing houses and can explain the logic behind the publisher’s decisions. They know what to ask for and what not to ask for. I think agents have become more important to writers because there is not as much continuity in publishing now. So if a writer is jumping houses, if the houses are making the writer jump, then you need one stable person in your life to put everything together. So I suppose that’s the single biggest reason that that shift in loyalty to agents took place. The agent’s job is also a lot more complicated now because of the multiple submissions and auctions and the complexity of selling a book that is desired by many publishers. I don’t want to keep harking back to the days of single submissions, but it was pretty relaxing. If you sent a manuscript to Bob Giroux, he would be really irritated if you sent it to anyone else while he was reading it. Wasn’t his time worth more than that? It was a simplified process.

Are there any younger agents who you’re finding yourself doing business with or liking or admiring lately?
Julie Barer, who has her own agency, is wonderful—very supportive of her authors and enthusiastic about her projects. More for nonfiction, Brettne Bloom at Kneerim & Williams has great energy and intelligence, as does Julie. There are lots of fine young agents, but for fiction and nonfiction, those are two good suggestions.

From your perspective, what do the best agents do for their authors?
They write a very good letter introducing the writer and the book under consideration. If previous books have been published, they include full reviews with the submission. They try to match an editor to a writer—temperamentally, aesthetically—as much as they try to match a writer to a house. Then, once the process begins, they know what to push for and what not to, how to choose their battles. And that’s a very delicate dance. Because often the writer would like a little more pushing than should or could be done, and the agent has to have a good sense of that.

How involved or not involved do you want authors to be in the marketing and promotion of their work? Is it healthy for an author to be involved?
I think that, in the end, the older writers learn that it’s better to be writing their next books. Of course, everybody needs a break, but it can be distressing to become involved. I remember when I left Houghton Mifflin, one of my poets, Glyn Maxwell, said, “Well, Pat, it’s just publishing.” And I thought, “What a poetic thing to say.” Publishing is my entire life and yet he says, “It’s just publishing.” So, in other words: “I’m a writer. I’ll publish my poetry somewhere. We’ll still be friends.” I thought it was very healthy to see it that way—there is writing and then there is publishing. And they’re two quite different processes. I think involvement in the publishing process can be frustrating, and if a writer can resist, I would resist, frankly.

Put yourself in the shoes of an unpublished writer. Are there any intangible things she can do to put herself on the radar of an agent or a publisher, besides the obvious things like publishing in magazines?
Get to know other writers. Not so much to learn how to write, but to meet people and learn something about the professional way to do things, so you won’t be sending out e-mails from the blue. Knowing writers will convince other writers to read your work, and possibly give a comment on your work, which might be helpful in selling it. My advice would be to not be alone.

What are the important things for an author to look for in an editor and a publishing house?
I would look at the list and look at the catalogues online, which you can do now. I suppose there’s some way to look at which editors do which books by looking at the acknowledgments. I think it’s important to determine that the minds might get along, to learn the kinds of books the editor edits and the publisher publishes—every publisher has a wide variety, but in the field where you’re writing—to see that you’d be in the sort of company you’d like to be in. And if you can’t get that, then accept an offer anyway. Michael di Capua used to say, “Small children won’t die from this,” when the jacket came out the wrong color or something. It is important—the publication of the book and how it’s done—but the book is still there, and there are only so many different ways you can publish it. So I wouldn’t—as a young writer—get too hung up on who the publisher is.

Obviously the industry has changed a lot over the years, from small shops like FSG to very large corporate companies. Having experienced both, what do you think about what’s happened to the industry?
I don’t feel discouraged. I feel that any good manuscript I read is going to be published, and that’s almost true. I don’t feel that there are good books languishing any more than there used to be. And if that’s the case, I’m fine with it. If it wasn’t the case, I would be less fine with the changes. And the changes are that the business is now considered a conventional business. Or, rather, that conventional rules are applied to what started as a cottage-industry business. It’s very difficult to twist publishing into a conventional business. And yet you have to try. Because how else are you going to learn what works? And how are you going to report to your superiors? You have to accept that there are going to be different ways of doing things now—less off-the-cuff, less impulsive. Yet that off-the-cuff impulsiveness is there every time you read a manuscript. And you’re still making those same sorts of impassioned decisions that you ever were. So maybe the final decision about whether to publish or not to publish is more complicated and complex, and maybe there are more obstacles in the editor’s way. But if you don’t publish it, somebody else will. So it’s not a tragedy. It’s not tragic in the larger sense that we’re now conglomerated rather than small. I really don’t think so. I think big versus small is sometimes difficult for the younger people who are learning, because with small you pretty much go to every meeting—production meetings and advertising meetings—and you pretty much learn the whole business. You know why the book is priced this way and why it’s that format instead of this format because everybody goes to all the meetings. That’s a wonderful apprenticeship to have. In a larger company, it can get a little more Balkanized by virtue of necessity. So I think it takes a little while longer for young people to learn every aspect of the business.

What’s the biggest problem or challenge in the publishing industry today?
This is fairly broad, but I would say bringing readers to books. Let me try to personalize that a little. My husband is from a small town in northern Minnesota, and we used to go out there frequently. I once brought John McPhee’s Encounters with the Archdruid, which is a book about conservation. My in-laws mainly read the newspaper, and nature guides, and cookbooks—very little serious literature. But when we came back the next year, the book was in tatters. It had been passed all around the town. There were five thousand people in the town, and it didn’t have a book store. The people got their books from the Book-of-the-Month Club. So they were all reading Portnoy’s Complaint, but they didn’t know about John McPhee. And that, to me, was a very touching experience. It showed that if they had known about the book, it would have been a best-seller. There were so many people who were interested in these issues. There are so many people who would love so many books if they could be led to them in some way. I don’t have a solution. But I think there’s so little exposure to the choice, and the choice has to be more apparent.

Recently, at a dinner party, there was a sort of roundtable question of “What did you read over August vacation?” And the people who weren’t in the book world really felt they had discovered a writer who was extremely well known—not necessarily on the best-seller list, but well known. They thought they were introducing this book to all of us, when anyone in publishing would know the writer and, you know, know the book itself, know where it was on BookScan, know where it was in the Barnes & Noble display area. But people who are outside the business have other things to do. They’re not keeping track of what books are coming out. I don’t have a solution. Maybe Jason Epstein, who’s very smart, has a solution. The shrinkage of the book review media is unfortunate. That was certainly a way to bring news of books to people. I hope that isn’t dropping out of the national conversation.

Are you discouraged about the state of books in this country?
No, I’m not. In some ways, it’s thinking selfishly, because you would like your writers and your books to be read by as many people as possible. And, of course, it’s dreaming. But I certainly don’t think books are going to go away. The object itself it too essential. The idea of having your privacy is too wonderful. A book signals to other people to stay away. I’m in my private zone right now. I think that’s why so many women who are over-stressed read.

How do you feel about the decline of independent booksellers and publishers? What effect has it had?
I think the decline of independent bookstores has had some effect—I can’t measure it, I don’t know the facts—but some effect on the mid-list book. You might not get that surprise success that comes from bookstore recommendations as often. But other systems have taken over, like Book Sense, where they get the word out on a larger level, and maybe that sort of evens things out. We’ve lost bookstores, but they’re louder than they used to be. There are all sorts of areas in publishing where—it’s very easy, as a person who’s been in it for a long time, to be critical—but there are a lot of areas that are improving and much more professional than they used to be. I don’t find the reduction of independent bookstores to be a disaster by any means. It’s fun to get a Discover selection at Barnes & Noble and know they can be very effective too. And they have lots of ways of doing that.

The independent publisher situation? That’s just a big one. I try not to look at the big picture too much because there’s so much to look at in the small picture: your desk, what’s on it; your author, what their concerns are. The work doesn’t feel any different, big or small. The work seems to me to be pretty close to what it was when I started in publishing. Certainly there is more presentation or performance today in one way or another—more written and oral presentation—but aside from that, the work is just the way it always was. I think, as an editor, you’re a little under the radar of whether you’re large or small, and I think as you go up the ladder it probably makes a much bigger difference.

What do you think about the future of books? Do you think this digital revolution or print-on-demand revolution will happen?
I’m not very well educated in this area. I don’t think that the hard-copy book is ever going to disappear. It’s just not. Maybe it’s unthinkable to me, and that’s why I don’t think it. But there’s something about the aesthetic value of the book, the thingness of it. People like things. They like beautiful objects.

But they like their iPods, too. There’s all this talk about an iPod for books that’s going to come along for this generation of people who aren’t buying newspapers anymore, who don’t buy CDs or records because they download everything. You don’t think it will happen?
I don’t. I think there are a lot of uses for digital publishing, in almost a marketing way. “Here’s a sample chapter.” But when it comes down to reading the entire book, I really think people are going to stick with the object. Reference books are a different matter. You’re just trying to look something up and you’re not spending hours and hours with that little screen.

You mentioned your husband, Bill, who’s also an accomplished editor. What’s it like to be married to another editor?
It’s absolutely marvelous, like a marriage made in heaven. Because we do the same thing. Who’s the woman…? Diana Athill. She wrote a book about being an editor called Stet. She said that she partly became an editor because she was an idle person. She was attracted to idleness. And of course you do have to stay in one spot. And my husband and I don’t mind, we don’t find it boring, one reading in one room and one reading in the next and meeting at the end of the night. That’s the way we’ve always done it. I think for those couples who want to go to the movies or something it would be very boring. But for us it’s wonderful. We can also talk about the business without boring our friends. And he’s much more well educated than I am about the actual business of publishing. He was a math major before he was an English major, so he knows a lot about that. And he’ll explain the digital things to me over and over, which I’ll tell you I do not quite understand. We’ve never competed for a book, which is interesting. But he’s more oriented toward topical nonfiction books and mine are a little softer. And we’ve always been discreet about what’s going on at the other person’s company, and that’s just the way it is, so it’s not a problem.

What is the most rewarding part of your job?
Good reviews that make the writer happy. Because that’s the end of the process if best-sellerdom isn’t a prospect. That’s the most rewarding thing. But my daughter’s in medical school, and she said, “You know, when I tell my friends what you do, they say, ‘She reads for a living?’” It’s like a dream to them. And it is a dream. It’s a dream to read for a living. Of course, we do all of our reading in our free time, but still, that’s what we’d be doing anyway. I mean, there are some picnics missed on Sundays, and there are some sacrifices made, so you’d better really love to read, love to not move around too much. And if that’s the case, you’re all right.

What’s the most disappointing aspect of your job?
I think worse than poor sales is no reviews. I don’t normally have that situation. But I’ve seen it. I’ve seen just two reviews. And that’s very, very disappointing. And, again, it’s mainly in empathizing with the writer. That he or she would spend several years on a book that was maybe too complicated for the review community to figure out what to do with—a brilliant book, but a book that wasn’t a natural for review. And it can happen.

Looking back on your career, are there any crucial turning points?
It’s just all such good fortune. I had such good fortune. It feels like it was handed to me. Starting at Farrar, Straus was very good fortune and definitely defined my future career. Because I was taught by people who knew it was an important profession, I had an apprenticeship that sort of guided me. And you never really give up that first impression. So I think the turning point was the starting point in some ways. I think the critical reception of the first novels I did established trust in my mentors, so I had some freedom. The success of the first novels was important. Unfortunately, I have never had a turning point that involved sales. Tom Wolfe was at the house anyway. Tom was a bestselling author—that didn’t have anything to do with me. And, frankly, I haven’t had that turning point, which would have made me a little bit more helpful to the houses I’ve worked for—something I acquired that really sold in huge numbers right away. So my career isn’t based on sales. Although Marilynne and Jamaica and Ian Frazier have gone on to great success without me. And Padgett Powell’s Edisto is still in print.

Do you have any regrets or disappointments?
Disappointments, I think—there is Alice Munro. I had found her Lives of Girls and Women at a street vendor, wrapped in plastic, and I liked the title and bought the book for fifty cents. This was probably the late ’70s. Then I found out she had just recently acquired an agent here, Ginger Barber—Virginia Barber, a marvelous woman. Ginger said, “Well, there’s a manuscript.” It was called “The Rose and Flo Stories,” though the title ultimately became The Beggar Maid. The Rose and Flo stories really, really affected me, and not just because my grandmother’s Canadian and I spent some time in Canada as a child. I gave them to Mr. Giroux. He agreed. Alice came into the office, a fairly young woman at that point, and we talked and I made an offer. I think Mr. Giroux had a few suggestions; I may have had a few. I think we offered sixty-five hundred dollars for the stories, which was a very nice advance at that time. And then, suddenly, Norton bids seventy-five hundred dollars. And Roger said, “Sorry, baby, sixty-five’s as far as we can go.” And that was fine, that was a lot of money for a book of stories. Then it gets a little fuzzy because the editor left Norton and the book was moved to Knopf, and Ann Close has been her editor ever since. I love Ann, I’m very happy for her, but that was something I found on the street! And I really felt I had discovered something in an unlikely and virtuous way.

Any memorable mistakes?
The mistake I remember most for some reason was reading In Patagonia by Bruce Chatwin and, not really being a reader of travel literature, just being wowed by it, knocked out by it. It was on submission from Liz Calder at Jonathan Cape. But Roger said, “What do you think, baby? Do you think it will sell?” And I said, “I certainly don’t.” That was a mistake.

Why didn’t you think it would sell?
Remote place. Fancy stylistically. But I would have liked to have worked with him before he died. That book got brilliant reviews and sold very well, but it’s not like it sold a ton of copies. It didn’t make anybody’s career.

What do you still want to accomplish?
It just seems like a continuum to me. It really seems like it will never end because good stuff keeps coming up. I don’t remember if I already mentioned this vision I had of my old age when I was younger. This vision of [editor] Anne Freedgood, in her worn-out chair in the country. You’d be asked to dinner and see her through the window and there she was with the manuscripts, reading all day until it was time to slap the fish on the frying pan. And I thought, “Never, never, never.” Well, now I find that a very happy prospect—that it will still be my work in one capacity or another. To go along and find stuff. It’s very exciting to find stuff. Although it’s sort of dangerous to always want to find. It should be just as important to want to revive. To want to help writers that you admire find their readers is probably more virtuous than to discover, which gives you a lot of credit. I think reviewers like to discover, editors like to discover. Everybody likes to discover. But there’s a lot that’s already been discovered that could use a little boost.

Jofie Ferrari-Adler is an editor at Grove/Atlantic.

Agents & Editors: A Q&A With Agent Nat Sobel

by
Jofie Ferrari-Adler
5.1.08

For the life of me, I can't remember when I met Nat Sobel for the first time. I know it must have been around September 2001, when I developed a crush on one of his assistants. (We married two years ago, and she left the job back in 2004.) Despite my hazy memory of that time—chalk it up to a disorienting mix of national trauma and new love—my first impression of Sobel couldn't be clearer: an old-school bookman, a throwback to the glory days of publishing, a guy who you half expected to have a copy of the Racing Form tucked inside his blazer. I've since found that impression to be accurate, but only to a point. When you spend any amount of time with Sobel, talking about books and publishing, which now have been his lifeblood for almost fifty years, you are confronted with an obvious contradiction: He is also one of the most forward-thinking agents in the industry.

Sobel grew up in New York City and has been immersed in the book business since his days at City College, when he clerked in a stationery shop and paperback bookstore. After college he went to France and spent a year reading all the world literature he hadn't gotten around to in school. The reading served him well: In 1960, after he'd done a brief stint at Dell Publishing, Barney Rosset offered him a job as the assistant sales manager at Grove Press. Over the next ten years, Sobel rose to become Grove's vice president and marketing director and played a central role in the company's well-chronicled success during that period. In 1970, he struck out on his own, founding an eponymous agency that began as a consulting firm for independent publishers and became a full-service literary agency when his wife, Judith Weber, joined it in 1977.

Today Sobel Weber Associates is one of the top boutique agencies in New York City. The firm's clients include heavyweights James Ellroy, Richard Russo, and the late F. X. Toole; rising stars Julianna Baggott, Courtney Eldridge, Tom Franklin, and Aaron Gwyn; genre writers Tim Dorsey, Harry Harrison, Elmer Kelton, Joseph Wambaugh, and the late Robert Jordan; and a raft of best-selling nonfiction and cookbook authors.

This interview took place in the couple's elegant Gramercy Park townhouse—it was once the home of the artist George Bellows—which doubles as the agency's offices. During most of our conversation, one of Sobel's cats sprawled in my lap. Afterward, Sobel led me up several flights of stairs, lined with framed drawings by his friend and client Ralph Steadman, to show me his loft office at the top of the house. It is an airy space that overlooks the living room and is adorned with three huge paintings by Steadman, family photographs, bookcases full of literary magazines, and a lucky photo of Gandhi that, Sobel notes with satisfaction, "I've had in every office I ever worked in."

My sense is that you grew up in New York City. Is that right?
That's right. I was working on my own from the time I was eighteen years old. I went to City College and had to support myself. I had a dream of going to Europe to write after I graduated from college, and I did go to France and lived for a year on my savings. But I didn't write. I read. I spent a whole year reading.

What were you reading?
I had been a lit major, and I went with a suitcase full of the books I had wanted to read but hadn't had time to get to. I found an English-language bookshop in Paris that was happy to buy all of the books I read and give me other books in exchange. That was how I was able to extend my library into a year's worth of reading. I read about sixteen hours a day, seven days a week. That's when I really learned about world literature—from that year in Paris—but I didn't get much writing done. Toward the end of the year, the guys from the bookstore where I'd worked in college wrote and offered me an opportunity to come back and run most of the store in the evening and become a kind of partner. I went back and worked there until a job opened at Dell Publishing, where I worked for about a year as a salesman. Then Barney Rosset offered me a job as the assistant sales manager of Grove Press. I was all of twenty-four years old. Eventually I became the sales manager and the marketing director, all in my twenties. But keep in mind that at Grove at that time, Barney was only in his thirties. So you get an idea of the age range. We were a pretty young bunch of guys—this included Richard Seaver, Fred Jordan, a very talented group of guys—who didn't think anything of working long hours, because we enjoyed it. Even at the time, I knew I'd never get a job like that again.

Tell me how you met Barney.
It's a funny story. Barney came to the Dell sales conference. It was my first sales conference; I was sharing a room with another guy. I had been playing poker through most of my college years as a source of additional income. I heard there was a hospitality suite and there would be poker playing. So I wound up in the hospitality suite and there were five tables of salesmen all playing poker, and Barney, thinking that Dell was going to distribute Grove Press books, was one of them. Late in the evening there was only one table left—all of the winners. I was at that table, and so was Barney. I had the best hand in five-card draw I'd ever had. I can remember it all these many years later. It was the biggest pot of the night. There was a lot of money in that pot. And Barney turned out to have the best hand of all.

I stuck around, I'd been drinking, and as a result I passed out on the bed of the hospitality suite. The sales conference began promptly at eight o'clock the next morning. Barney was downstairs on the dais with Helen Meyer and the editor in chief of Dell. But I was asleep in the hospitality suite. When I finally woke up, with a very bad hangover, and went back to my room, showered, and went down to have some coffee and head into the sales conference, it was about ten o'clock in the morning. The hotel we were in was quite remote, and when I walked in, everybody wondered who the hell I was. They didn't know me. I hadn't been at Dell all that long. I could hear the people on the dais saying, "Who is he?" I thought I'd be fired. But I wasn't.

About two months later I got a phone call, and this guy on the other end of the line said, "Are you the guy who came two hours late to the Dell sales conference?" I said, "Yes, who's this?" Thinking it's a joke. He said, "My name's Barney Rosset, and I like your style, kid. How'd you like to come to work at Grove Press as the assistant sales manager?" I had the chutzpah to say, "How much are you paying?" He mentioned a price that was fifty dollars a week more than I was getting, and I was delighted to go. At that point I didn't like Dell anyway, and I knew enough about the Grove Press list to know that I wanted to go there. And I had a great time. Barney was a great pal, and I gave him a lot of arguments for many years, and then one night in a bar ten years later he fired me. But he said, "I'm going to keep you on the payroll for a year till you get yourself together." I decided then and there that I would never go to work for another publisher.

When you got to Grove, was Barney already fighting his censorship battles all over the country?
Yes. Lady Chatterley's Lover had been published. Tropic of Cancer was being published and there were some battles. The big battles came about a year after I got there, which was when the paperback of Tropic of Cancer came out and was available in a lot of smaller towns. There were a large number of lawsuits against the company that nearly put us out of business.

Were you involved in that in any direct way?
No. I was on the sales side of things. Among my duties was to go to the jobbers [distributors] once a week to pick up some money that was due so we could pay the payroll. That's how tight things were. But we did a lot of wonderful books and Barney, because he was interested in the editorial side more than the marketing side, gave me a lot of freedom. I hadn't worked in any big publishing house in a capacity in which I could make decisions, so I did a lot of things quite innovatively.

Like what?
I wanted to see all the orders that came in to the house, which caused a delay in the printing out of orders, but I wanted to have a hands-on approach to seeing the orders as they came in and get a feel for what was moving. A few years into the job, we had to fire everybody in the sales department and I had to travel the country. I didn't realize until later what a wonderful experience that was going to be for me. I had to travel to the West coast for three weeks twice a year. I had to travel to the South, the Southeast, the Northeast. I even had to train a couple of the editors to go out and sell our list. We were really just scraping by. Then, when we started to do a little better financially, with one best-seller after another, I was able to get on the phone and call a lot of these booksellers who I now knew personally and get them to get behind a particular book on the list that I thought had the most potential. We never had a large sales force, even when we were successful. But we did a lot of phone work and a lot of postcards and we got the independent booksellers behind us, and that worked very well. There were also times when we would take a gamble. We didn't do P&Ls [Profit and Loss projections] for acquisitions. We didn't have a budget. A lot of it was instinctive publishing.

I can remember a particularly episode with a book that turned out to be one of the most successful Grove ever published, a book called Games People Play. I thought it was a terrible title for a book on transactional analysis. We had three colored discs on the cover with lines going from one to the other, and I said to Barney, "With a title like that, and a jacket like that, people are going to think it's a game book." He totally ignored me. Just when the book was being published, I went to the West coast for one of my three-week trips. When I got back, I called Barney and said,"Look, I want us to do a big ad in the Times for Games People Play." Barney said, "Why? We only printed thirty-five hundred copies. I think we've gone back for twenty-five hundred more, and you want a big ad in the Times? We published his first book and it didn't do all that well." I said, "Well, I have to tell you, Barney, I think God is telling me something." He laughed and said,"What is God telling you, Nat?" I said, "Well, I went to the West coast and in L.A., in a restaurant, I saw a woman reading a copy of Games People Play. Then I took the shuttle flight from L.A. to San Francisco and there was someone on the plane reading Games People Play. I said to myself, ‘If I see a third person reading this book, with the print order that we had, I'm going to come back....'" Of course I did see a third person in San Francisco reading Games People Play, which is why I came back and told him God was telling me we had to do a big ad. The American Psychiatric Association convention, at which we always exhibited our books, was coming up, and we decided to do an open letter to the shrinks who were attending the APA about Games People Play. Fred Jordan, who wrote a lot of our ad copy, did almost a full-page letter in the daily Times. We brought up hundreds of copies to sell to the shrinks at our little stand. We sold a lotof copies. And we were selling it to the right audience: young psychiatrists. Then the media got on to us and the book became a huge success, the biggest that Grove had ever had. I think we sold something like 600,000 copies in hardcover. Nobody wanted to buy the paperback rights because they thought for a hardcover of its kind we had pretty much covered the whole audience. So Grove had to publish the paperback itself, which then sold about two million copies. Grove was the kind of place where I could say to Barney, "God is telling me something." There was a wonderful level of collegiality in the company. Sometimes we would gang up on Barney because if one of us couldn't persuade him about something, then eventually all of us could.

Why were you eventually fired?
The company was getting involved in the film business. I didn't like most of the films we were buying up and distributing. It was also taking a lot of our resources, tying up Dick's attention as well as Fred Jordan's attention, and the book publishing side was beginning to suffer. The list was not as large, it wasn't as focused, and I was the big naysayer about it. I was calling Barney on it. I kept telling him we had to get out of the film business. I became a strong voice of opposition. Whereas he took my criticism on other matters for a long time, and in very good form, I might add, on this point he was adamant.

When he began to discover that I wasn't the only one who felt this way, especially when he asked Dick Seaver to fire me—Dick and Fred were senior to me—and neither one of them wanted to fire me, he was convinced that I had gotten everybody on my side on this matter. When he fired me, he said, "I have to restore control of the company. This is mine. Not yours." Only two years later, Barney came to me with a project for which I sold the paperback rights for so much money that my commission was greater than my last year's salary working for him.

So obviously there were no hard feelings.
Not at all. In fact, Barney celebrated his eighty-fifth birthday at my home in East Hampton, which made me very pleased. My best publishing experiences were the years working for him. I realize now what a great experience it was.

When you get down to it, what made him such a special publisher?
He was a rebel. He was attracted to that which turned off other people. He loved a good battle. He had wonderful taste, and he also had a wonderful outlook on publishing that doesn't exist at all anymore.

Tell me what you mean by that.
I'll tell you about a moment in my life with Barney that had a major influence on the things that attract me as an agent, especially these last few years. At some point I noticed that on the upcoming list was a book of poetry, a fairly substantially sized book of poetry by a Mexican poet I had never heard of, and it was going to be in a bilingual edition, Spanish and English. I went to Barney and said,"You know, Barney, I don't think I can sell this book. I've never heard of this guy." Barney said to me, "I didn't buy it because I thought you could sell it. I bought it because I liked it and because I thought it was important." And the book was the first publication in English of the poetry of Octavio Paz. It's sold hundreds of thousands of copies, it's still in the Grove Press backlist, and it was a book he wanted to publish because he loved it. You couldn't help loving a guy who had that philosophy.

When you left, why did you decide to become an agent rather than an editor?
I knew how to sell books. And because Grove Press had a hardcover list, a trade paperback list, its own mass market paperback list, and a magazine, I thought I would make my services available as a consultant. Which is what I did in my first year or two. Grove was a distributor for a couple of smaller publishers—Peter Workman's first list was being distributed by Grove, for example—so I thought I would approach small publishers and offer my services as a marketing consultant. Because of the variety on the Grove Press list, and because I had traveled the country, I think I was able to help some small publishers. One of those publishers had a book that they wanted to get published instantly. I knew some of the editors at Dell from my own days there, and I knew Dell did a number of instant books, and I sold this book to Dell and got my first commission. About six months later, this small publisher had another book. It was by an NFL football player who had quit the game and talked about how he had been supported financially while he was playing football in college by the university, and some of the illegal things that were going on in football. I sold the paperback rights for fifty thousand dollars and took a 10 percent commission. I thought, "Wait a second. Maybe I should be doing this for small presses instead of offering my consulting thing."

So I started to move from consulting work to handling the subsidiary rights—paperback rights and foreign rights—for small presses. Nobody had ever done that. I kind of backed into agenting by working for small presses. Eventually, some of those presses went out of business and the writers found me because I was the one who had generated the most money for them. At about that point, Judith [Weber] joined me. She came out of an editorial background and wanted to work more with authors. Eventually we phased out of the subrights business, partially because the mass-market publishers started to develop their own hardcover lists, so they weren't so anxious to buy reprint rights from other presses. But I was still doing a little consulting work. I wanted to do other things. As an example, I started the bookstore in East Hampton.

BookHampton?
Right. I started it with two guys. One of them was the editor in chief of a company called Stein& Day, which is no longer around. His partner lived in East Hampton. He asked me about the idea of starting a bookstore, and I had bookstore experience, so I found the location and we got BookHampton off the ground, partially because I didn't know whether I was going to make it as an agent. After two years, the store started to take off.

Were you working full time at BookHampton?
No. I worked four days a week at the agency. In the first months of BookHampton, I would go to the jobbers and pick the books to take out to the bookstore. I would work Friday, Saturday, and Sunday in the bookstore. So I was working seven days a week. I was getting pressure on both sides. I couldn't put in any more time at the store, and my two partners were pretty much beginning to know how to run the business without me. We had a financial settlement and I was able to work full time at my agency.

What were some of the first books and authors you represented?
I still represent one of the first authors I represented, a guy by the name of Dr. Raymond Moody, and in fact I'm working on a new book of his. So he must be one of the oldest clients I have. He wrote a book called Life After Life, the first book dealing with the near-death experience. The publisher of that book was a small library press in Georgia. The publisher came to me in New York because he was trying to sell the paperback rights to this little book that was very odd for him. He gave me the galleys and I read it and thought it was an amazing book. The author was a thirty-two-year-old doctor who had just discovered these cases in several hospitals in Atlanta. The book was a huge success. We sold it in something like twenty-five countries, and it was the first big financial success the agency had. When Raymond wrote his second book, he went to the same small publisher. The publisher called me up and said, "Nat, this is not the kind of book I publish. I published that first book because nobody else wanted to do it. But I think you ought to be his agent." So he turned the manuscript and Raymond over to me. There are a lot of other stories like that, people I came to know, like best-selling Catholic priest Father Andrew Greeley. He'd been published by a small press that I was doing the rights for, and I wound up becoming his agent. But I had no idea that trying to build a list of authors, to make it as an authors' agent, was going to be such a long and difficult path.

When you were starting out as an agent, were there any established agents that you looked up to or went to for advice?
None. I didn't join the agents' organization either.

You just sort of figured it out?
I made a lot of mistakes. I took on a lot of things I shouldn't have taken on, but when you're getting started, if anybody comes to you, you think, "I'm going to do it. I can sell it." It's only been in the last twenty years, or maybe the last ten years, that I became aware, as did Judith, that we wanted the agency to reflect our tastes, rather than just take on things that were saleable. Our list is our taste. Which means that there are a lot of areas of publishing that we will not go into because we aren't interested in them. So we've never done any romances, for instance.

How is being a writer different today than it was when you started out as an agent?
I think it's easier for the writer. Today writers are a lot more aware that they need an agent than they were then. The so-called slush pile at publishing houses is almost nonexistent today—a lot of writers languished in those slush piles for years. I think writers were often tempted by ads run in the writers magazines by agents who charged exorbitant fees to have their manuscripts "evaluated," and much of that has disappeared. By and large, writers get responses from agents much quicker today because of e-mail. I think the process has fewer mines in the ground for writers to avoid. But on the other hand, it's much more difficult to get published if you're a fiction writer. It's a bit of a tradeoff.

Why do you think it's more difficult to get published as a fiction writer?
I think you have to really look at the market today. If you look at the Deals page of Publishers Weekly, nine out of the ten deals described are nonfiction books. There certainly is a very strong feeling in the publishing world that fiction is chancier—absolutely chancier—than nonfiction. Today, you have to have all sorts of other reasons to publish a first novel—other than that it happens to be very good.

What do you mean by that?
We keep hearing this phrase, "What's the platform?"What's the fucking platform? The first time I heard the word platform was at a writers conference. I was on the dais with another agent and she was talking about "the platform." I thought, "What the fuck is a platform? What is she talking about?" Well, what it is is this: What does the author bring to the table? Talent is not enough. The number of slots open to fiction on a publisher's list is being reduced all the time.

But that wasn't always the case. What do you see as the reason for that shift?
I think there are a lot of reasons. It's not just the conglomeratization of publishing and the slow disappearance of the independent booksellers. But maybe it's easier for the sales rep to go and sell a nonfiction book that he hasn't read, or she hasn't read, than it is for the rep to go in and sell a first novel that he or she hasn't read. As the sales forces of the major publishing houses have become decimated, there really is very little time for any of these reps to read the first fiction on their list. So it becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy. Almost more to the point, I think, is how agenting has changed in the last ten years.

I read something where you were talking about how many agents there are now, as opposed to the old days when there weren't as many, and the importance to a writer of picking a good one.
Yes. And how do you know if you've got a good one?

Exactly.
I try to impress my client list on new writers. There may be a writer on that client list whose work you've read, whose work you really like. It should give you some sort of comfort to think, "Well, if he was so-and-so's agent then he can't be all that shabby." The client list is a wonderful tool for the would-be writer to explore. Now that so many agents are putting their client lists on their Web sites, I think that's a great way for writers to use that tool. Of course you don't really know how good an agent is until you work with them. It's like trying to determine if somebody is going to be a good sex partner without getting into bed with them. At some point, you've got to get into bed. But I think you would know fairly early on what sort of agent you have. It has to do with the level of chemistry between you—how they respond to your work, what they want you to do with it, and how they perform.

Do you think editors do less editing than they used to?
I think so. But I also think publishers do a lot less selling than they used to. They do a lot less promotion than they used to. And this really gets to the core of what I think about where agenting is going. There are a lot of editors who are basically acquirers, and there are some who are really hands-on editors. The editors in that second category are a much smaller number, and those are the people who I generally go to first with my manuscripts. But I think the whole question of editing also has to do with how much time the editor can really give to a novel. That's another reason why I think fiction is not as sought after by publishers as it used to be. You need a lot more editing for a novel than you do for a work of nonfiction—although a lot of nonfiction should be edited as well. But from the standpoint of how much time an editor has to devote to the books on his or her list, fiction is on the time-consuming end of it. So we see less time spent.

I think what is evolving today for agents is that they need to be the first line editors for their authors. Judith and I really love the editing process. We have spent years editing nearly every novel we've ever agented. We did that long before we began to discover how little editing was going on in the publishing houses. But today agents need to be far more proactive in almost every other area of the publishing process. We have to be the marketing directors for many of our books. We have to involve ourselves in looking at the jacket design, the jacket copy, the catalogue copy. We have to be very proactive in how we help direct the writer to help sell his or her book. Those are things you never thought about in agenting when I first came into it. You made the deal, you negotiated the contract, and that was it—the publisher took over.

Today the writer very much needs to be proactive. When I have writers who have the kind of personality that they enjoy going out and selling their books, and I've gotten them a big enough advance, they are smart enough, with my guidance, to put some of that advance aside and spend their own money to get the book off the ground. I think that being able to suggest things to writers, things they can do themselves to help sell the book, is getting to be as important a factor as helping them to edit the work. It's been amazing to me how much money a publisher will spend to acquire a book, and how little they will spend to make the book a success. The role of the agent today is a totally involving one—you have to be involved in the whole process. Which starts with helping the writer, as we do, through two or three drafts of the work to bring it up to the level where it is as good as we think it can be. That's not to preclude the possibility of some additional insights from a really savvy editor.

You're talking about a fairly major shift from the responsibilities of the publisher, in terms of the editing and the promotion, to the agent and the author. Tell me why that happened.
I think that nature abhors a vacuum. It's as simple as that. The vacuum that has been created in the publishing houses by the reduction in their promotion and publicity budgets, by the reductions in the size of the sales force, by the dependence on a few key accounts buying most of the print order, has led to the reduction in staffs of the publicity and promotion departments, and reductions in staff throughout the publishing house. The result is that things aren't getting done the way they used to be. It's not because the people in those houses aren't willing to do it, they're just either overworked or underfunded. So perfectly wonderful books get printed and disappear. And if you don't do something, if something isn't done by somebody...I think the writer has his or her own future in her hands in terms of what she is willing to do in order to make the book succeed.

But when you look at the landscape of the publishing industry, why did that vacuum come to be?
I think it has to do with the bottom line. If they can save money by reducing their sales force, they're going to do that.

And that came about due to the decline of independent booksellers, right? You needed less salespeople.
Yes. You could hire people in an office warehouse someplace to get on the phone and call some of the smaller booksellers. You didn't have to have book reps. Recently, it didn't get a lot of attention, but Random House fired some of its most experienced sales reps. These were people who were better paid and had been with the company for a long time. The guy who they reported to finally had to quit himself because he couldn't face having to fire some of the best reps they had, who were going to be replaced by new, young, and cheaper people. But somebody forgot along the line that these reps had built up a rapport with booksellers. They could get a bookseller to take a chance on a book that they were enthusiastic about. [See Editor's Note.]

Another problem is how the level of enthusiasm has been watered down by the way the publishing houses are now structured. You used to have a situation where you'd have an enthusiastic agent selling a manuscript to an enthusiastic editor, and then that enthusiastic editor would go to the sales conference and communicate her enthusiasm to the sales reps, and then the sales reps would read the book and communicate their enthusiasm to the booksellers. But now the editors don't go to the sales conferences. The sales force doesn't have that direct contact with the person who bought the book. And the sales force itself keeps getting modified so that the enthusiasms don't percolate down to the booksellers who are going to take a chance on that first novel. The system is such that enthusiasm itself has been kind of cut off, at the most strategic place, which is the editor's ability to communicate her or his enthusiasm to the reps and to the rest of the people in the house. There are some editors who are very savvy and very enthusiastic about their books. I love dealing with those people. They don't let a book die. They are going to get out and get everybody's attention. But even they can't go to the sales conference, can't deal with the reps, can't communicate that enthusiasm to the people who have to go out and sell the books.

Tell me about some of those editors who are especially good at that.
I'm not going to name any names. I'll tell you why. Because I'll wake up tomorrow and think,"Why didn't I tell him about A, B, and C? Why did I only tell him about D, E, and F?" The editors who I really respect a great deal, they know I respect them.

What kinds of things are you encouraging your authors to do on their own behalf?
It depends on how much money they get for their books. When I sold Tim Dorsey's first novel—Tim is an offbeat crime writer who's written ten novels about a very amiable serial killer, very wacky novels—we wound up selling it at auction. He was the night editor for the Tampa Tribune. The money he got—it was a two-book deal—was more than several years of his salary at the paper. I said, "Tim, I don't want you to leave the Tampa Tribune until after your first novel is published." He said, "Does that mean you think I won't ever sell my third or fourth books?" I said, "No, it's because I have an idea. I want you to write to the book review editor of every newspaper in Florida, on Tampa Tribune letterhead, and ask them if they would review your book, as a colleague, so to speak." I said,"Don't expect the publisher to spend much money promoting your book. I want you to think about things you can do to help sell your book."

And he did that. He sent out letters on Tampa Tribune letterhead. It worked very well. He came to the [BookExpo America conference] on his own and brought cartons of T-shirts to give out with his first novel. Then he spent many months traveling to bookstores in Florida and Georgia and Louisiana and Alabama. And the fact that he's up to book ten should speak for itself. He has a very proactive Web site where he sells T-shirts and baseball caps and he has an interactive Web site for his serial killer, Serge. Tim is about to make his thousandth bookstore stop. He's made the books succeed and he's made his publisher a believer in him. He's a great student of what the proactive author should be. And the booksellers love Tim.

You also represent James Ellroy. How did you meet him?
Years ago, my lawyer was, and still is, the lawyer for Otto Penzler and the Mysterious Bookshop. He thought Otto and I should get together. I've been Otto's agent for many years. Anyway, I liked Otto a lot, and we couldn't figure out how a bookseller and an agent could do anything together. I got the idea, or maybe it was Otto, to form the Mysterious Literary Agency. This was really at the point when I was just beginning to represent authors, and the idea was that Otto had this wonderful bookshop where crime writers came in all the time, and he would send writers to me who asked how to get an agent. So we started the Mysterious Literary Agency. We did a whole thing where our letterhead had no address and no phone number. If you wanted to find us, you had to solve the mystery. New York magazine did a little thing about the Mysterious Literary Agency. James saw that. James had had two paperback originals published and his agent had given up on him. He walked into the Mysterious Bookshop and said, "I am the demon dog of American crime fiction." Otto said, "I've never heard of you." James said he had this manuscript, which Otto sent to me as the first manuscript of the Mysterious Literary Agency. It was Ellroy's third novel, which I edited, as did Otto. About that time, Otto got financing to start Mysterious Press. He told me he wanted to buy Ellroy's novel for his first list. So the Mysterious Literary Agency went out of business. Of course neither Otto nor I knew that James's previous agent had had seventeen rejections on this novel. But we had done a lot of work on the book.

Tell me about that. I remember seeing some documentary where you talked about the editing work you did with Ellroy.
There are a lot of Ellroy stories. I wrote Ellroy a rather lengthy editorial report about that first novel I represented. I got back what looked like a very lengthy kidnap letter. It was written in red pencil on yellow legal paper, and some of the words on it were like an inch high: I AM NOT GOING TO DO THIS. I thought, "Oh, I've got a loony here. Somebody who calls himself the demon dog? Maybe he is a demon." But it was a very smart letter. He was very smart about what he would do, why he wouldn't do certain things. And he did do a lot of work on the book. I've edited him ever since. Nearly all of the editing is done here. He's been wonderful to work with.

But isn't there a story about you removing a lot of words from one of his books?
That's another story about how Ellroy's style developed. It was for a book called L.A. Confidential. It was a bigger book, in length, than he had ever done before. Otto was still at Mysterious Press when Warner Books bought it, but the editor in chief of Warner had heard that L.A. Confidential was finished. I called her and told her I had the manuscript. She asked me how long it was. I said it was about 850 pages. She said, "No, we can't publish that." I said, "What do you mean you can't publish it?" She said, "We publish all of Ellroy's books in mass market, and a manuscript of that size"—maybe it was even longer—"you'll have to cut 25 percent of the book."

L.A. Confidential follows three cops, and you couldn't take out one of the cops. James came to my house to talk about what we could do about it. I had the manuscript on the desk in front of me, and as a joke I said to James, "Well, maybe we could cut out a few small words." I meant it entirely as a joke. But I started going through a manuscript page and cut out about a dozen words on the page. James said, "Give me that." I gave him the page. And he just kept cutting. He was cutting and cutting and cutting. When he was done with the page, it looked like a redacted piece from the CIA. I said,"James, how would they be able to read this?" He said, "Let me read you the page." It was terrific. He said, "I know what I have to do." He took the whole manuscript back and cut hundreds of pages from the book and developed the style. That editor never knew what we had to do, but she forced him into creating this special Ellroy style, which his reputation as a stylist is really based on. It came from her, sight unseen, saying "Cut 25 percent of the book." He wound up cutting enough without cutting a single scene from that book.

How do you explain Ellroy's success with The Black Dahlia after six novels that were basically commercial failures?
It was a much bigger book, a much more emotionally involving book for James, and it dealt with a crime he'd been thinking about for a long time. So the manuscript itself was a big leap forward for him. But that doesn't explain how it succeeded after six novels didn't. James made a huge bet on himself. At the time he wrote The Black Dahlia, James was working as a caddie in Westchester. He was writing at night. He had no family and no other interests except writing. Otto [Penzler] was continuing to publish him and had bought The Black Dahlia for more money than he'd spent on James's previous three novels because he thought it was a terrific book.

Word got out about this book, and we got an offer from Warner Brothers, who optioned the book for fifty thousand dollars. That was more money than James had gotten for all of his other books combined. When I called James to tell him, he said, "When the money comes in, call me." When I did call him, he said, "I don't want the money. I want you to call Otto Penzler and ask him what the advertising and promotion budget is for The Black Dahlia." Otto told me they were going to probably spend fifteen thousand dollars because none of the books had succeeded up till then. I told James. He said, "Ask him to double it. Tell him that if they'll double the budget to thirty thousand, you'll be giving him my check for forty-five thousand dollars and we'll have an entire budget of seventy-five thousand dollars to launch my book." And when I did that, Otto agreed to increase the budget to thirty thousand dollars. He was just floored by the fact that James was going to kick in forty-five thousand dollars of his own money—all of what he was getting, after my commission, from the movie sale. James wanted the money to be spent on the front cover of Publishers Weekly, a full-page ad in the Times Book Review, and the rest of it to be spent on sending him around the country for three months. Three months. And he went. Because James has nearly a photographic memory, he remembered every single person he met, and he single-handedly made his book successful. That was more than twenty years ago.

Where did he get the idea? That's so farsighted for somebody in his situation.
He didn't get the idea from me. He was smart enough to say, "This is my chance. This is my book to get out and do it." He made it happen. Whatever success James has is entirely of his own making. He's a very thoughtful guy. He never went to college. But he's intelligent, he loves people, and he loves to go out and promote. Not every writer can do that. Not every writer's as good at it as he is. Tim Dorsey's as good as that. Others I've represented are. When you've got a talented writer and they have that charisma, it's my job to advise them about how to use those tools to make their book successful. So in effect, I am still the sales manager that I was when I was at Grove Press.

Tell me about how you find clients.
My great love, and where we've found most of our fiction writers, has been the literary journals. I don't know how many other agents read the journals. I know it's a lot more than it used to be, but I certainly read them more extensively than anybody else.

How many do you subscribe to?
I don't know the exact count, but it's somewhere over a hundred. My heroes in publishing are the selfless people who work at these journals, who either are not paid, or volunteer, and who spend their lives putting together these journals with relatively small circulations, but enjoy it. Over the years I've developed a number of friends among them. I admire them. I admire what they do. And they are responsible for many of the writers I represent, including Richard Russo, who I found in a literary journal out of Bowling Green, Ohio, which had a circulation of something like three hundred copies.

Walk me through what happened after you got in touch with Richard Russo.
He called me. He said he'd just finished a novel and asked if I could give him one good reason why he should send it to me. At that point in my career, I probably had a list of unknown writers, none of whom he would have recognized. This was the mid-eighties. I said, "If you send it to me Federal Express"—we didn't have electronic mail then—"I'll read it quickly and tell you what edits I think it needs." And Mr. Russo said to me, "How do you know it'll need any edits?" I said, "I've never read a first novel that I didn't think could be improved." So he sent it to me, and I gave him my edits.

Were they extensive?
No. I've actually given him many more notes as I've gone along with him from book to book than I gave him on the first novel. I think I was a little intimidated by the way he responded on the telephone, saying, "How do you know it needs any edits?" But he responded very well.

And what happened from there?
I sent out the novel and had it turned down by twelve major houses before I finally sent it to Gary Fisketjon, who was then doing Vintage Contemporaries, his list of original paperback fiction that was getting a lot of attention. While he couldn't give me very much money, he said he would make it the lead title on their fall list. He did a great job with the book. What I sometimes quote as a "high four-figure advance" turned out to be the beginning of a success story for Rick.

When you look back at the way he built a careerthe sort of slow build, book after book after bookdo you think that's still possible today?
In Rick's case, he's earned out every book he's published, and rather quickly, which has always led to him getting more money for the next book. But I think it's much harder today. I think Rick himself would say that he was lucky he got to the right editor at the right time in that editor's career. In fact, the more I think about it, the more I realize that with almost every successful book I've had, it's been the right editor at the right time at the right house. That's the key to all of the successful books I've ever had—the right editor.

And there's an element of luck?
Sometimes it's luck. I think that if I were to look back on my career, I would say I've been very lucky. I'm going to be the last guy to dismiss the idea of luck.

People in the business talk about how eight out of ten readers, or whatever the number actually is, are women. I think it's very difficult for young male writers to get published, especially today. I wonder what you think about that and how you've dealt with that in your career.
I certainly think it's very difficult for male writers who are not writing thrillers. They have a much tougher road. We've read a number of pretty good novels by male writers that we know just won't go. Male coming-of-age novels are impossible to sell. We've already talked about how it's getting more and more difficult to sell fiction. Let me give you a better picture of it by looking back on last year. Five of us in the agency read submissions—everyone downstairs and Judith and myself. Five of us. We have an editorial meeting on Thursdays. I never talk to Judith about what I've read except at this meeting so it's all fresh for all of us. We generally read partial manuscripts, or complete manuscripts. Everyone averages about two of those per week. So, in an average year, that's more than five hundred manuscripts. Last year, from those five hundred books, we took on three new writers. And we were only able to sell one of them. Remember that much of what we get is from writers I've written to after reading their stories in the literary journals—we get very little over the transom. So look at those odds.

They're very tough.
Damn right. We've spent a lot of time editing through second and third drafts and finally abandoning books because we don't think we can get the writer up to the level we want. We have to give up on them. Occasionally those books will get published too. But the odds are really difficult, and for the male writers it's even harder.

Is there anything they can do to make their odds better?
I'm always looking for the unusual. I think it may require writing something of a historical nature, with a historical setting. They have to be able to get an idea of what's on the best-seller list today and see that, outside the thriller genre, there aren't too many male fiction writers who are succeeding. And I don't think that's going to change for a while.

But isn't that troubling?
Sure it's troubling. I think it's troubling for all literary fiction writers today. But particularly for the male writers, who are only gradually becoming aware of how limiting that audience is. But I think you can find good male writers who can write from the woman's point of view, too. I remember a first novel I sold years ago. The writer himself was in his early thirties, but the novel was a first-person novel from the point of view of a sixty-two-year-old woman. It was entirely in first person, and it was a terrific story. It began his career. So if a male writer can write from the female point of view, or has a story that will interest a woman's audience, I think he has a better chance than somebody who's writing the kind of Hemingway-esque stuff we read in school.

You talked a little about the decline of independent booksellers. Tell me a little more about how you think that's affected the publishing industry.
It's particularly with first fiction. I think Book Sense has done a lot to try to pick up the slack there. But for first fiction, which is really the future generations of writers, it has become a real problem for publishers because they don't have the large list of independent booksellers that they can appeal to. I forget what the percentage of sales is today from the independents, but it goes down every year. I think that's affecting first fiction, particularly short story collections. I love the short story. I love the form. But who's going to take on a short story collection today? Damn few. I think that's influencing the market—the market is feeding on itself.

With all the short stories and novels you read, what is it about something that grabs your attention?
I can't say what it is that captures my attention. I just know it. I think since I've been reading all my life, I know on the first page, the first paragraph, if I'm in the hands of somebody really capable. I wrote an essay that I put on my Web site about reading the stories in the journals. I pointed out the first paragraphs of a number of writers whose novels I subsequently took on. And it was always right at the beginning that I was grabbed.

I remember reading a first novel and turning to Judith and giving her the first page and saying, "I'll bet you can't stop reading." She read it and asked,"Where's the rest of it?" I said, "Aha!" So can I describe what it is? It is entirely a visceral reaction, and it is also very personal and subjective and not easily categorized. It could be, for me, a western (I represent Elmer Kelton, who is recognized as the greatest living American writer of the western); it could be a crime novel; it could be a literary novel. It doesn't matter what the category is—but it gets me. I think that's what keeps us all going. It's the discovery. One of the best things about my job is that when I finish reading the manuscript of a first novel that I really like, whatever the time of day is, I can get on the phone and call the author, even if it's eleven o'clock at night, and know that they'll be very happy to get my call. And how often have you read a wonderful book where you'd love to call up the author and talk about it? That's what I do for a living.

How do you feel about the decline of independent publishing and independent publishers?
I like to hope that Morgan Entrekin is not alone in this field. There are some interesting small presses coming along. I'm really impressed by what they've been doing. It's interesting how many submissions they're getting from agents these days—agents who were not able to sell that really good novel to a major house because the author didn't have a platform but had a terrific book. I think we'll see more of that. Because, again, as nature abhors a vacuum, I think there's a need in this country for good writing. And while it may not be commercial, there will be an audience to read it.

Do you have any thoughts about the future of books. Have you played with this Kindle thing that Amazon has made, or the Sony Reader?
No. Listen, I was probably the last guy to get a computer at his desk. I am a Luddite. I'd rather read the finished book. I love the feel of a printed book, and I suspect many people of my age group in publishing feel the same. When you open a carton of new books that have just come from the printer, take a breath of that air and the new fresh print. It's intoxicating. The smell, when the box is opened, is intoxicating.

Do you think book reviews are as important as they used to be?
I don't think so. I don't think anybody will tell you they are. A front-page New YorkTimes Book Review can either sell a book or not sell a book. Sometimes it's because you finish reading the review and you can't tell whether or not the reviewer liked the book. There was a time when book sales fell off dramatically when the New York Times was on strike and there was no Times Book Review. I don't think that happens anymore, unfortunately. You can see the newspapers are cutting back on their book sections. They're not making any money. The publishers aren't spending the money they used to on advertising in the book review section. Look at today's Times Book Review—the number of ads is very small. Once a book review section doesn't make money, and starts losing money, it's going to be cut back. So between the number of reviews now available, and the effectiveness of the reviews, and where they're placed in the paper, I think we're seeing the real value disappear.

Tell me what you think about MFA programs.
A number of the writers I represent are graduates of MFA programs. But in much of the material I've seen from MFA writers, they're writing about the standard stories of family trauma, divorce, the death of a parent. They're very capably written. But we've seen too much of that.

You wrote a piece in maybe the early '90s about the sameness of what you were reading.
Yes, and I think if you talk to the editors of a lot of the journals, they'll tell you that they're used to the same thing—that they see an awful lot of capable stuff that is not very engaging. I was asked this question once at a university. I was talking to seniors, and some of the writers were considering going into MFA programs. They asked me about the MFA programs. I said I thought it was great for discipline: You have to write. I mean, you should want to write, but if you find that difficult and need the discipline of going to class, then you should go do it. If you want to go ahead with a career in the university, if you want to teach creative writing, you're going to need an MFA. I think the programs do some good for people who either need the degree in order to continue in the university setting or need the discipline. But I think the originality factor is something that's suffering as a result. We're getting too much of the same old, same old. But I'm working right now with a writer who's going for his MFA, and he's writing a novel in first person that is very unusual, and I'm encouraging him to keep working on it. It's difficult to give you a blank statement about MFAs. There are good things and there are some quite negative things.

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What do you think the students in them could do to avoid that sameness?
They have to get out and live.

What do writers who are starting out today need to look for in an editor?
First of all, I think writers today are thrilled if they've got an editor who wants to buy their first novel. They're already thrilled with that editor. But I think they want to be convinced that the editor is really enthusiastic and will help to get the whole house behind the book—beyond anything that was spent to buy the book.

Are you saying an author should be more concerned about having a great advocate than having a great editor?
Well, since a lot of the editing is being done before the manuscript is delivered, I think the most important thing is having an advocate. In fact, I think the best thing an editor can do for a book is to be the great in-house advocate. That counts far more than the editing process, especially if you're a writer who feels you've gotten enough editing from your agent. And I think more and more agents are editing books.

And that's a good thing?
Absolutely. I think you have to. The editors themselves know which agents edit their books. When an editor calls me and says, "I like this book and want to buy it, but I have some problems with the ending. How willing is the writer to do some more work?" I have to be in a position where I can say to the editor, "Listen, I've worked with this writer through three drafts of this book. I know he or she is willing to do the work and is capable of doing the work." I have to be able to tell that to the editor. I think, too often, the editor discovers that the writer didn't get edited by the agent and that the writer doesn't want editing. Strange as that may seem, it happens.

All agents have different philosophies about what kind of deal they want in terms of advance money. Some agents are just concerned with the money. Others look at other factors. What has your experience taught you about this issue?
My particular philosophy about this has to be influenced by the years I worked inside a publishing house. I have a tendency to see things from the publisher's side of it as well as the author's. While I want to get the best money I can for a writer, especially when we're talking about novelists who are going from Book A to Book B, I don't want to price the author out of the market. I have a pretty good idea, based on sales, what I think the publisher can afford, or should be able to afford, to pay for the author's next work. I've done my own mathematics; the number is not taken out of a hat. It's one that I know the editor can go back to his boss, or her boss, and get, as a not crazy amount of money. So having a little bit of knowledge about the mathematics has been very helpful in being able to determine a fair price for an author's next work. Sometimes I've had a difference of opinion with a writer who thinks he should be getting a lot more money for his next book. In that case, if I'm not on the same page with the writer, then the writer is perfectly able to go on their own, find another agent, and see if they can get the money. But I'd rather see an author brought along from book to book, with a track record that develops and enhances his or her value to the publisher, and at the same time gets them more money. But it's commensurate with how the previous work has sold. I don't believe in putting a gun to the publisher's head. In the long run, I think the best deal is where both sides feel they've gotten a good deal.

What do you love most about your job? Is it that phone call at eleven o'clock at night, or is it something else?
There are lots of things I like about the job. The discovery of new talent, of course. The success of a book that you've worked on and helped nurture. I mean, I spent a lot of time working with James Ellroy on The Black Dahlia, more than on his previous books, and I felt I'd made a real contribution to the success of that book. I like a lot of the people I deal with in publishing. I came into publishing about the same time as Sonny Mehta did, and Peter Mayer, both of whom I consider old friends. So I have a sense of community. I love hanging out with these guys. We have a history together. We've all seen publishing change, but we're still in the business. We love what we do. There is a kind of a family feeling to the business, among, let's say, forty or fifty agents and forty or fifty editors. So you feel a sense of community.

I love to see a first novel get on the best-seller list. I always want to read those books, especially if it's a first novel. I mean, look at how [Nancy Horan's] Loving Frank, for instance, succeeded as a best-seller last year. I wanted to read that book. I wanted to see what it was. But I do know there was great in-house enthusiasm for the book. And I know what a splendid job Algonquin did with [Sara Gruen's] Water for Elephants. And what a great job Morgan did with [Charles Frazier's] Cold Mountain. I mean, they don't happen very often. But every one of those successes keeps us all in the game.

What are the disappointing aspects of working as an agent?
The novel that you worked on for months, through two or three drafts, and then you can't sell. Terrible. You can't help but take it personally. The writer who leaves you after several books, either because the books didn't go anywhere or because he feels he's ready to move up to a big-time agent. But I think a lot of these things happen to people like Peter Mayer and Sonny Mehta, too. So it's part of the game.

What do editors do that drives you crazy?
When they don't answer my mail.

Why is that?
Well, we could get into a whole discussion about common courtesy, and how it seems to have disappeared.

But especially in this business, right?
More among younger editors, who aren't aware that if you've asked for a book, and there's a closing—and I never send a manuscript to an editor unless they've asked for it—then they have to call and let you know. Sometimes you wait all day to hear from them, or you have to chase them again. That pisses me off. I don't get too many form rejection letters anymore. I usually respond by sending my own form rejection letter to the editor. I tell the editor, "Our agency no longer accepts form rejection letters and we have decided to remove you from our submission list."

What makes you love an editor?
A quick response. An intelligent response that shows me they've read the book. Maybe they pinpoint a problem in the book. If I have a difference of opinion with a writer about some aspect of their novel, I may say, "Well, why don't we try three editors and see what their responses are." I'm hoping to hear from the editors that they have the same problem with the manuscript. If I get that kind of response, I can go back to the writer and make him make the change before I go elsewhere with the book. But I don't get that kind of response very often. The editors I like are the ones who instinctively know that there's a good book here but it needs this, that, or the other thing—and they are willing to tell me. A lot of editors aren't willing to tell you what the real problem is with a book. The stock phrase will be "I couldn't summon up enough enthusiasm" or "I didn't feel passionately," none of which tells you anything. But the editors who tell you specifically what it is that they didn't like about the book are valuable. And you don't get too much of that. You talk about editing in the publishing world? Getting intelligent responses to our manuscripts is almost as important for us as getting an offer is, these days. You don't get too much of that.

Tell me about some high points and low points in your career.
For low points, I told you about the writer whose work you really love, or you really like them a great deal, and for one reason or another they leave you. That's always a low point. Maybe they feel their careers aren't going anywhere. The publisher isn't offering as much money for their new book as they did for their last book, and they think that some of that is your responsibility. As one writer who I liked a great deal once wrote to me, "I can't fire me, Nat. You're the only one I can fire." And he fired me. That was the whole letter! His career didn't go anywhere, but that was one of the nicer rejection letters.

The real high points are the writer who you've worked with for several years, and their career's gone nowhere, and you've been working on their new book and it's really terrific—it's different from anything else they've written—and you've gone out with that book and sold it in the face of the fact that any check of BookScan will reveal that they sold hardly anything of their last book. But you found an enthusiastic editor who's willing to take the book on despite that and really run with it. That's a great moment, and that's happened to me a few times. I say that to writers who have had poor results with their first few books and feel that publishing doors have closed to them. Because the sales track is clearly one of the things an editor looks at. Sometimes they can't see how incredible a new book is—they can only look at the author's track record at another house. So when you can overcome that, as an agent, and convince an editor that they have something special, you've really made a breakthrough, especially in this market.

Do you worry about the future of books and reading?
I don't think you can be in this business without worrying about that subject. But, you know, when I got started in publishing, I can remember an old salesman telling me,"You should have been here in the forties and the fifties, Nat. That was the great period! Now it's all gone to hell." I think every generation probably feels like, Geez, you should've been here twenty years ago, kid. Where were you twenty years ago when it was really great? I think there's always going to be that element—that it's not as good as it used to be. But it is tougher today.

What do you still want to accomplish?
I just love doing what I'm doing, and I hope I'll be able to do it for many more years to come.

Jofie Ferrari-Adler is an editor at Grove/Atlantic.

 

[Editor’s Note: Following the publication of Jofie Ferrari-Adler’s extended interview with Nat Sobel, we received a letter from Stuart Applebaum, executive vice president of communications for Random House, who takes issue with Sobel’s views of the firing of the publisher’s sales reps. We reprint his letter below in its entirety.]

While Mr. Sobel is well entitled to express his opinions about book publishers, his observations about the Random House, Inc., sales force demand clarification, in particular, two points in his quote.

First, the Random House Sales reorganization he cites took place some eighteen months ago—not so “recently,” as he misleadingly pegs it.

Second, his suggestion that the Random House field reps who left were “replaced by new, young, and cheaper people” is simply untrue. In virtually every instance the accounts affected at the time of the change were and continue being sold by longstanding, highly knowledgeable Random House veteran sales representatives with great rapport and effectiveness with their customers.

As a point of reference, about one-quarter of our field reps have more than twenty years of service. All but nine of them have at least five years of field-sales service. And speaking of tenure, at our national Sales Conference in March 2008 we celebrated three RH Sales Group members with thirty-five years of service; six celebrating thirty years; three with twenty-five years; and five commemorating twenty years.

Stuart Applebaum
Executive Vice President, Communications
Random House, Inc.


The author responds:

In his essay "Politics and the English Language," George Orwell warns us about words that are "used in a consciously dishonest way." I was reminded of that warning when I read Stuart Applebaum's letter about the Random House sales force's "reorganization" (Orwell again: "Such phraseology is needed if one wants to name things without calling up mental pictures of them").

Mr. Applebaum's first complaint is almost too minor to be taken seriously, but, for the record, this interview was conducted on January 6, 2008, and the cuts to the Random House sales force were reported in Publishers Lunch on November 10, 2006, which places the actual time-span at less than fourteen months. Readers can decide for themselves if fourteen months can be reasonably considered "recent" for an agent with Sobel's decades of experience in the business.

Mr. Applebaum's second complaint is not minor at all. It could have been pulled straight out of "Politics and the English Language," and therefore it is troubling. Just after Mr. Applebaum assures us that Sobel's comment is "simply untrue," he qualifies that phrase and everything that follows it by inserting the word "virtually." Again, readers of this magazine know enough about language to look at the letter and decide for themselves what the word's presence tells them.

Obviously Mr. Applebaum is just doing his job, and I have a hard time faulting anyone for that. It should also be noted that it is impossible to prove or disprove Sobel's supposition without having access to information that is personal and proprietary, namely the salaries of the sales reps who were fired and the salaries of any reps who may have been hired to do the same work in the interim. But I am disheartened by Mr. Applebaum's attempt to distract readers from the larger truth of Sobel's observations—that reps are overburdened, and that publishing veterans are routinely replaced by cheaper help in order to save money, both of which hurts writers as well as readers—by issuing a statement that, when you really look at it, says virtually nothing.

Jofie Ferrari-Adler

Agents & Editors: A Q&A With Editor Janet Silver

by
Jofie Ferrari-Adler
7.1.08

Considering that it took Janet Silver only a few weeks to land a plum new job as editor-at-large for Nan A. Talese's imprint at Doubleday, perhaps it isn't worth going into the whole convoluted chain of events that resulted in her ouster, back in January, from her position as vice president and publisher of Houghton Mifflin, the venerable Boston-based house she'd headed since 2001. No doubt it would be cleaner to avoid the subject altogether and talk instead about her background (she was raised in South Orange, New Jersey, and educated at Brown and the University of Chicago); the staggering list of authors she has edited, including Jonathan Safran Foer, Jhumpa Lahiri, Tim O'Brien, Cynthia Ozick, Philip Roth, Robert Stone, Natasha Trethewey, and John Edgar Wideman; or her charming house in the woods in Concord, Massachusetts, where our conversation took place.

After all, maybe Silver was sacked after twenty-four years at Houghton for reasons having nothing to do with the ambitions of a thirty-nine-year-old Irish businessman named Barry O'Callaghan. But that seems unlikely. The facts are as follows: O'Callaghan is one of the richest men in Ireland. Although his background is in law, investment banking, and venture capitalism, in December 2006 his Dublin-based educational software company, Riverdeep, pulled off an audacious, highly leveraged reverse takeover of Houghton Mifflin. After the merger, he moved the new company's official headquarters to the Cayman Islands (always a promising sign). Then, seven months ago, O'Callaghan acquired another piece of low-hanging publishing fruit, Harcourt, taking the next step in an apparent attempt to build a publishing empire. In the fallout surrounding that merger, Silver was one of several well-regarded veteran editors to be shown the door.

Admittedly, it's hard to summon up much outrage about the conglomeration of American book publishers these days. Huge corporations have been buying and selling them with abandon for the past five decades. O'Callaghan is just the latest member of an elite fraternity whose top dog has to be Rupert Murdoch (his News Corporation owns the numerous HarperCollins imprints). Still, just as one can't help feeling a chill to realize that revenues generated by books like Brave New World, To Kill a Mockingbird, and A People's History of the United States are paying the lighting bills over at Fox News, O'Callaghan's recent actions, and their consequences, are poignant reminders that the media moguls who hold sway over today's publishing houses tend to look—and, more to the point, behave—less like Alfred Knopf or Bennett Cerf and more like Gordon Gekko from Oliver Stone's Wall Street. The problem is not so much that men like O'Callaghan continue to buy publishing houses, but rather that they rarely care enough about the work publishers do to hang on to them when it stops suiting their bottom line. Which is about the time when people like Janet Silver and her colleagues start losing their jobs—and their authors lose their most passionate advocates.

If any of this keeps Silver up at night, she didn't let on during our conversation, in which she spoke candidly about what she looks for in first novels and dispensed some useful advice for writers about agents. We talked in her living room while her dog, Roxy, and her cat, Phoebe, lounged on the floor beside the fireplace.

Tell me a little about your background.
I grew up in South Orange, New Jersey, which today has become a little like Brooklyn in that a lot of people from publishing seem to live there and commute. When I was growing up it was not like that at all. I went to college at Brown and graduate school at the University of Chicago. It was when I was a graduate student at Chicago that I began to realize I was more temperamentally inclined toward editorial work than scholarship.

You were studying English?
Yes. I was actually on a track for a doctorate. But while I was in school I needed to support myself. I got a job as the managing editor of this quarterly, Critical Inquiry, which was one of the journals published by the University of Chicago Press. This was in the mid-seventies, late seventies. It was kind of wild. The journal did criticism in the arts, in all of the arts, but primarily in literature. This was in the heyday of the great deconstruction rage, so we were publishing the first translations of essays by Derrida, for instance, and Lacan, and some essays by Jacques Barzun. It was very, very intellectual. It was very abstract. But we were also publishing the early essays by people like Skip Gates. I got to work with some amazing writers, and we really did edit the pieces, because when you work for a journal things have to be a particular length and they have to make a particular point. A lot of the academic writers we worked with really welcomed some input.

The other nice thing about working for a journal—unlike working on a dissertation, which is endless—is that there was an end product four times a year. It was this thing that other people read. It was a way to be engaged in a cultural conversation that seemed important—at the time, anyway. I loved the interaction with the writers. I loved the opportunity to learn about the production of a journal. We were a very small office. We did all of the editing, all the copyediting, all the proofreading. It was this little mini-education in a certain kind of publishing.

How did you get from there to Houghton?
I was there for five years, doing my course work and working full time. But before I finished, my husband and I got married. He had finished his doctorate in philosophy and was teaching and on the job market. This was a time when there were pretty much no jobs unless you were willing to go from North Dakota to South Texas to wherever. That wasn't what he wanted to do. So, like many people with doctorates in that era, he went to law school. As much as we both loved Chicago, we also wanted to come back east. So we came back and he went to Harvard Law School and I needed to work. The only skill I had was editing. I started doing freelance work, some of it for the Museum of Fine Arts—I also have a background in art history—and some of it for Houghton Mifflin. It just sort of evolved and I began to work there full time.

What was your position when you started at Houghton Mifflin?
Manuscript editor. Some publishers used freelance copyeditors—this was 1984—but Houghton always had an in-house group of people, whom they called manuscript editors, who did copyediting and a lot of developmental work. It was a chance to get in the door and begin to learn trade publishing from the ground up. I never did the standard editorial assistant thing where you go up through the ranks that way. When I was a manuscript editor, one of the earlier books I worked on was [Margaret Atwood's] The Handmaid's Tale. Nan Talese was at Houghton Mifflin at the time—so it feels like a nice symmetry that it's come full circle now.

Was there somebody who taught you how to edit?
I pretty much learned by doing it. To some degree I feel as though the opportunity to edit articles first was a great way to start. It's much smaller. It's more contained. You learn to focus on every line, every paragraph, and get that fine detail down. I never thought of myself as a detail person, but when you start working that way, you kind of become one. You are forced to slow down and not only think about the larger argument and whether it's flowing naturally, but also to concentrate on a more micro level. To some degree, the authors teach you. You make your mistakes, and boy, do they let you know it. But the other thing is that, having spent a lot of time reading, you just naturally know if a narrative is flowing well or if you're stumbling over things and things don't seem entirely clear. When I was in graduate school, my concentration was in fiction, so I naturally gravitated toward editing fiction more than other kinds of narratives.

Were there older people at Houghton who helped you make the transition to being an acquisitions editor?
I was there so long I kind of think of it in terms of eras. There was the Austin Olney-Nan Talese era, which is what I came into when I joined. And that was kind of old school. The nice thing was that there were editors who had too many books to edit and really wanted additional help. So I was able to pick up some work that I might not have had the chance to do otherwise. The next era was the Joe Kanon-John Sterling era. That was when I really began to take on books of my own, with John's encouragement, probably four or five years into the job. I was very fortunate because I did get the support of people who encouraged me to go out on my own and acquire, and that doesn't happen for everybody.

I never thought of myself as particularly ambitious for myself, but more for my writers. At a certain point I found that I became so invested in the books I was editing that it felt like a loss to turn them over to other people. The longer I'd been at the company and had a chance to see the way books were published, the more opinionated I became about what to publish, especially what kinds of books to publish. Houghton went through a lot of changes—grew and contracted, grew and contracted—but the one thing that I always felt about the list was that it had a certain kind of profile as being fairly conservative, especially in fiction—a little sleepy. Some of Nan's authors helped to change that profile: writers like Margaret Atwood, Ian McEwan, Valerie Martin. The authors she was publishing at Houghton are still the people she's publishing today, which is much to her credit. But it was a moment when the publishing world and the readership were changing and evolving, and it seemed like there was room on the Houghton list for different kinds of voices.

Likewhat?
More books by women. More books by ethnic writers. One of the first novels I acquired was by a young woman named Connie Porter, a young black woman who had graduated from the [Louisiana State University] graduate writing program. She had written a first novel called All-Bright Court, which was about a community of African Americans who had migrated up from the South after World War II when there seemed to be a lot of opportunity. The book was about this aspiring community of black workers who came to find that the promises they were given really didn't come through. And that book is still in print. The wonderful thing about it was that here was a young writer talking about a certain kind of community and experience that wasn't very well represented in the market.

Another example is a collection of stories by a young woman named Carolyn Ferrell called Don't Erase Me. Carolyn comes from a mixed background. Her mother is white and her father is black. The stories she wrote were very literary and ambitious and challenging in a particular way. Edward P. Jones is a writer whom I might compare her to. That book won the Los Angeles Times Book Prize. I just felt there was a need to hear from those kinds of voices—and that Houghton should be supporting writers like that.

Where does that interest come from for you?
I don't know. Maybe it's just the idea that in every era there are the voices you haven't heard from before. In the 1940s and 1950s it was Jewish American writers. The thing that makes reading interesting is hearing from different voices and different perspectives, especially in fiction. And the book that probably typifies that—the most symbolically important of the books I acquired with that mission—was Jhumpa Lahiri's short story collection Interpreter of Maladies.

How did she come to your attention?
It was a combination of things. She had just graduated from the Boston University writing program. She had a couple of small publications, and she did have an agent—who's no longer an agent, Cindy Klein—who was with Borchardt. I think Cindy sent me four or five stories. I pretty much knew right away that she was a writer I really wanted to publish. But I also knew about her through Peter Ho Davies, who called to tell me I was going to be seeing this collection and this was somebody I should really pay attention to. And she was also one of the writers who was on Katrina Kenison's radar for the Best American Short Stories, of which I was the in-house editor for many years starting in the eighties. I met with Jhumpa and talked with her about her writing and her ideas for the stories and the collection. We were very much on the same wavelength in terms of my editorial suggestions. And one of the great benefits Houghton could offer at the time was the opportunity to publish in paperback original.

Let's talk about that.
Mariner had just started, and the fact was that it was really hard to sell short story collections in hardcover. A lot of publishers were shying away from them unless they came with a novel that you could publish first and then have the stories trail along afterward. I think the opportunity to publish in paperback original really made a lot of sense at the time, although when Mariner started it sort of defied conventional wisdom. A number of publishers had tried that format, and the books being published in that format got a reputation for having a particular persona. You know—edgy, downtown.

Like the books published by Gary Fisketjon's Vintage Contemporaries.
Exactly. But in its first year Mariner published a novel by Penelope Fitzgerald, who was in her seventies at the time, called The Blue Flower, which became a phenomenon. I think the fact that it was published in paperback original made a huge difference because it enabled people to take a chance. That's the beauty of it. A lot of publishers had published Fitzgerald's work in hardcover in the States with very little success. But here was a way to say to readers and bookstores, "You're going to read these fabulous reviews, and it's twelve dollars, so take a chance." And the publicity department waged a really aggressive campaign with reviewers, which I think was important. Because that was the other thing about publishing in paperback original—they were seen as second-class citizens and not necessarily to be taken as seriously by reviewers. We made a point of saying, "No, this is really just a way to reach readers by making the price point more accessible."

This was also the moment at which booksellers were switching over to computerized inventory so that ordering was happening based on the sales of the writer's previous book. Well, if you can increase sales simply by lowering the price—if you can double or triple or quadruple the sales you would anticipate in hardcover—then you can establish a base from which a writer can grow.

And now when we're talking to writers and agents, making the argument for paperback original, one of the books we always point to is Interpreter of Maladies.
Right.

But there wasn't any resistance at the time?
It was a short story collection by an unknown writer.

And nobody knew it would win the Pulitzer Prize.
Right, but it really began to sell well before it won the prize. You have to remember that when I bought the book she hadn't published in the New Yorker yet. They bought two stories shortly after I acquired it, and she won the New Yorker's first fiction prize at the end of that year. When the book came out it got great reviews—that always helps—and it won the PEN/Hemingway Award. So by the time she won the Pulitzer there were already something like forty-five thousand copies in print. Then there were a lot of copies in print. Of course it's hugely gratifying to find an author like her. I wasn't by any means the only one to discover her, but I was first.

So the decision about paperback original just made a lot of sense. It made sense to her. Her agent was probably hearing from every publisher, "Well, short story collections are really hard." And we were saying, "No, we know how to do it, and the first printing will not be twenty-five-hundred copies. It's going to be at least fifteen or it doesn't make any sense." So that argument made a lot of sense to her and to her agent. But it was a two-book contract. We had the novel under contract too.

But even after all the successes, authors and agents still resist paperback original. Do you think it will ever take over like it has in Europe?
Well, Europe is certainly way ahead of us. I like to think that Mariner set a precedent that other publishers followed so that the whole idea of paperback original became much more appealing. I guess the problem now is that the economics are even more challenging. The big economic problem with paperback original is that it costs just as much to publish and promote the book, but the revenues are half—for everybody. So you have to make sure it's the right book, that you're not flooding the market. I think it's important for publicity departments to continue to wage that campaign with reviewers. But I don't think it matters as much for reviewers anymore. I think there was something about the uniqueness of the Mariner list when it started—with writers like Penelope Fitzgerald and James Carroll, who had just won the National Book Award—that gave it a certain kind of profile. So while the world at large may not have known what a Mariner book was, booksellers and reviewers did. Now that it's more common, it doesn't have any particular cachet or imply a particular kind of publishing. Unfortunately, that means it's just like every other book. So it's complicated. I don't know where it's going. I think Morgan [Entrekin] did something very interesting with Man Gone Down, by upping the production values, with the French flaps and the rough front, to make the book itself a kind of object. Today the trick is to distinguish these books. Once the distinction disappears, it's going to become harder for everybody.

When you became publisher of the company in 2001, you became Philip Roth's editor.
Philip started at Houghton with Goodbye, Columbus in 1959, and after being with many other publishers over a long career he came back to Houghton with Sabbath's Theater, when Joe Kanon was the publisher. Roth always worked with the publisher. After Joe left, his editor became Wendy Strothman. When Wendy left, I became his editor. That was when we had just published The Human Stain. He was definitely at a high point. And what a privilege to be able to work with him. It was fun because my parents grew up in Newark and I grew up with Philip Roth in many ways. He was of my parents' generation, grew up in the same town, went to the same high schools, and also sort of made that same migration out of Newark and into the suburbs, to the South Orange and Maplewood area. So it was a world that I had not only been reading about in Roth's novels for all these years, but also kind of knew intimately.

I imagine it must have been incredibly intimidating to suddenly be Roth's editor.
Well, nobody"edits" Philip Roth. It was a real privilege, I would say, but also a responsibility. The biggest responsibility was to make sure that he was published as well as possible—and to be published without a hitch. Philip Roth is extremely knowledgeable about publishing, and very deliberate, and very attentive to detail. My job was to make sure all those details fell into place.

The first time you get a Roth novel in manuscript it's very, very exciting. The thing comes to you. It's complete. And you're one of the first people to have a chance to read it. So there are no preconceived ideas about the book, no reviews to sway you one way or another. The first book I read in manuscript was The Plot Against America. And when I read that manuscript, I just knew it was going to be his best-selling book. I just knew it.

Because of the hook?
Because of the hook and because I think he just hit a nerve. He hit a nerve and an anxiety in the American psyche at the right moment. He is so attuned to the American psyche. And the fact is that he didn't, as he said, write the book to make any particular political statement about current politics. He really did want to write about that era. But what he discovered in that alternative history was a way to touch a nerve that's very raw in our generation.

He is a very private person, and he didn't really talk much about some of his previous books, but we were able to convince him to do some publicity for that book, and to his credit, I think he actually enjoyed doing it. So Katie Couric interviewed him and he was on Terry Gross, who had interviewed him before. That was an opportunity for us. His willingness to talk about those books—he did a little bit for The Human Stain—really made all the difference. People want to hear from him, and his generosity in doing that was tremendous. Somebody said to him, "How come you decided to give interviews about Plot?" He said,"Well, my publisher asked me to do interviews and I said okay." It's much more complicated than that, but I think he was able to talk about the book on his own terms, and what more could any reader want than to hear him talk about a book on his own terms?

When we published American Pastoral, we had Roth come to sales conference. I'm not sure it was that book, but I think so. And this was amazing for the reps. I mean, to have Philip Roth at the sales conference? Edna O'Brien had come in the day before, and if you've ever encountered Edna O'Brien, she's very dramatic and theatrical and just has this regal quality to her, and she swept in and gave a marvelous speech and left. The next day Roth came in. Everyone was so nervous about meeting him. But he strolled into the room, and rather than standing up and giving a speech, he sat down at the table—this open square, the way a sales conference goes—and he talked a little about the book and then asked if people had questions for him. Nobody was going to ask him a personal question about something he didn't want to talk about—he knew he could trust us that way. The [Barnes & Noble] rep raised his hand and said,"I just want to thank you for putting New Jersey on the map." And we all laughed and from there he answered every single question he got about the book, about his writing career.... Someone asked him if he had other people read his manuscripts, and he said there were six people in American who he really trusted to read his work—he doesn't read reviews, that's not important to him—and the opinions of those six people were the only opinions that mattered to him. I just thought he was so thoughtful and gracious and generous in the way he answered and responded to every single question. I think it made such a difference.

Do you have any insight into this amazing productivityboth in quantity and in qualitylate in life? It's kind of unusual.
I think that a lot has come together in his writing. There's a particular fury that's always been a part of his work, but at this time in his life he's been able to focus it on a large canvas. When he accepted the National Book Foundation's distinguished medal, he talked about having the great American writers as his models. By that he meant he didn't necessarily think of himself as a Jewish writer—that he's not necessarily Saul Bellow or Bernard Malamud or the other writers he's usually grouped with. This is speculation, but at this point in his life maybe he sees his own writing in an even larger way—more in the context of the history of American writing—and that's partly where some of these more recent novels come from.

You also work with Cynthia Ozick. Tell me about your experience with her.
She's a delight in every way. Cynthia was at Knopf for many years. She got a new agent, Melanie Jackson, and I think that she was ready for a change—some writers just need a boost. She's a writer who I'd been reading for years and who I adore and who I think both in fiction and nonfiction—especially as an essayist—is without peer. She writes a better essay than any American writer. She is a public intellectual, in a way. I don't always agree with her. But she's so deeply engaged in this cultural conversation—like it or not, in terms of her opinions—and she cares so deeply about American culture and what's happened to it and where it's going, and she's so eloquent, that you must read her.

But she's also a great fiction writer in the tradition of Henry James and my favorite nineteenth-century Victorians. When I found out that she was looking to move—I had already brought over Anita Desai, who is also represented by Melanie Jackson—I immediately expressed my interest. Melanie sent me the novel, Heir to the Glimmering World, which was untitled at the time. Actually, it was called The Bear Boy because one of the characters is based on the real life model for Christopher Robin in the Winnie-the-Pooh books. I started reading this novel and I was just blown away. I said to myself, "It's her Middlemarch." And, in fact, the main character is named Dorothea, and there's this whole family drama that takes place in the Bronx. It's George Eliot in the Bronx! When I had my first conversation with Cynthia, I said to her, "It's your Middlemarch," and she knew that I understood where she was coming from. We had the best meeting. It was a love-fest all around.

I just felt that she was so important that she had to be published at the top of the list. She just had to be. Sometimes when you love a writer, and an agent brings you a book, it's just not the right book to move. You really want to be able to make a difference. Boy did I think this was the book where we could publish it in a different way and make a difference. All of her books had a similar look, a kind of "Cynthia Ozick look," and instead of doing that we gave it this bright cover with foil fireflies on the front and a title that was unlike any Cynthia Ozick title you've ever heard before. We got her to meet booksellers, which she had never done. She had never had a chance to go out and meet booksellers. Lots of people had seen her on panels and in that context, but they had not been able to sit down at dinner with her and just talk. She is just the most delightful dinner companion you can imagine. She truly is so generous and so deeply interested in what people have to say.

You also edit Tim O'Brien. Was he always a Houghton author?
Tim is one of a number of authors who left Houghton and came back. I can't take credit for all of them by any means, but a lot of them stayed under my direction. Roth came back, obviously. Bob Stone came back. Tim O'Brien came back. He had been brought to Houghton by Sam Lawrence, the legendary Sam Lawrence. After Sam died, John Sterling became his editor. About the time that Houghton published In the Lake of the Woods, John went off to start up Broadway Books. Tim went with John. As sad as it was, I love to see that. I love to see an author be really loyal to an editor. But he just never felt the same about the house. And at a certain point he came back and talked to our CEO, Nader Darehshori at the time, and said he wanted to come back to Houghton Mifflin. I met with him and Wendy Strothman, who was the publisher at the time. We had this great lunch, and he said to me, "I want to come back and I want you to be my editor." How gratifying is that? That's pretty great.

We just have a truly wonderful relationship. I think writing this last novel, July, July, was very hard for him. He's gone through so many changes in his life—he moved to Texas and got married and has two children. But all this time, and especially when we were working on this last novel, which evolved from a collection of short stories into a novel, we've just had such a wonderful back and forth, and I've also been able to get a sense of his own ambition and his own frustration with being boxed in as a writer who's expected to produce a certain work, always about Vietnam. The Things They Carried will always be the book he's known for. It just will. But, much to his credit, he really wanted to do more than that, and always has. He has always sort of tested that, and I admire that tremendously. His writing is so complex and so edgy, in a way, that I think people could relate to it in war stories but it's more unexpected when it comes to other kinds of stories. That's been a real tension in his work for a long time. But he's working on a new book now, I'm happy to say.

I'm curious about your transition from editor in chief to publisher. First of all, what is the job of the editor in chief in your mind?
I can only talk about myself—I think it's different at different houses—but in my mind it's really to guide the editorial group and to encourage editors to grow in their own ways. I became editor in chief at a time when the editorial ranks were really depleted. There had been a lot of change at Houghton, after having stability for literally generations. We were bought by this French water processing company, Vivendi, which had aspirations to take over the world. They bought us and sold us very quickly, so there was a lot of turmoil.

When Wendy Strothman became publisher, her background had been at a university press and then at Beacon Press. She had a strong affinity for books on social change and felt that Houghton could be doing more of that, which we did, with some success, but not with the kind of breadth that I felt the list really needed. But she was able to help me focus the list in a way to return it to its real strengths—rather than trying to be all publishers to all people and trying to compete with much larger houses with much bigger resources in all of the same categories. My feeling, and I had her support, was to really focus the list on areas that would sell over time, and to focus on narrative nonfiction in areas like science and history and biography that Houghton had a strong background in. Actually, Houghton was less known for science—we had been known for natural history—but I felt that you had to grow organically, and the natural way to grow out from natural history was to publish more science. So I wanted to hire a science editor. I wanted to find a history editor. My role was to find specialists who could really speak to authors in their own language. That's one way of being convincing when you have more limited resources: to find the most brilliant editors, with a deep knowledge of a subject area and experience editing those kinds of books, and to say to an agent and an author,"Let's get these two together. Let's have a conversation."

Eamon Dolan is a great example. There's someone who now, at a young age, has become a very legendary editor. Eamon was known for a certain kind of narrative book. But Houghton published sports books, and what did Eamon bring us? He brought us the best of sports. He brought Buzz Bissinger and Three Nights in August. I remember when he brought that book to the acquisitions committee, which includes sales, marketing, and all of that. The sales people sort of shook their heads. "Oh, it's regional." This was before Friday Night Lights became a movie and a TV show and popular in that way. Eamon said he didn't think it was regional. I didn't think so either. So sometimes you defy the internal wisdom. Eamon also found Eric Schlosser and Fast Food Nation. Again, there were some in-house doubters who said, "It's a magazine article. Is this a book that's going to sell over time? Isn't it all about the current moment?" But Eamon was convinced, and he convinced others, and he was right. So that's what you do as a publisher. You find the best talent and you let them shine.

Talk me through how you decide how much to pay for a first novel.
It's partly enthusiasm in the house. It's the uniqueness of the voice. It's passion. But unfortunately it's also "Who does this remind you of who has sold really well?" It's all of those things, and there's no one way to decide. When Jonathan Safran Foer's novel came to us, Eric Chinski was the editor at the time. He got that manuscript around to people so quickly, and so many readers in-house instantly knew that this was something very special. That was an investment unlike any we had made in a first novel before. I can tell you—I was the editor in chief at the time and Wendy Strothman was the publisher—that she was nervous about it. But she also saw what was going on in-house. She saw how many different readers were responding to it, and not just in editorial, but in sub-rights, in publicity, in marketing, in sales. And not everybody agreed. There were definitely naysayers, which is the best way to go about it. You want people to love it or hate it—mediocrity is the thing that you should pass up. But the people who adored it were so passionate that she was willing to take a very big flyer, and it was certainly worth it. It was a great bet in the end. It was also something that allowed us to push a little bit on the kinds of fiction that Houghton did, not to have a reputation for doing only one kind of thing in fiction.

One of the nice things about the era in which we were publishing writers like Jonathan, and building writers like Richard Dawkins, is that it was very much a group effort. As a publisher, you want to encourage your editors to work really closely with marketing and publicity, and to bring the author in as well. One of the things that we've all learned in publishing is that the authors know their audiences very well. We want to have them participate as part of the conversation.

I find that the best writers, the most ambitious writers, are the greatest readers, and not just of contemporary fiction, but of classic fiction.

That seems to have become increasingly important over the last decades. How did that evolve, from your perspective?
It's happened in different ways. First, it happened with the book tour. Today the book tour has become less and less productive for some authors—so now we have the book tour plus media. But I think publishers also have found that there are special interest groups for particular books that their authors are aware of, and that that kind of micro-marketing—whether it's regional marketing or a medical group or something else—can be really effective. I'm thinking about Jacki Lyden's memoir, Daughter of the Queen of Sheba, which was a great success for us. This was a very compelling memoir about her mother's manic-depression. Since it was published, Jacki has really been on the circuit. She talks to support groups, psychological associations, groups that work with families who have manic-depression in their families. She was aware of some of that in advance, so we were able to think of different ways to approach the promotion of the same book.

More and more, publishers are looking for nonfiction ways of talking about fiction. You have to find new ways to interest people. You have to get them to pick up the book. If one of the ways to do that is to find an extra-literary element to talk about, and if the author can do some of that talking and not just the publisher, it makes a big difference.

You've never worked in New York. Was that a conscious decision?
No. I made my home here, and I was very lucky because I started building a list at a moment when it was still not difficult to do that—there was still enough publishing in Boston that it wasn't an outpost. Little, Brown was still here in addition to Beacon and all the university presses. There was a real publishing community that doesn't exist as much anymore.

Still, I would imagine there are advantages to being in Boston now.
Well, that's what we all say. Everybody has always said that the great advantage of being in Boston is that you're not so much in the center of the hype. It's a little bit easier to have some perspective. And to some extent it's true. If you're not always talking to the same people in the same small publishing community, I think you don't get quite as caught up in the machinery. Houghton really had to think about distinguishing itself from the rest of the publishing community in order to attract the best authors. So, one way you do that is to say that it has this long, distinguished tradition with a vision that's outside the New York publishing community. But I think the main advantage is that it's a very sane life. It's a wonderful place to live. And there's a kind of intellectual energy because of all the universities, a kind of cultural energy around you that's really fabulous.

Which is a nice segue to talking about poetry.
My great love.

Yeah?
Yes, it is.

Were you always editing poetry?
I started editing poetry pretty early on at Houghton. We used to have a fellowship, a poetry contest, and as soon as I came on I knew I wanted to be one of the judges for that. Peter Davison was the poetry editor at the time. Houghton had this long history of publishing poetry, but one way of bringing on new writers in addition to Galway Kinnell and Donald Hall and the Houghton stable of writers was to find new talent through this annual contest. I became involved in judging it, and one of the early winners—maybe even the first year I was at Houghton—was Andrew Hudgins for a collection called After the Lost War, which is about the Civil War. I just loved having a chance to be engaged with those writers, so I copyedited that book. I copyedited Tom Lux and Rodney Jones and some of the other writers who were there at the time.

Peter was a great supporter of poetry and a poet himself, which maintained a certain profile for the list. But from where I sat we were really just publishing one poet at a time rather than having an actual poetry program. So at the point when I could make a difference, when I became the editorial director and then the editor in chief and the publisher, I wanted to expand the list, to bring on some different kinds of poets, and also to try to engage the rest of the house more. It's so hard for a trade house to publish poetry if it's just one book at a time. But if you can go to a reviewer with a whole campaign for the house's poets, three or four on a list, and you can advertise them together, you can get more attention and spread the costs over several books. I think they just needing some nurturing and attention and a sense that marketing and publicity were behind them.

What other things did you do?
I hired Michael Collier, who is the head of the Bread Loaf Writers' Conference. First I brought Michael to Houghton as a poet, and then the busier I got and the more I had need for somebody else to manage the program as it evolved and developed, I felt that Michael would be just the right person for that. Poetry is such a small world and there are so many egos involved that you need someone to manage it who is just so open-minded and generous. As the head of Bread Loaf, he's used to dealing with a wide array of writers and personalities. He also has impeccable taste. Another nice thing about having Michael come on is that he was able to really edit the manuscripts—I didn't have time to do that anymore—and to keep the poets in the loop about other book that were coming out and to foster a sense of community among the Houghton poets.

One of the other ways in which I worked with Michael was to take on the publication of the winners of the Bakeless Prize, which is awarded by Bread Loaf annually. Houghton would publish the winners in paperback original in Mariner. One of the earliest winners was Spencer Reece for his collection The Clerk's Tale—the judge was Louise Glück—and this was just a fabulous collection. This is another example of a way in which you can talk about poetry in the same way you can talk about fiction, with a nonfiction hook. The Clerk's Tale was an obvious allusion to Chaucer, but Spencer himself had a wonderful story. He was a clerk at Brooks Brothers in Florida. That's what he did for a living. After he won the prize, Michael was able to send the poems to Alice Quinn, and she loved them and published the entire title poem on the back page of the New Yorker. I think that was unprecedented. So here was a way to launch a poet with a prize-winning collection and to talk about his work in ways that could attract popular attention. It was always about quality, but it was also about good publishing—finding ways to grow the poetry list and bring attention to it.

As you've read first novels and story collections over the years, have you noticed any common mistakes that beginning authors tend to make? I'd like to get a sense of how you evaluate first fiction.
The one thing that every aspiring novelist and story writer should know is that it's really about personal taste. So much depends on taste. People always talk about the pros and cons of creative writing programs. It's a little clichéd now to say that there's an identifiable "writing program style," but there kind of is. It can be solipsistic, it can be dialogue based. I do think that some of the work coming out of those programs is being published too early. I find that the best writers, the most ambitious writers, are the greatest readers, and not just of contemporary fiction, but of classic fiction.

There are a couple of things I see in first fiction that always tell me something is not for me. The first is usually in fiction by young women. There will be a young female protagonist with a vaguely artistic temperament who goes to New York to do something. At some point, usually about page ten, she looks in the mirror and describes herself. And you see this device in many wonderful novels—this is the way the author's going to let the reader know what the narrator or main character looks like—but now you just see it too much. So I usually get to that on page ten and say, "Not interested."

The other is that you're only allowed one dream per novel. Because it's too easy. It's sort of like looking in the mirror—you get to know something about the main character's fears and inhibitions or whatever because it all came out in a dream. If there's more than one dream, I think, "Oh, wow, that's just too easy."

What about the opposite? What are you always looking for in a new writer?
I tend to like character-driven fiction by writers who are sort of pushing their own ambition and their own vision. Someone like Peter Ho Davies, who has this marvelous background. He can write about his Welsh heritage or his Malaysian heritage—and sometimes the two meet—but there's always a strong sense of history. In his story collection The Ugliest House in the World, there's a central story called "A Union," which is about the Welsh mining strikes. But it was also about a marriage. And I just loved the way these characters were set in time—which is not to say that I like historical fiction, because I don't especially—but I really do like to know that the author has a sense of history, so there's a context and a richness, a textural kind of context. Peter's stories take you all over the world, but they also are very grounded in his sensibility.

I also like when a writer can write all different kinds of characters. Back in the nineties we published a story collection called The Coast of Good Intentions by Michael Byers. He was a Seattle-based writer who now lives in Michigan. And he could write from the perspective of an eighteen-year-old immigrant living in Seattle as easily as a twelve-year-old girl or a forty-five-year-old man or an elderly woman. That flexibility, the ability to inhabit a character so fully, to make them totally believable on the page, is something I really look for.

Tell me about a particularly memorable editing experience.
Peter Ho Davies comes to mind. The greatest thing for an editor is when you read a manuscript, you give some comments, and then the author goes off and does something completely different from what you expected, but it's brilliant and wonderful. With some of Peter's stories, especially that one I was just describing, I gave him some comments, and the story came back about three times as long. So there was this kind of ebullient response from him—a kind of magnanimous sense of possibility. You could see him sort of stretching toward a novel in that experience.

How many times do you read a manuscript you're editing?
Quite a few. When I first read a manuscript, I feel like I have to read it all the way through without putting my pencil down, and then you make notes and go back through and make more specific comments. Then you get a revision and you have to do the same thing all over again. So I probably read every manuscript two or three times. Sometimes, if you've been through enough drafts of a book, you get confused. You forget if something was in this draft or a previous draft, you lose track of what's been dropped. When I was editing Jonathan's second book, Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close, there was this line in the beginning where Oskar was talking about his grandmother—they needed to get somewhere—and she says, in this perfect Jewish grandmother kind of way, something about how she believes in God but she does not believe in taxis. In a subsequent version of the manuscript that line got dropped, and it stuck in my mind, and when I realized it wasn't there, I thought, "I loved that line. Put it back in!" So he did, just for me, I think.

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The last person I interviewed was lamenting that editors aren't allowed to go to sales conference anymore to communicate their enthusiasm in person. As a publisher, what do you think of that?
Well, there are economic factors, and I know that every house does things differently. But I think it's so important that every editor, no matter how much access you have physically to the sales reps or to anybody else, thinks like a publisher. By that I mean that every single book needs support, whether it's getting the right blurbs or getting in touch with a particular rep and saying, "Take a look at this one."

One of the things that I did throughout my career was to make a point of visiting every territory, getting out of the house and going around with the reps to meet with booksellers, to the degree that they were able to give me some time. Not so much to sell, more to just make personal contact and talk about publishing in general, to talk about the obstacles, to say, "Well, if you loved this, you're going to love that." I had a wonderful experience at Tattered Cover one time. It was in the morning, before the store opened, and it was just me and Margaret Maupin and the staff. I brought a bunch of books, and I said,"Here are the stories behind these books." Here's why an editor acquired something, how it came about. Getting to tell those behind-the-books stories, and having that personal contact, not only with the buyer but with the clerks on the floor, the people who talk to each other all day, was just something I enjoyed. I learned so much from talking to booksellers. It was a complete education. Every editor should spend time talking to booksellers.

Yet that doesn't happen much.
No, and it's too bad.I think people get stuck in their offices. I really do. I think it's so great to get out of the office.

Why don't publishers make them get out of the office?
People have time constraints. Booksellers have time constraints. I also think that so much is just too managed, that publishers may be a little bit too cautious about sending people out. I don't know. That's my sense of it, that, "Oh, who knows what's going to happen in that exchange." And the sales force has to be on board for it too. The sales rep doesn't want the editor walking in and stepping all over his territory, literally. It's a delicate thing to do, but I think it really helps everybody if it can happen, if there's more of that contact.

Speaking of bookselling, I'm sure you've spent a lot of time thinking about returns. Could the system ever change, without destroying booksellers and their ability to take a chance on something?
I think it's changing itself. Both the wholesalers and the retailers are taking fewer books up front. They just are. That's a reality of the business: It's becoming more of a wait-and-see business and fewer risks are being taken. That's just something that publishers are going to have to figure out how to manage. It's managing inventory. It's making sure that you can ride a wave when it starts to build—when a book is taking off—but before it crests. There needs to be really good communication between the booksellers and the reps. Part of the problem is that people are overstretched. There are just not enough people in marketing and publicity to go around, and the reps have so many books in their bags. What I hate to see is for the small books not to get a chance, because every publisher has had the experience of the book they least expected—maybe somebody did, but not the whole house—just selling and selling and making the year. Those little surprises are so important, and you want to make room for them. You want to allow them to happen. Maybe they take more work than they used to. A lot of it is just luck and...you know, Oprah.

The computerized systems that bookstores use to track sales is also something you've seen evolve.
Yes, exactly. This whole conversation is really about that. It's about how few risks booksellers can take, are willing to take, and how much they're ordering up front. But I'm probably naively optimistic about this. People go into bookselling because they love books, and they still love finding new things. They love making discoveries. And the sales reps can be really wonderful in helping to do that. I think it's fabulous that they have the reps' picks at BEA—again, as long as it's not entirely orchestrated. I don't like to see everything sort of programmed in advance, where what the reps get to say is only what has been agreed upon in-house because these are the books that must sell. I think every rep should have the opportunity to say, "Here's this little one that I'm hunchy about."

Of the changes that you've seen in the last thirty years, what would you say is the single most significant?
It's hard to say. It's really the confluence of so many different things. I mean, it's the rise of the chains and Internet selling.... It's got to be the computer in every way that you can imagine. The way it now manages inventory and selling. But I also think there are some things that have been consistently wonderful, that some things have not changed.

Like what?
Editors still have the opportunity to be creative, to test their own talent, to try to find new things and not always to do the same thing. That's been true all along. The other thing that hasn't changed is that in every era you can imagine, in my thirty years, someone has always been saying that publishing is in crisis. When I was cleaning out my files, I came across this article by Fran Kiernan, who was an editor at Ticknor and Fields—an imprint that was relaunched and folded in my time at Houghton Mifflin. The article was called "The Great Publishing Crash of 1989." I looked at that and said to myself, "This industry loves a crisis. What would we do without a crisis? We must have one to thrive."

Maybe it's worse now than it ever was, but everybody thinks their own time is worse than it ever was. I really believe that. Publishing is in trouble as much as every industry is in trouble. The economy may be worse than it was in 1989, but I'm not so certain. And for all of the change, there will always be blockbusters, there will always be bodice-rippers, there will always be literary fiction. There just will.

If you could snap your fingers and change one thing about the publishing industry, what would it be?
I would say the emphasis on high advances. There's so much risk—huge risk—that comes with huge advances, and so much distortion of the value of a particular work based on how much is paid. I think that if there were more opportunity for editors to take some risks at a lower level, that there would be more opportunity to continue to publish smaller books because you wouldn't see disappointment based on how high the advance was. I think that drives so many other things. When a book doesn't do as well as expected, it sometimes makes the relationship between the author and the editor complicated. Of course everybody wants a million dollars, but I don't necessarily think that's always the best thing.

How did we get to the current situation? Was it the crazy paperback auctions in the old days?
Beats me. I really don't know. I don't think that agents are evil, but I do think that that's certainly been a very big factor—having agents with reputations for selling books for a lot of money. You know, whenever you get a Brockman project, for example, it's going to be expensive.

Tell writers one thing about agents that they don't know but should.
That they can ask a lot of questions; that they should ask a lot of questions. I think that writers, especially first-time writers, sometimes feel as though, "Well, whatever the agent says. Of course the agent knows best." But in the same way that I think authors should be having conversations and asking a lot of questions of editors, they should ask potential agents, "Okay, whom do you represent? Which houses do you work with? Which editors do you like? How do you go about deciding where you're going to send something?" I'm just astonished again and again when I talk to writers at writing programs that they don't know they can ask those questions.

So you think it's healthy for aspiring writers to take an active interest in understanding the publishing industry?
I do. Well, it can be. What you want, all around, is for expectations to match, and I guess it can be kind of depressing for an aspiring writer to find out too much about the industry, because it's a tough business. But I think being more educated is always better than being less educated. It shouldn't mean that an author thinks they know better than their editor or agent, but just to know something about the way things work. I think it's important.

How are you feeling about what you've just been through at Houghton?
I'm very much looking forward to starting my new job. It's a huge change, of course, because I was at the same place for all those years. But that's so unusual in this industry. I was very fortunate to be able to build a personal list and to create an editorial group that could publish so many exciting books, and that is a wonderful legacy to leave behind. Now I can turn some of that energy back toward my own list, which I had not been able to do for quite a while. When you're a publisher, you just can't. I acquired fewer and fewer books the bigger and bigger my job got. I'm not expecting to start acquiring like crazy, but I am excited to be able to focus my energies on individual writers and how best to support them over time. Just to publish any one book particularly well is an exciting challenge. Having known Nan all these years makes it very comfortable. I think her reputation for excellence and quality and sticking with writers over the long term makes it a really nice fit. I was very deliberate in making a decision to go to a place where I felt that my authors would be comfortable and I wouldn't need to do any convincing. It just made perfect sense—for my writers, for the agents. And it's a lot less stressful not to have to worry about all of the finances and the hiring and the firing, and especially not to be at a place that's in turmoil.

Are there any booksnot books you've publishedthat you find yourself going back to and reading again and again?
Middlemarch. Moby-Dick.

Really? How many times have you read Moby-Dick?
Oh, many times—four, five, maybe six times. I spent a lot of time on it when I was in graduate school. And, yes, I do read the whaling chapters. I love nineteenth-century fiction, and that's what I go back to. But recently I've been rereading a lot of Faulkner and Salinger. It's interesting how your perspective changes on a lot of this reading when you're not studying it like you were in school. Reading Salinger as an adult, especially as an adult with children, is a very different experience. What I found was that there was a certain way in which he got those voices, in Catcher in the Rye for example, he got that voice so perfectly. I heard my own son's voice. At the beginning of the book, when Holden is talking about his older brother, the first thing he says about his brother, if I'm remembering right, is something about how his brother has this incredibly cool car. The first thing he says about his brother is about his car! I thought, "Yeah, that's what my kid would say too, and in just that tone of voice." There was something completely timeless about that. So no matter how dated some of the other stuff gets, especially the sort of pop psychology that Salinger fell victim to, he got those voices really right.

What keeps driving you?
I've always felt that I needed to have a goal and a mission, and at Houghton it was helping to change the shape of the list—diversify the fiction, support poetry—and then as a publisher to bring in editors who could really find the best stuff and be creative about publishing it. I still feel really ambitious for particular writers. I would love to have the opportunity to publish the fourth, fifth, sixth book of a writer like Peter Ho Davies, for instance, or Michael Byers, or Monique Truong, and to continue to work with writers like Cynthia Ozick and Anita Desai. I think it's important to publish them well.

I also think—this will sound incredibly snobby—that this culture is sort of deeply debased. I don't think of myself as the one and only guardian of intelligent conversation in this country, but you do want to keep it going on some level. Which is not to say that everything I do is high-minded, not by any means, but there's got to be a place for it. There just does. So it would be great if I can contribute to that.

Jofie Ferrari-Adler is an editor at Grove/Atlantic.

Agents & Editors: A Q&A With Editor Pat Strachan

by
Jofie Ferrari-Adler
3.1.08

In an industry known for its larger-than-life personalities, Pat Strachan, a senior editor at Little, Brown, is something of a revelation. Born and raised in the suburbs of St. Louis, and educated at Duke University and the Radcliffe Publishing Program, Strachan moved to New York City in 1971 and spent the first seventeen years of her career at Farrar, Straus and Giroux (FSG), starting as an assistant and rising to vice president and associate publisher by editing top-shelf writers such as Joseph Brodsky, Lydia Davis, John McPhee, and Marilynne Robinson. Over almost four decades in the business, she has edited some of our most celebrated poets—Donald Hall, Galway Kinnell, Philip Larkin, Czeslaw Milosz, and Grace Paley, to name a few—and an equally impressive roster of prose writers, including Ian Frazier, Jamaica Kincaid, Rick Moody, Edna O’Brien, Jim Shepard, Tom Wolfe, and Daniel Woodrell. In 1982, she was awarded the PEN/Roger Klein Award for Editing. Yet despite these accomplishments, she remains a gentle and unassuming presence—an echo of Max Perkins in the era of Judith Regan.

When Strachan leads me into her office, the first thing I notice is that her large, L-shaped desk is neat and uncluttered. She explains that many of her manuscripts are at home, where she does her reading and editing. The office is decorated with dozens of framed photographs, drawings, and other mementos from a life in books: here a black-and-white photo, taken in the 1970s, of Derek Walcott at the Trinidad Theatre Workshop; there a shot of Padgett Powell and his beloved pit bull, Spode. On the wall to my right is a poem by Seamus Heaney titled “A Paean for Pat,” which he presented to her when she resigned from FSG in 1988 to become a fiction editor at the New Yorker. In 1992, after four years at the magazine, Strachan returned to book publishing, holding senior-level positions at Harcourt and Houghton Mifflin before moving to Little, Brown in 2002.

Shortly before this interview went to press, the literary world was shocked by news that Tom Wolfe, whose books Strachan edited at FSG, had left his publisher of forty-two years and given his next book to Little, Brown for an amount of money that anonymous sources have placed at between six million and seven million dollars. Sara Nelson, the editor in chief of Publishers Weekly, speculated in her weekly column that “by choosing Pat Strachan, wherever she is, Wolfe is declaring that sometimes it’s the editor, even more than the house, that counts.” I dropped Strachan a line to ask if she thought that was the case. True to form, she ducked the opportunity to take any personal credit, replying, “I can barely believe my great good fortune in being able to work with Tom Wolfe again. His new novel will be both an enormous amount of fun and an important reckoning with our times, as readers know to expect of Tom.”

In this interview, Strachan talks about her years at the New Yorker, the art of editing literary fiction, and what authors should consider when trying to land a publisher.

Maybe you can start by telling me a little bit about your background.
I was born in Kirkwood, Missouri, which is a suburb of St. Louis. Marianne Moore lived there when she was young, with her brother and mother. They lived with their uncle at the parsonage at the First Presbyterian Church. I only learned that later, when Mr. Giroux went to her funeral and brought back the program. Basically it was a postwar suburb. I went to public schools all the way through and then Duke University. At Duke, I found a flyer advertising the Radcliffe Publishing Procedures course. It was run by a woman named Mrs. Diggory Venn, which I think was a pseudonym. So fate took me to that course, and that’s where I met my husband, who was also taking the course. There were seven men out of seventy-seven students, and he was one of them. We met and married a year later, when I was twenty-four. That’s the nutshell story.

Did you know you wanted to go into publishing when you were growing up?
Oh, no. Books came into the house via an aunt. My father died when I was small—five—and this aunt from afar sent us books all the time for some reason. She would send us the Caldecott and Newbery award winners. So I read Thurber, for instance. My mother was a reader but she was more a periodical reader—the New Yorker was always in the house. But she preferred to read to learn something. A third grade teacher, Mrs. Hunter, somehow spotted me as a reader and encouraged me to read as much as possible and kept feeding me books. You know, this was third grade, so it was Little House in the Big Woods. She was extremely influential. In fact, I went back to St. Louis last April to see Kathryn Davis at Washington U. Kathryn asked me what I wanted to do most when I was back, and I said I’d like to see my third grade teacher. So we found her and went to see her. She turned one hundred in July. And she’s still reading and she’s still bright as anything. So, that, I think, indicates how much I felt I owed her.

The second teacher was a high school English teacher, Miss Andrews, who was a fanatic about literature and especially Moby-Dick. There was a harpoon over her desk. She was very passionate, and she encouraged me to work with the literary magazine as an editor—really as an editor more than as a writer. I was a timid writer, and we didn’t really do creative writing in high school. A few people did obviously or there wouldn’t have been a magazine. She pushed me. She pushed me to become involved. And the goal for women in those days when you went to college was to become an elementary school teacher if you were a reader, or if you were an action person to become a nurse. And Duke had a nursing school and an elementary education division. So you majored in English if you wanted to teach elementary school. I knew fairly quickly that I didn’t want to do that.

One day I went to a lecture by what we used to call a woman lawyer with my roommate. I walked out knowing I didn’t want to become a lawyer, but that’s when I saw the flyer for the publishing course. It was a eureka moment. So I went to Boston. It was a six-week course, and after it was over, my husband—my future husband—got a job at Anchor Books with Anne Freedgood, a wonderful, wonderful editor. So he moved to New York and I stayed in Boston and worked in the Radcliffe publicity department for a year. And then it was another fateful moment when my boss at Radcliffe—she knew I wasn’t very suitable for that job—told me Mr. Giroux at Farrar, Straus and Giroux had an opening. She reviewed books for the Boston Globe and knew what was happening in publishing. So I basically just flew down there fast.

Had you been to New York before?
To visit Bill but not to live. So I flew down, got that job, and moved to New York. That was 1971. And it was very lucky.

Did you like New York right away?
No.

It was a pretty scary time to be here, wasn’t it?
It was extremely dangerous. We lived in a group house on the Upper West Side on a block that is now quite nice, West Eighty-fifth Street, but was then deemed the most dangerous block in New York City. And yet we got used to it. We got used to it fairly quickly, and then Bill and I got our own apartment. And, of course, the wonderful thing about those days was that you could get an apartment for practically nothing. We made nothing and the apartment cost practically nothing, so living was a lot easier. Union Square, where I worked, was very rough. No one would walk across it except Roger Straus—in his ascot. He had no fear whatsoever. And now, of course, it’s beautiful. It looks like an English garden now.

Tell me about your first impressions of Farrar, Straus and Giroux.
I felt as if I were in heaven, really. Mr. Giroux (whom I call Bob to his face but still call Mr. Giroux in public, as I first addressed him) was very supportive and kind and kept giving me more things to do. Mr. Straus was a character—very brilliant, very outspoken, very self-confident, and very personable. He walked around the office twice a day and said hello in one way or another to everybody.

Michael di Capua, who was mainly doing children’s books, was a huge support. He always pushed me to try to do more, to try to acquire—to do this—and gave me a great deal of help and confidence. So I was very well taken care of. I remained an editorial assistant for five years, which is sort of unusual, but I just didn’t see why I would leave. At that point I was taking care of some of Mr. Giroux’s authors, some of the poets, and then when Tom Stewart left, I was promoted. Tom Stewart was taking care of—I say taking care of rather than acquiring—Tom Wolfe and John McPhee at the time, and I inherited them. So really, am I not the luckiest person in the world? Now the trick was to start acquiring.

What were some of the first books you acquired?
A book about the Cajuns. I liked Cajun music and decided that there should be a book on the Cajuns and their story should be told. I found a writer at an alternative paper in New Orleans—his name was William Faulkner Rushton—and he said yes, he would do the book. We had a gumbo party at my apartment when it was published. The book was in print for about twenty-five years, so it was a good book.

Basically you had ideas and Roger [Straus] would throw you things, like, “Here’s a great book on papier-mâché, baby.” And you would edit a book on papier-mâché. I edited a book by Aldous Huxley’s widow, Laura Huxley, which was a self-help book about getting closer to your true feelings.

[Laughter.] Those were the days.
But that’s how you prove yourself as a worker. You will do anything and you will get these books into shape. It was fun, really. Then Larry Heinemann’s book Close Quarters landed on my desk—the first Vietnam War novel I had read. Ellen Levine sent it to me, probably as a single submission. I just adored it and was able to buy it for a very low price. This was maybe 1977. The book was basically about a grunt’s tour of duty—very vivid language—and his next novel, Paco’s Story, which I also edited, won the National Book Award. I believe that was the first serious book I acquired. The second also came from Ellen Levine, whom I owe a great debt, which was Marilynne Robinson’s Housekeeping.

That was the second book you acquired?
Yes, the second serious one. It was possibly a single submission as well, for a modest price, and there was no question that it was a great book. I read it, and Mr. Giroux read it, and we signed it up. But, you see, things were a lot easier in those days. There wasn’t the same competition. You had time to read it, consider it, and you could buy it if you liked it.

At the time, did you have any sense of what Housekeeping would become?
I thought it would last. It’s not just the writing, but the feeling. It’s a rendition of loss without heaviness, and of course loss has a great deal to do with all of our lives. It was just too gorgeous and affecting not to last.

Was there any real editing to be done?
Let’s put it this way: Marilynne and I sat at my dining room table and did some back-and-forthing. And I would say in 99 percent of the instances of questioning, Marilynne’s opinion stood. The book is really almost the same as it was when it came in to me. I have notes and papers and some record of our back-and-forthing that wasn’t done at the dining room table, which is really wonderful. She’s so articulate in explaining why she had done what she had done, why she had used that word rather than another word. She’s just brilliant.

Was the title always Housekeeping?
It was always Housekeeping and the title was questioned. The questioning was put to rest because that was the title Marilynne had always had while she was writing the book. So Housekeeping stayed. And the jacket process was basically, “Marilynne, what would you like to have on your jacket?” She said, “I’d like the bridge across the lake,” which was roughly Sandpoint. So we commissioned someone to paint the lake and the bridge. It was an oil painting. Someone asked me recently, “Where is that painting?” Well, I don’t know.

It’s probably in the art director’s apartment.
You know, maybe not. Maybe it was tossed. Who knows? In any case, that was the second book. And then there was a cluster around then, late seventies, early eighties. Jamaica Kincaid. I read one little story called “Girl” in the New Yorker, found out who the agent was, made an offer, and signed up the book. Edna O’Brien was also around that time. Of course she wasn’t a first novelist, but she’d switched publishers one too many times and was sort of at sea. We put together her collected stories and got Philip Roth to write the introduction and got a front page TBR [Times Book Review review]. And then there were Ian Frazier and Lydia Davis and Padgett Powell. So you had this base of authors and they would write other books, obviously, and it was a wonderful base to have.

Tell me about working with John McPhee.

John had been published at Farrar, Straus for several years before I got there. I can’t tell you who first acquired him. I think it was Hal Vursell. And then Henry Robbins and then Tom Stewart. I took him over with the book about general practitioners. John is a perfectionist, and he had very strong opinions about things, but always in a very nice way. He didn’t want his picture on his book jackets, though I think we finally broke him down on that. He didn’t want any pictures in the books—he was doing it with words and didn’t want to compromise that. He was very particular about his jackets. If we sold reprint rights, for instance Coming Into the Country, he said, “I just want to make sure that the paperback publisher doesn’t put an Eskimo with a ruff on the cover.” I said, “Just talk to them about it. Just say, ‘There’s one thing I really don’t want: an Eskimo with a ruff.’ ” And then the cover came. You guessed it. I can’t remember if it got changed or not.

I got very sick in 1994 and had to go through the whole treatment and surgery and everything. And John called me—at that point I was unemployed, Harcourt had let go of almost everybody in New York—and asked if I would edit, together with David Remnick, the second John McPhee Reader. He was basically giving me a job when I was in a bad spell, both professionally and with my health. So he’s a really good guy.

And now his daughters are writing. He had four daughters, and his wife had four daughters, so there were eight girls. And when my daughter was born I remember he said, “Congratulations—you have fourteen years before she’s fourteen.” So he’s also really funny.

Coming Into the Country was his first best-seller. That was very exciting. That’s probably the peak of excitement on a certain scale—when a company has published twelve books and the thirteenth becomes a best-seller. And then all the books thereafter sell better.

When did you meet Tom Wolfe?
He was working with Tom Stewart, who left the house, and I stepped in starting with The Right Stuff, which was so great. He had done a serialization of The Right Stuff in Rolling Stone but then revised it completely. Tom is a reviser. So the deadline is coming up and the book is expected and he’s revising up to the last minute. My job with Tom, mainly, was to make sure that nothing had slipped up in the revision process, that there weren’t any inadvertent repetitions or timeline problems. The wonderful thing is that he revised in different colors. He must have used some kind of soft colored pencils because the lines were thick—it wasn’t this stingy little pencil line—and there would be several layers on the manuscript of green, blue, red. It was beautiful to see. The copyeditors loved it too. It was a terrible inconvenience, of course, but nobody seemed to mind because he was, and is to this day, I’m sure, extremely courteous with everybody and so apologetic that these further changes had come forth. He was a pleasure to work with. After The Right Stuff there was From Bauhaus to Our House and then Bonfire of the Vanities.

That must have been a big book for you. Or was The Right Stuff the bigger book?
Well, The Bonfire ended up selling more copies. They were both big books. I guess The Right Stuff must have been a best-seller as well. I forgot about that. I remember when Bonfire was out and I was sitting at my desk typing something and young Roger, the sales director, came in and kissed me on the forehead. I said, “What’s that all about?” He said, “You’re number one.” And I didn’t know what he was talking about. Bonfire had hit number one on the best-seller list, but I didn’t viscerally relate to that.

Why?
Because it had been a long time since the editing and I was already on to something else. Of course it was wonderful for Tom and wonderful for everyone involved, but my work was pretty much done. I had nothing to do with it becoming number one.

That’s interesting because today editors are so involved in the promotion and the talking and the chatter, getting everyone fired up. Has that been a change in the space of your career?
That is a bit of a change. I mean, I always did a lot of hobnobbing on my authors’ behalf and that never let up. We were not quiet and genteel at FSG. We were very fervent and committed. But my basic job had been done, in that particular case, and now it was up to someone else to make it a best-seller. And Tom didn’t need my help. He didn’t need quotes. He was already a well-known writer. But we hobnobbed in different ways. It was less within the house than it was outside the house. It was like each editor was his or her own brand. The decision on what to publish was pretty much up to you, and therefore you had to justify your decision. And the responsibility was all on your head for every book you signed up. Certainly fiscal responsibility reigned at a small, private house where, you know, the bank was at our door a lot. So those profit-and-loss statements—whatever they called them then, before you signed up a book—were important. You saw what the last book did and sort of tailored your advance to that. We were very careful with money.

Roger was notoriously stingy.
[Laughs] He was careful with money. John McPhee actually called him McStraus, and he called him that to his face, and we all laughed. But John never had an agent. John just took the deal every time and eventually we had the best-seller with Coming Into the Country.

How did you actually learn to edit? Was there a mentor?
The mentor, initially, was Mr. Giroux. I would Xerox his manuscripts after he edited them. He took the month of August off every year and would edit three or four books during that time. But the closest teacher was a woman named Carmen Gomezplata, who was our chief copyeditor. We were the children, and we and Carmen were in and out of each other’s offices all the time. We would ask her questions and as we grew into our roles we continued to ask her questions. She really taught us to see those copyedited manuscripts in great detail. In those days, you went over them and then sent them to the author. You really learned. That was a valuable experience. That’s the technicalities of editing. The editing itself—I mean, not the punctuation and if you put the possessive here or there, but the instinctive editing—is hard to explain. That has to do with your own ear and your own sense of the language. Every editor is different, and the editing is generally subjective and instinctive, which is why everything is pretty much put in a question form. That’s what I call the slow reading, rather than editing—slow, slow, slow reading. You have to have a very long attention span as you know and just not get up for a long time to keep the continuity. And if you are a sedentary person anyway, which I am, it’s a marvelous, marvelous job.

Did you know that you liked it right away?
I did. It’s because the writers were so wonderful. One after the other would come into the office—most of them did, anyway—and they were so interesting and so fun to be with. It’s not as if the editing of their books was the penance part, but the association was such a joy, and I knew I wanted to be among that group of people who were writing and publishing books.

You were also editing a fair number of poets. How did you come to meet Seamus Heaney?
I met him through his books. Seamus had been distributed by Oxford University Press—his Faber and Faber editions—and Faber had for a while wanted Farrar, Straus to publish him. I started publishing him with Field Work, which was maybe 1978. And that was really, really a wonderful opportunity. He’s so kind, and so funny. This is what I find about a lot of poets: Before the kind, the funny. Why are poets so funny? Joseph Brodsky: hilarious. Derek Walcott: hilarious. Mark Strand—they’re all funny. Even Gjertrud Schnackenberg is funny. Grace Schulman’s funny. They don’t have as much at stake as far as becoming financial successes. There is a limited readership, even with someone like Seamus. They are jealous about prizes and jockey in that sort of way, but basically they’re pretty satisfied with what they’ve chosen to do in life. It’s a choice that was almost made for them. It’s who they are.

I have to confess that the idea of editing poetry is mysterious to me. What does it amount to?
It shouldn’t be mysterious. Because once again it’s just slow reading. If there’s a dangler in there, the poet doesn’t want that dangler. “No, I didn’t mean for that to refer to that.” I think it’s basically just catching mistakes. If there’s something you really, really think should be clear—it’s meant to be clear but it’s not, it’s coming forth as obscure—then you ask. And if they say no, it was supposed to be at a slant, that’s fine. But you just ask. Editing poetry to me was asking the dumb question again and again and again, and having absolutely no pride about that. So that the poet knows that everything there is what she wanted to say. It’s asking a lot of dumb questions. And there is work to be done with poetry, work that’s very concrete, just like any other piece of writing. And you would find that too if you sat down with a manuscript of poems. All the mystery would go away.

You also edit the novelist Daniel Woodrell.
Daniel is new to me. I can credit my husband, Bill, for Daniel. Bill was editor in chief at Holt when Dan was published there by Marian Wood. He really liked his work and met him and liked him very much. After his seventh or eighth book, Daniel decided that he wanted to try a new publisher, which is very common and often legitimate. Just to see if another sales force might do better. It had nothing to do with the editor at all. So a partial of Winter’s Bone was submitted to Little, Brown. And the partial was so strong that we bought the partial and an unwritten novel. And with fiction, that’s very unusual. Obviously he’d written books in the past, but we hadn’t worked with him in the past. It turned out to be wonderful. We’ve been able to at least double, if not triple, his sales. We were able to do the same thing for Rosemary Mahoney with her travel memoir Down the Nile.

Tell me about that. What do you do for a writer who’s maybe midcareer, whose career may have stalled a little bit in terms of sales?
It’s tough. Getting new sorts of support for the writer that he or she hadn’t had before is sometimes helpful. For Winter’s Bone, Edna O’Brien gave a comment. I know her, but she’d never read Dan before and would not have praised the book if she didn’t really love it. So to have a blurb from Edna O’Brien, that sort of points to something about the language in the book, whereas people may have been thinking, “Oh, does he just write country noir? Or are these crime novels? Or are they mysteries?” I’m also very proud to have gotten Tom McGuane, who I don’t know and who doesn’t know Dan, to read it and write a comment about it. That in turn helps the reviewers to think about the writer again. And we got a ton of reviews, and big ones, and really nice ones, for this book. And reviews do sell books at a certain level. So it’s a very gradual sort of chipping away process and nothing is really guaranteed. You can’t make someone give a blurb. I’ve always regretted that—that you can’t write the blurb yourself and sign it.

You also had a very close relationship with Laurie Colwin, the late novelist and food writer.
Our children started it, the first day at City & Country School, on Thirteenth Street. Our children were barely two years old. She needed time to write and I needed for my child to have some action other than the babysitter. We sort of circled each other. I knew she was a writer, she knew I was an editor. And we were very standoffish at first. This is all about the children. This is not about business. And then it was clear we were just made for each other. As mothers. As friends. She did teach me a lot, as a friend, about what the writer’s life is like, how challenging it is, even for such a popular writer. How Spartan it can be. Of course she countered that by making things nice, and often it was through food. Food was very important. Halloween was very big in her and Juris’s part of Chelsea, and so the Halloween meal would be served at their apartment. You never had a drink before dinner at Laurie’s. You just sat down and had dinner and got right to it. And then you talked and talked and talked. She was a very dear friend. A lot of my writers were friends. Laurie wasn’t my author, so that was a different situation. I was constantly amazed that she was interested in anything I had to say. Because she was so interesting, and I’m just an editor, a boring person who works at a company.

Take me back to the early part of your career and talk about the atmosphere of the industry in those days.
Well, I must say that there were a lot of parties. There were those George Plimpton parties. It was to celebrate writers. That was the purpose of the parties. Publishers would give parties at their houses and invite total strangers. George Plimpton was one of those people and Roger Straus was one of those people, too. Roger actually had a standard poodle named Schwartz who was sent downstairs at eleven o’clock to sort of herd people out. Eleven o’clock was the time you were supposed to leave if it was a dinner party. The parties may not have been very useful, but you met people. You met friends of your writers who might want to publish with you. You met people who might want to support your writers. That sort of networking was very easy to do because of publication parties. If a party was at the National Arts Club, every editor at the house was invited, as well as all the publicity people. It wasn’t very focused, frankly. Everybody came: the young people, the older people, everybody. It wasn’t just for the press.

This was all over the industry?
I think it was fairly industry-wide that publication parties were expected. I’m not saying it’s a huge loss that we don’t have as many publishing parties as we used to, but the kids had a lot of fun—the younger people, I shouldn’t say kids—because you got a lot of free food and you met a lot of people you wouldn’t have met otherwise. It was a benefit, it was definitely a benefit. And people did have fun outside the office. Michael di Capua was just a workaholic in the office. You couldn’t get him to look up or stop yelling about something that went wrong. But outside the office, we would costume up and maybe go to Studio 54. And you didn’t talk about work outside the office. You may have talked about books, but you didn’t talk about the office. It was a different time. This was the ’70s and ’80s.

In those days, who were you were looking up to in the industry? The way that someone my age would look up to Galassi or whoever.
Cork Smith—Corlies Smith—everyone called him Cork. He was an editor at Viking for many years. He was just an addictive reader. I remember him saying to me once, “I know it’s bad, but sometimes I finish the manuscript when I know I’m not going to buy it.” Because he just couldn’t stop reading! He always wanted to know the end of the story. He was very laconic and he looked like…what did Cork look like? He was extremely handsome. As Elisabeth Sifton always said, “Well, just stand in line, because there are a lot of people in line and he’s been married to Sheila for many, many years.” He looked like Marlon Brando, only tall and thin. That’s pretty good looking. And everybody really admired him.

Alan Williams was another one. Alan was at Viking as well. He had a piece recently, I think in the Yale Review or somewhere, about his career—he died a few years ago—saying, “All right, here’s what my liberal arts education did for me. I learned how to talk about anything for five minutes and to talk about nothing for more than five.” And that’s the definition of a trade book editor. You’re constantly becoming an expert in every area. You can do fiction and nonfiction, which we all do, and there’s this continuing education aspect to it. Bob Gottlieb was always highly admired for being interested in everything—interested in the way the ad looked, interested in every aspect of the process. He had very catholic, broad taste—he could publish a thriller or anything else. Peter Mayer at Penguin was also extremely well-respected and liked.

What was it about Peter that you admired?
His commitment. That publishing was his life, is still his life. And that’s really the only way you can do it. You know, you don’t go home and switch on the TV every night. You’re always thinking about how you might push this book, how you might help the book, how this world event might help. There’s an article in the paper about Polish workers in London, and I think, “How can I attach that to Rose Tremain’s book?” And of course you can’t. But it becomes habitual that you are always thinking about the publishing process and the books that you’re working on. It’s that way-of-life mentality of some publishers. Roger Straus. Bob Gottlieb. Cork Smith, who was more an editor than a publisher. Alan. Peter Mayer. There must be others I’m leaving out, certainly Roger Straus and Bob Giroux. You know, as Edmund Wilson always said, “Literature is life,” and in some ways if you’re in publishing, publishing is life. And it gives back. You’re constantly learning.

Do you have any great Roger Straus stories that you can tell?
He was extremely personable. He loved people. He was a liberal at heart in the way that he trusted people. He trusted other people’s opinions, not just his own. And I think in a way, like Alfred Knopf, who probably wasn’t as friendly, he depended on advice, and that was a way to build a great house. Whether it was the CIA people he had out there in Italy finding Alberto Moravia, or later it was Susan Sontag and Joseph Brodsky advising, he trusted other people. Not that he couldn’t judge for himself. But why not get the people who write for a living and read for a living, the total-immersion people, to tell you who’s best of these twenty Italian writers? And he was self-confident enough to do that, to take advice, and Knopf did the same thing. That’s how Roger built up his European list. And he trusted his editors. Now, of course, if you didn’t get the good reviews, he would stop trusting you. So that’s why your standards became very high—because you didn’t want to disappoint him. And a bad review was not acceptable. He wouldn’t say anything, but you knew he was disappointed, and that was a great motivation to sign up the best things you could find and not take it lightly.

Do you have any sort of guiding philosophy that shapes your editing?
Not a guiding philosophy, but I do think it’s extremely dangerous to mess with a novel structurally, because it’s close to poetry in that it’s almost pure consciousness. The way it comes forth from the writer is the way it should probably be, even though maybe the beginning is unclear or not enough action happens in this part or whatever. With a literary book—I hate to say literary, but a piece of serious fiction that isn’t genre fiction—I try to stay away from structural suggestions because they can be very damaging. One big change can make the whole house of cards fall apart. So with literary fiction I really try to stick to line editing. I also think the less done the better, and I consider myself a fairly heavy editor. But I do as little as I can do, because a work of serious literature is a very fragile construction.

I have a few little bugaboos. I learned one of them at the New Yorker. It’s called the “stopper.” A stopper is usually a graphic or upsetting image that causes the reader to stop and read in a daze over the next pages. The reader has a visceral reaction. And you don’t want to do that and follow it up with important stuff. You don’t want to do that too fast, you don’t want to do it too soon—especially in a story. It’s more than prudery. There are certain rules about how a reader is actually reacting, that I have in my own mind at least. But the stopper was a New Yorker term, and I thought it was really very wise.

Who was editing the New Yorker when you were there?
It was Bob Gottlieb, lots of fun, and the deputy was Chip McGrath, marvelous, and Roger Angell was the head of the fiction department, which he probably still is. Alice Quinn was there doing poetry and some fiction. Linda Asher and Dan Menaker, lots of fun, plus assistants and about three people who did nothing but read.

Why did they call you? This was after Bonfire?
Yes. It was right after Bonfire, which was my first best-seller after Coming Into the Country and my last best-seller. I knew John McPhee very well, and they were looking for a fiction editor and John, I know, recommended me to Roger. And I knew Chip fairly well. They may have thought I might have been unhappy because I was passed over for the editor in chief job at Farrar, Straus, which was offered to Jonathan Galassi, who’s done such a beautiful job ever since. Because of the length of time I had been there, they may have thought my nose was out of joint, which it really wasn’t. But the opportunity presented itself and it was lovely. The magazine was more limited in some ways, but it’s more expansive in that you had an audience for each story of possibly eight-hundred-thousand readers. Now I think it’s up to nine-hundred-and-something thousand. The idea of distributing a piece of fiction that you love to so many people is alluring. For selfish reasons, it’s nice because the piece of writing you’re working on is very short. There’s no interior design to be fooled with. There’s no jacket. There are no reviews, no subrights. Being a fiction editor at a magazine is a very distinct task, as opposed to books. Surely there are people who can’t image the sluggishness of our process—“How can you have the patience to work with books?”—but that was what I was used to. So that’s why I left after four years, very tearfully, because I loved the people and I loved the magazine but I knew I wanted to be back with books.

How did it work at the New Yorker in terms of deciding what got published?
The way it worked then, which was 1988 to 1992, was that when you found a story that you liked you would write a little report on your manual typewriter—maybe we had electric by then—fold it over, and pass it on to the next reader. All the editors read all the stories, and the report would circulate with the story. The next editor would read the story, open up the piece of paper, and add his or her paragraph. It would go all the way to the top that way, to Chip McGrath and eventually Bob Gottlieb, and Bob would make the final decision. We rarely talked about the story until the process was over, which must have come from years of experience, from knowing that talking about fiction can often lead you into an emotional tug-of-war, that the responses to fiction are very often psychological, and the discussions could become very heated and the opinions just wildly divergent, even within the fiction department at the New Yorker. So it was best not to talk about the stories until it was over. Then you could say, “What did you think about that?” when the stakes weren’t quite so high and there was either a yes or no already. I thought it was a very elegant way to do things, and they may not have even been aware of it.

What was it like to work for Bob Gottlieb?
I wish I had seen more of him. He was very busy because he ran the whole magazine. He was absolutely ebullient and excited about just about everything and very outspoken when you eventually got to speak to him. But I felt that I was working more for Chip and Roger and those people because Bob had the responsibility of the whole magazine. He did say, when we moved offices—we moved from 28 West Forty-fourth Street to offices overlooking Bryant Park—I remember him saying, “We are going to have individual radiators and individual air conditioners, just as we did in the old office, because I don’t want to do climate control issues.” He was so wise. I don’t want to do climate control issues. That’s usually what the discussion is in every office—whether it’s too cold or too hot.

Getting back to books, I wonder if you would walk us through your day a bit to give us a sense of how an editor spends her time.
We don’t read or edit in the office. If someone asks you to read something really quickly for them, you might stop and read, but you want the leisurely hours to read. We have meetings: editorial meetings, acquisitions meetings, marketing meetings, focus meetings, meetings about the jackets, meetings about the titles. There are lots of meetings and often there’s preparation for those meetings—we don’t just walk in cold. An agent or two may inquire about one thing or another: distribution of the book internationally, some question about the catalogue. Usually there are several agent inquiries a day. They’re trying to keep on top of what’s happening with their clients’ books.

I correspond with writers, obviously. I do miss the phone contact, but e-mail has become so much more efficient. If they’re not home—and they’re often not home—the e-mail is still there. So that’s a lot of the day. We always look at Publishers Lunch for too long. Rejection letters. Rejections are things that you try to compartmentalize and not think about too much. It’s probably the least pleasant part of the job. It takes a lot of tact to do it without hurting anybody’s feelings. Doing it so that the author could possibly see the letter and feel encouraged rather than discouraged is time-consuming. It’s anonymous, unsung work. Everybody in the company knows what you signed up, but they don’t know what you didn’t sign up. There are also lunches. Lunches are the best. That’s with the writers or the agents. Lunches are always interesting to me, and I feel really privileged that I get lunch. You get your bearings back when you inhale a little oxygen and actually talk to people. I don’t think lunch is a universal love, but it’s certainly one of mine, and it’s very useful.

Tell me about your most memorable lunch.
Maybe it was my first lunch with Tom Wolfe. Of course, I took the subway. I was headed to the Four Seasons. And the subway got stuck. Tom, the most courtly of men, was waiting at the Four Seasons for forty-five minutes, close to an hour, and he didn’t leave. And when I finally arrived it was memorable for its tension released by his gallantry. Another was with Joseph Brodsky, when he learned at lunch that I didn’t know much about classical music. He was really horrified. After lunch, he took me to a record store and bought me a basic set: Pergolesi’s Stabat Mater, Purcell’s FuneralMusic for Queen Mary, Brahams’s Third Symphony. A few basics to get me started. And I’ve been listening ever since. My daughter is addicted, has to go to sleep by it. So I guess that was a life-changing lunch in terms of my cultivation level. The horror on his face! I loved a lunch with Jamaica Kincaid. I think it was my introductory lunch with Jamaica. We were at the Gotham on Twelfth Street, and we both ordered rosé, and the waiter brought red, and she looked up and said in her beautiful Antiguan accent, “You must think we look stupid!” That was all she said. And the red was exchanged for rosé.

Book editors serve all kinds of different masters: the authors, your bosses, the agents. I wonder how you think about those allegiances and responsibilities.
An editor always wants to make their writers happy. That is a priority. There’s had to be some adjustment and adaptation to the systems as they work now. For instance, the attitude toward the book jacket is more sophisticated than it once was. Today we wouldn’t necessarily get someone to paint an oil of a certain scene for a jacket. It’s become more sophisticated. So the editor’s role, in part, is to translate for the writer the logic behind certain decisions on the house’s part. There’s more gentle persuasion that needs to take place for jackets, titles. But that’s about it. The rest is between the editor and the writer.

How many new books do you try to buy in a year?
As many as I love, really, and it varies from year to year. I might buy four one year and eleven the next. Sometimes they come in clumps. The books you like come all at once. And that can be awkward sometimes. You’ve just signed one up, why should you be signing up another one? Well, it may be six months before another one comes along. So the acquisitions rhythm can be jerky.

Take us behind the scenes at an editorial meeting. I think a lot of writers would be very interested to know what happens.
There are two levels of meetings. First there’s an editorial meeting, where the editors and the editorial assistants basically air their views on significant manuscripts that have crossed their desk in the last week. Often it’s to find out if your colleagues might have a particular interest in, say, Rufus Wainwright, because you know of this Rufus Wainwright book that’s going around. And if there’s significant interest then you might chase it more readily than you would otherwise. So that’s sort of determining subject interest, topic interest. Even now and then with fiction writers, you’ll get a manuscript and want to know if other people have read the writer and what their opinion was. It’s sort of just airing things so there’s a forum for all the material that’s coming in every week. Every now and then, someone will mention a significant turnaway—a reluctant or significant rejection—that sort of thing. “I passed on this even though it’s going elsewhere…” It’s like our live newsletter—what’s been happening at your desk. And it’s not so much a decision-making meeting. Every now and then our editor-in-chief, Geoff [Shandler], will say, “I wouldn’t pursue it. I don’t think it’s right for us.” But not too often. Everybody likes to talk. We talk a lot. It’s a little bit of togetherness, and then we retreat back to our lonely desks.

The acquisition meeting is a decision-making meeting, and we prepare fairly rigorously for it. We write our opinion of the book. We do a description of the book. We give some background on both sales and critical reception for the author’s previous books. We make a profit and loss projection—always an estimate, but something to go by. Every acquisition meeting varies from one company to the next as far as I can tell, but generally a decision is made in the meeting whether or not we’re going to make an offer for the book, and about how high we would be allowed to go to buy the book. So it can go either way. It can be yes or no. And you have to be very manly about it. If I’m unable to sign up a book I want, that’s when I have to be my most manly. And everybody has the same experience. It’s not always a book the company can do, or feel it can do well. But the main thing, your main desire, if you love a book that isn’t signed up by your house, is that it be signed up at some other house. And there are very, very few titles that do get lost. So while it’s a disappointment, it’s not tragic, generally, if your book is turned away. If that’s the worst sort of trauma we have to suffer, it’s not so bad.

So are these decisions made, on some level, by consensus?
On some level. Different voices speak up. Editors. Publicity people. Salespeople. And everybody’s just sort of gently giving their opinion. Then our publisher has to make the final judgment. But it’s often the result of what’s gone on before.

Do you feel a sense of competition with editors at other houses?
That’s a good question. I can’t say that I do. If I admire an editor, and I can’t do a book and they can, I have to honestly say I’m happy for the book, because the writer landed with a good editor. So I don’t really feel competitive. There are some moments when I feel envious, but I don’t feel active competition.

Say you get a debut novel or a debut collection of stories. What is it about something that gets your attention, compared to all the other ones that don’t?
Well, take this collection of stories by Peter Orner, Esther Stories. It was sent by Rob Preskill, an agent in San Francisco who I’d never done any business with and didn’t even know was in business. The stories came out of the blue. I started reading them, and I just found them enormously emotionally affecting. They’re very spare, and the writing is fantastic but not fancy. I just found them very serious—I mean, sometimes they’re funny—but the intent behind them is very serious. They’re basically about families. I was able to find another reader, Eric Chinski, who also loved them, went completely berserk over them, and I was able to buy them at Houghton Mifflin. We put them into an original paperback and lots of wonderful things happened for this book. I published his second book last year. Esther Stories was a very pure acquisition. I’d say that’s about as pure as you can get. Never heard of the agent, no stories published in major magazines.

If you’re talking about a more obvious way of having a book of stories come to your attention, there’s Uwem Akpan. This is a Nigerian writer who is also a Jesuit priest and who got his MFA from the University of Michigan in 2006. He’s written a collection of stories called Say You’re One of Them. It’s about children in various African countries who are in crisis because of conflicts they can’t control. I read the one story, “An Ex-Mas Feast,” in the New Yorker. I read many New Yorker stories, but this one really bowled me over, in, again, a visceral way. And I couldn’t stop reading once I started. So we took action fast. Michael Pietsch, our publisher, felt the same way about the story. I wrote to Uwem. We waited. We waited until the second story came out. Then he got an agent. We waited at auction. We bought the book. It was as if it was fated—it was going to happen. But a lot of publishers wanted a story that was so powerful, and a collection that also had the New Yorker imprimatur.

On the other hand, what is the most common problem with first books?
They can be too controlled. I find a lot of first novels too careful and too polite. I mean, let’s face it, Housekeeping is a wild book. I don’t think Marilynne had ever published anything before, even short pieces. She was doing what came from her mind and her experience. Larry Heinemann’s book is another example, a graphic war novel, but just gorgeous. Sometimes others can be a little tight and a little fearful of being messy.

Do you think MFA programs contribute to that problem?
I don’t think so. I think they’re trying to counter it in some way. I think they try to coach the students to…Look, any time you do something for the first time, you’re more fearful than you are the second time. So the feelings often don’t come forth right away.

But in your opinion are MFAs a good thing for a writer to do or a bad thing?
I think it doesn’t hurt if you have the time. If only to meet other writers and to meet writers with more experience. To learn to talk about writing and the different ways people approach it. I think it’s a good thing. I don’t think it damages writers. I don’t think you can teach anyone how to write, but it can certainly teach people what to expect from themselves, and give them a communal feeling—that this isn’t easy—and give them some endurance power. I don’t think there is a plethora of the programs. I’ve been to several and I always find the writers so alive.

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I read somewhere that you can tell if you’re interested in a novel within the first two pages. Is that true?
Some part of my brain really responds to an interesting sentence. Over two pages, if there isn’t an interesting sentence or thought or description, or if there isn’t something vivid, it doesn’t mean that I’m going to stop reading, because that would be wrong—there are certainly worthwhile books that don’t impress you with the language in the first two pages—but I pretty much know if I’m interested or not, even though I’ll read to the end in many cases anyway. Some books are more dependent on story than other books, and it can really depend on the outcome. You read the entire book because the outcome might be smashing—the cumulative power of what comes before. But certainly, stylistically, I know pretty quickly whether or not it’s a book I’m going to love. I would say two pages is an exaggeration. Probably ten pages.

How important is it to you that your books sell well?
It’s important to me because I want people to read them. Because when they do, and I get reactions, it makes me feel good, as if I did something valuable. And it’s most important to me for the writer, because the writer wants readers. It’s usually not about the money at all. They want as many readers as they can get. It’s hard to project what’s going to sell and what isn’t, so I just assume that what I buy is going to sell sufficiently to not create a debt at the house. That’s my job. That’s my professional job—not to lose money—and I try very hard not to lose money. And having a great big book to offset some of the books that sell less well would be wonderful. I think I have some lurking in the future.

Agents have assumed a new primacy for writers in the last several decades. How do you feel about that?
I’m very glad to have the agents’ help. The agents know much more about publishing than the writers do, obviously. Some of them have worked at publishing houses and can explain the logic behind the publisher’s decisions. They know what to ask for and what not to ask for. I think agents have become more important to writers because there is not as much continuity in publishing now. So if a writer is jumping houses, if the houses are making the writer jump, then you need one stable person in your life to put everything together. So I suppose that’s the single biggest reason that that shift in loyalty to agents took place. The agent’s job is also a lot more complicated now because of the multiple submissions and auctions and the complexity of selling a book that is desired by many publishers. I don’t want to keep harking back to the days of single submissions, but it was pretty relaxing. If you sent a manuscript to Bob Giroux, he would be really irritated if you sent it to anyone else while he was reading it. Wasn’t his time worth more than that? It was a simplified process.

Are there any younger agents who you’re finding yourself doing business with or liking or admiring lately?
Julie Barer, who has her own agency, is wonderful—very supportive of her authors and enthusiastic about her projects. More for nonfiction, Brettne Bloom at Kneerim & Williams has great energy and intelligence, as does Julie. There are lots of fine young agents, but for fiction and nonfiction, those are two good suggestions.

From your perspective, what do the best agents do for their authors?
They write a very good letter introducing the writer and the book under consideration. If previous books have been published, they include full reviews with the submission. They try to match an editor to a writer—temperamentally, aesthetically—as much as they try to match a writer to a house. Then, once the process begins, they know what to push for and what not to, how to choose their battles. And that’s a very delicate dance. Because often the writer would like a little more pushing than should or could be done, and the agent has to have a good sense of that.

How involved or not involved do you want authors to be in the marketing and promotion of their work? Is it healthy for an author to be involved?
I think that, in the end, the older writers learn that it’s better to be writing their next books. Of course, everybody needs a break, but it can be distressing to become involved. I remember when I left Houghton Mifflin, one of my poets, Glyn Maxwell, said, “Well, Pat, it’s just publishing.” And I thought, “What a poetic thing to say.” Publishing is my entire life and yet he says, “It’s just publishing.” So, in other words: “I’m a writer. I’ll publish my poetry somewhere. We’ll still be friends.” I thought it was very healthy to see it that way—there is writing and then there is publishing. And they’re two quite different processes. I think involvement in the publishing process can be frustrating, and if a writer can resist, I would resist, frankly.

Put yourself in the shoes of an unpublished writer. Are there any intangible things she can do to put herself on the radar of an agent or a publisher, besides the obvious things like publishing in magazines?
Get to know other writers. Not so much to learn how to write, but to meet people and learn something about the professional way to do things, so you won’t be sending out e-mails from the blue. Knowing writers will convince other writers to read your work, and possibly give a comment on your work, which might be helpful in selling it. My advice would be to not be alone.

What are the important things for an author to look for in an editor and a publishing house?
I would look at the list and look at the catalogues online, which you can do now. I suppose there’s some way to look at which editors do which books by looking at the acknowledgments. I think it’s important to determine that the minds might get along, to learn the kinds of books the editor edits and the publisher publishes—every publisher has a wide variety, but in the field where you’re writing—to see that you’d be in the sort of company you’d like to be in. And if you can’t get that, then accept an offer anyway. Michael di Capua used to say, “Small children won’t die from this,” when the jacket came out the wrong color or something. It is important—the publication of the book and how it’s done—but the book is still there, and there are only so many different ways you can publish it. So I wouldn’t—as a young writer—get too hung up on who the publisher is.

Obviously the industry has changed a lot over the years, from small shops like FSG to very large corporate companies. Having experienced both, what do you think about what’s happened to the industry?
I don’t feel discouraged. I feel that any good manuscript I read is going to be published, and that’s almost true. I don’t feel that there are good books languishing any more than there used to be. And if that’s the case, I’m fine with it. If it wasn’t the case, I would be less fine with the changes. And the changes are that the business is now considered a conventional business. Or, rather, that conventional rules are applied to what started as a cottage-industry business. It’s very difficult to twist publishing into a conventional business. And yet you have to try. Because how else are you going to learn what works? And how are you going to report to your superiors? You have to accept that there are going to be different ways of doing things now—less off-the-cuff, less impulsive. Yet that off-the-cuff impulsiveness is there every time you read a manuscript. And you’re still making those same sorts of impassioned decisions that you ever were. So maybe the final decision about whether to publish or not to publish is more complicated and complex, and maybe there are more obstacles in the editor’s way. But if you don’t publish it, somebody else will. So it’s not a tragedy. It’s not tragic in the larger sense that we’re now conglomerated rather than small. I really don’t think so. I think big versus small is sometimes difficult for the younger people who are learning, because with small you pretty much go to every meeting—production meetings and advertising meetings—and you pretty much learn the whole business. You know why the book is priced this way and why it’s that format instead of this format because everybody goes to all the meetings. That’s a wonderful apprenticeship to have. In a larger company, it can get a little more Balkanized by virtue of necessity. So I think it takes a little while longer for young people to learn every aspect of the business.

What’s the biggest problem or challenge in the publishing industry today?
This is fairly broad, but I would say bringing readers to books. Let me try to personalize that a little. My husband is from a small town in northern Minnesota, and we used to go out there frequently. I once brought John McPhee’s Encounters with the Archdruid, which is a book about conservation. My in-laws mainly read the newspaper, and nature guides, and cookbooks—very little serious literature. But when we came back the next year, the book was in tatters. It had been passed all around the town. There were five thousand people in the town, and it didn’t have a book store. The people got their books from the Book-of-the-Month Club. So they were all reading Portnoy’s Complaint, but they didn’t know about John McPhee. And that, to me, was a very touching experience. It showed that if they had known about the book, it would have been a best-seller. There were so many people who were interested in these issues. There are so many people who would love so many books if they could be led to them in some way. I don’t have a solution. But I think there’s so little exposure to the choice, and the choice has to be more apparent.

Recently, at a dinner party, there was a sort of roundtable question of “What did you read over August vacation?” And the people who weren’t in the book world really felt they had discovered a writer who was extremely well known—not necessarily on the best-seller list, but well known. They thought they were introducing this book to all of us, when anyone in publishing would know the writer and, you know, know the book itself, know where it was on BookScan, know where it was in the Barnes & Noble display area. But people who are outside the business have other things to do. They’re not keeping track of what books are coming out. I don’t have a solution. Maybe Jason Epstein, who’s very smart, has a solution. The shrinkage of the book review media is unfortunate. That was certainly a way to bring news of books to people. I hope that isn’t dropping out of the national conversation.

Are you discouraged about the state of books in this country?
No, I’m not. In some ways, it’s thinking selfishly, because you would like your writers and your books to be read by as many people as possible. And, of course, it’s dreaming. But I certainly don’t think books are going to go away. The object itself it too essential. The idea of having your privacy is too wonderful. A book signals to other people to stay away. I’m in my private zone right now. I think that’s why so many women who are over-stressed read.

How do you feel about the decline of independent booksellers and publishers? What effect has it had?
I think the decline of independent bookstores has had some effect—I can’t measure it, I don’t know the facts—but some effect on the mid-list book. You might not get that surprise success that comes from bookstore recommendations as often. But other systems have taken over, like Book Sense, where they get the word out on a larger level, and maybe that sort of evens things out. We’ve lost bookstores, but they’re louder than they used to be. There are all sorts of areas in publishing where—it’s very easy, as a person who’s been in it for a long time, to be critical—but there are a lot of areas that are improving and much more professional than they used to be. I don’t find the reduction of independent bookstores to be a disaster by any means. It’s fun to get a Discover selection at Barnes & Noble and know they can be very effective too. And they have lots of ways of doing that.

The independent publisher situation? That’s just a big one. I try not to look at the big picture too much because there’s so much to look at in the small picture: your desk, what’s on it; your author, what their concerns are. The work doesn’t feel any different, big or small. The work seems to me to be pretty close to what it was when I started in publishing. Certainly there is more presentation or performance today in one way or another—more written and oral presentation—but aside from that, the work is just the way it always was. I think, as an editor, you’re a little under the radar of whether you’re large or small, and I think as you go up the ladder it probably makes a much bigger difference.

What do you think about the future of books? Do you think this digital revolution or print-on-demand revolution will happen?
I’m not very well educated in this area. I don’t think that the hard-copy book is ever going to disappear. It’s just not. Maybe it’s unthinkable to me, and that’s why I don’t think it. But there’s something about the aesthetic value of the book, the thingness of it. People like things. They like beautiful objects.

But they like their iPods, too. There’s all this talk about an iPod for books that’s going to come along for this generation of people who aren’t buying newspapers anymore, who don’t buy CDs or records because they download everything. You don’t think it will happen?
I don’t. I think there are a lot of uses for digital publishing, in almost a marketing way. “Here’s a sample chapter.” But when it comes down to reading the entire book, I really think people are going to stick with the object. Reference books are a different matter. You’re just trying to look something up and you’re not spending hours and hours with that little screen.

You mentioned your husband, Bill, who’s also an accomplished editor. What’s it like to be married to another editor?
It’s absolutely marvelous, like a marriage made in heaven. Because we do the same thing. Who’s the woman…? Diana Athill. She wrote a book about being an editor called Stet. She said that she partly became an editor because she was an idle person. She was attracted to idleness. And of course you do have to stay in one spot. And my husband and I don’t mind, we don’t find it boring, one reading in one room and one reading in the next and meeting at the end of the night. That’s the way we’ve always done it. I think for those couples who want to go to the movies or something it would be very boring. But for us it’s wonderful. We can also talk about the business without boring our friends. And he’s much more well educated than I am about the actual business of publishing. He was a math major before he was an English major, so he knows a lot about that. And he’ll explain the digital things to me over and over, which I’ll tell you I do not quite understand. We’ve never competed for a book, which is interesting. But he’s more oriented toward topical nonfiction books and mine are a little softer. And we’ve always been discreet about what’s going on at the other person’s company, and that’s just the way it is, so it’s not a problem.

What is the most rewarding part of your job?
Good reviews that make the writer happy. Because that’s the end of the process if best-sellerdom isn’t a prospect. That’s the most rewarding thing. But my daughter’s in medical school, and she said, “You know, when I tell my friends what you do, they say, ‘She reads for a living?’” It’s like a dream to them. And it is a dream. It’s a dream to read for a living. Of course, we do all of our reading in our free time, but still, that’s what we’d be doing anyway. I mean, there are some picnics missed on Sundays, and there are some sacrifices made, so you’d better really love to read, love to not move around too much. And if that’s the case, you’re all right.

What’s the most disappointing aspect of your job?
I think worse than poor sales is no reviews. I don’t normally have that situation. But I’ve seen it. I’ve seen just two reviews. And that’s very, very disappointing. And, again, it’s mainly in empathizing with the writer. That he or she would spend several years on a book that was maybe too complicated for the review community to figure out what to do with—a brilliant book, but a book that wasn’t a natural for review. And it can happen.

Looking back on your career, are there any crucial turning points?
It’s just all such good fortune. I had such good fortune. It feels like it was handed to me. Starting at Farrar, Straus was very good fortune and definitely defined my future career. Because I was taught by people who knew it was an important profession, I had an apprenticeship that sort of guided me. And you never really give up that first impression. So I think the turning point was the starting point in some ways. I think the critical reception of the first novels I did established trust in my mentors, so I had some freedom. The success of the first novels was important. Unfortunately, I have never had a turning point that involved sales. Tom Wolfe was at the house anyway. Tom was a bestselling author—that didn’t have anything to do with me. And, frankly, I haven’t had that turning point, which would have made me a little bit more helpful to the houses I’ve worked for—something I acquired that really sold in huge numbers right away. So my career isn’t based on sales. Although Marilynne and Jamaica and Ian Frazier have gone on to great success without me. And Padgett Powell’s Edisto is still in print.

Do you have any regrets or disappointments?
Disappointments, I think—there is Alice Munro. I had found her Lives of Girls and Women at a street vendor, wrapped in plastic, and I liked the title and bought the book for fifty cents. This was probably the late ’70s. Then I found out she had just recently acquired an agent here, Ginger Barber—Virginia Barber, a marvelous woman. Ginger said, “Well, there’s a manuscript.” It was called “The Rose and Flo Stories,” though the title ultimately became The Beggar Maid. The Rose and Flo stories really, really affected me, and not just because my grandmother’s Canadian and I spent some time in Canada as a child. I gave them to Mr. Giroux. He agreed. Alice came into the office, a fairly young woman at that point, and we talked and I made an offer. I think Mr. Giroux had a few suggestions; I may have had a few. I think we offered sixty-five hundred dollars for the stories, which was a very nice advance at that time. And then, suddenly, Norton bids seventy-five hundred dollars. And Roger said, “Sorry, baby, sixty-five’s as far as we can go.” And that was fine, that was a lot of money for a book of stories. Then it gets a little fuzzy because the editor left Norton and the book was moved to Knopf, and Ann Close has been her editor ever since. I love Ann, I’m very happy for her, but that was something I found on the street! And I really felt I had discovered something in an unlikely and virtuous way.

Any memorable mistakes?
The mistake I remember most for some reason was reading In Patagonia by Bruce Chatwin and, not really being a reader of travel literature, just being wowed by it, knocked out by it. It was on submission from Liz Calder at Jonathan Cape. But Roger said, “What do you think, baby? Do you think it will sell?” And I said, “I certainly don’t.” That was a mistake.

Why didn’t you think it would sell?
Remote place. Fancy stylistically. But I would have liked to have worked with him before he died. That book got brilliant reviews and sold very well, but it’s not like it sold a ton of copies. It didn’t make anybody’s career.

What do you still want to accomplish?
It just seems like a continuum to me. It really seems like it will never end because good stuff keeps coming up. I don’t remember if I already mentioned this vision I had of my old age when I was younger. This vision of [editor] Anne Freedgood, in her worn-out chair in the country. You’d be asked to dinner and see her through the window and there she was with the manuscripts, reading all day until it was time to slap the fish on the frying pan. And I thought, “Never, never, never.” Well, now I find that a very happy prospect—that it will still be my work in one capacity or another. To go along and find stuff. It’s very exciting to find stuff. Although it’s sort of dangerous to always want to find. It should be just as important to want to revive. To want to help writers that you admire find their readers is probably more virtuous than to discover, which gives you a lot of credit. I think reviewers like to discover, editors like to discover. Everybody likes to discover. But there’s a lot that’s already been discovered that could use a little boost.

Jofie Ferrari-Adler is an editor at Grove/Atlantic.

Agents & Editors: A Q&A With Agent Nat Sobel

by
Jofie Ferrari-Adler
5.1.08

For the life of me, I can't remember when I met Nat Sobel for the first time. I know it must have been around September 2001, when I developed a crush on one of his assistants. (We married two years ago, and she left the job back in 2004.) Despite my hazy memory of that time—chalk it up to a disorienting mix of national trauma and new love—my first impression of Sobel couldn't be clearer: an old-school bookman, a throwback to the glory days of publishing, a guy who you half expected to have a copy of the Racing Form tucked inside his blazer. I've since found that impression to be accurate, but only to a point. When you spend any amount of time with Sobel, talking about books and publishing, which now have been his lifeblood for almost fifty years, you are confronted with an obvious contradiction: He is also one of the most forward-thinking agents in the industry.

Sobel grew up in New York City and has been immersed in the book business since his days at City College, when he clerked in a stationery shop and paperback bookstore. After college he went to France and spent a year reading all the world literature he hadn't gotten around to in school. The reading served him well: In 1960, after he'd done a brief stint at Dell Publishing, Barney Rosset offered him a job as the assistant sales manager at Grove Press. Over the next ten years, Sobel rose to become Grove's vice president and marketing director and played a central role in the company's well-chronicled success during that period. In 1970, he struck out on his own, founding an eponymous agency that began as a consulting firm for independent publishers and became a full-service literary agency when his wife, Judith Weber, joined it in 1977.

Today Sobel Weber Associates is one of the top boutique agencies in New York City. The firm's clients include heavyweights James Ellroy, Richard Russo, and the late F. X. Toole; rising stars Julianna Baggott, Courtney Eldridge, Tom Franklin, and Aaron Gwyn; genre writers Tim Dorsey, Harry Harrison, Elmer Kelton, Joseph Wambaugh, and the late Robert Jordan; and a raft of best-selling nonfiction and cookbook authors.

This interview took place in the couple's elegant Gramercy Park townhouse—it was once the home of the artist George Bellows—which doubles as the agency's offices. During most of our conversation, one of Sobel's cats sprawled in my lap. Afterward, Sobel led me up several flights of stairs, lined with framed drawings by his friend and client Ralph Steadman, to show me his loft office at the top of the house. It is an airy space that overlooks the living room and is adorned with three huge paintings by Steadman, family photographs, bookcases full of literary magazines, and a lucky photo of Gandhi that, Sobel notes with satisfaction, "I've had in every office I ever worked in."

My sense is that you grew up in New York City. Is that right?
That's right. I was working on my own from the time I was eighteen years old. I went to City College and had to support myself. I had a dream of going to Europe to write after I graduated from college, and I did go to France and lived for a year on my savings. But I didn't write. I read. I spent a whole year reading.

What were you reading?
I had been a lit major, and I went with a suitcase full of the books I had wanted to read but hadn't had time to get to. I found an English-language bookshop in Paris that was happy to buy all of the books I read and give me other books in exchange. That was how I was able to extend my library into a year's worth of reading. I read about sixteen hours a day, seven days a week. That's when I really learned about world literature—from that year in Paris—but I didn't get much writing done. Toward the end of the year, the guys from the bookstore where I'd worked in college wrote and offered me an opportunity to come back and run most of the store in the evening and become a kind of partner. I went back and worked there until a job opened at Dell Publishing, where I worked for about a year as a salesman. Then Barney Rosset offered me a job as the assistant sales manager of Grove Press. I was all of twenty-four years old. Eventually I became the sales manager and the marketing director, all in my twenties. But keep in mind that at Grove at that time, Barney was only in his thirties. So you get an idea of the age range. We were a pretty young bunch of guys—this included Richard Seaver, Fred Jordan, a very talented group of guys—who didn't think anything of working long hours, because we enjoyed it. Even at the time, I knew I'd never get a job like that again.

Tell me how you met Barney.
It's a funny story. Barney came to the Dell sales conference. It was my first sales conference; I was sharing a room with another guy. I had been playing poker through most of my college years as a source of additional income. I heard there was a hospitality suite and there would be poker playing. So I wound up in the hospitality suite and there were five tables of salesmen all playing poker, and Barney, thinking that Dell was going to distribute Grove Press books, was one of them. Late in the evening there was only one table left—all of the winners. I was at that table, and so was Barney. I had the best hand in five-card draw I'd ever had. I can remember it all these many years later. It was the biggest pot of the night. There was a lot of money in that pot. And Barney turned out to have the best hand of all.

I stuck around, I'd been drinking, and as a result I passed out on the bed of the hospitality suite. The sales conference began promptly at eight o'clock the next morning. Barney was downstairs on the dais with Helen Meyer and the editor in chief of Dell. But I was asleep in the hospitality suite. When I finally woke up, with a very bad hangover, and went back to my room, showered, and went down to have some coffee and head into the sales conference, it was about ten o'clock in the morning. The hotel we were in was quite remote, and when I walked in, everybody wondered who the hell I was. They didn't know me. I hadn't been at Dell all that long. I could hear the people on the dais saying, "Who is he?" I thought I'd be fired. But I wasn't.

About two months later I got a phone call, and this guy on the other end of the line said, "Are you the guy who came two hours late to the Dell sales conference?" I said, "Yes, who's this?" Thinking it's a joke. He said, "My name's Barney Rosset, and I like your style, kid. How'd you like to come to work at Grove Press as the assistant sales manager?" I had the chutzpah to say, "How much are you paying?" He mentioned a price that was fifty dollars a week more than I was getting, and I was delighted to go. At that point I didn't like Dell anyway, and I knew enough about the Grove Press list to know that I wanted to go there. And I had a great time. Barney was a great pal, and I gave him a lot of arguments for many years, and then one night in a bar ten years later he fired me. But he said, "I'm going to keep you on the payroll for a year till you get yourself together." I decided then and there that I would never go to work for another publisher.

When you got to Grove, was Barney already fighting his censorship battles all over the country?
Yes. Lady Chatterley's Lover had been published. Tropic of Cancer was being published and there were some battles. The big battles came about a year after I got there, which was when the paperback of Tropic of Cancer came out and was available in a lot of smaller towns. There were a large number of lawsuits against the company that nearly put us out of business.

Were you involved in that in any direct way?
No. I was on the sales side of things. Among my duties was to go to the jobbers [distributors] once a week to pick up some money that was due so we could pay the payroll. That's how tight things were. But we did a lot of wonderful books and Barney, because he was interested in the editorial side more than the marketing side, gave me a lot of freedom. I hadn't worked in any big publishing house in a capacity in which I could make decisions, so I did a lot of things quite innovatively.

Like what?
I wanted to see all the orders that came in to the house, which caused a delay in the printing out of orders, but I wanted to have a hands-on approach to seeing the orders as they came in and get a feel for what was moving. A few years into the job, we had to fire everybody in the sales department and I had to travel the country. I didn't realize until later what a wonderful experience that was going to be for me. I had to travel to the West coast for three weeks twice a year. I had to travel to the South, the Southeast, the Northeast. I even had to train a couple of the editors to go out and sell our list. We were really just scraping by. Then, when we started to do a little better financially, with one best-seller after another, I was able to get on the phone and call a lot of these booksellers who I now knew personally and get them to get behind a particular book on the list that I thought had the most potential. We never had a large sales force, even when we were successful. But we did a lot of phone work and a lot of postcards and we got the independent booksellers behind us, and that worked very well. There were also times when we would take a gamble. We didn't do P&Ls [Profit and Loss projections] for acquisitions. We didn't have a budget. A lot of it was instinctive publishing.

I can remember a particularly episode with a book that turned out to be one of the most successful Grove ever published, a book called Games People Play. I thought it was a terrible title for a book on transactional analysis. We had three colored discs on the cover with lines going from one to the other, and I said to Barney, "With a title like that, and a jacket like that, people are going to think it's a game book." He totally ignored me. Just when the book was being published, I went to the West coast for one of my three-week trips. When I got back, I called Barney and said,"Look, I want us to do a big ad in the Times for Games People Play." Barney said, "Why? We only printed thirty-five hundred copies. I think we've gone back for twenty-five hundred more, and you want a big ad in the Times? We published his first book and it didn't do all that well." I said, "Well, I have to tell you, Barney, I think God is telling me something." He laughed and said,"What is God telling you, Nat?" I said, "Well, I went to the West coast and in L.A., in a restaurant, I saw a woman reading a copy of Games People Play. Then I took the shuttle flight from L.A. to San Francisco and there was someone on the plane reading Games People Play. I said to myself, ‘If I see a third person reading this book, with the print order that we had, I'm going to come back....'" Of course I did see a third person in San Francisco reading Games People Play, which is why I came back and told him God was telling me we had to do a big ad. The American Psychiatric Association convention, at which we always exhibited our books, was coming up, and we decided to do an open letter to the shrinks who were attending the APA about Games People Play. Fred Jordan, who wrote a lot of our ad copy, did almost a full-page letter in the daily Times. We brought up hundreds of copies to sell to the shrinks at our little stand. We sold a lotof copies. And we were selling it to the right audience: young psychiatrists. Then the media got on to us and the book became a huge success, the biggest that Grove had ever had. I think we sold something like 600,000 copies in hardcover. Nobody wanted to buy the paperback rights because they thought for a hardcover of its kind we had pretty much covered the whole audience. So Grove had to publish the paperback itself, which then sold about two million copies. Grove was the kind of place where I could say to Barney, "God is telling me something." There was a wonderful level of collegiality in the company. Sometimes we would gang up on Barney because if one of us couldn't persuade him about something, then eventually all of us could.

Why were you eventually fired?
The company was getting involved in the film business. I didn't like most of the films we were buying up and distributing. It was also taking a lot of our resources, tying up Dick's attention as well as Fred Jordan's attention, and the book publishing side was beginning to suffer. The list was not as large, it wasn't as focused, and I was the big naysayer about it. I was calling Barney on it. I kept telling him we had to get out of the film business. I became a strong voice of opposition. Whereas he took my criticism on other matters for a long time, and in very good form, I might add, on this point he was adamant.

When he began to discover that I wasn't the only one who felt this way, especially when he asked Dick Seaver to fire me—Dick and Fred were senior to me—and neither one of them wanted to fire me, he was convinced that I had gotten everybody on my side on this matter. When he fired me, he said, "I have to restore control of the company. This is mine. Not yours." Only two years later, Barney came to me with a project for which I sold the paperback rights for so much money that my commission was greater than my last year's salary working for him.

So obviously there were no hard feelings.
Not at all. In fact, Barney celebrated his eighty-fifth birthday at my home in East Hampton, which made me very pleased. My best publishing experiences were the years working for him. I realize now what a great experience it was.

When you get down to it, what made him such a special publisher?
He was a rebel. He was attracted to that which turned off other people. He loved a good battle. He had wonderful taste, and he also had a wonderful outlook on publishing that doesn't exist at all anymore.

Tell me what you mean by that.
I'll tell you about a moment in my life with Barney that had a major influence on the things that attract me as an agent, especially these last few years. At some point I noticed that on the upcoming list was a book of poetry, a fairly substantially sized book of poetry by a Mexican poet I had never heard of, and it was going to be in a bilingual edition, Spanish and English. I went to Barney and said,"You know, Barney, I don't think I can sell this book. I've never heard of this guy." Barney said to me, "I didn't buy it because I thought you could sell it. I bought it because I liked it and because I thought it was important." And the book was the first publication in English of the poetry of Octavio Paz. It's sold hundreds of thousands of copies, it's still in the Grove Press backlist, and it was a book he wanted to publish because he loved it. You couldn't help loving a guy who had that philosophy.

When you left, why did you decide to become an agent rather than an editor?
I knew how to sell books. And because Grove Press had a hardcover list, a trade paperback list, its own mass market paperback list, and a magazine, I thought I would make my services available as a consultant. Which is what I did in my first year or two. Grove was a distributor for a couple of smaller publishers—Peter Workman's first list was being distributed by Grove, for example—so I thought I would approach small publishers and offer my services as a marketing consultant. Because of the variety on the Grove Press list, and because I had traveled the country, I think I was able to help some small publishers. One of those publishers had a book that they wanted to get published instantly. I knew some of the editors at Dell from my own days there, and I knew Dell did a number of instant books, and I sold this book to Dell and got my first commission. About six months later, this small publisher had another book. It was by an NFL football player who had quit the game and talked about how he had been supported financially while he was playing football in college by the university, and some of the illegal things that were going on in football. I sold the paperback rights for fifty thousand dollars and took a 10 percent commission. I thought, "Wait a second. Maybe I should be doing this for small presses instead of offering my consulting thing."

So I started to move from consulting work to handling the subsidiary rights—paperback rights and foreign rights—for small presses. Nobody had ever done that. I kind of backed into agenting by working for small presses. Eventually, some of those presses went out of business and the writers found me because I was the one who had generated the most money for them. At about that point, Judith [Weber] joined me. She came out of an editorial background and wanted to work more with authors. Eventually we phased out of the subrights business, partially because the mass-market publishers started to develop their own hardcover lists, so they weren't so anxious to buy reprint rights from other presses. But I was still doing a little consulting work. I wanted to do other things. As an example, I started the bookstore in East Hampton.

BookHampton?
Right. I started it with two guys. One of them was the editor in chief of a company called Stein& Day, which is no longer around. His partner lived in East Hampton. He asked me about the idea of starting a bookstore, and I had bookstore experience, so I found the location and we got BookHampton off the ground, partially because I didn't know whether I was going to make it as an agent. After two years, the store started to take off.

Were you working full time at BookHampton?
No. I worked four days a week at the agency. In the first months of BookHampton, I would go to the jobbers and pick the books to take out to the bookstore. I would work Friday, Saturday, and Sunday in the bookstore. So I was working seven days a week. I was getting pressure on both sides. I couldn't put in any more time at the store, and my two partners were pretty much beginning to know how to run the business without me. We had a financial settlement and I was able to work full time at my agency.

What were some of the first books and authors you represented?
I still represent one of the first authors I represented, a guy by the name of Dr. Raymond Moody, and in fact I'm working on a new book of his. So he must be one of the oldest clients I have. He wrote a book called Life After Life, the first book dealing with the near-death experience. The publisher of that book was a small library press in Georgia. The publisher came to me in New York because he was trying to sell the paperback rights to this little book that was very odd for him. He gave me the galleys and I read it and thought it was an amazing book. The author was a thirty-two-year-old doctor who had just discovered these cases in several hospitals in Atlanta. The book was a huge success. We sold it in something like twenty-five countries, and it was the first big financial success the agency had. When Raymond wrote his second book, he went to the same small publisher. The publisher called me up and said, "Nat, this is not the kind of book I publish. I published that first book because nobody else wanted to do it. But I think you ought to be his agent." So he turned the manuscript and Raymond over to me. There are a lot of other stories like that, people I came to know, like best-selling Catholic priest Father Andrew Greeley. He'd been published by a small press that I was doing the rights for, and I wound up becoming his agent. But I had no idea that trying to build a list of authors, to make it as an authors' agent, was going to be such a long and difficult path.

When you were starting out as an agent, were there any established agents that you looked up to or went to for advice?
None. I didn't join the agents' organization either.

You just sort of figured it out?
I made a lot of mistakes. I took on a lot of things I shouldn't have taken on, but when you're getting started, if anybody comes to you, you think, "I'm going to do it. I can sell it." It's only been in the last twenty years, or maybe the last ten years, that I became aware, as did Judith, that we wanted the agency to reflect our tastes, rather than just take on things that were saleable. Our list is our taste. Which means that there are a lot of areas of publishing that we will not go into because we aren't interested in them. So we've never done any romances, for instance.

How is being a writer different today than it was when you started out as an agent?
I think it's easier for the writer. Today writers are a lot more aware that they need an agent than they were then. The so-called slush pile at publishing houses is almost nonexistent today—a lot of writers languished in those slush piles for years. I think writers were often tempted by ads run in the writers magazines by agents who charged exorbitant fees to have their manuscripts "evaluated," and much of that has disappeared. By and large, writers get responses from agents much quicker today because of e-mail. I think the process has fewer mines in the ground for writers to avoid. But on the other hand, it's much more difficult to get published if you're a fiction writer. It's a bit of a tradeoff.

Why do you think it's more difficult to get published as a fiction writer?
I think you have to really look at the market today. If you look at the Deals page of Publishers Weekly, nine out of the ten deals described are nonfiction books. There certainly is a very strong feeling in the publishing world that fiction is chancier—absolutely chancier—than nonfiction. Today, you have to have all sorts of other reasons to publish a first novel—other than that it happens to be very good.

What do you mean by that?
We keep hearing this phrase, "What's the platform?"What's the fucking platform? The first time I heard the word platform was at a writers conference. I was on the dais with another agent and she was talking about "the platform." I thought, "What the fuck is a platform? What is she talking about?" Well, what it is is this: What does the author bring to the table? Talent is not enough. The number of slots open to fiction on a publisher's list is being reduced all the time.

But that wasn't always the case. What do you see as the reason for that shift?
I think there are a lot of reasons. It's not just the conglomeratization of publishing and the slow disappearance of the independent booksellers. But maybe it's easier for the sales rep to go and sell a nonfiction book that he hasn't read, or she hasn't read, than it is for the rep to go in and sell a first novel that he or she hasn't read. As the sales forces of the major publishing houses have become decimated, there really is very little time for any of these reps to read the first fiction on their list. So it becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy. Almost more to the point, I think, is how agenting has changed in the last ten years.

I read something where you were talking about how many agents there are now, as opposed to the old days when there weren't as many, and the importance to a writer of picking a good one.
Yes. And how do you know if you've got a good one?

Exactly.
I try to impress my client list on new writers. There may be a writer on that client list whose work you've read, whose work you really like. It should give you some sort of comfort to think, "Well, if he was so-and-so's agent then he can't be all that shabby." The client list is a wonderful tool for the would-be writer to explore. Now that so many agents are putting their client lists on their Web sites, I think that's a great way for writers to use that tool. Of course you don't really know how good an agent is until you work with them. It's like trying to determine if somebody is going to be a good sex partner without getting into bed with them. At some point, you've got to get into bed. But I think you would know fairly early on what sort of agent you have. It has to do with the level of chemistry between you—how they respond to your work, what they want you to do with it, and how they perform.

Do you think editors do less editing than they used to?
I think so. But I also think publishers do a lot less selling than they used to. They do a lot less promotion than they used to. And this really gets to the core of what I think about where agenting is going. There are a lot of editors who are basically acquirers, and there are some who are really hands-on editors. The editors in that second category are a much smaller number, and those are the people who I generally go to first with my manuscripts. But I think the whole question of editing also has to do with how much time the editor can really give to a novel. That's another reason why I think fiction is not as sought after by publishers as it used to be. You need a lot more editing for a novel than you do for a work of nonfiction—although a lot of nonfiction should be edited as well. But from the standpoint of how much time an editor has to devote to the books on his or her list, fiction is on the time-consuming end of it. So we see less time spent.

I think what is evolving today for agents is that they need to be the first line editors for their authors. Judith and I really love the editing process. We have spent years editing nearly every novel we've ever agented. We did that long before we began to discover how little editing was going on in the publishing houses. But today agents need to be far more proactive in almost every other area of the publishing process. We have to be the marketing directors for many of our books. We have to involve ourselves in looking at the jacket design, the jacket copy, the catalogue copy. We have to be very proactive in how we help direct the writer to help sell his or her book. Those are things you never thought about in agenting when I first came into it. You made the deal, you negotiated the contract, and that was it—the publisher took over.

Today the writer very much needs to be proactive. When I have writers who have the kind of personality that they enjoy going out and selling their books, and I've gotten them a big enough advance, they are smart enough, with my guidance, to put some of that advance aside and spend their own money to get the book off the ground. I think that being able to suggest things to writers, things they can do themselves to help sell the book, is getting to be as important a factor as helping them to edit the work. It's been amazing to me how much money a publisher will spend to acquire a book, and how little they will spend to make the book a success. The role of the agent today is a totally involving one—you have to be involved in the whole process. Which starts with helping the writer, as we do, through two or three drafts of the work to bring it up to the level where it is as good as we think it can be. That's not to preclude the possibility of some additional insights from a really savvy editor.

You're talking about a fairly major shift from the responsibilities of the publisher, in terms of the editing and the promotion, to the agent and the author. Tell me why that happened.
I think that nature abhors a vacuum. It's as simple as that. The vacuum that has been created in the publishing houses by the reduction in their promotion and publicity budgets, by the reductions in the size of the sales force, by the dependence on a few key accounts buying most of the print order, has led to the reduction in staffs of the publicity and promotion departments, and reductions in staff throughout the publishing house. The result is that things aren't getting done the way they used to be. It's not because the people in those houses aren't willing to do it, they're just either overworked or underfunded. So perfectly wonderful books get printed and disappear. And if you don't do something, if something isn't done by somebody...I think the writer has his or her own future in her hands in terms of what she is willing to do in order to make the book succeed.

But when you look at the landscape of the publishing industry, why did that vacuum come to be?
I think it has to do with the bottom line. If they can save money by reducing their sales force, they're going to do that.

And that came about due to the decline of independent booksellers, right? You needed less salespeople.
Yes. You could hire people in an office warehouse someplace to get on the phone and call some of the smaller booksellers. You didn't have to have book reps. Recently, it didn't get a lot of attention, but Random House fired some of its most experienced sales reps. These were people who were better paid and had been with the company for a long time. The guy who they reported to finally had to quit himself because he couldn't face having to fire some of the best reps they had, who were going to be replaced by new, young, and cheaper people. But somebody forgot along the line that these reps had built up a rapport with booksellers. They could get a bookseller to take a chance on a book that they were enthusiastic about. [See Editor's Note.]

Another problem is how the level of enthusiasm has been watered down by the way the publishing houses are now structured. You used to have a situation where you'd have an enthusiastic agent selling a manuscript to an enthusiastic editor, and then that enthusiastic editor would go to the sales conference and communicate her enthusiasm to the sales reps, and then the sales reps would read the book and communicate their enthusiasm to the booksellers. But now the editors don't go to the sales conferences. The sales force doesn't have that direct contact with the person who bought the book. And the sales force itself keeps getting modified so that the enthusiasms don't percolate down to the booksellers who are going to take a chance on that first novel. The system is such that enthusiasm itself has been kind of cut off, at the most strategic place, which is the editor's ability to communicate her or his enthusiasm to the reps and to the rest of the people in the house. There are some editors who are very savvy and very enthusiastic about their books. I love dealing with those people. They don't let a book die. They are going to get out and get everybody's attention. But even they can't go to the sales conference, can't deal with the reps, can't communicate that enthusiasm to the people who have to go out and sell the books.

Tell me about some of those editors who are especially good at that.
I'm not going to name any names. I'll tell you why. Because I'll wake up tomorrow and think,"Why didn't I tell him about A, B, and C? Why did I only tell him about D, E, and F?" The editors who I really respect a great deal, they know I respect them.

What kinds of things are you encouraging your authors to do on their own behalf?
It depends on how much money they get for their books. When I sold Tim Dorsey's first novel—Tim is an offbeat crime writer who's written ten novels about a very amiable serial killer, very wacky novels—we wound up selling it at auction. He was the night editor for the Tampa Tribune. The money he got—it was a two-book deal—was more than several years of his salary at the paper. I said, "Tim, I don't want you to leave the Tampa Tribune until after your first novel is published." He said, "Does that mean you think I won't ever sell my third or fourth books?" I said, "No, it's because I have an idea. I want you to write to the book review editor of every newspaper in Florida, on Tampa Tribune letterhead, and ask them if they would review your book, as a colleague, so to speak." I said,"Don't expect the publisher to spend much money promoting your book. I want you to think about things you can do to help sell your book."

And he did that. He sent out letters on Tampa Tribune letterhead. It worked very well. He came to the [BookExpo America conference] on his own and brought cartons of T-shirts to give out with his first novel. Then he spent many months traveling to bookstores in Florida and Georgia and Louisiana and Alabama. And the fact that he's up to book ten should speak for itself. He has a very proactive Web site where he sells T-shirts and baseball caps and he has an interactive Web site for his serial killer, Serge. Tim is about to make his thousandth bookstore stop. He's made the books succeed and he's made his publisher a believer in him. He's a great student of what the proactive author should be. And the booksellers love Tim.

You also represent James Ellroy. How did you meet him?
Years ago, my lawyer was, and still is, the lawyer for Otto Penzler and the Mysterious Bookshop. He thought Otto and I should get together. I've been Otto's agent for many years. Anyway, I liked Otto a lot, and we couldn't figure out how a bookseller and an agent could do anything together. I got the idea, or maybe it was Otto, to form the Mysterious Literary Agency. This was really at the point when I was just beginning to represent authors, and the idea was that Otto had this wonderful bookshop where crime writers came in all the time, and he would send writers to me who asked how to get an agent. So we started the Mysterious Literary Agency. We did a whole thing where our letterhead had no address and no phone number. If you wanted to find us, you had to solve the mystery. New York magazine did a little thing about the Mysterious Literary Agency. James saw that. James had had two paperback originals published and his agent had given up on him. He walked into the Mysterious Bookshop and said, "I am the demon dog of American crime fiction." Otto said, "I've never heard of you." James said he had this manuscript, which Otto sent to me as the first manuscript of the Mysterious Literary Agency. It was Ellroy's third novel, which I edited, as did Otto. About that time, Otto got financing to start Mysterious Press. He told me he wanted to buy Ellroy's novel for his first list. So the Mysterious Literary Agency went out of business. Of course neither Otto nor I knew that James's previous agent had had seventeen rejections on this novel. But we had done a lot of work on the book.

Tell me about that. I remember seeing some documentary where you talked about the editing work you did with Ellroy.
There are a lot of Ellroy stories. I wrote Ellroy a rather lengthy editorial report about that first novel I represented. I got back what looked like a very lengthy kidnap letter. It was written in red pencil on yellow legal paper, and some of the words on it were like an inch high: I AM NOT GOING TO DO THIS. I thought, "Oh, I've got a loony here. Somebody who calls himself the demon dog? Maybe he is a demon." But it was a very smart letter. He was very smart about what he would do, why he wouldn't do certain things. And he did do a lot of work on the book. I've edited him ever since. Nearly all of the editing is done here. He's been wonderful to work with.

But isn't there a story about you removing a lot of words from one of his books?
That's another story about how Ellroy's style developed. It was for a book called L.A. Confidential. It was a bigger book, in length, than he had ever done before. Otto was still at Mysterious Press when Warner Books bought it, but the editor in chief of Warner had heard that L.A. Confidential was finished. I called her and told her I had the manuscript. She asked me how long it was. I said it was about 850 pages. She said, "No, we can't publish that." I said, "What do you mean you can't publish it?" She said, "We publish all of Ellroy's books in mass market, and a manuscript of that size"—maybe it was even longer—"you'll have to cut 25 percent of the book."

L.A. Confidential follows three cops, and you couldn't take out one of the cops. James came to my house to talk about what we could do about it. I had the manuscript on the desk in front of me, and as a joke I said to James, "Well, maybe we could cut out a few small words." I meant it entirely as a joke. But I started going through a manuscript page and cut out about a dozen words on the page. James said, "Give me that." I gave him the page. And he just kept cutting. He was cutting and cutting and cutting. When he was done with the page, it looked like a redacted piece from the CIA. I said,"James, how would they be able to read this?" He said, "Let me read you the page." It was terrific. He said, "I know what I have to do." He took the whole manuscript back and cut hundreds of pages from the book and developed the style. That editor never knew what we had to do, but she forced him into creating this special Ellroy style, which his reputation as a stylist is really based on. It came from her, sight unseen, saying "Cut 25 percent of the book." He wound up cutting enough without cutting a single scene from that book.

How do you explain Ellroy's success with The Black Dahlia after six novels that were basically commercial failures?
It was a much bigger book, a much more emotionally involving book for James, and it dealt with a crime he'd been thinking about for a long time. So the manuscript itself was a big leap forward for him. But that doesn't explain how it succeeded after six novels didn't. James made a huge bet on himself. At the time he wrote The Black Dahlia, James was working as a caddie in Westchester. He was writing at night. He had no family and no other interests except writing. Otto [Penzler] was continuing to publish him and had bought The Black Dahlia for more money than he'd spent on James's previous three novels because he thought it was a terrific book.

Word got out about this book, and we got an offer from Warner Brothers, who optioned the book for fifty thousand dollars. That was more money than James had gotten for all of his other books combined. When I called James to tell him, he said, "When the money comes in, call me." When I did call him, he said, "I don't want the money. I want you to call Otto Penzler and ask him what the advertising and promotion budget is for The Black Dahlia." Otto told me they were going to probably spend fifteen thousand dollars because none of the books had succeeded up till then. I told James. He said, "Ask him to double it. Tell him that if they'll double the budget to thirty thousand, you'll be giving him my check for forty-five thousand dollars and we'll have an entire budget of seventy-five thousand dollars to launch my book." And when I did that, Otto agreed to increase the budget to thirty thousand dollars. He was just floored by the fact that James was going to kick in forty-five thousand dollars of his own money—all of what he was getting, after my commission, from the movie sale. James wanted the money to be spent on the front cover of Publishers Weekly, a full-page ad in the Times Book Review, and the rest of it to be spent on sending him around the country for three months. Three months. And he went. Because James has nearly a photographic memory, he remembered every single person he met, and he single-handedly made his book successful. That was more than twenty years ago.

Where did he get the idea? That's so farsighted for somebody in his situation.
He didn't get the idea from me. He was smart enough to say, "This is my chance. This is my book to get out and do it." He made it happen. Whatever success James has is entirely of his own making. He's a very thoughtful guy. He never went to college. But he's intelligent, he loves people, and he loves to go out and promote. Not every writer can do that. Not every writer's as good at it as he is. Tim Dorsey's as good as that. Others I've represented are. When you've got a talented writer and they have that charisma, it's my job to advise them about how to use those tools to make their book successful. So in effect, I am still the sales manager that I was when I was at Grove Press.

Tell me about how you find clients.
My great love, and where we've found most of our fiction writers, has been the literary journals. I don't know how many other agents read the journals. I know it's a lot more than it used to be, but I certainly read them more extensively than anybody else.

How many do you subscribe to?
I don't know the exact count, but it's somewhere over a hundred. My heroes in publishing are the selfless people who work at these journals, who either are not paid, or volunteer, and who spend their lives putting together these journals with relatively small circulations, but enjoy it. Over the years I've developed a number of friends among them. I admire them. I admire what they do. And they are responsible for many of the writers I represent, including Richard Russo, who I found in a literary journal out of Bowling Green, Ohio, which had a circulation of something like three hundred copies.

Walk me through what happened after you got in touch with Richard Russo.
He called me. He said he'd just finished a novel and asked if I could give him one good reason why he should send it to me. At that point in my career, I probably had a list of unknown writers, none of whom he would have recognized. This was the mid-eighties. I said, "If you send it to me Federal Express"—we didn't have electronic mail then—"I'll read it quickly and tell you what edits I think it needs." And Mr. Russo said to me, "How do you know it'll need any edits?" I said, "I've never read a first novel that I didn't think could be improved." So he sent it to me, and I gave him my edits.

Were they extensive?
No. I've actually given him many more notes as I've gone along with him from book to book than I gave him on the first novel. I think I was a little intimidated by the way he responded on the telephone, saying, "How do you know it needs any edits?" But he responded very well.

And what happened from there?
I sent out the novel and had it turned down by twelve major houses before I finally sent it to Gary Fisketjon, who was then doing Vintage Contemporaries, his list of original paperback fiction that was getting a lot of attention. While he couldn't give me very much money, he said he would make it the lead title on their fall list. He did a great job with the book. What I sometimes quote as a "high four-figure advance" turned out to be the beginning of a success story for Rick.

When you look back at the way he built a careerthe sort of slow build, book after book after bookdo you think that's still possible today?
In Rick's case, he's earned out every book he's published, and rather quickly, which has always led to him getting more money for the next book. But I think it's much harder today. I think Rick himself would say that he was lucky he got to the right editor at the right time in that editor's career. In fact, the more I think about it, the more I realize that with almost every successful book I've had, it's been the right editor at the right time at the right house. That's the key to all of the successful books I've ever had—the right editor.

And there's an element of luck?
Sometimes it's luck. I think that if I were to look back on my career, I would say I've been very lucky. I'm going to be the last guy to dismiss the idea of luck.

People in the business talk about how eight out of ten readers, or whatever the number actually is, are women. I think it's very difficult for young male writers to get published, especially today. I wonder what you think about that and how you've dealt with that in your career.
I certainly think it's very difficult for male writers who are not writing thrillers. They have a much tougher road. We've read a number of pretty good novels by male writers that we know just won't go. Male coming-of-age novels are impossible to sell. We've already talked about how it's getting more and more difficult to sell fiction. Let me give you a better picture of it by looking back on last year. Five of us in the agency read submissions—everyone downstairs and Judith and myself. Five of us. We have an editorial meeting on Thursdays. I never talk to Judith about what I've read except at this meeting so it's all fresh for all of us. We generally read partial manuscripts, or complete manuscripts. Everyone averages about two of those per week. So, in an average year, that's more than five hundred manuscripts. Last year, from those five hundred books, we took on three new writers. And we were only able to sell one of them. Remember that much of what we get is from writers I've written to after reading their stories in the literary journals—we get very little over the transom. So look at those odds.

They're very tough.
Damn right. We've spent a lot of time editing through second and third drafts and finally abandoning books because we don't think we can get the writer up to the level we want. We have to give up on them. Occasionally those books will get published too. But the odds are really difficult, and for the male writers it's even harder.

Is there anything they can do to make their odds better?
I'm always looking for the unusual. I think it may require writing something of a historical nature, with a historical setting. They have to be able to get an idea of what's on the best-seller list today and see that, outside the thriller genre, there aren't too many male fiction writers who are succeeding. And I don't think that's going to change for a while.

But isn't that troubling?
Sure it's troubling. I think it's troubling for all literary fiction writers today. But particularly for the male writers, who are only gradually becoming aware of how limiting that audience is. But I think you can find good male writers who can write from the woman's point of view, too. I remember a first novel I sold years ago. The writer himself was in his early thirties, but the novel was a first-person novel from the point of view of a sixty-two-year-old woman. It was entirely in first person, and it was a terrific story. It began his career. So if a male writer can write from the female point of view, or has a story that will interest a woman's audience, I think he has a better chance than somebody who's writing the kind of Hemingway-esque stuff we read in school.

You talked a little about the decline of independent booksellers. Tell me a little more about how you think that's affected the publishing industry.
It's particularly with first fiction. I think Book Sense has done a lot to try to pick up the slack there. But for first fiction, which is really the future generations of writers, it has become a real problem for publishers because they don't have the large list of independent booksellers that they can appeal to. I forget what the percentage of sales is today from the independents, but it goes down every year. I think that's affecting first fiction, particularly short story collections. I love the short story. I love the form. But who's going to take on a short story collection today? Damn few. I think that's influencing the market—the market is feeding on itself.

With all the short stories and novels you read, what is it about something that grabs your attention?
I can't say what it is that captures my attention. I just know it. I think since I've been reading all my life, I know on the first page, the first paragraph, if I'm in the hands of somebody really capable. I wrote an essay that I put on my Web site about reading the stories in the journals. I pointed out the first paragraphs of a number of writers whose novels I subsequently took on. And it was always right at the beginning that I was grabbed.

I remember reading a first novel and turning to Judith and giving her the first page and saying, "I'll bet you can't stop reading." She read it and asked,"Where's the rest of it?" I said, "Aha!" So can I describe what it is? It is entirely a visceral reaction, and it is also very personal and subjective and not easily categorized. It could be, for me, a western (I represent Elmer Kelton, who is recognized as the greatest living American writer of the western); it could be a crime novel; it could be a literary novel. It doesn't matter what the category is—but it gets me. I think that's what keeps us all going. It's the discovery. One of the best things about my job is that when I finish reading the manuscript of a first novel that I really like, whatever the time of day is, I can get on the phone and call the author, even if it's eleven o'clock at night, and know that they'll be very happy to get my call. And how often have you read a wonderful book where you'd love to call up the author and talk about it? That's what I do for a living.

How do you feel about the decline of independent publishing and independent publishers?
I like to hope that Morgan Entrekin is not alone in this field. There are some interesting small presses coming along. I'm really impressed by what they've been doing. It's interesting how many submissions they're getting from agents these days—agents who were not able to sell that really good novel to a major house because the author didn't have a platform but had a terrific book. I think we'll see more of that. Because, again, as nature abhors a vacuum, I think there's a need in this country for good writing. And while it may not be commercial, there will be an audience to read it.

Do you have any thoughts about the future of books. Have you played with this Kindle thing that Amazon has made, or the Sony Reader?
No. Listen, I was probably the last guy to get a computer at his desk. I am a Luddite. I'd rather read the finished book. I love the feel of a printed book, and I suspect many people of my age group in publishing feel the same. When you open a carton of new books that have just come from the printer, take a breath of that air and the new fresh print. It's intoxicating. The smell, when the box is opened, is intoxicating.

Do you think book reviews are as important as they used to be?
I don't think so. I don't think anybody will tell you they are. A front-page New YorkTimes Book Review can either sell a book or not sell a book. Sometimes it's because you finish reading the review and you can't tell whether or not the reviewer liked the book. There was a time when book sales fell off dramatically when the New York Times was on strike and there was no Times Book Review. I don't think that happens anymore, unfortunately. You can see the newspapers are cutting back on their book sections. They're not making any money. The publishers aren't spending the money they used to on advertising in the book review section. Look at today's Times Book Review—the number of ads is very small. Once a book review section doesn't make money, and starts losing money, it's going to be cut back. So between the number of reviews now available, and the effectiveness of the reviews, and where they're placed in the paper, I think we're seeing the real value disappear.

Tell me what you think about MFA programs.
A number of the writers I represent are graduates of MFA programs. But in much of the material I've seen from MFA writers, they're writing about the standard stories of family trauma, divorce, the death of a parent. They're very capably written. But we've seen too much of that.

You wrote a piece in maybe the early '90s about the sameness of what you were reading.
Yes, and I think if you talk to the editors of a lot of the journals, they'll tell you that they're used to the same thing—that they see an awful lot of capable stuff that is not very engaging. I was asked this question once at a university. I was talking to seniors, and some of the writers were considering going into MFA programs. They asked me about the MFA programs. I said I thought it was great for discipline: You have to write. I mean, you should want to write, but if you find that difficult and need the discipline of going to class, then you should go do it. If you want to go ahead with a career in the university, if you want to teach creative writing, you're going to need an MFA. I think the programs do some good for people who either need the degree in order to continue in the university setting or need the discipline. But I think the originality factor is something that's suffering as a result. We're getting too much of the same old, same old. But I'm working right now with a writer who's going for his MFA, and he's writing a novel in first person that is very unusual, and I'm encouraging him to keep working on it. It's difficult to give you a blank statement about MFAs. There are good things and there are some quite negative things.

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What do you think the students in them could do to avoid that sameness?
They have to get out and live.

What do writers who are starting out today need to look for in an editor?
First of all, I think writers today are thrilled if they've got an editor who wants to buy their first novel. They're already thrilled with that editor. But I think they want to be convinced that the editor is really enthusiastic and will help to get the whole house behind the book—beyond anything that was spent to buy the book.

Are you saying an author should be more concerned about having a great advocate than having a great editor?
Well, since a lot of the editing is being done before the manuscript is delivered, I think the most important thing is having an advocate. In fact, I think the best thing an editor can do for a book is to be the great in-house advocate. That counts far more than the editing process, especially if you're a writer who feels you've gotten enough editing from your agent. And I think more and more agents are editing books.

And that's a good thing?
Absolutely. I think you have to. The editors themselves know which agents edit their books. When an editor calls me and says, "I like this book and want to buy it, but I have some problems with the ending. How willing is the writer to do some more work?" I have to be in a position where I can say to the editor, "Listen, I've worked with this writer through three drafts of this book. I know he or she is willing to do the work and is capable of doing the work." I have to be able to tell that to the editor. I think, too often, the editor discovers that the writer didn't get edited by the agent and that the writer doesn't want editing. Strange as that may seem, it happens.

All agents have different philosophies about what kind of deal they want in terms of advance money. Some agents are just concerned with the money. Others look at other factors. What has your experience taught you about this issue?
My particular philosophy about this has to be influenced by the years I worked inside a publishing house. I have a tendency to see things from the publisher's side of it as well as the author's. While I want to get the best money I can for a writer, especially when we're talking about novelists who are going from Book A to Book B, I don't want to price the author out of the market. I have a pretty good idea, based on sales, what I think the publisher can afford, or should be able to afford, to pay for the author's next work. I've done my own mathematics; the number is not taken out of a hat. It's one that I know the editor can go back to his boss, or her boss, and get, as a not crazy amount of money. So having a little bit of knowledge about the mathematics has been very helpful in being able to determine a fair price for an author's next work. Sometimes I've had a difference of opinion with a writer who thinks he should be getting a lot more money for his next book. In that case, if I'm not on the same page with the writer, then the writer is perfectly able to go on their own, find another agent, and see if they can get the money. But I'd rather see an author brought along from book to book, with a track record that develops and enhances his or her value to the publisher, and at the same time gets them more money. But it's commensurate with how the previous work has sold. I don't believe in putting a gun to the publisher's head. In the long run, I think the best deal is where both sides feel they've gotten a good deal.

What do you love most about your job? Is it that phone call at eleven o'clock at night, or is it something else?
There are lots of things I like about the job. The discovery of new talent, of course. The success of a book that you've worked on and helped nurture. I mean, I spent a lot of time working with James Ellroy on The Black Dahlia, more than on his previous books, and I felt I'd made a real contribution to the success of that book. I like a lot of the people I deal with in publishing. I came into publishing about the same time as Sonny Mehta did, and Peter Mayer, both of whom I consider old friends. So I have a sense of community. I love hanging out with these guys. We have a history together. We've all seen publishing change, but we're still in the business. We love what we do. There is a kind of a family feeling to the business, among, let's say, forty or fifty agents and forty or fifty editors. So you feel a sense of community.

I love to see a first novel get on the best-seller list. I always want to read those books, especially if it's a first novel. I mean, look at how [Nancy Horan's] Loving Frank, for instance, succeeded as a best-seller last year. I wanted to read that book. I wanted to see what it was. But I do know there was great in-house enthusiasm for the book. And I know what a splendid job Algonquin did with [Sara Gruen's] Water for Elephants. And what a great job Morgan did with [Charles Frazier's] Cold Mountain. I mean, they don't happen very often. But every one of those successes keeps us all in the game.

What are the disappointing aspects of working as an agent?
The novel that you worked on for months, through two or three drafts, and then you can't sell. Terrible. You can't help but take it personally. The writer who leaves you after several books, either because the books didn't go anywhere or because he feels he's ready to move up to a big-time agent. But I think a lot of these things happen to people like Peter Mayer and Sonny Mehta, too. So it's part of the game.

What do editors do that drives you crazy?
When they don't answer my mail.

Why is that?
Well, we could get into a whole discussion about common courtesy, and how it seems to have disappeared.

But especially in this business, right?
More among younger editors, who aren't aware that if you've asked for a book, and there's a closing—and I never send a manuscript to an editor unless they've asked for it—then they have to call and let you know. Sometimes you wait all day to hear from them, or you have to chase them again. That pisses me off. I don't get too many form rejection letters anymore. I usually respond by sending my own form rejection letter to the editor. I tell the editor, "Our agency no longer accepts form rejection letters and we have decided to remove you from our submission list."

What makes you love an editor?
A quick response. An intelligent response that shows me they've read the book. Maybe they pinpoint a problem in the book. If I have a difference of opinion with a writer about some aspect of their novel, I may say, "Well, why don't we try three editors and see what their responses are." I'm hoping to hear from the editors that they have the same problem with the manuscript. If I get that kind of response, I can go back to the writer and make him make the change before I go elsewhere with the book. But I don't get that kind of response very often. The editors I like are the ones who instinctively know that there's a good book here but it needs this, that, or the other thing—and they are willing to tell me. A lot of editors aren't willing to tell you what the real problem is with a book. The stock phrase will be "I couldn't summon up enough enthusiasm" or "I didn't feel passionately," none of which tells you anything. But the editors who tell you specifically what it is that they didn't like about the book are valuable. And you don't get too much of that. You talk about editing in the publishing world? Getting intelligent responses to our manuscripts is almost as important for us as getting an offer is, these days. You don't get too much of that.

Tell me about some high points and low points in your career.
For low points, I told you about the writer whose work you really love, or you really like them a great deal, and for one reason or another they leave you. That's always a low point. Maybe they feel their careers aren't going anywhere. The publisher isn't offering as much money for their new book as they did for their last book, and they think that some of that is your responsibility. As one writer who I liked a great deal once wrote to me, "I can't fire me, Nat. You're the only one I can fire." And he fired me. That was the whole letter! His career didn't go anywhere, but that was one of the nicer rejection letters.

The real high points are the writer who you've worked with for several years, and their career's gone nowhere, and you've been working on their new book and it's really terrific—it's different from anything else they've written—and you've gone out with that book and sold it in the face of the fact that any check of BookScan will reveal that they sold hardly anything of their last book. But you found an enthusiastic editor who's willing to take the book on despite that and really run with it. That's a great moment, and that's happened to me a few times. I say that to writers who have had poor results with their first few books and feel that publishing doors have closed to them. Because the sales track is clearly one of the things an editor looks at. Sometimes they can't see how incredible a new book is—they can only look at the author's track record at another house. So when you can overcome that, as an agent, and convince an editor that they have something special, you've really made a breakthrough, especially in this market.

Do you worry about the future of books and reading?
I don't think you can be in this business without worrying about that subject. But, you know, when I got started in publishing, I can remember an old salesman telling me,"You should have been here in the forties and the fifties, Nat. That was the great period! Now it's all gone to hell." I think every generation probably feels like, Geez, you should've been here twenty years ago, kid. Where were you twenty years ago when it was really great? I think there's always going to be that element—that it's not as good as it used to be. But it is tougher today.

What do you still want to accomplish?
I just love doing what I'm doing, and I hope I'll be able to do it for many more years to come.

Jofie Ferrari-Adler is an editor at Grove/Atlantic.

 

[Editor’s Note: Following the publication of Jofie Ferrari-Adler’s extended interview with Nat Sobel, we received a letter from Stuart Applebaum, executive vice president of communications for Random House, who takes issue with Sobel’s views of the firing of the publisher’s sales reps. We reprint his letter below in its entirety.]

While Mr. Sobel is well entitled to express his opinions about book publishers, his observations about the Random House, Inc., sales force demand clarification, in particular, two points in his quote.

First, the Random House Sales reorganization he cites took place some eighteen months ago—not so “recently,” as he misleadingly pegs it.

Second, his suggestion that the Random House field reps who left were “replaced by new, young, and cheaper people” is simply untrue. In virtually every instance the accounts affected at the time of the change were and continue being sold by longstanding, highly knowledgeable Random House veteran sales representatives with great rapport and effectiveness with their customers.

As a point of reference, about one-quarter of our field reps have more than twenty years of service. All but nine of them have at least five years of field-sales service. And speaking of tenure, at our national Sales Conference in March 2008 we celebrated three RH Sales Group members with thirty-five years of service; six celebrating thirty years; three with twenty-five years; and five commemorating twenty years.

Stuart Applebaum
Executive Vice President, Communications
Random House, Inc.


The author responds:

In his essay "Politics and the English Language," George Orwell warns us about words that are "used in a consciously dishonest way." I was reminded of that warning when I read Stuart Applebaum's letter about the Random House sales force's "reorganization" (Orwell again: "Such phraseology is needed if one wants to name things without calling up mental pictures of them").

Mr. Applebaum's first complaint is almost too minor to be taken seriously, but, for the record, this interview was conducted on January 6, 2008, and the cuts to the Random House sales force were reported in Publishers Lunch on November 10, 2006, which places the actual time-span at less than fourteen months. Readers can decide for themselves if fourteen months can be reasonably considered "recent" for an agent with Sobel's decades of experience in the business.

Mr. Applebaum's second complaint is not minor at all. It could have been pulled straight out of "Politics and the English Language," and therefore it is troubling. Just after Mr. Applebaum assures us that Sobel's comment is "simply untrue," he qualifies that phrase and everything that follows it by inserting the word "virtually." Again, readers of this magazine know enough about language to look at the letter and decide for themselves what the word's presence tells them.

Obviously Mr. Applebaum is just doing his job, and I have a hard time faulting anyone for that. It should also be noted that it is impossible to prove or disprove Sobel's supposition without having access to information that is personal and proprietary, namely the salaries of the sales reps who were fired and the salaries of any reps who may have been hired to do the same work in the interim. But I am disheartened by Mr. Applebaum's attempt to distract readers from the larger truth of Sobel's observations—that reps are overburdened, and that publishing veterans are routinely replaced by cheaper help in order to save money, both of which hurts writers as well as readers—by issuing a statement that, when you really look at it, says virtually nothing.

Jofie Ferrari-Adler

Agents & Editors: A Q&A With Editor Chuck Adams

by
Jofie Ferrari-Adler
11.1.08

Like anyone, I'm a sucker for a good underdog story. In a world where the bad guys always seem to come out on top, give me Gary Cooper in High Noon or Fred Exley in A Fan's Notes or even, I'm sorry to admit, Meg Ryan in You've Got Mail. Who doesn't appreciate a life-affirming tale of triumph and redemption in the face of adversity?

Not long ago, I went down to Chapel Hill, North Carolina, to seek out the protagonist of one such story: Chuck Adams of Algonquin Books. A native of Virginia who was educated at Duke, Adams moved to New York City in 1967 and found an entry-level job at Holt, Rinehart and Winston. He moved on to Macmillan, then Dell, where he built a reputation as a brilliant line editor, and was eventually recruited by Simon & Schuster to work alongside celebrated editor Michael Korda. In the years that followed, Adams edited and acquired an extraordinary range of best-selling and award-winning books by authors such as Sandra Brown, James Lee Burke, Susan Cheever, Mary Higgins Clark, Kinky Friedman, Ellen Gilchrist, Joseph Heller, Ronald Reagan, and Elizabeth Taylor. In all, nearly one hundred of the books he's edited have gone on to become best-sellers.

In the winter of 2004, however, like many editors of a certain age (and pay grade), Adams was rewarded for his years of service with a pink slip. The news hit him hard. Believing that his career was essentially over, he moved back to North Carolina, where he had gone to school and still owned a house. Not long afterward he got a call from a literary agent and friend who told him that Algonquin Books, the small literary publisher in Chapel Hill, was looking for an editor. He landed the job and soon acquired a book by a little-known novelist named Sara Gruen that her previous publisher had rejected. Anyone who's walked into a bookstore in the past year probably knows the rest: Water for Elephants has gone on to become a publishing phenomenon, spending a year and counting on the New York Times best-seller list with sales of more than two million copies to date.

But the redemption story is only part of why I wanted to talk with Adams. I heard a rumor that he was a straight shooter, and I had a hunch that his experience at publishing houses both large and small, and his extensive background with commercial authors, would yield some unique insights that writers of all stripes might find useful. In our wide-ranging conversation, Adams spoke with rare candor about everything from how to craft a compelling narrative to what the best agents do for their clients to the intricacies of working with an editor. We talked in his office, one wall of which is dominated by a thank-you gift from Gruen: a large, wildly colorful abstract painting that was made by—you guessed it—an elephant.

I've read conflicting things about your background. Where are you from?
I was born in Virginia, but just over the border. I think it was Publishers Weekly that said I was from North Carolina. I went to school at Duke—I did undergrad and then law school and spent seven years here. So coming back to Chapel Hill and Durham is coming home for me. I studied English as an undergrad and then went to law school because my father wanted me to go to law school, and Vietnam was happening and I didn't want to go there. The irony is that when I finally finished law school and had to go for my physical I didn't pass it because of a hereditary skin disorder—psoriasis, the heartbreak of psoriasis—and I had thrown away three years for nothing, I thought at the time, because I knew I didn't want to be a lawyer. But I did know that I wanted to go to New York. So I took a job as a lawyer with a bank in New York just to get there. I kept not taking the bar, and they finally said, "You don't really want to practice, do you?" I said, "No, I really don't." By then I had become acclimated to the city and basically just took the law degree off my resumé and went out and found a job at Holt. It was an entry-level job in production. I spent about three or four years there and worked my way up pretty quickly. Then I went to Macmillan and was hired as a managing editor. I think I was hired because they had been fighting for so long over who to hire that they basically said, "We're hiring the next person who walks through the door." I was the next person who walked through the door. I had to learn the job, and I was terrible at it.

How did you make the transition to becoming an acquisitions editor?
I made a couple other moves and eventually wound up at Dell. By then I knew what I was doing. I was good. Dell was very much into movie tie-ins. As managing editor, I oversaw a lot of stuff, but there was an editor who did the acquiring of all the tie-ins. At some point they decided they weren't going to do that anymore. They fired that editor and said, "Chuck, you take over the tie-ins. It's basically just getting the artwork from the movie companies anyway." I said, "But if something comes my way, can I acquire it?" They said, "Sure." The first think I bought was a tie-in to a miniseries called The Blue and the Gray. It was a complicated situation, and the author and I didn't get along. He had come up with the idea for the miniseries and somebody else had written the screenplay. But he retained the rights to novelize the thing. So he wrote the novel but he didn't have the approval of the edit—the producer had that. I read the novel and called the producer and said, "This is terrible. I can't accept it like this, or, if I do, it has to be rewritten, and I will rewrite it because I want to make it a success." He said, "Do whatever you want." So I completely rewrote it. The author was really upset. You know, I had destroyed his career and everything. We published it that way, as a paperback original, and it went on the New York Times best-seller list. We sold it to something like fifty foreign countries. It was a huge success. We made a fortune off it. So I'd taken my first book and turned it into a big success, and after that they encouraged me to acquire more. Eventually, Susan Moldow made me just an editor. But my reputation thereafter was based primarily not on my successes but on the books I didn't buy.

What do you mean by that?
I got a reputation for wanting to buy certain tie-ins and being told, "That's a terrible idea." For example, I was desperate to buy the tie-in to Cocoon. When I told them the plot, they practically laughed me out of the editorial meeting. Another was V. Another was The Last Starfighter. They all went on to be huge best-sellers. I was a big I-told-you-so person. When it came my turn in the editorial meetings, and they'd ask if I had anything that week, I would stand up and read the New York Times best-seller list to them. So I had this reputation for knowing what I was doing but never getting to do it. Eventually it became apparent to them that I did have talent as an editor. I'm good at it. I had done it a lot more than I had realized. I could type, which was rare back then before computers. I'd taken a typing class in high school, and in college I was the only guy on my floor who could type. I'd be typing guys' papers for them all the time, and I'd say, "This isn't very good. Do you mind if I change a few things?" They'd say, "Sure, go ahead. I don't know what I'm doing." So I'd rewrite their papers, and sure enough they would get much better grades. So I knew a long time ago that I actually did know how to write.

So you basically taught yourself how to edit?
Yes. Completely. Nobody mentored me, nothing like that. I got a reputation for being a really strong line editor, and eventually I heard that Michael Korda was looking for somebody to come work with him. That's how I got hired at Simon & Schuster.

Did you know Michael before you went to work with him?
No, I'd never met him. What happened is that a headhunter, Bert Davis, called me and said, "I've got a job for you. You've just got to promise me that you aren't an alcoholic or a drug addict." I said, "Okay, I'm not." He said, "Don't ask." It turned out they had hired somebody for the job and it became clear very quickly that he had a real problem—I don't know if it was drugs or alcohol or what—and it didn't work out. I guess they figured that was the one question they forgot to ask. So I went over and had an interview with HR. I was really pissed about that. I thought, "They called me. I'm not applying for this job, am I? Why am I having to go to human resources?" I remember the question that cinched the job for me. The HR woman said, "Rate yourself on a scale of one to ten." I said, "Ten!" She said, "Good, that's good." I realized that was what they wanted—belief in yourself and arrogance. Because it was more in my nature to say, "Oh, you know, like a seven and a half." I think I was just irritated with her.

When I met Michael I immediately loved him, of course. At one point in the interview he said, "What do you think is your greatest talent?" I said, "I grovel well." That may be the thing I said that got me the job. I didn't mention this earlier, but one of the other things that happened at Dell was that I started being assigned to a lot of problem authors. I've always been a placater or a mediator—my shrink tells me it's because I grew up in an abusive environment with a lot of drunks, not my parents necessarily, but I was around a lot of that—and it became clear to the people at Dell that I could get along with anyone. They would just throw people at me and say, "Let Chuck handle this one." So when I told Michael I groveled well, I think he liked that. I was basically hired the day I met him.

Tell me how your relationship developed.
On a personal level, we liked each other and still do. We just became friends, and we still talk on a regular basis. On a professional level, Michael is probably the most talented editor I have ever known. There were sessions with him and writers—I'm thinking of times when a writer was having trouble with an idea—and on a day when Michael completely focused, he was brilliant beyond belief. I remember one day in particular with an author who was stymied on this one plot problem. I had thought about it and hadn't come up with anything either. We went in and sat down with Michael and he just started to talk. He talked for about half an hour—talking through the story—and he resolved the problem and went on from there. It was a hair-raising experience. I was so moved by it. It was so exciting. I thought, "This man is brilliant."

Michael could do anything—I'm sure he's a great line editor—but he was more than happy to let me do the line editing. So, for the most part, I did the heavy line work on books and he did the more developmental side. That's especially true with Mary Higgins Clark. Mary is a dream to work with, one of the nicest people in the world, and I think an extremely talented writer, because she's a great storyteller, and I put storytelling ability above fine writing. When she was starting on a book, she and Michael and I would meet, usually for dinner. She would say what the idea was, and then Michael would spin this whole thing. She'd take that and run with it and do her own thing, but Michael helped her come up with the direction. Then I would go in and line edit the book.

Michael and I had a great working relationship, and we had that relationship with most of the authors we shared. Every now and then there would be somebody who I didn't work with. For example, Michael took on Philip Roth, who I got to know ever so slightly, but Philip Roth is Philip Roth and you basically leave it alone. I didn't work with Larry McMurtry at all. Larry is not the easiest person in the world to get along with, and he and Michael had a great relationship, so I was happy to stay out of that.

How did it work, technically? Would you both acquire your own books and then acquire some of them together?
I acquired books on my own, but usually, if an agent sent me something that I really liked, I would go to Michael and say, "I really like this and I want to try and buy it." And 90 percent of the time Michael would say, "I like it, too. Let's buy it together." So that's what we would do, and he would do the same thing with me. Every now and then he would get something—he was in the RAF and knew about planes—where there was no reason to involve me. We didn't do every book together, but we did the majority of them together. Usually agents would send the big authors to him. But Sandra Brown and James Lee Burke were submitted to me.

When you look back, what did those years working with Michael teach you?
Well, I learned an awful lot about the business from Michael, of course, because Michael is incredibly savvy. I also learned the limits of ego.

What does that mean?
I believe it's never, never, never about the editor. That was the only thing with Michael that I sometimes disagreed about. The most important thing is to have a really strong relationship with the writer and have them be confident in you and the house. As the editor, I'm not important in that equation. I genuinely believe that. I mean, I have an ego, but it's not important. Michael would occasionally let his ego get in the way of things. There was one celebrity—we did a lot of celebrity books—and they had a fight, the likes of which.... I had seen it coming. I knew it was going to happen. And it ended up that I was the only one she would talk to. His ego could occasionally get in the way. I have come close to losing my temper with authors, but I've only actually done it twice, once here and once, famously, at Dell.

Famously?
Well, it was famous there, not anywhere else. Again, it was me trying to prove myself when I was young and trying to prove myself. I bought a work of nonfiction about an FBI guy who went undercover and got so deeply undercover that he became a criminal himself. A journalist had written a proposal to write this story. Susan bought it, and when it came in she gave it to me to edit. It was terrible. The guy was a good reporter—he dug and dug and dug—but he hadn't a clue about writing or putting a book together. I looked back at his credits and realized that he had been with People magazine, and his articles always said they were "reported by" him but written by somebody else. So I thought, "Okay, we're going to make this work."

I started rewriting it. When I was done with the first chapter I sent it to him. He said, "Oh, I see." I said, "Can you do this now? Can you look at what I've done to this chapter and redo the rest of the book?" He sent it back and it was still terrible. No better. I thought, "Either I reject it or I rewrite the whole book." So I started rewriting the whole book. At some point he started pestering me about when I was going to be done. I sent him the first half. He called me and said, "Forgive me. This is brilliant. I love what you're doing. Keep going." So I kept working on it and got about another hundred pages done—it's like four hundred pages long—but then he called me again. Now, I'll admit, it had been three or four months by this point. But he called me again and said, "Where's the rest of it?" I kept putting him off, but eventually he started calling me every day. One day he called me and said, "I'm really getting upset about how long you're taking with this."

I have a terrible temper, but I don't lose it very often. I'm usually able to keep myself from going off the handle. But that day I was just in a bad mood or something, and I said, "You know what? I hate you and I hate your book." And I slammed down the phone. I was sitting there, kind of hyperventilating, and then I heard Susan's phone ring, and about thirty seconds later I heard her walking down the hallway to me. She yelled at me, of course, but she was nice about it. She said, "You should have rejected this. You should have come to me and said, ‘This is terrible.'" I said that I just didn't want to give up on it.

Tell me about some of your more memorable celebrity experiences at S&S.
There were so many. Going to Cher's house and sitting in her strange living room and just talking with her—that was pretty awesome. I liked her. I can't say I ever got to know her. I think she's very afraid of exposing herself. So she limits her world to people who are right around her and she trusts, and we were never going to be part of that. But it was fun to work with her anyway. Esther Williams was memorable and probably one of my proudest publishing experiences, because everyone laughed at me when I bought the book. They said, "What a joke. Nobody cares." But thanks to two other people I worked with—one in subrights, one in publicity—who also loved Esther and loved the book, it became a big best-seller. It probably sold 120,000 copies, which was great for a book that everyone said I was stupid to buy. And I loved working with Esther.

Two of my more memorable experiences involved celebrities I never actually did books with. One was having lunch with Diana Ross with Michael at the Four Seasons when her memoir was being shopped around. She wanted Michael to be her editor and I think it had been requested that we have lunch with her. I was immediately besotted with her. I just thought she was the most exciting person I had ever met. It may have all been a performance—it probably was—but when I walked out of that restaurant I was ten feet off the ground. I was just in love with her. The other one was dinner with Sidney Poitier when his book was being shopped, and he was wonderful and brilliant and charming.

Working with Charlton Heston was great. I loved him. We never talked politics or gun control, and he was just a genuinely sweet man. I even said to him at one point, "I've worked with a lot of celebrities and they are many things but they are usually not nice. How can you be so nice and be a household name?" He said, "Good thing you didn't know me thirty years ago." He was really well grounded. Meeting Elizabeth Taylor was exciting. There were a few people I worked with who I got to know pretty well. Neil Simon and I became pretty friendly when we were working together. Paul Mazursky, the director, was another. Maureen Stapleton was a sweetheart.

You mentioned Diana Ross coming to Michael. There is obviously a cult of personality with some editors...
Michael, having been a child of Hollywood himself, made a lot of these people feel comfortable. The drawback was that sometimes I think they felt he was also competing with them.

As you were coming up were there any other people who had an important influence on you?
Susan Moldow was a huge influence, just because she gave me a chance and encouraged me. Carole Baron was one of the greatest people I've ever worked with. I just loved her. Ray Roberts at Macmillan was a huge influence on me. I love him. He and I were incredibly close friends. He gave me confidence in myself about what I could do.

Is that because your personality type was similar? You didn't have to be an oversized personality?
Exactly. There was an editor at Macmillan at the time who just died this week, Eleanor Friede, and she was an oversized personality. She was kind of daunting. I liked her a lot but, you know, it was like, "Now that's an editor." I could never be like that. I could never be like Michael; I could never be like Nan Talese. I just don't have that in me. I was always happiest just being in my office and working and not necessarily being out there.

Why were you were ultimately pushed out at S&S?
It's a complicated story, and I'm not sure I know the whole story. I was told that they had to cut back and that Michael had declined to retire. They wanted him to retire. And because he wouldn't retire, they were going to fire me. They wanted me to continue editing [on a freelance basis], but they told me I should just retire.

You were making too much money?
I guess. It didn't seem like it to me, but I don't know what everybody else made. I was certainly well paid. But, mind you, when David Rosenthal came to Simon & Schuster he immediately gave me a raise. He said, "You're not making enough." I was never one who went and lobbied for big raises. So I think it was a combination of things.

How did the Algonquin job come about?
When I was fired from Simon & Schuster, I was given something like four months notice, mainly because they wanted me to finish editing the new Mary Higgins Clark, which had to go to press in March. So I had until the end of March to clear out. An agent, Cynthia Manson, who is a friend and a wonderful person, called me and said that Peter Workman was looking to hire somebody. She knew Peter and asked if I would be interested in talking to him. I said that would be serendipity because Algonquin was in North Carolina, where I already had a house and spent a lot of time.

But, to be honest, I had little hope for it because...Mary Higgins Clark? Jackie Collins? Those weren't exactly the kind of authors I thought of when I thought of Algonquin. But Peter could not have been nicer or more inviting. He basically said, "I don't what you to learn to do Algonquin books. I want them to learn how to do the books that you're comfortable with." So that gave me some hope that this actually might work. No one else offered me a job, and I could've done freelance and probably made more money than I'm making here, but I didn't want to do that.

The thing that I love about what we do as editors is, first of all, working with the authors. But I also love this excitement when a new manuscript comes in and you think, "Okay, I'm ready to fall in love again." It doesn't happen very often, but when it does it's just unbeatable. I didn't want to give that up. I could have kept editing on a freelance basis, but I would have missed that love experience. So we worked out everything and I was very happy to take the job down here, and it has been, I think, the most exciting thing that has ever happened in my career. I mean, who would have thought? I got a third act here.

I read somewhere that Water for Elephants is the biggest seller in Algonquin's history. Tell me about the acquisition.
The acquisition process was simple. Emma Sweeney e-mailed the book to me and told me that it had been under contract to Morrow—I believe this is right—and they had rejected it because they wanted another romantic contemporary book like Sara's first book. I had been the underbidder on Sara's first book [Riding Lessons] at Simon & Schuster, and I had met her when she came around to meet people. So that was the reason the new book came to me. I started reading it and immediately just loved it. I gave a copy to Ina Stern, our associate publisher, on a Friday. We both came in on Monday and went, "Oh my God! We have to have this book." It was the first and, with the exception of one other book I've brought in, the only time that every editor here and the publisher said, "We have to have this book." Usually there's one naysayer, and sometimes several, but in this case everyone agreed. I remember saying at the editorial meeting, "I don't know that this book will be a best-seller. But I think this author will be a best-seller because she's an animal person and will continue to write about animals." Her first book had involved horses. I said, "You've got the opportunity for off-the-book-page publicity because you have an author you can promote," which is infinitely easier than just promoting the book. So we took it on with great enthusiasm.

Was it a competitive situation or did you have it exclusively?
It was out with a number of other houses. I told Emma, "Look, I really just want to take this off the table." I think I offered her fifty thousand for world rights. She asked me if I could go up, so I went up a little bit, and we got it. A few months later, after the book had been edited and everything—it didn't take much editing because it was really clean—our publicity and marketing people had a meeting to talk about the next season. They meet every season and choose one or two books—we promote all of our books a lot—but they choose one or two that they hope can be especially big. They chose another novel as the big book for that season. But it turned out that our marketing director, Craig Popelars, hadn't read the novel yet. So, after that meeting, he read it. Afterward, I remember, he walked in here with the manuscript and said, "Best-seller. We can make this a best-seller. I can give this to my mother, I can give this to my father, I can give this to my wife, I can give this to my old college roommate. This book is universal." I was a little jaded by that point, so I said, "Sure, you go ahead and make it a best-seller." And damned if he didn't. Craig along with Michael Taeckens, the publicity director, and Ina Stern, the associate publisher, got behind this book and just made it happen.

In the lead-up to publication, what are some of the key things that you and your colleagues did?
Craig got on the phone or emailed thirty or forty key independent bookstore people around the country. He said, "I want to send you a manuscript that I think is going to be huge. If you like it as much as I think you will, I want you to give me a quote that I can use to put together an ad." He sent out the manuscript and the comments that came back were universal. There wasn't one negative response. The independent booksellers got behind the book in a huge way. He took those quotes to sales conference in New York, and the sales reps had started reading the book and agreed that it could be a best seller. Michael started putting together a thirty-city tour. We had started out thinking the first printing would be fifteen thousand copies, but by the time we actually went to press it was fifty thousand.

Did the author do any key things in terms of promotion?
Well, Sara's got a great personality, but I don't think she'd mind me saying that she's not a natural in front of crowds. She actually can have a little stage fright. But once she's there, her charm and her warmth come through, and she did an amazing job on the road selling the book. That was a huge thing. But ultimately, I think, it's about the book. People love it. We just went back to press, this week, and printed our two-millionth paperback copy. It's been an amazing ride.

What was the most exciting moment for you?
The first time it got on the New York Times list. And the millionth paperback copy. That was fun—the entire office went out to dinner. We had champagne here and then went out to dinner.

Tell me about trying to keep her.
We tried very hard.

I imagine that you put together some kind of creative offer.
Yes. I don't want to talk about the amounts, but we put together a very creative offer. It was a reasonable amount of money up front and guarantees of more if certain things happened. It was a shared risk situation. Financially, we just can't afford to pay millions of dollars and have a failure. Other companies can. We can't. We just can't take the risk. So it was a shared risk—more money if this happens, more money if this happens. I would have loved to have kept her.

You're on record as saying you understand her decision.
I do. I do, completely.

But it must also be frustrating.
It is. It's particularly frustrating for the others here who worked so hard to create the book's success. I mean, it hurt. I can't say that our feelings weren't hurt a little bit. But I put myself in her shoes and I think, "x dollars here versus x-x-x-x-x dollars there?"

Tell me about the major changes you've seen in the industry over the course of your career.
Things have changed a lot. I started at Holt in 1969, but because I was in production I can't say I had a great feel for the industry because the industry, let's face it, revolves around editorial and publicity and so forth. By the time I got to Dell, which is where my career really began, I did understand what I was getting into. Dell was a big mass market house, and the mass market kind of ruled. I remember when Nancy Friday's My Mother / My Self reached one hundred thousand hardcover copies and everyone went, "Oh, God! That's amazing!" Now one hundred thousand is nothing—you may not get on the best-seller list with that. There's been a shift away from the mass market side.

Now things have just become big business. Advances have gotten kind of out of control. I'm not saying I liked it better the old way, it's just that I've never been one who liked to pay big advances. I'm not tight with money—God knows I waste a lot of it—I just hate risking things. I want to see the company make money. I've seen too may authors' careers go down the toilet because of big advances. I had an author at Simon & Schuster who I just loved. He was a great writer and he was great to work with. I had done a nonfiction book with him, and I encouraged him to do novels. So I bought two novels from him for something like fifty thousand dollars. The first one was great and got terrific reviews—a daily New York Times review, the cover of the Los Angeles Times Book Review—and sold moderately well, fifteen or twenty thousand copies. That was good for a first novel. It launched his career. The second book was just okay—it wasn't great—and it did okay but not great. When it came time to negotiate for the next novel, his agent wanted three hundred thousand dollars. We tried to get to a reasonable amount, but the truth was there was another editor who wanted him and I think had already put the money down. So he left for the money, and the third book sold like the second book and the first book. And the fourth book sold like that. And now he's not writing anymore, to the best of my knowledge. He could have built a career if he'd just been patient and hadn't become greedy and gone for the money.

But it's hard to resist that kind of money.
I know it is. I just get frustrated when agents and authors go for the money like that and don't think about building careers. I think sometimes we all just get carried away with this need to buy these things without any thought of what we're really going to do with them. But here, fortunately, we only do twenty books a year and we can't do that. We have to think carefully about everything we buy. But in a culture like at Simon & Schuster, and before that at Delacorte, to some extent, you would just buy things because you needed to fill up a list. You know, every month you had to have your three or four big books, but you also needed to have another fifteen or twenty down at the bottom. You would just buy stuff and fill them in. Too often, books that are acquired for hundreds of thousands of dollars get put in the midlist because they decide they aren't going to sell. "We can't make it into a big book, so we'll just put it there." I've had books like that. I've been guilty of this. I guess there's no way we cannot pay big advances because that's the culture we're in, but I think it's bad for so many careers.

I just took on a book this week where I was one of the bidders when it was sold a year or more ago. The author interviewed all the editors and went with another house that offered a lot more money than I offered—almost three times what I offered. But he called me out of the blue a few weeks ago and said, "I made a mistake. I really wanted to come with you but the money was just irresistible." So he's buying himself out of the contract and coming here. He just felt like he wasn't getting the guidance he wanted. I don't know if we'll have a great success or not. I think he's really talented. But the money is almost impossible to resist, I think.

It seems to me that publishers are responsible for a lot of these problems, especially the problem of the midlist writer whose career has stalled. What should publishers be doing better?
I think they should be publishing fewer books, or publishing more carefully. At Algonquin, because of the kind of house we are, doing twenty books a year, every book has to work for us. We can't afford to just throw something out there. We have to work like crazy. We'll say, "Okay, we think there may be fifty thousand people out there who will buy this book. So let's go find those fifty thousand people." That's what marketing and publicity do here. They dig for those readers. They don't always succeed, but they always try.

How are they doing that?
A lot of it is on the Internet. A lot of it is contact with booksellers. Take this book by Roland Merullo, American Savior. It's a satirical novel about Jesus coming back and running for president. We're taking a big position on this book in the way we're positioning it with bookstores. But we've also been in touch with all sorts of religious organizations, especially liberal religious organizations, trying to get them interested and supportive. We just go after all these different things that the larger companies don't have time to do because they're publishing so many books, and they're going to put their effort behind the ones they paid the millions of dollars for. So, here, because we only do ten books a season, we work those ten books to death. We're not afraid to take somebody who has languished in the midlist. If we feel like they're capable of rising above that.

Do you think the industry is healthier now than it was when you first started?
Well, it's much bigger, so I suspect it's less healthy. Originally it was small operations that weren't publicly owned. You didn't have corporations demanding that you meet certain budgets. I saw this at Simon & Schuster. We had one year when Judith Regan, who I like a lot, had Howard Stern and I believe Rush Limbaugh in one year, and another editor had The Book of Virtues, and there were a lot of other books that worked. So let's say the year before we had made ten million dollars and our budget for that year was eleven million. But it was such a great year that instead of making 11 million, we made more like 111 million. So next year, does Paramount or Viacom say, "Your budget this year is twelve million"? No. They say we're supposed to make 112 million. So all of a sudden the bar has been raised that much higher. If you make the budget, keep in mind, you get not only a pat on the back—you get a bonus. So everybody wants to make the budget. When May or June comes around and you start looking at the numbers, you think, "We're not going to make our budget. What can we do?" What you do is start taking books that were supposed to be published later on and moving them up, throwing them into November and December just to get the numbers out. A lot of books and authors get sacrificed that way.

What does all of that mean for the future? Are the large corporations ever going to realize that the industry doesn't have the kind of growth they want and give up?
I don't know. Going back to the beginning of my career, when I was at Holt and we were owned by CBS, I remember the people at Holt laughing at the people at CBS. The powers that be at CBS had called the people at Holt and said, "You're doing something wrong here. If we put a dollar into our broadcast operations, we usually get back $1.75. You're only giving us back a $1.02. You're doing something wrong." They just didn't have any idea. They hadn't even researched what they were doing. In our business, $1.02 on the dollar is not bad. Any profit is good. But these corporations expect big growth. It's creating mega hits, and that's fine. Simon & Schuster is one of the best at that—they're amazing at event publishing. But so many little books, so many promising little books and talented authors, get sacrificed.

But what do you see on the horizondo you think it's going to keep going the way it's going?
I have no idea. Seeing Warner get out of the business is probably a good thing. Viacom will probably ultimately get out of the business—it's actually CBS now, I don't know how they'll figure that out. Bertelsmann is probably pretty solid. They seem to know what they're doing. I don't know what kind of pressures are on people in-house on a bunch of things. I don't know what it's like. I bet it's not too dissimilar, but at least it's not publicly owned, so you don't have the Wall Street pressure. I think that's probably one of the biggest problems: the pressures from the stockholders and so forth. It's not a business that's ever going to function like a normal manufacturing operation or a normal big business. It's just not. So much depends on the personalities and quirks. There are so many ways to go wrong in this business, and it's so difficult to get it right.

Did you read Jon Karp's recent essay in the Washington Post?
No, I didn't see it, but somebody was telling me about it.

He was basically arguing that the future of books is quality stuff and not the sort of quickie schlock that a lot of publishers make a lot of money from.
I haven't read the article, but I don't necessarily agree. Look at Judith Regan. She's a good example. I think she's brilliant. I think she showed us something we all kind of know but don't like to admit, and it's that we're in fucking show business. She showed us that if you give people what they want, they will buy it. You can call it schlock if you want to. Books on wrestling, and books by porno stars, are not things that I necessarily want to read. But that doesn't mean they shouldn't be published. There are people who want to read them, and she gave that market what they wanted. And, okay, it's schlock, but it got people into bookstores, and they bought books. I've always thought, "Give me more Harlequin romances." Get people reading! You just want people to read. I don't put down any form of publishing if there's a market for it. For too long, in New York, we've been in this culture of publishing what we like and not what readers want. Hopefully, we'll come around to trying to understand what people really want to read so we can interest them in reading in the first place.

When I was at Simon & Schuster, they started this thing on diversity in publishing, and we were all supposed to go through diversity training. To my knowledge, I'm the only person who was not summoned to go through diversity training. I think it was because I wrote them such a scathing reply to their initial query of "How do you feel about diversity in publishing?" I said, "There is no diversity in publishing and we're not likely to get it as long as you just pay lip service to it." There are virtually no African Americans in this business, there are virtually no Hispanics, virtually no Asian Americans. It's because we don't pay competitive salaries, we don't make an effort to recruit them, and, frankly, if they came in and really had a sense of their area of publishing, the bosses wouldn't know what to do with them and probably wouldn't give them a chance to do anything anyway. They expect you to be white like all the rest of us. There's too much of the elitist school culture in New York. The only people who can afford to take jobs in publishing are those who come from enough money and whose parents will help support them. We don't encourage a diversity of people in the business. We don't. We just want more of the same because they're the ones who can afford to work in it. And I don't see that changing. I know that profits are a problem and you can't afford to pay huge salaries. I know the argument. But it's a problem. And when somebody like Judith comes along and really tries something different and gets pilloried for it? Okay, she overstepped the bounds. I'll give you that. But she showed us that there is a readership out there if you're not too proud to go there.

Let's talk about agents. There are a lot of them, and I'm curious about the factors that you would look at if you were a writer, knowing what you know, and had your pick of a few.
I would want them to ask certain questions. "Who do you think the audience for my book will be?""How do you think my career should progress?" I think writers should be asking about career, not just about selling this particular book. "What do you think I should be working on now to follow-up this book?" I would want a very careful reading of the book in order to make sure that they did read it and really understood it and weren't just hyping me up. I would do as much research as I could. I'd want to know who their other clients are and how their careers are advancing. I'd want to talk to some of their authors, if possible. I'd look at how well the books that this agent has sold are being published.

You want an agent who is both incredibly easy to get along with and incredibly determined to get the best they can for their authors. The best agents are the ones who keep after me and don't leave me alone. You know, "What are you doing? What's going to happen next?" They want to keep on top of things. The ones I'm leery of are the ones I hear from only once or twice a year. Marly Rusoff, for example, is a great agent. She works so hard for her writers. Well, she was an editor, too. I think some of the best agents used to be editors—because they know the business. And so many editors are now agents, of course, because you can make more money.

What do agents do that drives you crazy?
Oh, there are so many things. The worst thing an agent has ever done to me involved a novel by a Hollywood-based person who had been in show business. This person had written a memoir before, and he was a pretty good writer, but the novel was a mess. The writing was pretty good and the background was interesting—the material was all there—but it just wasn't well done. So I passed. But when I passed, I said, "I do like this. I think there's potential here, but it's not ready. If you don't sell it, and the author wants to talk to me about reworking it, I'd be glad to have a conversation with him." They didn't sell it. The author called me and we went back and forth—calling, e-mailing—and he started to rework it. He said, "I think I've got a great idea now, so thank you." A couple of months later, my assistant drops the revision on my desk. It has a letter from the agent on top—multiple submission. I called up and said, "What are you doing?" The agent said, "You didn't really expect to get this exclusively, did you?" I said, "Well, I'm passing. Thank you." She said, "You're not going to read it?" I said, "No." I couldn't believe that.

Here, I have actually taken options on two books in that situation. I'm working with the authors now, trying to get the books right, and if we get them right we have an agreed upon purchase price. It's a formalized way of doing what I did in that case, and it protects us, obviously. When you read a book and you see something there, and it's a good writer, I'm loath to give up on it.

Are there any younger or less well-known agents out there who are really good but who maybe writers aren't aware of yet?
There are two agents in particular, right now, who I send people to when I'm asked for help in finding an agent. I think of them first and I go to them first: Doug Stewart at Sterling Lord and Daniel Lazar at Writers House. Both have sent me really, really good things. I have not bought anything yet from Doug—actually I did because I sent him an author and then I bought the book. I've bought a couple of things from Daniel, who has consistently amazed me with the stuff he sends. It's off the wall sometimes, but I just love it.

What are you looking for in a piece of writing?
The first thing is the voice. If it's got a strong voice, I'm going to keep reading. And if a story sneaks in there, I'm going to keep reading. To me, those are the two most important things. I want a voice and I want to be hooked into a story. I believe very strongly that books are not about writers, and they're definitely not about editors—they're about readers. You've got to grab the reader right away with your voice and with the story you're telling. You can't just write down words that sound pretty. It's all about the reader. You've got to bring the reader into it right away. If the writing is poetic and so forth, that's nice. I'm reading something right now that has an amazing voice, and I'm only fifty-six pages into it, but I'm already getting a little tired because it's so nice, if you know what I mean. It's so pretty. It's like every page is a bon bon, and I want a little break somewhere. It's become self-conscious, in a way. I want the author to surprise me and excite me, and so far he hasn't. He's just made me think, "Oh, that's nice." I even called somebody and read them half a page because I thought it was so nice. I don't know. I'll give it another fifty pages and see.

How long does it take you to know?
You can usually tell after a paragraph—a page, certainly—whether or not you're going to get hooked. Every now and then, something will surprise you. I remember one novel at Simon & Schuster that I was reading, more as a favor than anything else. The writing wasn't great, and the story was a little on the predictable side—it was okay, but a little boring—but then I got to the end and it surprised the hell out of me. I went back and thought, "Fuck, this is really something. I would have given up after fifty pages if I hadn't promised somebody that I would read it." I ended up buying it and it did really well.

Are there any specific elements of craft that beginning writers tend to neglect?
I think beginning writers tend to not think about a reader. They tend to think about themselves. They think about making themselves sound smart and good, and they forget that this is really all about telling stories. I used to joke that I was going to put a big sign over my desk that said, "Quit writing and tell me a story." The problem is that they just write. They fall in love with their own voice. They write and write and write, and they lose sight of the fact that they're trying to entertain somebody. You have to reel them in.

Do you have any pet peeves about mistakes that you see writers making again and again?
Oh, there are little things. "‘I like you,' she smiled."[Laughter.] And you see that kind of thing from fairly good writers sometimes. You know, if you want to get the smile in there, it's "‘I like you,' she said with a smile." It's just little things like that. But if I'm reading something and I'm on the fence and I see too many of those, it goes against the book. I don't see it a lot, but every now and then, I read a novel that someone has obviously written with a thesaurus beside him. I'm not a stupid person. But I don't know every word. When I have to get up from my desk and look up words to understand what I'm reading, that's another thing that sends me to the other side of the fence.

You have said that you work very closely with the writer, with the reader in mind, to make every book as commercial as possible. Why is that important to you?
It's very difficult to make a living in this business. I'm told that there are something like two hundred writers who actually make a living at writing. Or maybe fewer. The others have to supplement their incomes in order to make a living. If a writer really wants to make a living as a writer, they need to sell copies. I want them to be successful. If they're successful, we're successful. To some extent, it comes down to money.

But I don't believe in just going after stories to make money, obviously. There are some books I've been able to publish here—one example is An Arsonist's Guide to Writers' Homes in New England—that have been a fight. So many people here hated that book. It's interesting. I haven't done this in six months or a year, but it used to be that if you looked at the Amazon page for that book, the reviews were split fifty-fifty between five stars and one star. Half the reviews were like, "This is the greatest book I've ever read," and the other half were like, "I would give this book zero stars if I could." It gets that kind of reaction. It makes people angry. I love that kind of book. It inspires people to really talk about it. Some people despise it and start to sputter because they hate it so much, and other people go crazy over it.

Go back to this notion of working very closely with an authorwith the reader in mindto make something as commercial as possible. What are the nuts and bolts of that process? What does the page look like?
Physically, it's a mess. I write all over it. I'm not a shy editor. I edit in ink, and I just sit down as a reader. I start reading, and when I come to a word or whatever that makes me stop, then I think, "Okay, there's a problem." Because any time a reader stops—whether it's because they didn't understand something, or the word is an odd choice and it throws them off, or a character does something slightly out of character—then you have to stop and say, "This is a problem. How do we fix it?" Usually I will have a fix that I just go ahead and write in. I always tell the authors, of course, that my fixes are suggestions. I say, "You don't have to do it this way, but you've got to do something here. Whenever I find a problem, you've got to address it. You can't ignore it. You can find your own solution, but you have to do something."

I go through the whole manuscript that way. Sometimes I just write in the margins, sometimes I write pages of notes and type them up and send them to the author. Sometimes it's just a matter of cutting and connecting and writing little one- or two-word transitions. But it's always a matter of taking the reader with me. I want them to be able to follow everything that's going on and not have to stop and puzzle anything out.

What's the most satisfying big edit you've ever done?
It was probably Kitty Dukakis's memoir. It was one of the first manuscripts I was given to edit at Simon & Schuster. It was an unusual situation: It had been bought jointly by Alice Mayhew and Michael Korda, who are two radically different editors. The manuscript was huge, about five hundred pages. Alice called me into her office and said, "Chuck, there's way too much in here about politics. People want to know the personal story. You need to cut out a lot of this political stuff." Michael called me into his office and said, "Chuck, there's way too much personal stuff in here. People want to know about the politics. You've got to get rid of a lot of this personal stuff."

I sat down and thought, "Okay, who are you going to please?" I decided to just please the reader. I went through it and did what I wanted to do as a reader. The cowriter on the book was wonderful, but she had not controlled Kitty in any way. Kitty had just rambled and the cowriter had organized everything but hadn't cut it at all. For example, every time Kitty had gone to a different town and had a different hairdresser, she'd spend a paragraph thanking that hairdresser for doing such a great job. I said, "Kitty, there's an acknowledgments page. That's where all of this has got to go." I went through the book and just carved. It was almost like carving a block of marble or granite or whatever to try and get the statue that was beneath. I painstakingly went through the thing a couple of times and carved away and connected things. When I was done, I thought it was great. And both Alice and Michael did, too. I was really proud of that. I knew I had done a good job, and they were really proud of it too. It went on to be a big best-seller for us.

This is the magazine's MFA issue. Do you have anything to say about them?
Obviously a lot of good writers have come out of MFA programs—you see it in their bios—so I know there's a lot of good work being done. I will confess that many of the MFA novels I see are better written than they are good books, if you know what I mean. There's a lot of good writing, but that doesn't necessarily add up to a good book. I feel like perhaps in those programs too much emphasis is being put on style and word choices rather than actually thinking about how to communicate with people. It's too much about—to make it sound terrible—but it's too much about showing off and not enough about trying to please a reader.

Again, I go back to the whole thing about storytelling. I'm old enough to have started reading back when it really was primarily about stories. I guess there were a lot of quality literary books being published then, but my mother didn't buy them. I read what was around the house: Edna Ferber and Daphne du Maurier and Mary Renault and Thomas B. Costain. These are writers you don't hear anything about anymore, but they were brilliant storytellers. They were also good writers, mind you, but they were brilliant storytellers. They would grab the reader right away and just not let go.

Today, I'm seeing better writing than the writing in those books, but I'm not seeing better storytelling. That was why Water for Elephants excited me. Sara is a really good writer. She's not a great stylist or anything—you're not going to sit down and read her sentences just for the beauty of them—but she tells such a great story. She knows how to pace a story. She knows how to make it work for the reader. When I read the book, I said, "This is like Edna Ferber. She's taken an intimate story and played it out against a very large backdrop." And it works beautifully. Look at Michael Chabon. He's had success from the beginning, but it wasn't until he wrote The Amazing Adventures ofKavalier and Clay, where he took his formula of two guys and a girl and put it against this big panorama—the Holocaust, the Depression, World War II—that he turned the intimate little stories he'd been writing into a big story. It's not that difficult to do. It's not easy to do, either. But when you really look at what he did, you just have to come up with the right backdrop and put the story in front of it and make the story one that people really relate to and care about.

I'm trying to get Susan Cheever to write a novel for me here. I love her. I think she's a brilliant writer, and I don't think she's ever gotten the attention she should have because people unfortunately review her name and not her books. They resent her name, for whatever reason. I think she's capable of writing a really great novel. We keep talking about what it should be. I keep saying, "Look, write Romeo and Juliet or write Jane Eyre or whatever. But put it against a big backdrop. Steal somebody's else idea, but just make it your own."

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What you're talking about just emphasizes to me how important the elements of a story are. Are the elements appealing? Are they things that people really want to read about?
Kathy Pories was reading a novel this week, and she asked me to read a part of it too. We all share everything here. I loved the writing. The voice was great. I was immediately drawn into the story. I hadn't read much, maybe twenty or thirty pages, and I told her, "I really like this." She said, "Well, wait until you get to the end." What happens is, you're reading along, you like the main character; he's interesting and complex. All along, you know that something bad has happened. And then he rapes somebody, in the first person. You read that and you're like, "Um, you can't do that." Fortunately, the author understands, so hopefully Kathy will get to buy the book. But she's got to go back through it and find a way to get rid of that problem. You lose your reader immediately when you do something like that.

Do you think literary writers need to be effective self-promoters to have a successful career today?
It's a lot easier to promote an author than a book. If you have an author whom you can get on NPR, for whom you can get some kind of press coverage because of their personality or something in their background or some quirk like that, and they're willing to be promoted that way, then that's a big plus. We always take that into consideration when we're talking about taking on somebody. Because you know that if you have a situation where you can promote only the book, it's harder. I have an author who unfortunately is in a wheelchair and we can't do the kind of tour that this company likes to do. But we're getting really great reviews, and we can capitalize on that, so I think the book is going to do fine. But without that, we would have had a real problem. It helps, obviously, if you have an author who is willing to promote.

As far as self-promotion is concerned, I'm always happy when an author says, "I'm going to network. I'm going to blog. I've got a list of people to whom I'm going to mail postcards." That's always great. It also helps when writers are well connected and their books come with guaranteed blurbs.

What would your ideal author be like?
My ideal author would be one who is anxious—not just willing—but anxious to work with me. I don't mean me, Chuck Adams. I mean me, the editor. Someone who understands that, while they are happy with what they've done, there may be room for improvement. They're open to listening to my suggestions and, once I have shared my wisdom with them, they do something with it. As I said, when I make these suggestions for changes in the manuscript, I don't want to be ignored. Because I'm not wrong. "There's a problem there, and we need to work on it." I may be wrong with the fix I suggest, but I'm not wrong with the need for a fix, and I want the author to respond to that and not argue with me. I see the creation of a successful book as very much a collaborative thing. The author always has to be happy with the book, or otherwise it doesn't matter, but I also have to be happy with it for the company's sake. We've got to feel like we can go out with confidence and make money on this book.

I'm working with an author right now on a novel that I think is brilliantly conceived and could be extremely successfully because when I describe it to people, they go, "Oh, God, I want to read that!" I'm in the editing process with him right now, and he's got his little darlings in there, as Stephen King calls them. He loves his little darlings. Trying to convince him to kill those darlings off, because they're getting in the way of the story, is difficult. I think I'll prevail because he has an agent who's very good and very proactive and understands what I'm doing and basically agrees with me. I think, together, we'll get the manuscript we need. This experience will in no way keep me from wanting to work with this author again. But I do want him to wise up. I'm not making these suggestions because I'm trying to make this Chuck Adams's book—I'm making them because I want the book to sell and to reach a big audience. I think he understands that and it's starting to sink in.

That can take time.
It does. Look, I know how much effort goes into writing a novel. I know how hard it is to hear someone say, "Okay, these sixty pages go in the garbage." They say, "But that's my best work!"

Continuing with this ideal author, how about after the editing? How involved would they be in the publishing process?
They should be thinking about ways they can help us. We're going to be doing our best to convince bookstores to stock this book. In some cases, we'll actually buy placement, and in other cases we have to depend on bookstores to do that. We will do everything we can to get reviews, but there's no guarantee. Everybody wants a New York Times review and everybody wants Oprah. Well? You just get very few. Anything they can do to help us—any contacts they may have, for example—I want to know about them. I want them to say, "You should know that I went to school with so-and-so." Good, get on the phone with them. Talk to them. Tell them about your book. Promote yourself. Don't be shy about it.

That is the one thing I don't understand about writers sometimes. It takes so much work to write a book. It takes a lot of ego to write a book. And then they finish it and find a publisher and go, "Oh, I'd feel cheap trying to sell it." Bullshit. That's part of the process. You wrote the book for a reason: You want people to read it. Help us. Help us get it out there. I want writers to be as proactive as they can be. Not to the point of being a nuisance, however. Don't expect miracles, and don't call up and say, "Why isn't this happening? Why isn't that happening?" Believe me, we're doing everything we can to make it happen. Don't keep after me about why it isn't happening.

But some writers, maybe not at Algonquin, know that their publishers are not doing what they can. They're putting their efforts behind the books that have gotten the huge advances. What should those writers do?
Anything they can to get people into the bookstore to buy the book. I don't know what their resources might be, but if they have any personal connections that can help get the word out—again, the Internet is a great way to reach people—that's the key.

Having worked at both big and small publishers, what would you say to a writer who finds himself with identical offers of, say, twenty-five thousand dollars from a big house and a smaller house?
When I was at Simon & Schuster, I would use the argument of "This is Simon & Schuster" for why an author should come there, knowing that I probably wasn't doing him a favor but also knowing that I needed to buy books and I liked this book. I was not a good person sometimes. We all have to fill our quota of books, and if the publisher liked the book, and I could buy it, I would pull the trump card of "This is Simon & Schuster," knowing that the author probably might be better off at another house. Now that I'm at the other house, I can admit that I did that. I think a writer who gets bought here is lucky. I really do. We don't succeed every time. But we try every time. And I can't say that's true with the big houses. There are other houses like Algonquin—we're not alone—who really think about what they're doing with every book.

First of all, if a writer is offered a choice between a Simon & Schuster and an Algonquin, I think their agent should advise them about what's going to be best for them. I think agents would generally say to go with Algonquin. The author should talk to both editors—I think authors should always ask to have a conversation with an editor before committing. Then they should go with the one they like best, hopefully at the smaller house where they're going to get more attention.

The problem with a company like Simon & Schuster or any of the large houses isn't that they're not good publishers—they're really great publishers—it's just that they're not great publishers of all the books they do. Your book is either going to be one of the ones that gets attention or you're just going to be thrown out there with the rest of them. A writer has to think about that before they commit. A lot of effort goes into every book at the smaller houses, because the smaller houses can't afford to bury anything.

If somebody gave you a magic wand and you could change one thing about the industry, what would it be?
I guess I'd go back to what we talked about earlier, the idea that we need more diversity in this business. We need to become a more encompassing business. We need to recognize the fact that we are serving a very narrow portion of the marketplace. There are people out there who we probably could get to read if we published books that they would enjoy—if we didn't feel so fucking superior to them all the time. There's a tendency of publishers to pooh-pooh books that are really commercial. You get this at writers' conferences sometimes. "Oh, how can you edit Mary Higgins Clark?" People just shiver because they think she's not a great writer. I'm sorry, she's a great storyteller, and she satisfies millions of readers. I'm all for that. Again, Harlequin romances—give me more of them. A lot of good writers have come out of Harlequin romances: Nora Roberts, Sandra Brown, Barbara Delinsky, to name three right there. I think literary fiction is great, and the ideal book is one that is beautifully written and tells a great story, but if it's just a great story that's written well enough to be readable, that's good too.

Are you worried about the decline of independent booksellers?
Of course. I worry that there's nobody out there to sell books. I don't mean to put down people who work at the big chains. We've hired an assistant here who works part time at Barnes & Noble, so I know there are good people out there working at Barnes & Noble. But too often they could be selling shoes or light bulbs. They don't have any real passion for books. I think people need to be passionate about books in order to sell them. They have to believe in the book and love it.

I saw that with Water for Elephants when we went out to Lexington, Kentucky, at the request of Joseph-Beth. They were doing a thing in conjunction with the Lexington newspaper, and they wanted Sara and me on a panel. The booksellers were so excited about that book. It wasn't even a book yet—it was still in galleys—but they had all read it. Everybody in the store had read it, and they couldn't stop talking about it. That kind of passion is what sells a book. Without the independents, without that kind of passion, I don't know.

It's great that Barnes & Noble puts a book in the window, when you pay them to, and it's great that they put it on the front table, when you pay them to, but it means so much more when the independent bookstores really get behind something. Don't get me wrong. I'm not against Barnes & Noble. I think they have made reading sexy, in a way, and they've made it fun with their coffee shops and all that stuff. I think they've done a great service in many ways. I just worry that the price we'll pay will be the loss of the independent bookstores.

How are you liking the culture at an independent house compared to the culture at S&S?
To be honest, I didn't dislike the culture at Simon & Schuster. I lived in it for a long time and felt comfortable with it. I loved my job at Simon & Schuster. I don't have bad things to say about Simon & Schuster. It was a good company to work for. It was a difficult company to work for. When I first went there, my friends said, "You'll never survive. You're too nice." What my friends should have known, and what I said, was, "I'm not nice. I'm pleasant, but I'm not nice." They found out pretty soon at Simon & Schuster that I'm not that nice. And they found out here that I'm not nice. In fact, I think I surprised a few people because I came here with this reputation of being so nice.

How does that manifest itself?
I'm stubborn as hell. I'm like a dog that won't let go when something gets me, either positively or negatively. I'm just not going to stop until you've listened to me, until I've been paid attention to, and, usually, until I get my way. One of the things that I guess surprised them here is how demanding I can be sometimes. I know what I want, and that's what I'm going to get.

What does that usually involve?
The cover. The type. Things like that. I mean, I don't necessarily have to have my way. But I have to be listened to, and they have to try and placate me, or I'm just not going to stop complaining. I don't think people realized that about me. I heard Kathy Pories telling somebody that I surprised them when I came here because everyone thought I was going to be a pushover for everything, because I had that reputation. But I'm not. At Simon & Schuster I didn't have occasion to fight about things as much. I fought with the publisher all the time—and I think that's one of the reasons why I got fired—but I didn't have to fight with other people there.

At the end of the day, what's the most satisfying part of the job for you?
At the end of the day in the big picture, feeling like we've published a book well and done well for the author. At the end of the individual day, it's usually that I've started reading something I'm excited about, and I'm looking forward to getting back to it.

Jofie Ferrari-Adler is an editor at Grove/Atlantic.

Agents & Editors: A Q&A With Editor Janet Silver

by
Jofie Ferrari-Adler
7.1.08

Considering that it took Janet Silver only a few weeks to land a plum new job as editor-at-large for Nan A. Talese's imprint at Doubleday, perhaps it isn't worth going into the whole convoluted chain of events that resulted in her ouster, back in January, from her position as vice president and publisher of Houghton Mifflin, the venerable Boston-based house she'd headed since 2001. No doubt it would be cleaner to avoid the subject altogether and talk instead about her background (she was raised in South Orange, New Jersey, and educated at Brown and the University of Chicago); the staggering list of authors she has edited, including Jonathan Safran Foer, Jhumpa Lahiri, Tim O'Brien, Cynthia Ozick, Philip Roth, Robert Stone, Natasha Trethewey, and John Edgar Wideman; or her charming house in the woods in Concord, Massachusetts, where our conversation took place.

After all, maybe Silver was sacked after twenty-four years at Houghton for reasons having nothing to do with the ambitions of a thirty-nine-year-old Irish businessman named Barry O'Callaghan. But that seems unlikely. The facts are as follows: O'Callaghan is one of the richest men in Ireland. Although his background is in law, investment banking, and venture capitalism, in December 2006 his Dublin-based educational software company, Riverdeep, pulled off an audacious, highly leveraged reverse takeover of Houghton Mifflin. After the merger, he moved the new company's official headquarters to the Cayman Islands (always a promising sign). Then, seven months ago, O'Callaghan acquired another piece of low-hanging publishing fruit, Harcourt, taking the next step in an apparent attempt to build a publishing empire. In the fallout surrounding that merger, Silver was one of several well-regarded veteran editors to be shown the door.

Admittedly, it's hard to summon up much outrage about the conglomeration of American book publishers these days. Huge corporations have been buying and selling them with abandon for the past five decades. O'Callaghan is just the latest member of an elite fraternity whose top dog has to be Rupert Murdoch (his News Corporation owns the numerous HarperCollins imprints). Still, just as one can't help feeling a chill to realize that revenues generated by books like Brave New World, To Kill a Mockingbird, and A People's History of the United States are paying the lighting bills over at Fox News, O'Callaghan's recent actions, and their consequences, are poignant reminders that the media moguls who hold sway over today's publishing houses tend to look—and, more to the point, behave—less like Alfred Knopf or Bennett Cerf and more like Gordon Gekko from Oliver Stone's Wall Street. The problem is not so much that men like O'Callaghan continue to buy publishing houses, but rather that they rarely care enough about the work publishers do to hang on to them when it stops suiting their bottom line. Which is about the time when people like Janet Silver and her colleagues start losing their jobs—and their authors lose their most passionate advocates.

If any of this keeps Silver up at night, she didn't let on during our conversation, in which she spoke candidly about what she looks for in first novels and dispensed some useful advice for writers about agents. We talked in her living room while her dog, Roxy, and her cat, Phoebe, lounged on the floor beside the fireplace.

Tell me a little about your background.
I grew up in South Orange, New Jersey, which today has become a little like Brooklyn in that a lot of people from publishing seem to live there and commute. When I was growing up it was not like that at all. I went to college at Brown and graduate school at the University of Chicago. It was when I was a graduate student at Chicago that I began to realize I was more temperamentally inclined toward editorial work than scholarship.

You were studying English?
Yes. I was actually on a track for a doctorate. But while I was in school I needed to support myself. I got a job as the managing editor of this quarterly, Critical Inquiry, which was one of the journals published by the University of Chicago Press. This was in the mid-seventies, late seventies. It was kind of wild. The journal did criticism in the arts, in all of the arts, but primarily in literature. This was in the heyday of the great deconstruction rage, so we were publishing the first translations of essays by Derrida, for instance, and Lacan, and some essays by Jacques Barzun. It was very, very intellectual. It was very abstract. But we were also publishing the early essays by people like Skip Gates. I got to work with some amazing writers, and we really did edit the pieces, because when you work for a journal things have to be a particular length and they have to make a particular point. A lot of the academic writers we worked with really welcomed some input.

The other nice thing about working for a journal—unlike working on a dissertation, which is endless—is that there was an end product four times a year. It was this thing that other people read. It was a way to be engaged in a cultural conversation that seemed important—at the time, anyway. I loved the interaction with the writers. I loved the opportunity to learn about the production of a journal. We were a very small office. We did all of the editing, all the copyediting, all the proofreading. It was this little mini-education in a certain kind of publishing.

How did you get from there to Houghton?
I was there for five years, doing my course work and working full time. But before I finished, my husband and I got married. He had finished his doctorate in philosophy and was teaching and on the job market. This was a time when there were pretty much no jobs unless you were willing to go from North Dakota to South Texas to wherever. That wasn't what he wanted to do. So, like many people with doctorates in that era, he went to law school. As much as we both loved Chicago, we also wanted to come back east. So we came back and he went to Harvard Law School and I needed to work. The only skill I had was editing. I started doing freelance work, some of it for the Museum of Fine Arts—I also have a background in art history—and some of it for Houghton Mifflin. It just sort of evolved and I began to work there full time.

What was your position when you started at Houghton Mifflin?
Manuscript editor. Some publishers used freelance copyeditors—this was 1984—but Houghton always had an in-house group of people, whom they called manuscript editors, who did copyediting and a lot of developmental work. It was a chance to get in the door and begin to learn trade publishing from the ground up. I never did the standard editorial assistant thing where you go up through the ranks that way. When I was a manuscript editor, one of the earlier books I worked on was [Margaret Atwood's] The Handmaid's Tale. Nan Talese was at Houghton Mifflin at the time—so it feels like a nice symmetry that it's come full circle now.

Was there somebody who taught you how to edit?
I pretty much learned by doing it. To some degree I feel as though the opportunity to edit articles first was a great way to start. It's much smaller. It's more contained. You learn to focus on every line, every paragraph, and get that fine detail down. I never thought of myself as a detail person, but when you start working that way, you kind of become one. You are forced to slow down and not only think about the larger argument and whether it's flowing naturally, but also to concentrate on a more micro level. To some degree, the authors teach you. You make your mistakes, and boy, do they let you know it. But the other thing is that, having spent a lot of time reading, you just naturally know if a narrative is flowing well or if you're stumbling over things and things don't seem entirely clear. When I was in graduate school, my concentration was in fiction, so I naturally gravitated toward editing fiction more than other kinds of narratives.

Were there older people at Houghton who helped you make the transition to being an acquisitions editor?
I was there so long I kind of think of it in terms of eras. There was the Austin Olney-Nan Talese era, which is what I came into when I joined. And that was kind of old school. The nice thing was that there were editors who had too many books to edit and really wanted additional help. So I was able to pick up some work that I might not have had the chance to do otherwise. The next era was the Joe Kanon-John Sterling era. That was when I really began to take on books of my own, with John's encouragement, probably four or five years into the job. I was very fortunate because I did get the support of people who encouraged me to go out on my own and acquire, and that doesn't happen for everybody.

I never thought of myself as particularly ambitious for myself, but more for my writers. At a certain point I found that I became so invested in the books I was editing that it felt like a loss to turn them over to other people. The longer I'd been at the company and had a chance to see the way books were published, the more opinionated I became about what to publish, especially what kinds of books to publish. Houghton went through a lot of changes—grew and contracted, grew and contracted—but the one thing that I always felt about the list was that it had a certain kind of profile as being fairly conservative, especially in fiction—a little sleepy. Some of Nan's authors helped to change that profile: writers like Margaret Atwood, Ian McEwan, Valerie Martin. The authors she was publishing at Houghton are still the people she's publishing today, which is much to her credit. But it was a moment when the publishing world and the readership were changing and evolving, and it seemed like there was room on the Houghton list for different kinds of voices.

Likewhat?
More books by women. More books by ethnic writers. One of the first novels I acquired was by a young woman named Connie Porter, a young black woman who had graduated from the [Louisiana State University] graduate writing program. She had written a first novel called All-Bright Court, which was about a community of African Americans who had migrated up from the South after World War II when there seemed to be a lot of opportunity. The book was about this aspiring community of black workers who came to find that the promises they were given really didn't come through. And that book is still in print. The wonderful thing about it was that here was a young writer talking about a certain kind of community and experience that wasn't very well represented in the market.

Another example is a collection of stories by a young woman named Carolyn Ferrell called Don't Erase Me. Carolyn comes from a mixed background. Her mother is white and her father is black. The stories she wrote were very literary and ambitious and challenging in a particular way. Edward P. Jones is a writer whom I might compare her to. That book won the Los Angeles Times Book Prize. I just felt there was a need to hear from those kinds of voices—and that Houghton should be supporting writers like that.

Where does that interest come from for you?
I don't know. Maybe it's just the idea that in every era there are the voices you haven't heard from before. In the 1940s and 1950s it was Jewish American writers. The thing that makes reading interesting is hearing from different voices and different perspectives, especially in fiction. And the book that probably typifies that—the most symbolically important of the books I acquired with that mission—was Jhumpa Lahiri's short story collection Interpreter of Maladies.

How did she come to your attention?
It was a combination of things. She had just graduated from the Boston University writing program. She had a couple of small publications, and she did have an agent—who's no longer an agent, Cindy Klein—who was with Borchardt. I think Cindy sent me four or five stories. I pretty much knew right away that she was a writer I really wanted to publish. But I also knew about her through Peter Ho Davies, who called to tell me I was going to be seeing this collection and this was somebody I should really pay attention to. And she was also one of the writers who was on Katrina Kenison's radar for the Best American Short Stories, of which I was the in-house editor for many years starting in the eighties. I met with Jhumpa and talked with her about her writing and her ideas for the stories and the collection. We were very much on the same wavelength in terms of my editorial suggestions. And one of the great benefits Houghton could offer at the time was the opportunity to publish in paperback original.

Let's talk about that.
Mariner had just started, and the fact was that it was really hard to sell short story collections in hardcover. A lot of publishers were shying away from them unless they came with a novel that you could publish first and then have the stories trail along afterward. I think the opportunity to publish in paperback original really made a lot of sense at the time, although when Mariner started it sort of defied conventional wisdom. A number of publishers had tried that format, and the books being published in that format got a reputation for having a particular persona. You know—edgy, downtown.

Like the books published by Gary Fisketjon's Vintage Contemporaries.
Exactly. But in its first year Mariner published a novel by Penelope Fitzgerald, who was in her seventies at the time, called The Blue Flower, which became a phenomenon. I think the fact that it was published in paperback original made a huge difference because it enabled people to take a chance. That's the beauty of it. A lot of publishers had published Fitzgerald's work in hardcover in the States with very little success. But here was a way to say to readers and bookstores, "You're going to read these fabulous reviews, and it's twelve dollars, so take a chance." And the publicity department waged a really aggressive campaign with reviewers, which I think was important. Because that was the other thing about publishing in paperback original—they were seen as second-class citizens and not necessarily to be taken as seriously by reviewers. We made a point of saying, "No, this is really just a way to reach readers by making the price point more accessible."

This was also the moment at which booksellers were switching over to computerized inventory so that ordering was happening based on the sales of the writer's previous book. Well, if you can increase sales simply by lowering the price—if you can double or triple or quadruple the sales you would anticipate in hardcover—then you can establish a base from which a writer can grow.

And now when we're talking to writers and agents, making the argument for paperback original, one of the books we always point to is Interpreter of Maladies.
Right.

But there wasn't any resistance at the time?
It was a short story collection by an unknown writer.

And nobody knew it would win the Pulitzer Prize.
Right, but it really began to sell well before it won the prize. You have to remember that when I bought the book she hadn't published in the New Yorker yet. They bought two stories shortly after I acquired it, and she won the New Yorker's first fiction prize at the end of that year. When the book came out it got great reviews—that always helps—and it won the PEN/Hemingway Award. So by the time she won the Pulitzer there were already something like forty-five thousand copies in print. Then there were a lot of copies in print. Of course it's hugely gratifying to find an author like her. I wasn't by any means the only one to discover her, but I was first.

So the decision about paperback original just made a lot of sense. It made sense to her. Her agent was probably hearing from every publisher, "Well, short story collections are really hard." And we were saying, "No, we know how to do it, and the first printing will not be twenty-five-hundred copies. It's going to be at least fifteen or it doesn't make any sense." So that argument made a lot of sense to her and to her agent. But it was a two-book contract. We had the novel under contract too.

But even after all the successes, authors and agents still resist paperback original. Do you think it will ever take over like it has in Europe?
Well, Europe is certainly way ahead of us. I like to think that Mariner set a precedent that other publishers followed so that the whole idea of paperback original became much more appealing. I guess the problem now is that the economics are even more challenging. The big economic problem with paperback original is that it costs just as much to publish and promote the book, but the revenues are half—for everybody. So you have to make sure it's the right book, that you're not flooding the market. I think it's important for publicity departments to continue to wage that campaign with reviewers. But I don't think it matters as much for reviewers anymore. I think there was something about the uniqueness of the Mariner list when it started—with writers like Penelope Fitzgerald and James Carroll, who had just won the National Book Award—that gave it a certain kind of profile. So while the world at large may not have known what a Mariner book was, booksellers and reviewers did. Now that it's more common, it doesn't have any particular cachet or imply a particular kind of publishing. Unfortunately, that means it's just like every other book. So it's complicated. I don't know where it's going. I think Morgan [Entrekin] did something very interesting with Man Gone Down, by upping the production values, with the French flaps and the rough front, to make the book itself a kind of object. Today the trick is to distinguish these books. Once the distinction disappears, it's going to become harder for everybody.

When you became publisher of the company in 2001, you became Philip Roth's editor.
Philip started at Houghton with Goodbye, Columbus in 1959, and after being with many other publishers over a long career he came back to Houghton with Sabbath's Theater, when Joe Kanon was the publisher. Roth always worked with the publisher. After Joe left, his editor became Wendy Strothman. When Wendy left, I became his editor. That was when we had just published The Human Stain. He was definitely at a high point. And what a privilege to be able to work with him. It was fun because my parents grew up in Newark and I grew up with Philip Roth in many ways. He was of my parents' generation, grew up in the same town, went to the same high schools, and also sort of made that same migration out of Newark and into the suburbs, to the South Orange and Maplewood area. So it was a world that I had not only been reading about in Roth's novels for all these years, but also kind of knew intimately.

I imagine it must have been incredibly intimidating to suddenly be Roth's editor.
Well, nobody"edits" Philip Roth. It was a real privilege, I would say, but also a responsibility. The biggest responsibility was to make sure that he was published as well as possible—and to be published without a hitch. Philip Roth is extremely knowledgeable about publishing, and very deliberate, and very attentive to detail. My job was to make sure all those details fell into place.

The first time you get a Roth novel in manuscript it's very, very exciting. The thing comes to you. It's complete. And you're one of the first people to have a chance to read it. So there are no preconceived ideas about the book, no reviews to sway you one way or another. The first book I read in manuscript was The Plot Against America. And when I read that manuscript, I just knew it was going to be his best-selling book. I just knew it.

Because of the hook?
Because of the hook and because I think he just hit a nerve. He hit a nerve and an anxiety in the American psyche at the right moment. He is so attuned to the American psyche. And the fact is that he didn't, as he said, write the book to make any particular political statement about current politics. He really did want to write about that era. But what he discovered in that alternative history was a way to touch a nerve that's very raw in our generation.

He is a very private person, and he didn't really talk much about some of his previous books, but we were able to convince him to do some publicity for that book, and to his credit, I think he actually enjoyed doing it. So Katie Couric interviewed him and he was on Terry Gross, who had interviewed him before. That was an opportunity for us. His willingness to talk about those books—he did a little bit for The Human Stain—really made all the difference. People want to hear from him, and his generosity in doing that was tremendous. Somebody said to him, "How come you decided to give interviews about Plot?" He said,"Well, my publisher asked me to do interviews and I said okay." It's much more complicated than that, but I think he was able to talk about the book on his own terms, and what more could any reader want than to hear him talk about a book on his own terms?

When we published American Pastoral, we had Roth come to sales conference. I'm not sure it was that book, but I think so. And this was amazing for the reps. I mean, to have Philip Roth at the sales conference? Edna O'Brien had come in the day before, and if you've ever encountered Edna O'Brien, she's very dramatic and theatrical and just has this regal quality to her, and she swept in and gave a marvelous speech and left. The next day Roth came in. Everyone was so nervous about meeting him. But he strolled into the room, and rather than standing up and giving a speech, he sat down at the table—this open square, the way a sales conference goes—and he talked a little about the book and then asked if people had questions for him. Nobody was going to ask him a personal question about something he didn't want to talk about—he knew he could trust us that way. The [Barnes & Noble] rep raised his hand and said,"I just want to thank you for putting New Jersey on the map." And we all laughed and from there he answered every single question he got about the book, about his writing career.... Someone asked him if he had other people read his manuscripts, and he said there were six people in American who he really trusted to read his work—he doesn't read reviews, that's not important to him—and the opinions of those six people were the only opinions that mattered to him. I just thought he was so thoughtful and gracious and generous in the way he answered and responded to every single question. I think it made such a difference.

Do you have any insight into this amazing productivityboth in quantity and in qualitylate in life? It's kind of unusual.
I think that a lot has come together in his writing. There's a particular fury that's always been a part of his work, but at this time in his life he's been able to focus it on a large canvas. When he accepted the National Book Foundation's distinguished medal, he talked about having the great American writers as his models. By that he meant he didn't necessarily think of himself as a Jewish writer—that he's not necessarily Saul Bellow or Bernard Malamud or the other writers he's usually grouped with. This is speculation, but at this point in his life maybe he sees his own writing in an even larger way—more in the context of the history of American writing—and that's partly where some of these more recent novels come from.

You also work with Cynthia Ozick. Tell me about your experience with her.
She's a delight in every way. Cynthia was at Knopf for many years. She got a new agent, Melanie Jackson, and I think that she was ready for a change—some writers just need a boost. She's a writer who I'd been reading for years and who I adore and who I think both in fiction and nonfiction—especially as an essayist—is without peer. She writes a better essay than any American writer. She is a public intellectual, in a way. I don't always agree with her. But she's so deeply engaged in this cultural conversation—like it or not, in terms of her opinions—and she cares so deeply about American culture and what's happened to it and where it's going, and she's so eloquent, that you must read her.

But she's also a great fiction writer in the tradition of Henry James and my favorite nineteenth-century Victorians. When I found out that she was looking to move—I had already brought over Anita Desai, who is also represented by Melanie Jackson—I immediately expressed my interest. Melanie sent me the novel, Heir to the Glimmering World, which was untitled at the time. Actually, it was called The Bear Boy because one of the characters is based on the real life model for Christopher Robin in the Winnie-the-Pooh books. I started reading this novel and I was just blown away. I said to myself, "It's her Middlemarch." And, in fact, the main character is named Dorothea, and there's this whole family drama that takes place in the Bronx. It's George Eliot in the Bronx! When I had my first conversation with Cynthia, I said to her, "It's your Middlemarch," and she knew that I understood where she was coming from. We had the best meeting. It was a love-fest all around.

I just felt that she was so important that she had to be published at the top of the list. She just had to be. Sometimes when you love a writer, and an agent brings you a book, it's just not the right book to move. You really want to be able to make a difference. Boy did I think this was the book where we could publish it in a different way and make a difference. All of her books had a similar look, a kind of "Cynthia Ozick look," and instead of doing that we gave it this bright cover with foil fireflies on the front and a title that was unlike any Cynthia Ozick title you've ever heard before. We got her to meet booksellers, which she had never done. She had never had a chance to go out and meet booksellers. Lots of people had seen her on panels and in that context, but they had not been able to sit down at dinner with her and just talk. She is just the most delightful dinner companion you can imagine. She truly is so generous and so deeply interested in what people have to say.

You also edit Tim O'Brien. Was he always a Houghton author?
Tim is one of a number of authors who left Houghton and came back. I can't take credit for all of them by any means, but a lot of them stayed under my direction. Roth came back, obviously. Bob Stone came back. Tim O'Brien came back. He had been brought to Houghton by Sam Lawrence, the legendary Sam Lawrence. After Sam died, John Sterling became his editor. About the time that Houghton published In the Lake of the Woods, John went off to start up Broadway Books. Tim went with John. As sad as it was, I love to see that. I love to see an author be really loyal to an editor. But he just never felt the same about the house. And at a certain point he came back and talked to our CEO, Nader Darehshori at the time, and said he wanted to come back to Houghton Mifflin. I met with him and Wendy Strothman, who was the publisher at the time. We had this great lunch, and he said to me, "I want to come back and I want you to be my editor." How gratifying is that? That's pretty great.

We just have a truly wonderful relationship. I think writing this last novel, July, July, was very hard for him. He's gone through so many changes in his life—he moved to Texas and got married and has two children. But all this time, and especially when we were working on this last novel, which evolved from a collection of short stories into a novel, we've just had such a wonderful back and forth, and I've also been able to get a sense of his own ambition and his own frustration with being boxed in as a writer who's expected to produce a certain work, always about Vietnam. The Things They Carried will always be the book he's known for. It just will. But, much to his credit, he really wanted to do more than that, and always has. He has always sort of tested that, and I admire that tremendously. His writing is so complex and so edgy, in a way, that I think people could relate to it in war stories but it's more unexpected when it comes to other kinds of stories. That's been a real tension in his work for a long time. But he's working on a new book now, I'm happy to say.

I'm curious about your transition from editor in chief to publisher. First of all, what is the job of the editor in chief in your mind?
I can only talk about myself—I think it's different at different houses—but in my mind it's really to guide the editorial group and to encourage editors to grow in their own ways. I became editor in chief at a time when the editorial ranks were really depleted. There had been a lot of change at Houghton, after having stability for literally generations. We were bought by this French water processing company, Vivendi, which had aspirations to take over the world. They bought us and sold us very quickly, so there was a lot of turmoil.

When Wendy Strothman became publisher, her background had been at a university press and then at Beacon Press. She had a strong affinity for books on social change and felt that Houghton could be doing more of that, which we did, with some success, but not with the kind of breadth that I felt the list really needed. But she was able to help me focus the list in a way to return it to its real strengths—rather than trying to be all publishers to all people and trying to compete with much larger houses with much bigger resources in all of the same categories. My feeling, and I had her support, was to really focus the list on areas that would sell over time, and to focus on narrative nonfiction in areas like science and history and biography that Houghton had a strong background in. Actually, Houghton was less known for science—we had been known for natural history—but I felt that you had to grow organically, and the natural way to grow out from natural history was to publish more science. So I wanted to hire a science editor. I wanted to find a history editor. My role was to find specialists who could really speak to authors in their own language. That's one way of being convincing when you have more limited resources: to find the most brilliant editors, with a deep knowledge of a subject area and experience editing those kinds of books, and to say to an agent and an author,"Let's get these two together. Let's have a conversation."

Eamon Dolan is a great example. There's someone who now, at a young age, has become a very legendary editor. Eamon was known for a certain kind of narrative book. But Houghton published sports books, and what did Eamon bring us? He brought us the best of sports. He brought Buzz Bissinger and Three Nights in August. I remember when he brought that book to the acquisitions committee, which includes sales, marketing, and all of that. The sales people sort of shook their heads. "Oh, it's regional." This was before Friday Night Lights became a movie and a TV show and popular in that way. Eamon said he didn't think it was regional. I didn't think so either. So sometimes you defy the internal wisdom. Eamon also found Eric Schlosser and Fast Food Nation. Again, there were some in-house doubters who said, "It's a magazine article. Is this a book that's going to sell over time? Isn't it all about the current moment?" But Eamon was convinced, and he convinced others, and he was right. So that's what you do as a publisher. You find the best talent and you let them shine.

Talk me through how you decide how much to pay for a first novel.
It's partly enthusiasm in the house. It's the uniqueness of the voice. It's passion. But unfortunately it's also "Who does this remind you of who has sold really well?" It's all of those things, and there's no one way to decide. When Jonathan Safran Foer's novel came to us, Eric Chinski was the editor at the time. He got that manuscript around to people so quickly, and so many readers in-house instantly knew that this was something very special. That was an investment unlike any we had made in a first novel before. I can tell you—I was the editor in chief at the time and Wendy Strothman was the publisher—that she was nervous about it. But she also saw what was going on in-house. She saw how many different readers were responding to it, and not just in editorial, but in sub-rights, in publicity, in marketing, in sales. And not everybody agreed. There were definitely naysayers, which is the best way to go about it. You want people to love it or hate it—mediocrity is the thing that you should pass up. But the people who adored it were so passionate that she was willing to take a very big flyer, and it was certainly worth it. It was a great bet in the end. It was also something that allowed us to push a little bit on the kinds of fiction that Houghton did, not to have a reputation for doing only one kind of thing in fiction.

One of the nice things about the era in which we were publishing writers like Jonathan, and building writers like Richard Dawkins, is that it was very much a group effort. As a publisher, you want to encourage your editors to work really closely with marketing and publicity, and to bring the author in as well. One of the things that we've all learned in publishing is that the authors know their audiences very well. We want to have them participate as part of the conversation.

I find that the best writers, the most ambitious writers, are the greatest readers, and not just of contemporary fiction, but of classic fiction.

That seems to have become increasingly important over the last decades. How did that evolve, from your perspective?
It's happened in different ways. First, it happened with the book tour. Today the book tour has become less and less productive for some authors—so now we have the book tour plus media. But I think publishers also have found that there are special interest groups for particular books that their authors are aware of, and that that kind of micro-marketing—whether it's regional marketing or a medical group or something else—can be really effective. I'm thinking about Jacki Lyden's memoir, Daughter of the Queen of Sheba, which was a great success for us. This was a very compelling memoir about her mother's manic-depression. Since it was published, Jacki has really been on the circuit. She talks to support groups, psychological associations, groups that work with families who have manic-depression in their families. She was aware of some of that in advance, so we were able to think of different ways to approach the promotion of the same book.

More and more, publishers are looking for nonfiction ways of talking about fiction. You have to find new ways to interest people. You have to get them to pick up the book. If one of the ways to do that is to find an extra-literary element to talk about, and if the author can do some of that talking and not just the publisher, it makes a big difference.

You've never worked in New York. Was that a conscious decision?
No. I made my home here, and I was very lucky because I started building a list at a moment when it was still not difficult to do that—there was still enough publishing in Boston that it wasn't an outpost. Little, Brown was still here in addition to Beacon and all the university presses. There was a real publishing community that doesn't exist as much anymore.

Still, I would imagine there are advantages to being in Boston now.
Well, that's what we all say. Everybody has always said that the great advantage of being in Boston is that you're not so much in the center of the hype. It's a little bit easier to have some perspective. And to some extent it's true. If you're not always talking to the same people in the same small publishing community, I think you don't get quite as caught up in the machinery. Houghton really had to think about distinguishing itself from the rest of the publishing community in order to attract the best authors. So, one way you do that is to say that it has this long, distinguished tradition with a vision that's outside the New York publishing community. But I think the main advantage is that it's a very sane life. It's a wonderful place to live. And there's a kind of intellectual energy because of all the universities, a kind of cultural energy around you that's really fabulous.

Which is a nice segue to talking about poetry.
My great love.

Yeah?
Yes, it is.

Were you always editing poetry?
I started editing poetry pretty early on at Houghton. We used to have a fellowship, a poetry contest, and as soon as I came on I knew I wanted to be one of the judges for that. Peter Davison was the poetry editor at the time. Houghton had this long history of publishing poetry, but one way of bringing on new writers in addition to Galway Kinnell and Donald Hall and the Houghton stable of writers was to find new talent through this annual contest. I became involved in judging it, and one of the early winners—maybe even the first year I was at Houghton—was Andrew Hudgins for a collection called After the Lost War, which is about the Civil War. I just loved having a chance to be engaged with those writers, so I copyedited that book. I copyedited Tom Lux and Rodney Jones and some of the other writers who were there at the time.

Peter was a great supporter of poetry and a poet himself, which maintained a certain profile for the list. But from where I sat we were really just publishing one poet at a time rather than having an actual poetry program. So at the point when I could make a difference, when I became the editorial director and then the editor in chief and the publisher, I wanted to expand the list, to bring on some different kinds of poets, and also to try to engage the rest of the house more. It's so hard for a trade house to publish poetry if it's just one book at a time. But if you can go to a reviewer with a whole campaign for the house's poets, three or four on a list, and you can advertise them together, you can get more attention and spread the costs over several books. I think they just needing some nurturing and attention and a sense that marketing and publicity were behind them.

What other things did you do?
I hired Michael Collier, who is the head of the Bread Loaf Writers' Conference. First I brought Michael to Houghton as a poet, and then the busier I got and the more I had need for somebody else to manage the program as it evolved and developed, I felt that Michael would be just the right person for that. Poetry is such a small world and there are so many egos involved that you need someone to manage it who is just so open-minded and generous. As the head of Bread Loaf, he's used to dealing with a wide array of writers and personalities. He also has impeccable taste. Another nice thing about having Michael come on is that he was able to really edit the manuscripts—I didn't have time to do that anymore—and to keep the poets in the loop about other book that were coming out and to foster a sense of community among the Houghton poets.

One of the other ways in which I worked with Michael was to take on the publication of the winners of the Bakeless Prize, which is awarded by Bread Loaf annually. Houghton would publish the winners in paperback original in Mariner. One of the earliest winners was Spencer Reece for his collection The Clerk's Tale—the judge was Louise Glück—and this was just a fabulous collection. This is another example of a way in which you can talk about poetry in the same way you can talk about fiction, with a nonfiction hook. The Clerk's Tale was an obvious allusion to Chaucer, but Spencer himself had a wonderful story. He was a clerk at Brooks Brothers in Florida. That's what he did for a living. After he won the prize, Michael was able to send the poems to Alice Quinn, and she loved them and published the entire title poem on the back page of the New Yorker. I think that was unprecedented. So here was a way to launch a poet with a prize-winning collection and to talk about his work in ways that could attract popular attention. It was always about quality, but it was also about good publishing—finding ways to grow the poetry list and bring attention to it.

As you've read first novels and story collections over the years, have you noticed any common mistakes that beginning authors tend to make? I'd like to get a sense of how you evaluate first fiction.
The one thing that every aspiring novelist and story writer should know is that it's really about personal taste. So much depends on taste. People always talk about the pros and cons of creative writing programs. It's a little clichéd now to say that there's an identifiable "writing program style," but there kind of is. It can be solipsistic, it can be dialogue based. I do think that some of the work coming out of those programs is being published too early. I find that the best writers, the most ambitious writers, are the greatest readers, and not just of contemporary fiction, but of classic fiction.

There are a couple of things I see in first fiction that always tell me something is not for me. The first is usually in fiction by young women. There will be a young female protagonist with a vaguely artistic temperament who goes to New York to do something. At some point, usually about page ten, she looks in the mirror and describes herself. And you see this device in many wonderful novels—this is the way the author's going to let the reader know what the narrator or main character looks like—but now you just see it too much. So I usually get to that on page ten and say, "Not interested."

The other is that you're only allowed one dream per novel. Because it's too easy. It's sort of like looking in the mirror—you get to know something about the main character's fears and inhibitions or whatever because it all came out in a dream. If there's more than one dream, I think, "Oh, wow, that's just too easy."

What about the opposite? What are you always looking for in a new writer?
I tend to like character-driven fiction by writers who are sort of pushing their own ambition and their own vision. Someone like Peter Ho Davies, who has this marvelous background. He can write about his Welsh heritage or his Malaysian heritage—and sometimes the two meet—but there's always a strong sense of history. In his story collection The Ugliest House in the World, there's a central story called "A Union," which is about the Welsh mining strikes. But it was also about a marriage. And I just loved the way these characters were set in time—which is not to say that I like historical fiction, because I don't especially—but I really do like to know that the author has a sense of history, so there's a context and a richness, a textural kind of context. Peter's stories take you all over the world, but they also are very grounded in his sensibility.

I also like when a writer can write all different kinds of characters. Back in the nineties we published a story collection called The Coast of Good Intentions by Michael Byers. He was a Seattle-based writer who now lives in Michigan. And he could write from the perspective of an eighteen-year-old immigrant living in Seattle as easily as a twelve-year-old girl or a forty-five-year-old man or an elderly woman. That flexibility, the ability to inhabit a character so fully, to make them totally believable on the page, is something I really look for.

Tell me about a particularly memorable editing experience.
Peter Ho Davies comes to mind. The greatest thing for an editor is when you read a manuscript, you give some comments, and then the author goes off and does something completely different from what you expected, but it's brilliant and wonderful. With some of Peter's stories, especially that one I was just describing, I gave him some comments, and the story came back about three times as long. So there was this kind of ebullient response from him—a kind of magnanimous sense of possibility. You could see him sort of stretching toward a novel in that experience.

How many times do you read a manuscript you're editing?
Quite a few. When I first read a manuscript, I feel like I have to read it all the way through without putting my pencil down, and then you make notes and go back through and make more specific comments. Then you get a revision and you have to do the same thing all over again. So I probably read every manuscript two or three times. Sometimes, if you've been through enough drafts of a book, you get confused. You forget if something was in this draft or a previous draft, you lose track of what's been dropped. When I was editing Jonathan's second book, Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close, there was this line in the beginning where Oskar was talking about his grandmother—they needed to get somewhere—and she says, in this perfect Jewish grandmother kind of way, something about how she believes in God but she does not believe in taxis. In a subsequent version of the manuscript that line got dropped, and it stuck in my mind, and when I realized it wasn't there, I thought, "I loved that line. Put it back in!" So he did, just for me, I think.

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The last person I interviewed was lamenting that editors aren't allowed to go to sales conference anymore to communicate their enthusiasm in person. As a publisher, what do you think of that?
Well, there are economic factors, and I know that every house does things differently. But I think it's so important that every editor, no matter how much access you have physically to the sales reps or to anybody else, thinks like a publisher. By that I mean that every single book needs support, whether it's getting the right blurbs or getting in touch with a particular rep and saying, "Take a look at this one."

One of the things that I did throughout my career was to make a point of visiting every territory, getting out of the house and going around with the reps to meet with booksellers, to the degree that they were able to give me some time. Not so much to sell, more to just make personal contact and talk about publishing in general, to talk about the obstacles, to say, "Well, if you loved this, you're going to love that." I had a wonderful experience at Tattered Cover one time. It was in the morning, before the store opened, and it was just me and Margaret Maupin and the staff. I brought a bunch of books, and I said,"Here are the stories behind these books." Here's why an editor acquired something, how it came about. Getting to tell those behind-the-books stories, and having that personal contact, not only with the buyer but with the clerks on the floor, the people who talk to each other all day, was just something I enjoyed. I learned so much from talking to booksellers. It was a complete education. Every editor should spend time talking to booksellers.

Yet that doesn't happen much.
No, and it's too bad.I think people get stuck in their offices. I really do. I think it's so great to get out of the office.

Why don't publishers make them get out of the office?
People have time constraints. Booksellers have time constraints. I also think that so much is just too managed, that publishers may be a little bit too cautious about sending people out. I don't know. That's my sense of it, that, "Oh, who knows what's going to happen in that exchange." And the sales force has to be on board for it too. The sales rep doesn't want the editor walking in and stepping all over his territory, literally. It's a delicate thing to do, but I think it really helps everybody if it can happen, if there's more of that contact.

Speaking of bookselling, I'm sure you've spent a lot of time thinking about returns. Could the system ever change, without destroying booksellers and their ability to take a chance on something?
I think it's changing itself. Both the wholesalers and the retailers are taking fewer books up front. They just are. That's a reality of the business: It's becoming more of a wait-and-see business and fewer risks are being taken. That's just something that publishers are going to have to figure out how to manage. It's managing inventory. It's making sure that you can ride a wave when it starts to build—when a book is taking off—but before it crests. There needs to be really good communication between the booksellers and the reps. Part of the problem is that people are overstretched. There are just not enough people in marketing and publicity to go around, and the reps have so many books in their bags. What I hate to see is for the small books not to get a chance, because every publisher has had the experience of the book they least expected—maybe somebody did, but not the whole house—just selling and selling and making the year. Those little surprises are so important, and you want to make room for them. You want to allow them to happen. Maybe they take more work than they used to. A lot of it is just luck and...you know, Oprah.

The computerized systems that bookstores use to track sales is also something you've seen evolve.
Yes, exactly. This whole conversation is really about that. It's about how few risks booksellers can take, are willing to take, and how much they're ordering up front. But I'm probably naively optimistic about this. People go into bookselling because they love books, and they still love finding new things. They love making discoveries. And the sales reps can be really wonderful in helping to do that. I think it's fabulous that they have the reps' picks at BEA—again, as long as it's not entirely orchestrated. I don't like to see everything sort of programmed in advance, where what the reps get to say is only what has been agreed upon in-house because these are the books that must sell. I think every rep should have the opportunity to say, "Here's this little one that I'm hunchy about."

Of the changes that you've seen in the last thirty years, what would you say is the single most significant?
It's hard to say. It's really the confluence of so many different things. I mean, it's the rise of the chains and Internet selling.... It's got to be the computer in every way that you can imagine. The way it now manages inventory and selling. But I also think there are some things that have been consistently wonderful, that some things have not changed.

Like what?
Editors still have the opportunity to be creative, to test their own talent, to try to find new things and not always to do the same thing. That's been true all along. The other thing that hasn't changed is that in every era you can imagine, in my thirty years, someone has always been saying that publishing is in crisis. When I was cleaning out my files, I came across this article by Fran Kiernan, who was an editor at Ticknor and Fields—an imprint that was relaunched and folded in my time at Houghton Mifflin. The article was called "The Great Publishing Crash of 1989." I looked at that and said to myself, "This industry loves a crisis. What would we do without a crisis? We must have one to thrive."

Maybe it's worse now than it ever was, but everybody thinks their own time is worse than it ever was. I really believe that. Publishing is in trouble as much as every industry is in trouble. The economy may be worse than it was in 1989, but I'm not so certain. And for all of the change, there will always be blockbusters, there will always be bodice-rippers, there will always be literary fiction. There just will.

If you could snap your fingers and change one thing about the publishing industry, what would it be?
I would say the emphasis on high advances. There's so much risk—huge risk—that comes with huge advances, and so much distortion of the value of a particular work based on how much is paid. I think that if there were more opportunity for editors to take some risks at a lower level, that there would be more opportunity to continue to publish smaller books because you wouldn't see disappointment based on how high the advance was. I think that drives so many other things. When a book doesn't do as well as expected, it sometimes makes the relationship between the author and the editor complicated. Of course everybody wants a million dollars, but I don't necessarily think that's always the best thing.

How did we get to the current situation? Was it the crazy paperback auctions in the old days?
Beats me. I really don't know. I don't think that agents are evil, but I do think that that's certainly been a very big factor—having agents with reputations for selling books for a lot of money. You know, whenever you get a Brockman project, for example, it's going to be expensive.

Tell writers one thing about agents that they don't know but should.
That they can ask a lot of questions; that they should ask a lot of questions. I think that writers, especially first-time writers, sometimes feel as though, "Well, whatever the agent says. Of course the agent knows best." But in the same way that I think authors should be having conversations and asking a lot of questions of editors, they should ask potential agents, "Okay, whom do you represent? Which houses do you work with? Which editors do you like? How do you go about deciding where you're going to send something?" I'm just astonished again and again when I talk to writers at writing programs that they don't know they can ask those questions.

So you think it's healthy for aspiring writers to take an active interest in understanding the publishing industry?
I do. Well, it can be. What you want, all around, is for expectations to match, and I guess it can be kind of depressing for an aspiring writer to find out too much about the industry, because it's a tough business. But I think being more educated is always better than being less educated. It shouldn't mean that an author thinks they know better than their editor or agent, but just to know something about the way things work. I think it's important.

How are you feeling about what you've just been through at Houghton?
I'm very much looking forward to starting my new job. It's a huge change, of course, because I was at the same place for all those years. But that's so unusual in this industry. I was very fortunate to be able to build a personal list and to create an editorial group that could publish so many exciting books, and that is a wonderful legacy to leave behind. Now I can turn some of that energy back toward my own list, which I had not been able to do for quite a while. When you're a publisher, you just can't. I acquired fewer and fewer books the bigger and bigger my job got. I'm not expecting to start acquiring like crazy, but I am excited to be able to focus my energies on individual writers and how best to support them over time. Just to publish any one book particularly well is an exciting challenge. Having known Nan all these years makes it very comfortable. I think her reputation for excellence and quality and sticking with writers over the long term makes it a really nice fit. I was very deliberate in making a decision to go to a place where I felt that my authors would be comfortable and I wouldn't need to do any convincing. It just made perfect sense—for my writers, for the agents. And it's a lot less stressful not to have to worry about all of the finances and the hiring and the firing, and especially not to be at a place that's in turmoil.

Are there any booksnot books you've publishedthat you find yourself going back to and reading again and again?
Middlemarch. Moby-Dick.

Really? How many times have you read Moby-Dick?
Oh, many times—four, five, maybe six times. I spent a lot of time on it when I was in graduate school. And, yes, I do read the whaling chapters. I love nineteenth-century fiction, and that's what I go back to. But recently I've been rereading a lot of Faulkner and Salinger. It's interesting how your perspective changes on a lot of this reading when you're not studying it like you were in school. Reading Salinger as an adult, especially as an adult with children, is a very different experience. What I found was that there was a certain way in which he got those voices, in Catcher in the Rye for example, he got that voice so perfectly. I heard my own son's voice. At the beginning of the book, when Holden is talking about his older brother, the first thing he says about his brother, if I'm remembering right, is something about how his brother has this incredibly cool car. The first thing he says about his brother is about his car! I thought, "Yeah, that's what my kid would say too, and in just that tone of voice." There was something completely timeless about that. So no matter how dated some of the other stuff gets, especially the sort of pop psychology that Salinger fell victim to, he got those voices really right.

What keeps driving you?
I've always felt that I needed to have a goal and a mission, and at Houghton it was helping to change the shape of the list—diversify the fiction, support poetry—and then as a publisher to bring in editors who could really find the best stuff and be creative about publishing it. I still feel really ambitious for particular writers. I would love to have the opportunity to publish the fourth, fifth, sixth book of a writer like Peter Ho Davies, for instance, or Michael Byers, or Monique Truong, and to continue to work with writers like Cynthia Ozick and Anita Desai. I think it's important to publish them well.

I also think—this will sound incredibly snobby—that this culture is sort of deeply debased. I don't think of myself as the one and only guardian of intelligent conversation in this country, but you do want to keep it going on some level. Which is not to say that everything I do is high-minded, not by any means, but there's got to be a place for it. There just does. So it would be great if I can contribute to that.

Jofie Ferrari-Adler is an editor at Grove/Atlantic.

Agents & Editors: A Q&A With Editor Pat Strachan

by
Jofie Ferrari-Adler
3.1.08

In an industry known for its larger-than-life personalities, Pat Strachan, a senior editor at Little, Brown, is something of a revelation. Born and raised in the suburbs of St. Louis, and educated at Duke University and the Radcliffe Publishing Program, Strachan moved to New York City in 1971 and spent the first seventeen years of her career at Farrar, Straus and Giroux (FSG), starting as an assistant and rising to vice president and associate publisher by editing top-shelf writers such as Joseph Brodsky, Lydia Davis, John McPhee, and Marilynne Robinson. Over almost four decades in the business, she has edited some of our most celebrated poets—Donald Hall, Galway Kinnell, Philip Larkin, Czeslaw Milosz, and Grace Paley, to name a few—and an equally impressive roster of prose writers, including Ian Frazier, Jamaica Kincaid, Rick Moody, Edna O’Brien, Jim Shepard, Tom Wolfe, and Daniel Woodrell. In 1982, she was awarded the PEN/Roger Klein Award for Editing. Yet despite these accomplishments, she remains a gentle and unassuming presence—an echo of Max Perkins in the era of Judith Regan.

When Strachan leads me into her office, the first thing I notice is that her large, L-shaped desk is neat and uncluttered. She explains that many of her manuscripts are at home, where she does her reading and editing. The office is decorated with dozens of framed photographs, drawings, and other mementos from a life in books: here a black-and-white photo, taken in the 1970s, of Derek Walcott at the Trinidad Theatre Workshop; there a shot of Padgett Powell and his beloved pit bull, Spode. On the wall to my right is a poem by Seamus Heaney titled “A Paean for Pat,” which he presented to her when she resigned from FSG in 1988 to become a fiction editor at the New Yorker. In 1992, after four years at the magazine, Strachan returned to book publishing, holding senior-level positions at Harcourt and Houghton Mifflin before moving to Little, Brown in 2002.

Shortly before this interview went to press, the literary world was shocked by news that Tom Wolfe, whose books Strachan edited at FSG, had left his publisher of forty-two years and given his next book to Little, Brown for an amount of money that anonymous sources have placed at between six million and seven million dollars. Sara Nelson, the editor in chief of Publishers Weekly, speculated in her weekly column that “by choosing Pat Strachan, wherever she is, Wolfe is declaring that sometimes it’s the editor, even more than the house, that counts.” I dropped Strachan a line to ask if she thought that was the case. True to form, she ducked the opportunity to take any personal credit, replying, “I can barely believe my great good fortune in being able to work with Tom Wolfe again. His new novel will be both an enormous amount of fun and an important reckoning with our times, as readers know to expect of Tom.”

In this interview, Strachan talks about her years at the New Yorker, the art of editing literary fiction, and what authors should consider when trying to land a publisher.

Maybe you can start by telling me a little bit about your background.
I was born in Kirkwood, Missouri, which is a suburb of St. Louis. Marianne Moore lived there when she was young, with her brother and mother. They lived with their uncle at the parsonage at the First Presbyterian Church. I only learned that later, when Mr. Giroux went to her funeral and brought back the program. Basically it was a postwar suburb. I went to public schools all the way through and then Duke University. At Duke, I found a flyer advertising the Radcliffe Publishing Procedures course. It was run by a woman named Mrs. Diggory Venn, which I think was a pseudonym. So fate took me to that course, and that’s where I met my husband, who was also taking the course. There were seven men out of seventy-seven students, and he was one of them. We met and married a year later, when I was twenty-four. That’s the nutshell story.

Did you know you wanted to go into publishing when you were growing up?
Oh, no. Books came into the house via an aunt. My father died when I was small—five—and this aunt from afar sent us books all the time for some reason. She would send us the Caldecott and Newbery award winners. So I read Thurber, for instance. My mother was a reader but she was more a periodical reader—the New Yorker was always in the house. But she preferred to read to learn something. A third grade teacher, Mrs. Hunter, somehow spotted me as a reader and encouraged me to read as much as possible and kept feeding me books. You know, this was third grade, so it was Little House in the Big Woods. She was extremely influential. In fact, I went back to St. Louis last April to see Kathryn Davis at Washington U. Kathryn asked me what I wanted to do most when I was back, and I said I’d like to see my third grade teacher. So we found her and went to see her. She turned one hundred in July. And she’s still reading and she’s still bright as anything. So, that, I think, indicates how much I felt I owed her.

The second teacher was a high school English teacher, Miss Andrews, who was a fanatic about literature and especially Moby-Dick. There was a harpoon over her desk. She was very passionate, and she encouraged me to work with the literary magazine as an editor—really as an editor more than as a writer. I was a timid writer, and we didn’t really do creative writing in high school. A few people did obviously or there wouldn’t have been a magazine. She pushed me. She pushed me to become involved. And the goal for women in those days when you went to college was to become an elementary school teacher if you were a reader, or if you were an action person to become a nurse. And Duke had a nursing school and an elementary education division. So you majored in English if you wanted to teach elementary school. I knew fairly quickly that I didn’t want to do that.

One day I went to a lecture by what we used to call a woman lawyer with my roommate. I walked out knowing I didn’t want to become a lawyer, but that’s when I saw the flyer for the publishing course. It was a eureka moment. So I went to Boston. It was a six-week course, and after it was over, my husband—my future husband—got a job at Anchor Books with Anne Freedgood, a wonderful, wonderful editor. So he moved to New York and I stayed in Boston and worked in the Radcliffe publicity department for a year. And then it was another fateful moment when my boss at Radcliffe—she knew I wasn’t very suitable for that job—told me Mr. Giroux at Farrar, Straus and Giroux had an opening. She reviewed books for the Boston Globe and knew what was happening in publishing. So I basically just flew down there fast.

Had you been to New York before?
To visit Bill but not to live. So I flew down, got that job, and moved to New York. That was 1971. And it was very lucky.

Did you like New York right away?
No.

It was a pretty scary time to be here, wasn’t it?
It was extremely dangerous. We lived in a group house on the Upper West Side on a block that is now quite nice, West Eighty-fifth Street, but was then deemed the most dangerous block in New York City. And yet we got used to it. We got used to it fairly quickly, and then Bill and I got our own apartment. And, of course, the wonderful thing about those days was that you could get an apartment for practically nothing. We made nothing and the apartment cost practically nothing, so living was a lot easier. Union Square, where I worked, was very rough. No one would walk across it except Roger Straus—in his ascot. He had no fear whatsoever. And now, of course, it’s beautiful. It looks like an English garden now.

Tell me about your first impressions of Farrar, Straus and Giroux.
I felt as if I were in heaven, really. Mr. Giroux (whom I call Bob to his face but still call Mr. Giroux in public, as I first addressed him) was very supportive and kind and kept giving me more things to do. Mr. Straus was a character—very brilliant, very outspoken, very self-confident, and very personable. He walked around the office twice a day and said hello in one way or another to everybody.

Michael di Capua, who was mainly doing children’s books, was a huge support. He always pushed me to try to do more, to try to acquire—to do this—and gave me a great deal of help and confidence. So I was very well taken care of. I remained an editorial assistant for five years, which is sort of unusual, but I just didn’t see why I would leave. At that point I was taking care of some of Mr. Giroux’s authors, some of the poets, and then when Tom Stewart left, I was promoted. Tom Stewart was taking care of—I say taking care of rather than acquiring—Tom Wolfe and John McPhee at the time, and I inherited them. So really, am I not the luckiest person in the world? Now the trick was to start acquiring.

What were some of the first books you acquired?
A book about the Cajuns. I liked Cajun music and decided that there should be a book on the Cajuns and their story should be told. I found a writer at an alternative paper in New Orleans—his name was William Faulkner Rushton—and he said yes, he would do the book. We had a gumbo party at my apartment when it was published. The book was in print for about twenty-five years, so it was a good book.

Basically you had ideas and Roger [Straus] would throw you things, like, “Here’s a great book on papier-mâché, baby.” And you would edit a book on papier-mâché. I edited a book by Aldous Huxley’s widow, Laura Huxley, which was a self-help book about getting closer to your true feelings.

[Laughter.] Those were the days.
But that’s how you prove yourself as a worker. You will do anything and you will get these books into shape. It was fun, really. Then Larry Heinemann’s book Close Quarters landed on my desk—the first Vietnam War novel I had read. Ellen Levine sent it to me, probably as a single submission. I just adored it and was able to buy it for a very low price. This was maybe 1977. The book was basically about a grunt’s tour of duty—very vivid language—and his next novel, Paco’s Story, which I also edited, won the National Book Award. I believe that was the first serious book I acquired. The second also came from Ellen Levine, whom I owe a great debt, which was Marilynne Robinson’s Housekeeping.

That was the second book you acquired?
Yes, the second serious one. It was possibly a single submission as well, for a modest price, and there was no question that it was a great book. I read it, and Mr. Giroux read it, and we signed it up. But, you see, things were a lot easier in those days. There wasn’t the same competition. You had time to read it, consider it, and you could buy it if you liked it.

At the time, did you have any sense of what Housekeeping would become?
I thought it would last. It’s not just the writing, but the feeling. It’s a rendition of loss without heaviness, and of course loss has a great deal to do with all of our lives. It was just too gorgeous and affecting not to last.

Was there any real editing to be done?
Let’s put it this way: Marilynne and I sat at my dining room table and did some back-and-forthing. And I would say in 99 percent of the instances of questioning, Marilynne’s opinion stood. The book is really almost the same as it was when it came in to me. I have notes and papers and some record of our back-and-forthing that wasn’t done at the dining room table, which is really wonderful. She’s so articulate in explaining why she had done what she had done, why she had used that word rather than another word. She’s just brilliant.

Was the title always Housekeeping?
It was always Housekeeping and the title was questioned. The questioning was put to rest because that was the title Marilynne had always had while she was writing the book. So Housekeeping stayed. And the jacket process was basically, “Marilynne, what would you like to have on your jacket?” She said, “I’d like the bridge across the lake,” which was roughly Sandpoint. So we commissioned someone to paint the lake and the bridge. It was an oil painting. Someone asked me recently, “Where is that painting?” Well, I don’t know.

It’s probably in the art director’s apartment.
You know, maybe not. Maybe it was tossed. Who knows? In any case, that was the second book. And then there was a cluster around then, late seventies, early eighties. Jamaica Kincaid. I read one little story called “Girl” in the New Yorker, found out who the agent was, made an offer, and signed up the book. Edna O’Brien was also around that time. Of course she wasn’t a first novelist, but she’d switched publishers one too many times and was sort of at sea. We put together her collected stories and got Philip Roth to write the introduction and got a front page TBR [Times Book Review review]. And then there were Ian Frazier and Lydia Davis and Padgett Powell. So you had this base of authors and they would write other books, obviously, and it was a wonderful base to have.

Tell me about working with John McPhee.

John had been published at Farrar, Straus for several years before I got there. I can’t tell you who first acquired him. I think it was Hal Vursell. And then Henry Robbins and then Tom Stewart. I took him over with the book about general practitioners. John is a perfectionist, and he had very strong opinions about things, but always in a very nice way. He didn’t want his picture on his book jackets, though I think we finally broke him down on that. He didn’t want any pictures in the books—he was doing it with words and didn’t want to compromise that. He was very particular about his jackets. If we sold reprint rights, for instance Coming Into the Country, he said, “I just want to make sure that the paperback publisher doesn’t put an Eskimo with a ruff on the cover.” I said, “Just talk to them about it. Just say, ‘There’s one thing I really don’t want: an Eskimo with a ruff.’ ” And then the cover came. You guessed it. I can’t remember if it got changed or not.

I got very sick in 1994 and had to go through the whole treatment and surgery and everything. And John called me—at that point I was unemployed, Harcourt had let go of almost everybody in New York—and asked if I would edit, together with David Remnick, the second John McPhee Reader. He was basically giving me a job when I was in a bad spell, both professionally and with my health. So he’s a really good guy.

And now his daughters are writing. He had four daughters, and his wife had four daughters, so there were eight girls. And when my daughter was born I remember he said, “Congratulations—you have fourteen years before she’s fourteen.” So he’s also really funny.

Coming Into the Country was his first best-seller. That was very exciting. That’s probably the peak of excitement on a certain scale—when a company has published twelve books and the thirteenth becomes a best-seller. And then all the books thereafter sell better.

When did you meet Tom Wolfe?
He was working with Tom Stewart, who left the house, and I stepped in starting with The Right Stuff, which was so great. He had done a serialization of The Right Stuff in Rolling Stone but then revised it completely. Tom is a reviser. So the deadline is coming up and the book is expected and he’s revising up to the last minute. My job with Tom, mainly, was to make sure that nothing had slipped up in the revision process, that there weren’t any inadvertent repetitions or timeline problems. The wonderful thing is that he revised in different colors. He must have used some kind of soft colored pencils because the lines were thick—it wasn’t this stingy little pencil line—and there would be several layers on the manuscript of green, blue, red. It was beautiful to see. The copyeditors loved it too. It was a terrible inconvenience, of course, but nobody seemed to mind because he was, and is to this day, I’m sure, extremely courteous with everybody and so apologetic that these further changes had come forth. He was a pleasure to work with. After The Right Stuff there was From Bauhaus to Our House and then Bonfire of the Vanities.

That must have been a big book for you. Or was The Right Stuff the bigger book?
Well, The Bonfire ended up selling more copies. They were both big books. I guess The Right Stuff must have been a best-seller as well. I forgot about that. I remember when Bonfire was out and I was sitting at my desk typing something and young Roger, the sales director, came in and kissed me on the forehead. I said, “What’s that all about?” He said, “You’re number one.” And I didn’t know what he was talking about. Bonfire had hit number one on the best-seller list, but I didn’t viscerally relate to that.

Why?
Because it had been a long time since the editing and I was already on to something else. Of course it was wonderful for Tom and wonderful for everyone involved, but my work was pretty much done. I had nothing to do with it becoming number one.

That’s interesting because today editors are so involved in the promotion and the talking and the chatter, getting everyone fired up. Has that been a change in the space of your career?
That is a bit of a change. I mean, I always did a lot of hobnobbing on my authors’ behalf and that never let up. We were not quiet and genteel at FSG. We were very fervent and committed. But my basic job had been done, in that particular case, and now it was up to someone else to make it a best-seller. And Tom didn’t need my help. He didn’t need quotes. He was already a well-known writer. But we hobnobbed in different ways. It was less within the house than it was outside the house. It was like each editor was his or her own brand. The decision on what to publish was pretty much up to you, and therefore you had to justify your decision. And the responsibility was all on your head for every book you signed up. Certainly fiscal responsibility reigned at a small, private house where, you know, the bank was at our door a lot. So those profit-and-loss statements—whatever they called them then, before you signed up a book—were important. You saw what the last book did and sort of tailored your advance to that. We were very careful with money.

Roger was notoriously stingy.
[Laughs] He was careful with money. John McPhee actually called him McStraus, and he called him that to his face, and we all laughed. But John never had an agent. John just took the deal every time and eventually we had the best-seller with Coming Into the Country.

How did you actually learn to edit? Was there a mentor?
The mentor, initially, was Mr. Giroux. I would Xerox his manuscripts after he edited them. He took the month of August off every year and would edit three or four books during that time. But the closest teacher was a woman named Carmen Gomezplata, who was our chief copyeditor. We were the children, and we and Carmen were in and out of each other’s offices all the time. We would ask her questions and as we grew into our roles we continued to ask her questions. She really taught us to see those copyedited manuscripts in great detail. In those days, you went over them and then sent them to the author. You really learned. That was a valuable experience. That’s the technicalities of editing. The editing itself—I mean, not the punctuation and if you put the possessive here or there, but the instinctive editing—is hard to explain. That has to do with your own ear and your own sense of the language. Every editor is different, and the editing is generally subjective and instinctive, which is why everything is pretty much put in a question form. That’s what I call the slow reading, rather than editing—slow, slow, slow reading. You have to have a very long attention span as you know and just not get up for a long time to keep the continuity. And if you are a sedentary person anyway, which I am, it’s a marvelous, marvelous job.

Did you know that you liked it right away?
I did. It’s because the writers were so wonderful. One after the other would come into the office—most of them did, anyway—and they were so interesting and so fun to be with. It’s not as if the editing of their books was the penance part, but the association was such a joy, and I knew I wanted to be among that group of people who were writing and publishing books.

You were also editing a fair number of poets. How did you come to meet Seamus Heaney?
I met him through his books. Seamus had been distributed by Oxford University Press—his Faber and Faber editions—and Faber had for a while wanted Farrar, Straus to publish him. I started publishing him with Field Work, which was maybe 1978. And that was really, really a wonderful opportunity. He’s so kind, and so funny. This is what I find about a lot of poets: Before the kind, the funny. Why are poets so funny? Joseph Brodsky: hilarious. Derek Walcott: hilarious. Mark Strand—they’re all funny. Even Gjertrud Schnackenberg is funny. Grace Schulman’s funny. They don’t have as much at stake as far as becoming financial successes. There is a limited readership, even with someone like Seamus. They are jealous about prizes and jockey in that sort of way, but basically they’re pretty satisfied with what they’ve chosen to do in life. It’s a choice that was almost made for them. It’s who they are.

I have to confess that the idea of editing poetry is mysterious to me. What does it amount to?
It shouldn’t be mysterious. Because once again it’s just slow reading. If there’s a dangler in there, the poet doesn’t want that dangler. “No, I didn’t mean for that to refer to that.” I think it’s basically just catching mistakes. If there’s something you really, really think should be clear—it’s meant to be clear but it’s not, it’s coming forth as obscure—then you ask. And if they say no, it was supposed to be at a slant, that’s fine. But you just ask. Editing poetry to me was asking the dumb question again and again and again, and having absolutely no pride about that. So that the poet knows that everything there is what she wanted to say. It’s asking a lot of dumb questions. And there is work to be done with poetry, work that’s very concrete, just like any other piece of writing. And you would find that too if you sat down with a manuscript of poems. All the mystery would go away.

You also edit the novelist Daniel Woodrell.
Daniel is new to me. I can credit my husband, Bill, for Daniel. Bill was editor in chief at Holt when Dan was published there by Marian Wood. He really liked his work and met him and liked him very much. After his seventh or eighth book, Daniel decided that he wanted to try a new publisher, which is very common and often legitimate. Just to see if another sales force might do better. It had nothing to do with the editor at all. So a partial of Winter’s Bone was submitted to Little, Brown. And the partial was so strong that we bought the partial and an unwritten novel. And with fiction, that’s very unusual. Obviously he’d written books in the past, but we hadn’t worked with him in the past. It turned out to be wonderful. We’ve been able to at least double, if not triple, his sales. We were able to do the same thing for Rosemary Mahoney with her travel memoir Down the Nile.

Tell me about that. What do you do for a writer who’s maybe midcareer, whose career may have stalled a little bit in terms of sales?
It’s tough. Getting new sorts of support for the writer that he or she hadn’t had before is sometimes helpful. For Winter’s Bone, Edna O’Brien gave a comment. I know her, but she’d never read Dan before and would not have praised the book if she didn’t really love it. So to have a blurb from Edna O’Brien, that sort of points to something about the language in the book, whereas people may have been thinking, “Oh, does he just write country noir? Or are these crime novels? Or are they mysteries?” I’m also very proud to have gotten Tom McGuane, who I don’t know and who doesn’t know Dan, to read it and write a comment about it. That in turn helps the reviewers to think about the writer again. And we got a ton of reviews, and big ones, and really nice ones, for this book. And reviews do sell books at a certain level. So it’s a very gradual sort of chipping away process and nothing is really guaranteed. You can’t make someone give a blurb. I’ve always regretted that—that you can’t write the blurb yourself and sign it.

You also had a very close relationship with Laurie Colwin, the late novelist and food writer.
Our children started it, the first day at City & Country School, on Thirteenth Street. Our children were barely two years old. She needed time to write and I needed for my child to have some action other than the babysitter. We sort of circled each other. I knew she was a writer, she knew I was an editor. And we were very standoffish at first. This is all about the children. This is not about business. And then it was clear we were just made for each other. As mothers. As friends. She did teach me a lot, as a friend, about what the writer’s life is like, how challenging it is, even for such a popular writer. How Spartan it can be. Of course she countered that by making things nice, and often it was through food. Food was very important. Halloween was very big in her and Juris’s part of Chelsea, and so the Halloween meal would be served at their apartment. You never had a drink before dinner at Laurie’s. You just sat down and had dinner and got right to it. And then you talked and talked and talked. She was a very dear friend. A lot of my writers were friends. Laurie wasn’t my author, so that was a different situation. I was constantly amazed that she was interested in anything I had to say. Because she was so interesting, and I’m just an editor, a boring person who works at a company.

Take me back to the early part of your career and talk about the atmosphere of the industry in those days.
Well, I must say that there were a lot of parties. There were those George Plimpton parties. It was to celebrate writers. That was the purpose of the parties. Publishers would give parties at their houses and invite total strangers. George Plimpton was one of those people and Roger Straus was one of those people, too. Roger actually had a standard poodle named Schwartz who was sent downstairs at eleven o’clock to sort of herd people out. Eleven o’clock was the time you were supposed to leave if it was a dinner party. The parties may not have been very useful, but you met people. You met friends of your writers who might want to publish with you. You met people who might want to support your writers. That sort of networking was very easy to do because of publication parties. If a party was at the National Arts Club, every editor at the house was invited, as well as all the publicity people. It wasn’t very focused, frankly. Everybody came: the young people, the older people, everybody. It wasn’t just for the press.

This was all over the industry?
I think it was fairly industry-wide that publication parties were expected. I’m not saying it’s a huge loss that we don’t have as many publishing parties as we used to, but the kids had a lot of fun—the younger people, I shouldn’t say kids—because you got a lot of free food and you met a lot of people you wouldn’t have met otherwise. It was a benefit, it was definitely a benefit. And people did have fun outside the office. Michael di Capua was just a workaholic in the office. You couldn’t get him to look up or stop yelling about something that went wrong. But outside the office, we would costume up and maybe go to Studio 54. And you didn’t talk about work outside the office. You may have talked about books, but you didn’t talk about the office. It was a different time. This was the ’70s and ’80s.

In those days, who were you were looking up to in the industry? The way that someone my age would look up to Galassi or whoever.
Cork Smith—Corlies Smith—everyone called him Cork. He was an editor at Viking for many years. He was just an addictive reader. I remember him saying to me once, “I know it’s bad, but sometimes I finish the manuscript when I know I’m not going to buy it.” Because he just couldn’t stop reading! He always wanted to know the end of the story. He was very laconic and he looked like…what did Cork look like? He was extremely handsome. As Elisabeth Sifton always said, “Well, just stand in line, because there are a lot of people in line and he’s been married to Sheila for many, many years.” He looked like Marlon Brando, only tall and thin. That’s pretty good looking. And everybody really admired him.

Alan Williams was another one. Alan was at Viking as well. He had a piece recently, I think in the Yale Review or somewhere, about his career—he died a few years ago—saying, “All right, here’s what my liberal arts education did for me. I learned how to talk about anything for five minutes and to talk about nothing for more than five.” And that’s the definition of a trade book editor. You’re constantly becoming an expert in every area. You can do fiction and nonfiction, which we all do, and there’s this continuing education aspect to it. Bob Gottlieb was always highly admired for being interested in everything—interested in the way the ad looked, interested in every aspect of the process. He had very catholic, broad taste—he could publish a thriller or anything else. Peter Mayer at Penguin was also extremely well-respected and liked.

What was it about Peter that you admired?
His commitment. That publishing was his life, is still his life. And that’s really the only way you can do it. You know, you don’t go home and switch on the TV every night. You’re always thinking about how you might push this book, how you might help the book, how this world event might help. There’s an article in the paper about Polish workers in London, and I think, “How can I attach that to Rose Tremain’s book?” And of course you can’t. But it becomes habitual that you are always thinking about the publishing process and the books that you’re working on. It’s that way-of-life mentality of some publishers. Roger Straus. Bob Gottlieb. Cork Smith, who was more an editor than a publisher. Alan. Peter Mayer. There must be others I’m leaving out, certainly Roger Straus and Bob Giroux. You know, as Edmund Wilson always said, “Literature is life,” and in some ways if you’re in publishing, publishing is life. And it gives back. You’re constantly learning.

Do you have any great Roger Straus stories that you can tell?
He was extremely personable. He loved people. He was a liberal at heart in the way that he trusted people. He trusted other people’s opinions, not just his own. And I think in a way, like Alfred Knopf, who probably wasn’t as friendly, he depended on advice, and that was a way to build a great house. Whether it was the CIA people he had out there in Italy finding Alberto Moravia, or later it was Susan Sontag and Joseph Brodsky advising, he trusted other people. Not that he couldn’t judge for himself. But why not get the people who write for a living and read for a living, the total-immersion people, to tell you who’s best of these twenty Italian writers? And he was self-confident enough to do that, to take advice, and Knopf did the same thing. That’s how Roger built up his European list. And he trusted his editors. Now, of course, if you didn’t get the good reviews, he would stop trusting you. So that’s why your standards became very high—because you didn’t want to disappoint him. And a bad review was not acceptable. He wouldn’t say anything, but you knew he was disappointed, and that was a great motivation to sign up the best things you could find and not take it lightly.

Do you have any sort of guiding philosophy that shapes your editing?
Not a guiding philosophy, but I do think it’s extremely dangerous to mess with a novel structurally, because it’s close to poetry in that it’s almost pure consciousness. The way it comes forth from the writer is the way it should probably be, even though maybe the beginning is unclear or not enough action happens in this part or whatever. With a literary book—I hate to say literary, but a piece of serious fiction that isn’t genre fiction—I try to stay away from structural suggestions because they can be very damaging. One big change can make the whole house of cards fall apart. So with literary fiction I really try to stick to line editing. I also think the less done the better, and I consider myself a fairly heavy editor. But I do as little as I can do, because a work of serious literature is a very fragile construction.

I have a few little bugaboos. I learned one of them at the New Yorker. It’s called the “stopper.” A stopper is usually a graphic or upsetting image that causes the reader to stop and read in a daze over the next pages. The reader has a visceral reaction. And you don’t want to do that and follow it up with important stuff. You don’t want to do that too fast, you don’t want to do it too soon—especially in a story. It’s more than prudery. There are certain rules about how a reader is actually reacting, that I have in my own mind at least. But the stopper was a New Yorker term, and I thought it was really very wise.

Who was editing the New Yorker when you were there?
It was Bob Gottlieb, lots of fun, and the deputy was Chip McGrath, marvelous, and Roger Angell was the head of the fiction department, which he probably still is. Alice Quinn was there doing poetry and some fiction. Linda Asher and Dan Menaker, lots of fun, plus assistants and about three people who did nothing but read.

Why did they call you? This was after Bonfire?
Yes. It was right after Bonfire, which was my first best-seller after Coming Into the Country and my last best-seller. I knew John McPhee very well, and they were looking for a fiction editor and John, I know, recommended me to Roger. And I knew Chip fairly well. They may have thought I might have been unhappy because I was passed over for the editor in chief job at Farrar, Straus, which was offered to Jonathan Galassi, who’s done such a beautiful job ever since. Because of the length of time I had been there, they may have thought my nose was out of joint, which it really wasn’t. But the opportunity presented itself and it was lovely. The magazine was more limited in some ways, but it’s more expansive in that you had an audience for each story of possibly eight-hundred-thousand readers. Now I think it’s up to nine-hundred-and-something thousand. The idea of distributing a piece of fiction that you love to so many people is alluring. For selfish reasons, it’s nice because the piece of writing you’re working on is very short. There’s no interior design to be fooled with. There’s no jacket. There are no reviews, no subrights. Being a fiction editor at a magazine is a very distinct task, as opposed to books. Surely there are people who can’t image the sluggishness of our process—“How can you have the patience to work with books?”—but that was what I was used to. So that’s why I left after four years, very tearfully, because I loved the people and I loved the magazine but I knew I wanted to be back with books.

How did it work at the New Yorker in terms of deciding what got published?
The way it worked then, which was 1988 to 1992, was that when you found a story that you liked you would write a little report on your manual typewriter—maybe we had electric by then—fold it over, and pass it on to the next reader. All the editors read all the stories, and the report would circulate with the story. The next editor would read the story, open up the piece of paper, and add his or her paragraph. It would go all the way to the top that way, to Chip McGrath and eventually Bob Gottlieb, and Bob would make the final decision. We rarely talked about the story until the process was over, which must have come from years of experience, from knowing that talking about fiction can often lead you into an emotional tug-of-war, that the responses to fiction are very often psychological, and the discussions could become very heated and the opinions just wildly divergent, even within the fiction department at the New Yorker. So it was best not to talk about the stories until it was over. Then you could say, “What did you think about that?” when the stakes weren’t quite so high and there was either a yes or no already. I thought it was a very elegant way to do things, and they may not have even been aware of it.

What was it like to work for Bob Gottlieb?
I wish I had seen more of him. He was very busy because he ran the whole magazine. He was absolutely ebullient and excited about just about everything and very outspoken when you eventually got to speak to him. But I felt that I was working more for Chip and Roger and those people because Bob had the responsibility of the whole magazine. He did say, when we moved offices—we moved from 28 West Forty-fourth Street to offices overlooking Bryant Park—I remember him saying, “We are going to have individual radiators and individual air conditioners, just as we did in the old office, because I don’t want to do climate control issues.” He was so wise. I don’t want to do climate control issues. That’s usually what the discussion is in every office—whether it’s too cold or too hot.

Getting back to books, I wonder if you would walk us through your day a bit to give us a sense of how an editor spends her time.
We don’t read or edit in the office. If someone asks you to read something really quickly for them, you might stop and read, but you want the leisurely hours to read. We have meetings: editorial meetings, acquisitions meetings, marketing meetings, focus meetings, meetings about the jackets, meetings about the titles. There are lots of meetings and often there’s preparation for those meetings—we don’t just walk in cold. An agent or two may inquire about one thing or another: distribution of the book internationally, some question about the catalogue. Usually there are several agent inquiries a day. They’re trying to keep on top of what’s happening with their clients’ books.

I correspond with writers, obviously. I do miss the phone contact, but e-mail has become so much more efficient. If they’re not home—and they’re often not home—the e-mail is still there. So that’s a lot of the day. We always look at Publishers Lunch for too long. Rejection letters. Rejections are things that you try to compartmentalize and not think about too much. It’s probably the least pleasant part of the job. It takes a lot of tact to do it without hurting anybody’s feelings. Doing it so that the author could possibly see the letter and feel encouraged rather than discouraged is time-consuming. It’s anonymous, unsung work. Everybody in the company knows what you signed up, but they don’t know what you didn’t sign up. There are also lunches. Lunches are the best. That’s with the writers or the agents. Lunches are always interesting to me, and I feel really privileged that I get lunch. You get your bearings back when you inhale a little oxygen and actually talk to people. I don’t think lunch is a universal love, but it’s certainly one of mine, and it’s very useful.

Tell me about your most memorable lunch.
Maybe it was my first lunch with Tom Wolfe. Of course, I took the subway. I was headed to the Four Seasons. And the subway got stuck. Tom, the most courtly of men, was waiting at the Four Seasons for forty-five minutes, close to an hour, and he didn’t leave. And when I finally arrived it was memorable for its tension released by his gallantry. Another was with Joseph Brodsky, when he learned at lunch that I didn’t know much about classical music. He was really horrified. After lunch, he took me to a record store and bought me a basic set: Pergolesi’s Stabat Mater, Purcell’s FuneralMusic for Queen Mary, Brahams’s Third Symphony. A few basics to get me started. And I’ve been listening ever since. My daughter is addicted, has to go to sleep by it. So I guess that was a life-changing lunch in terms of my cultivation level. The horror on his face! I loved a lunch with Jamaica Kincaid. I think it was my introductory lunch with Jamaica. We were at the Gotham on Twelfth Street, and we both ordered rosé, and the waiter brought red, and she looked up and said in her beautiful Antiguan accent, “You must think we look stupid!” That was all she said. And the red was exchanged for rosé.

Book editors serve all kinds of different masters: the authors, your bosses, the agents. I wonder how you think about those allegiances and responsibilities.
An editor always wants to make their writers happy. That is a priority. There’s had to be some adjustment and adaptation to the systems as they work now. For instance, the attitude toward the book jacket is more sophisticated than it once was. Today we wouldn’t necessarily get someone to paint an oil of a certain scene for a jacket. It’s become more sophisticated. So the editor’s role, in part, is to translate for the writer the logic behind certain decisions on the house’s part. There’s more gentle persuasion that needs to take place for jackets, titles. But that’s about it. The rest is between the editor and the writer.

How many new books do you try to buy in a year?
As many as I love, really, and it varies from year to year. I might buy four one year and eleven the next. Sometimes they come in clumps. The books you like come all at once. And that can be awkward sometimes. You’ve just signed one up, why should you be signing up another one? Well, it may be six months before another one comes along. So the acquisitions rhythm can be jerky.

Take us behind the scenes at an editorial meeting. I think a lot of writers would be very interested to know what happens.
There are two levels of meetings. First there’s an editorial meeting, where the editors and the editorial assistants basically air their views on significant manuscripts that have crossed their desk in the last week. Often it’s to find out if your colleagues might have a particular interest in, say, Rufus Wainwright, because you know of this Rufus Wainwright book that’s going around. And if there’s significant interest then you might chase it more readily than you would otherwise. So that’s sort of determining subject interest, topic interest. Even now and then with fiction writers, you’ll get a manuscript and want to know if other people have read the writer and what their opinion was. It’s sort of just airing things so there’s a forum for all the material that’s coming in every week. Every now and then, someone will mention a significant turnaway—a reluctant or significant rejection—that sort of thing. “I passed on this even though it’s going elsewhere…” It’s like our live newsletter—what’s been happening at your desk. And it’s not so much a decision-making meeting. Every now and then our editor-in-chief, Geoff [Shandler], will say, “I wouldn’t pursue it. I don’t think it’s right for us.” But not too often. Everybody likes to talk. We talk a lot. It’s a little bit of togetherness, and then we retreat back to our lonely desks.

The acquisition meeting is a decision-making meeting, and we prepare fairly rigorously for it. We write our opinion of the book. We do a description of the book. We give some background on both sales and critical reception for the author’s previous books. We make a profit and loss projection—always an estimate, but something to go by. Every acquisition meeting varies from one company to the next as far as I can tell, but generally a decision is made in the meeting whether or not we’re going to make an offer for the book, and about how high we would be allowed to go to buy the book. So it can go either way. It can be yes or no. And you have to be very manly about it. If I’m unable to sign up a book I want, that’s when I have to be my most manly. And everybody has the same experience. It’s not always a book the company can do, or feel it can do well. But the main thing, your main desire, if you love a book that isn’t signed up by your house, is that it be signed up at some other house. And there are very, very few titles that do get lost. So while it’s a disappointment, it’s not tragic, generally, if your book is turned away. If that’s the worst sort of trauma we have to suffer, it’s not so bad.

So are these decisions made, on some level, by consensus?
On some level. Different voices speak up. Editors. Publicity people. Salespeople. And everybody’s just sort of gently giving their opinion. Then our publisher has to make the final judgment. But it’s often the result of what’s gone on before.

Do you feel a sense of competition with editors at other houses?
That’s a good question. I can’t say that I do. If I admire an editor, and I can’t do a book and they can, I have to honestly say I’m happy for the book, because the writer landed with a good editor. So I don’t really feel competitive. There are some moments when I feel envious, but I don’t feel active competition.

Say you get a debut novel or a debut collection of stories. What is it about something that gets your attention, compared to all the other ones that don’t?
Well, take this collection of stories by Peter Orner, Esther Stories. It was sent by Rob Preskill, an agent in San Francisco who I’d never done any business with and didn’t even know was in business. The stories came out of the blue. I started reading them, and I just found them enormously emotionally affecting. They’re very spare, and the writing is fantastic but not fancy. I just found them very serious—I mean, sometimes they’re funny—but the intent behind them is very serious. They’re basically about families. I was able to find another reader, Eric Chinski, who also loved them, went completely berserk over them, and I was able to buy them at Houghton Mifflin. We put them into an original paperback and lots of wonderful things happened for this book. I published his second book last year. Esther Stories was a very pure acquisition. I’d say that’s about as pure as you can get. Never heard of the agent, no stories published in major magazines.

If you’re talking about a more obvious way of having a book of stories come to your attention, there’s Uwem Akpan. This is a Nigerian writer who is also a Jesuit priest and who got his MFA from the University of Michigan in 2006. He’s written a collection of stories called Say You’re One of Them. It’s about children in various African countries who are in crisis because of conflicts they can’t control. I read the one story, “An Ex-Mas Feast,” in the New Yorker. I read many New Yorker stories, but this one really bowled me over, in, again, a visceral way. And I couldn’t stop reading once I started. So we took action fast. Michael Pietsch, our publisher, felt the same way about the story. I wrote to Uwem. We waited. We waited until the second story came out. Then he got an agent. We waited at auction. We bought the book. It was as if it was fated—it was going to happen. But a lot of publishers wanted a story that was so powerful, and a collection that also had the New Yorker imprimatur.

On the other hand, what is the most common problem with first books?
They can be too controlled. I find a lot of first novels too careful and too polite. I mean, let’s face it, Housekeeping is a wild book. I don’t think Marilynne had ever published anything before, even short pieces. She was doing what came from her mind and her experience. Larry Heinemann’s book is another example, a graphic war novel, but just gorgeous. Sometimes others can be a little tight and a little fearful of being messy.

Do you think MFA programs contribute to that problem?
I don’t think so. I think they’re trying to counter it in some way. I think they try to coach the students to…Look, any time you do something for the first time, you’re more fearful than you are the second time. So the feelings often don’t come forth right away.

But in your opinion are MFAs a good thing for a writer to do or a bad thing?
I think it doesn’t hurt if you have the time. If only to meet other writers and to meet writers with more experience. To learn to talk about writing and the different ways people approach it. I think it’s a good thing. I don’t think it damages writers. I don’t think you can teach anyone how to write, but it can certainly teach people what to expect from themselves, and give them a communal feeling—that this isn’t easy—and give them some endurance power. I don’t think there is a plethora of the programs. I’ve been to several and I always find the writers so alive.

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I read somewhere that you can tell if you’re interested in a novel within the first two pages. Is that true?
Some part of my brain really responds to an interesting sentence. Over two pages, if there isn’t an interesting sentence or thought or description, or if there isn’t something vivid, it doesn’t mean that I’m going to stop reading, because that would be wrong—there are certainly worthwhile books that don’t impress you with the language in the first two pages—but I pretty much know if I’m interested or not, even though I’ll read to the end in many cases anyway. Some books are more dependent on story than other books, and it can really depend on the outcome. You read the entire book because the outcome might be smashing—the cumulative power of what comes before. But certainly, stylistically, I know pretty quickly whether or not it’s a book I’m going to love. I would say two pages is an exaggeration. Probably ten pages.

How important is it to you that your books sell well?
It’s important to me because I want people to read them. Because when they do, and I get reactions, it makes me feel good, as if I did something valuable. And it’s most important to me for the writer, because the writer wants readers. It’s usually not about the money at all. They want as many readers as they can get. It’s hard to project what’s going to sell and what isn’t, so I just assume that what I buy is going to sell sufficiently to not create a debt at the house. That’s my job. That’s my professional job—not to lose money—and I try very hard not to lose money. And having a great big book to offset some of the books that sell less well would be wonderful. I think I have some lurking in the future.

Agents have assumed a new primacy for writers in the last several decades. How do you feel about that?
I’m very glad to have the agents’ help. The agents know much more about publishing than the writers do, obviously. Some of them have worked at publishing houses and can explain the logic behind the publisher’s decisions. They know what to ask for and what not to ask for. I think agents have become more important to writers because there is not as much continuity in publishing now. So if a writer is jumping houses, if the houses are making the writer jump, then you need one stable person in your life to put everything together. So I suppose that’s the single biggest reason that that shift in loyalty to agents took place. The agent’s job is also a lot more complicated now because of the multiple submissions and auctions and the complexity of selling a book that is desired by many publishers. I don’t want to keep harking back to the days of single submissions, but it was pretty relaxing. If you sent a manuscript to Bob Giroux, he would be really irritated if you sent it to anyone else while he was reading it. Wasn’t his time worth more than that? It was a simplified process.

Are there any younger agents who you’re finding yourself doing business with or liking or admiring lately?
Julie Barer, who has her own agency, is wonderful—very supportive of her authors and enthusiastic about her projects. More for nonfiction, Brettne Bloom at Kneerim & Williams has great energy and intelligence, as does Julie. There are lots of fine young agents, but for fiction and nonfiction, those are two good suggestions.

From your perspective, what do the best agents do for their authors?
They write a very good letter introducing the writer and the book under consideration. If previous books have been published, they include full reviews with the submission. They try to match an editor to a writer—temperamentally, aesthetically—as much as they try to match a writer to a house. Then, once the process begins, they know what to push for and what not to, how to choose their battles. And that’s a very delicate dance. Because often the writer would like a little more pushing than should or could be done, and the agent has to have a good sense of that.

How involved or not involved do you want authors to be in the marketing and promotion of their work? Is it healthy for an author to be involved?
I think that, in the end, the older writers learn that it’s better to be writing their next books. Of course, everybody needs a break, but it can be distressing to become involved. I remember when I left Houghton Mifflin, one of my poets, Glyn Maxwell, said, “Well, Pat, it’s just publishing.” And I thought, “What a poetic thing to say.” Publishing is my entire life and yet he says, “It’s just publishing.” So, in other words: “I’m a writer. I’ll publish my poetry somewhere. We’ll still be friends.” I thought it was very healthy to see it that way—there is writing and then there is publishing. And they’re two quite different processes. I think involvement in the publishing process can be frustrating, and if a writer can resist, I would resist, frankly.

Put yourself in the shoes of an unpublished writer. Are there any intangible things she can do to put herself on the radar of an agent or a publisher, besides the obvious things like publishing in magazines?
Get to know other writers. Not so much to learn how to write, but to meet people and learn something about the professional way to do things, so you won’t be sending out e-mails from the blue. Knowing writers will convince other writers to read your work, and possibly give a comment on your work, which might be helpful in selling it. My advice would be to not be alone.

What are the important things for an author to look for in an editor and a publishing house?
I would look at the list and look at the catalogues online, which you can do now. I suppose there’s some way to look at which editors do which books by looking at the acknowledgments. I think it’s important to determine that the minds might get along, to learn the kinds of books the editor edits and the publisher publishes—every publisher has a wide variety, but in the field where you’re writing—to see that you’d be in the sort of company you’d like to be in. And if you can’t get that, then accept an offer anyway. Michael di Capua used to say, “Small children won’t die from this,” when the jacket came out the wrong color or something. It is important—the publication of the book and how it’s done—but the book is still there, and there are only so many different ways you can publish it. So I wouldn’t—as a young writer—get too hung up on who the publisher is.

Obviously the industry has changed a lot over the years, from small shops like FSG to very large corporate companies. Having experienced both, what do you think about what’s happened to the industry?
I don’t feel discouraged. I feel that any good manuscript I read is going to be published, and that’s almost true. I don’t feel that there are good books languishing any more than there used to be. And if that’s the case, I’m fine with it. If it wasn’t the case, I would be less fine with the changes. And the changes are that the business is now considered a conventional business. Or, rather, that conventional rules are applied to what started as a cottage-industry business. It’s very difficult to twist publishing into a conventional business. And yet you have to try. Because how else are you going to learn what works? And how are you going to report to your superiors? You have to accept that there are going to be different ways of doing things now—less off-the-cuff, less impulsive. Yet that off-the-cuff impulsiveness is there every time you read a manuscript. And you’re still making those same sorts of impassioned decisions that you ever were. So maybe the final decision about whether to publish or not to publish is more complicated and complex, and maybe there are more obstacles in the editor’s way. But if you don’t publish it, somebody else will. So it’s not a tragedy. It’s not tragic in the larger sense that we’re now conglomerated rather than small. I really don’t think so. I think big versus small is sometimes difficult for the younger people who are learning, because with small you pretty much go to every meeting—production meetings and advertising meetings—and you pretty much learn the whole business. You know why the book is priced this way and why it’s that format instead of this format because everybody goes to all the meetings. That’s a wonderful apprenticeship to have. In a larger company, it can get a little more Balkanized by virtue of necessity. So I think it takes a little while longer for young people to learn every aspect of the business.

What’s the biggest problem or challenge in the publishing industry today?
This is fairly broad, but I would say bringing readers to books. Let me try to personalize that a little. My husband is from a small town in northern Minnesota, and we used to go out there frequently. I once brought John McPhee’s Encounters with the Archdruid, which is a book about conservation. My in-laws mainly read the newspaper, and nature guides, and cookbooks—very little serious literature. But when we came back the next year, the book was in tatters. It had been passed all around the town. There were five thousand people in the town, and it didn’t have a book store. The people got their books from the Book-of-the-Month Club. So they were all reading Portnoy’s Complaint, but they didn’t know about John McPhee. And that, to me, was a very touching experience. It showed that if they had known about the book, it would have been a best-seller. There were so many people who were interested in these issues. There are so many people who would love so many books if they could be led to them in some way. I don’t have a solution. But I think there’s so little exposure to the choice, and the choice has to be more apparent.

Recently, at a dinner party, there was a sort of roundtable question of “What did you read over August vacation?” And the people who weren’t in the book world really felt they had discovered a writer who was extremely well known—not necessarily on the best-seller list, but well known. They thought they were introducing this book to all of us, when anyone in publishing would know the writer and, you know, know the book itself, know where it was on BookScan, know where it was in the Barnes & Noble display area. But people who are outside the business have other things to do. They’re not keeping track of what books are coming out. I don’t have a solution. Maybe Jason Epstein, who’s very smart, has a solution. The shrinkage of the book review media is unfortunate. That was certainly a way to bring news of books to people. I hope that isn’t dropping out of the national conversation.

Are you discouraged about the state of books in this country?
No, I’m not. In some ways, it’s thinking selfishly, because you would like your writers and your books to be read by as many people as possible. And, of course, it’s dreaming. But I certainly don’t think books are going to go away. The object itself it too essential. The idea of having your privacy is too wonderful. A book signals to other people to stay away. I’m in my private zone right now. I think that’s why so many women who are over-stressed read.

How do you feel about the decline of independent booksellers and publishers? What effect has it had?
I think the decline of independent bookstores has had some effect—I can’t measure it, I don’t know the facts—but some effect on the mid-list book. You might not get that surprise success that comes from bookstore recommendations as often. But other systems have taken over, like Book Sense, where they get the word out on a larger level, and maybe that sort of evens things out. We’ve lost bookstores, but they’re louder than they used to be. There are all sorts of areas in publishing where—it’s very easy, as a person who’s been in it for a long time, to be critical—but there are a lot of areas that are improving and much more professional than they used to be. I don’t find the reduction of independent bookstores to be a disaster by any means. It’s fun to get a Discover selection at Barnes & Noble and know they can be very effective too. And they have lots of ways of doing that.

The independent publisher situation? That’s just a big one. I try not to look at the big picture too much because there’s so much to look at in the small picture: your desk, what’s on it; your author, what their concerns are. The work doesn’t feel any different, big or small. The work seems to me to be pretty close to what it was when I started in publishing. Certainly there is more presentation or performance today in one way or another—more written and oral presentation—but aside from that, the work is just the way it always was. I think, as an editor, you’re a little under the radar of whether you’re large or small, and I think as you go up the ladder it probably makes a much bigger difference.

What do you think about the future of books? Do you think this digital revolution or print-on-demand revolution will happen?
I’m not very well educated in this area. I don’t think that the hard-copy book is ever going to disappear. It’s just not. Maybe it’s unthinkable to me, and that’s why I don’t think it. But there’s something about the aesthetic value of the book, the thingness of it. People like things. They like beautiful objects.

But they like their iPods, too. There’s all this talk about an iPod for books that’s going to come along for this generation of people who aren’t buying newspapers anymore, who don’t buy CDs or records because they download everything. You don’t think it will happen?
I don’t. I think there are a lot of uses for digital publishing, in almost a marketing way. “Here’s a sample chapter.” But when it comes down to reading the entire book, I really think people are going to stick with the object. Reference books are a different matter. You’re just trying to look something up and you’re not spending hours and hours with that little screen.

You mentioned your husband, Bill, who’s also an accomplished editor. What’s it like to be married to another editor?
It’s absolutely marvelous, like a marriage made in heaven. Because we do the same thing. Who’s the woman…? Diana Athill. She wrote a book about being an editor called Stet. She said that she partly became an editor because she was an idle person. She was attracted to idleness. And of course you do have to stay in one spot. And my husband and I don’t mind, we don’t find it boring, one reading in one room and one reading in the next and meeting at the end of the night. That’s the way we’ve always done it. I think for those couples who want to go to the movies or something it would be very boring. But for us it’s wonderful. We can also talk about the business without boring our friends. And he’s much more well educated than I am about the actual business of publishing. He was a math major before he was an English major, so he knows a lot about that. And he’ll explain the digital things to me over and over, which I’ll tell you I do not quite understand. We’ve never competed for a book, which is interesting. But he’s more oriented toward topical nonfiction books and mine are a little softer. And we’ve always been discreet about what’s going on at the other person’s company, and that’s just the way it is, so it’s not a problem.

What is the most rewarding part of your job?
Good reviews that make the writer happy. Because that’s the end of the process if best-sellerdom isn’t a prospect. That’s the most rewarding thing. But my daughter’s in medical school, and she said, “You know, when I tell my friends what you do, they say, ‘She reads for a living?’” It’s like a dream to them. And it is a dream. It’s a dream to read for a living. Of course, we do all of our reading in our free time, but still, that’s what we’d be doing anyway. I mean, there are some picnics missed on Sundays, and there are some sacrifices made, so you’d better really love to read, love to not move around too much. And if that’s the case, you’re all right.

What’s the most disappointing aspect of your job?
I think worse than poor sales is no reviews. I don’t normally have that situation. But I’ve seen it. I’ve seen just two reviews. And that’s very, very disappointing. And, again, it’s mainly in empathizing with the writer. That he or she would spend several years on a book that was maybe too complicated for the review community to figure out what to do with—a brilliant book, but a book that wasn’t a natural for review. And it can happen.

Looking back on your career, are there any crucial turning points?
It’s just all such good fortune. I had such good fortune. It feels like it was handed to me. Starting at Farrar, Straus was very good fortune and definitely defined my future career. Because I was taught by people who knew it was an important profession, I had an apprenticeship that sort of guided me. And you never really give up that first impression. So I think the turning point was the starting point in some ways. I think the critical reception of the first novels I did established trust in my mentors, so I had some freedom. The success of the first novels was important. Unfortunately, I have never had a turning point that involved sales. Tom Wolfe was at the house anyway. Tom was a bestselling author—that didn’t have anything to do with me. And, frankly, I haven’t had that turning point, which would have made me a little bit more helpful to the houses I’ve worked for—something I acquired that really sold in huge numbers right away. So my career isn’t based on sales. Although Marilynne and Jamaica and Ian Frazier have gone on to great success without me. And Padgett Powell’s Edisto is still in print.

Do you have any regrets or disappointments?
Disappointments, I think—there is Alice Munro. I had found her Lives of Girls and Women at a street vendor, wrapped in plastic, and I liked the title and bought the book for fifty cents. This was probably the late ’70s. Then I found out she had just recently acquired an agent here, Ginger Barber—Virginia Barber, a marvelous woman. Ginger said, “Well, there’s a manuscript.” It was called “The Rose and Flo Stories,” though the title ultimately became The Beggar Maid. The Rose and Flo stories really, really affected me, and not just because my grandmother’s Canadian and I spent some time in Canada as a child. I gave them to Mr. Giroux. He agreed. Alice came into the office, a fairly young woman at that point, and we talked and I made an offer. I think Mr. Giroux had a few suggestions; I may have had a few. I think we offered sixty-five hundred dollars for the stories, which was a very nice advance at that time. And then, suddenly, Norton bids seventy-five hundred dollars. And Roger said, “Sorry, baby, sixty-five’s as far as we can go.” And that was fine, that was a lot of money for a book of stories. Then it gets a little fuzzy because the editor left Norton and the book was moved to Knopf, and Ann Close has been her editor ever since. I love Ann, I’m very happy for her, but that was something I found on the street! And I really felt I had discovered something in an unlikely and virtuous way.

Any memorable mistakes?
The mistake I remember most for some reason was reading In Patagonia by Bruce Chatwin and, not really being a reader of travel literature, just being wowed by it, knocked out by it. It was on submission from Liz Calder at Jonathan Cape. But Roger said, “What do you think, baby? Do you think it will sell?” And I said, “I certainly don’t.” That was a mistake.

Why didn’t you think it would sell?
Remote place. Fancy stylistically. But I would have liked to have worked with him before he died. That book got brilliant reviews and sold very well, but it’s not like it sold a ton of copies. It didn’t make anybody’s career.

What do you still want to accomplish?
It just seems like a continuum to me. It really seems like it will never end because good stuff keeps coming up. I don’t remember if I already mentioned this vision I had of my old age when I was younger. This vision of [editor] Anne Freedgood, in her worn-out chair in the country. You’d be asked to dinner and see her through the window and there she was with the manuscripts, reading all day until it was time to slap the fish on the frying pan. And I thought, “Never, never, never.” Well, now I find that a very happy prospect—that it will still be my work in one capacity or another. To go along and find stuff. It’s very exciting to find stuff. Although it’s sort of dangerous to always want to find. It should be just as important to want to revive. To want to help writers that you admire find their readers is probably more virtuous than to discover, which gives you a lot of credit. I think reviewers like to discover, editors like to discover. Everybody likes to discover. But there’s a lot that’s already been discovered that could use a little boost.

Jofie Ferrari-Adler is an editor at Grove/Atlantic.

Agents & Editors: A Q&A With Jonathan Galassi

by
Jofie Ferrari-Adler
7.1.09

If you're anything like the writers I meet at conferences and MFA programs, the word sweet probably isn't the first adjective that comes to mind when you think of the head of a major New York publishing house. I hear a lot of other words (many of them unprintable in a wholesome writer's magazine), but the takeaway is often the same: They are snakes in suits whose only loyalty is to the bottom line. While it's true that such creatures exist—I could tell you stories—they are far less common than you might think.

Take the case of Jonathan Galassi, president and publisher of Farrar, Straus and Giroux, who got where he is, in part, by being one of the most gentlemanly editors in the business. Born in Seattle and raised in small-town Massachusetts, Galassi grew up surrounded by books and was, by his own admission, a "typical geeky kid." At thirteen he went away to boarding school and fell in love with poetry and languages; he discovered the thrill of editing other people's work when he got the opportunity to publish a friend's short story in the school literary magazine. At Harvard he studied with Robert Lowell and Elizabeth Bishop. In 1973, after two years in England on a Marshall Scholarship, he moved back to the States and took an internship at Houghton Mifflin. Before long he earned a reputation as an adroit literary editor and was appointed head of the company's New York office. One early acquisition was Alice McDermott's debut novel, A Bigamist's Daughter, which he took with him when he moved to Random House in 1981. As it turned out, the publication of McDermott's novel was a rare bright spot in an otherwise dismal tenure. At Random House, Galassi's books won critical acclaim but sold modestly, and in 1986, after five years with the company, he was fired.

Redemption was both swift and satisfying. Within months of accepting a job at FSG, an independent house that specialized in the kind of serious work he loved, Galassi surprised everyone by taking on a thriller by a Chicago attorney named Scott Turow. The novel, Presumed Innocent, became a runaway best-seller that propelled Galassi up the editorial ranks and ultimately positioned him as the heir to FSG's founder, Roger Straus. In his spare time, Galassi published two volumes of his own poetry, translated the work of Italian modernist Eugenio Montale, and spent a decade as poetry editor of the Paris Review. He also accumulated every major editing award in existence.

Today Galassi says his job is to ensure that FSG stays true to its mission of publishing important voices as effectively as possible. When I asked him what he'd change about his job if he could, he lamented that he doesn't have as much time to read as he used to; he also wishes he had "more of that immediate engagement with new authors." Note to readers: If you can find a way to make Galassi's wishes come true, yours might not be far behind either.

I don't want to bore you with a lot of questions about your childhood but I am curious if there were any books that had a big impact on you at an early age.
I was a big reader as a kid. I used to go to the little library in the town where we lived in Massachusetts and read voraciously. I read everything. I was in the Weekly Reader children's book club and I remember loving The Wind in the Willows and Johnny Tremain and books like that. My grandmother was a big reader. She lived in Boston and would come down and bring books like The Alexandria Quartet or The Fall or Passage to India. I remember the romance and the exotic quality of those books. I remember what they looked like, what they felt like. Eventually all of my grandparents' books ended up in our house, so there were a lot of old books around. It wasn't that I would sit and read them all. It was more that I would pore over them and feel the textures of them. My grandfather was Italian, so there were all these books about Italy, and I would pore through them and look at the pictures of the different places. I was just very absorbed by books as a way of escape and as something to escape into.

But there was no particular book that altered the direction of your life?
I don't think I can point to any one book. But I was bookish. I was very unathletic. I had bad eyesight. I was a typical geeky kid. I remember reading The Count of Monte Cristo when I had the mumps or something and just being overwhelmed by the romance of the story. I loved stories that had a medieval or foreign feel. I loved The Golden Warrior and books about the ancient world. I loved all of that stuff. And then I went away to school when I was thirteen and got very interested in languages and poetry. In high school I got interested in everything that I'm interested in now. That's where I started to write and edit. I was an editor of the school literary magazine. I remember the experience of working with my friends on their writing and how exciting that was to me, and how rewarding it was, even more than my own writing. I felt a real sense of connection to them, and a certain effectiveness. That was a powerful experience. I remember that my best friend, who wasn't a particularly literary guy—he was a jock, really—wrote a short story that ended up being the best story published in the magazine in our time. I was blown away by the intensity and the power of that story. I got a real thrill out of being present at the creation of somebody else's work.

Do you think your work as a poet and translator informs your work as an editor and publisher?
That has always been secondary to my work as an editor. I mean, maybe it wasn't always secondary in my deepest heart, but when I started to work in publishing I decided that I was going to put editing first. And I've never had regrets about it. I guess I think of those things as flowing into and out of each other.

When I started writing I didn't have much confidence in my own powers, but I think over time I've become more comfortable with what I can do as a writer. That came through working on translation. I was translating Montale, which was a deep interest that went on for many, many years. That taught me a lot about writing. And obviously I've also learned a lot from working with writers over the years. But I've never felt any ambivalence about being a publisher as opposed to being a writer.

But is there anything in your experience as a poet and translator that informs how you go about the business of being an editor?
Perhaps I don't think of authors as different animals. I can give authors a sense of realism about what can be done in the world with their work. I would never want to put myself on the same plane as the writers I work with, but because I know what it is to write, I think I can empathize with their desires and frustrations. There are some publishers who think of the work as something for them to mold, and I don't think of it quite that way. But I wouldn't want to convey the impression that I'm a writer who's also a publisher. I'm a publisher who's also a writer. And as a rule I don't talk about my own writing with my authors, unless they bring it up. Because I'm here to work for them.

Did you teach yourself how to edit?
I guess so. My first job was as an intern in the editorial department at Houghton Mifflin in Boston in 1973. They just sort of threw you into it. Nobody was sitting there and teaching you how to do it. I think you learn it by watching how the people around you work with authors, and it happens almost by osmosis. There are many different styles of editing, too. It's an apprenticeship. There are courses you can take to learn the mechanics of the business, like the Radcliffe course, but I don't think they teach you how to edit. Editing is more by-the-hip. You look at a text and ask yourself how it can be improved. One thing I have noticed is that when you're a younger editor, you're more intense about it. As you go along, you relax a little. More and more, I feel that the book is the author's. You give the author your thoughts and it's up to him or her to decide what to do. One time [Jonathan] Franzen made fun of me about that. He didn't take some suggestion I had made and I said, "Well, it's your book," and he sort of mocked me for that. [Laughter.] But that's what I really believe. I believe it with poetry, too. The texts are so personal. Yes, there are times when I've worked with poets to edit their work, but usually you either buy into what they're doing or you don't. If you don't, you shouldn't be working with them, and if you do, you realize that they know what they're doing.

What were the hardest lessons for you to learn when you were a younger editor?
One of the really hard lessons was realizing how much of a crapshoot publishing is—how you can love something and do everything you can for it, and yet fail at connecting it to an audience. Maybe you misjudged it. Maybe it didn't get the right breaks. One of the hardest things to come to grips with is how important the breaks are. There's luck in publishing, just like in any human activity. And if you don't get the right luck—if Mitchi [Michiko Kakutani of the New York Times] writes an uncomprehending review, or if you don't get the right reviews, or if books aren't in stores when the reviews come, or whatever the hell it is—it may not happen. That was one of the hardest lessons: how difficult it is to actually be effective.

Another really hard thing is that, as a young editor, each book is like your baby. I remember wanting to publish Peter Schjeldahl's biography of Frank O'Hara so desperately. I lost it to some other editor who paid more money, and I was melancholy about it for months. Of course the book ended up never being written. [Laughter.] But at the time I felt like a piece of me had somehow been sawn off. I wanted to pour myself into that project so much, and it takes time for that sense of wanting, and identification—which is what publishers live on, really—to relax a little. I see my young editors going through that and I empathize so much. But you have to learn to let go of things. That was a very painful lesson.

But when I was young I had so much reverence for writing. Elizabeth Bishop was my teacher in college—she was my favorite teacher, and I revered her work, and I loved her as a person very, very much—and I remember that when she would invite us over for dinner I would get almost physically ill. It was this combination of conflicting feelings: excitement, discomfort, a sense of unworthiness. It mattered so deeply that it made me almost physically ill. Caring that much was painful. I don't know if that's a lesson but it was certainly something where the intensity of my devotion was overwhelming.

How did you end up in New York?
I started in Boston in 1973, and in 1975 they sent me down here. I wanted to be in New York. After college I'd gone to England for a couple of years on a fellowship. I was in Cambridge, but I spent a lot of time in London, and I realized that I wanted to live in a metropolis. So I came down here. But I was working for Houghton Mifflin, which was a Boston company that had very conflicted feelings about New York. I was very interested in publishing young writers, and I felt that Houghton was kind of stick-in-the-mud-ish and that a place like Knopf or Random House would do that better. It was sort of callow of me because Houghton had been very good to me. They had let me start a poetry series, they had let me publish first novels. And I learned so much there.

But I was a young man in a hurry and eventually I was offered a job at Random House. Jason [Epstein] was the one who hired me. And that didn't go well. There were a number of reasons, some of which were my fault. Jason had a sort of sink-or-swim approach, which was fine, but he was also not terribly interested in what other people were doing. I was used to being the kid who got to do what he wanted. But I wasn't a kid anymore and there was a lot of internal competition and I just didn't respond well to that. I didn't do well. And Random House had Knopf next door, where Bob Gottlieb was at the apogee of his effectiveness. He was a terrific publisher. Random House was always sort of vying to live up to that. The books I was doing were Knopf-y, within Random House, and I just didn't know how to make that work. Someone else could have, I think.

What did you take away from those years at Random House?
I learned a huge amount. Not all of it was pleasant. I learned a lot about competition and how literary life really worked, because Houghton Mifflin was a little bit off to the side. Random House had a kind of glossiness to it that wasn't really me, even though they were a very effective publisher. In the Bennett Cerf days, Random House had been in some ways an ideal publisher because they were what I would call a "best of breed" publisher. They could publish Gertrude Stein, and Faulkner, and O'Neill, but also a lot of very commercial books. And they all sat next to each other comfortably. By the time I got there that had dissipated and there were all sorts of other pressures. But they were a much more confident publisher than Houghton Mifflin.

Knopf was also there, and you saw that it was about a sort of consistency of commitment. They knew how to publish literary books. They published one after another, and some of them would work and some of them wouldn't, and they had a system that was very well oiled. They had a place in the publishing universe, so a lot of their work was already done for them. If they committed to publishing an author, you knew that the Times Book Review was going to pay attention, and this, that, and the other thing were going to happen. That's what that little machine existed for, and they ran it very well.

I actually think that when Bob left publishing, to go to the New Yorker, everything changed in my business. Bob was such a dominant figure in literary publishing that he kind of controlled prices. A lot of people would go to him to be published without auctions because they wanted to be with him. He sort of set the prices in the sense that he wouldn't participate in auctions. It wasn't that he was unfair—he was fair and generous. But he was reasonable. When he left, that was over. Auctions became much more a part of how most books were sold, and the prices went up, and the whole game became more about money. This was in the mid-eighties, and it was a watershed moment in publishing.

I learned some other lessons that were not so nice. It wasn't a collegial place. People really didn't wish each other well, which I wasn't used to. But looking back on it I think it was a difficult situation that I could have responded to differently. I think I grew up a lot during that time.

How did you get from there to FSG?
After I was fired, Roger [Straus] gave me a job. FSG was pretty far down at that point. Roger's son, Rog, had come back to the company and I think they were trying to revivify it. Luckily, they hired me. And the minute I got there, things clicked and I felt like I was totally at home.

This was a real turning point for you.
It was. Basically the first book I signed up was Presumed Innocent, which was a huge best-seller. It was a first for FSG, and it was exactly the kind of book I was supposed to have been publishing at Random House. Of course there was great joy in Mudville about that. [Laughter.] But you have to remember that when I was in college, Lowell and Bishop were my teachers, and both of them were published by FSG. So FSG books had an aura of sanctity. To come and work here was amazing. I just felt like FSG was good at doing the kinds of books I wanted to do. It was still the old days then—it was still a small independent publisher and that was still a viable thing. But it had taken me a long time to get going as an editor. I'd been in publishing for over ten years before I got to FSG and it all came together.

Tell me a little about the atmosphere of the place.
Did you ever visit the old offices? When I came we were on the fourth floor of 19 Union Square West. Calvin Trillin said it looked like a branch office of a failing insurance company. It looked like something out of a porn magazine. It was dirty linoleum and cockroaches and just really, really gross. When we moved up to the old Atlantic Monthly Press office on the eleventh floor, my health improved.

What about the personalities?
In those days Roger was there, of course. Pat [Strachan] was there. Bob Giroux was still around. Michael di Capua. Aaron Asher was gone, but David Reiff was working there as an editor. Rog was there. It was a very personality-filled company with a lot of smart people who were very dedicated. But they never took themselves too seriously. That's one thing I've always loved about FSG. With Knopf I always felt that there was a snootiness—they would look down their noses. That was never true at FSG. It was scrappy; it was irreverent. I mean, they took literature extremely seriously, but they never took themselves seriously. It was a very good-natured place where people wished each other well. I think people felt like they were doing something good. The pay was terrible, and the conditions were terrible, but everybody knew why they were there. And we all felt like it was a privilege to work there. I think both Roger and Bob were responsible for that in different ways. Roger loved the game of publishing. He loved competing. He loved having enemies, being outrageous, swearing, making nasty comments. That was fun for him. Bob was more bankerly and serious, but literature had an unquestioned importance for him. It was a part of life that really mattered. I wouldn't say that that doesn't exist in publishing today, but it does feel different today. At that time books had a cultural primacy that they don't quite have now. Books have been sort of moved to the side by other media. It's not that people don't read books. But books are one among a smorgasbord of options. Whereas in those days books were still where cultural life was centered. People were decrying the influence of television, but books were still more at the center.

A couple years after that you became editor in chief. Was there any friction between you and Roger?
Not a lot. I think I was lucky that I came along at the moment in his life when I did. He and Rog loved each other, but they were not natural business partners. I was able to be a kind of business son in a way that his real son couldn't. We had some set-tos, but not a lot. He was much mellower and less threatened in his later years. There had been a time when a number of really talented editors didn't survive at FSG.

What would you and Roger argue about?
Well, he didn't always like what I liked, but he was pretty tolerant. There would be issues involving money and how much we could pay for things. Roger loved to fight with people. I always thought that wasn't good business practice. I thought it was better to get along with people so you could have another deal with them down the line. I remember one time when I said, "Don't you think we should make up with so-and-so?" He said, "Don't give me any of that Christian stuff, Galassi. I'm a vindictive Jew." [Laughter.] He enjoyed having enemies. But all in all we had fun together, and he was like a father to me in a lot of ways.

Tell me about the transition from editor in chief to publisher.
That was a little difficult in the sense that it had to do with Roger's mortality. When he sold the company in 1994, the deal was that he would run it as long as he could. He did, and he continued to act like an independent for many years. But he slowed down eventually. One of the difficulties I had was that there was a lot of deferred maintenance. In other words, things kept going in a certain way longer than maybe they should have in some areas. The company remained a very personal fiefdom of Roger's even after it had been owned by someone else for a long time. And with that goes what I would call deferred maintenance. The biggest and most significant change I made was bringing in Andrew Mandel to be the deputy publisher. He helped organize and rationalize our practices in a lot of ways. It's still an editorially driven house—the editors still decide what we're going to publish—but the business aspects are a little less seat-of-the-pants and a little more planned out and fiscally responsible. The other thing is that I wasn't editor in chief anymore. I do fewer books and have a lot of other responsibilities. I usually have another editor work with me on projects. I've had to step back from some things. I can't edit these thousand-page books with the kind of assiduity that I used to. I'm still editing a lot of books, but there are just more other things I have to do. It's like how I said earlier that the book is your baby—now the company becomes your baby. You're thinking about ways to strategize for the future. You're thinking about, "How is FSG going to continue to be a literary publisher?" It's more about the organism as a whole and less about any single book. You're asking yourself, "How can we maximize the lives of all the books we do, both in the current environment and in the future?"

What are you looking at when you're thinking about those things?
I'm thinking about the proportions of what we publish, for example. Another one of the things I've been excited about recently is bringing Mitzi Angel here to run Faber. Stephen Page and I decided to take Faber and make it a bigger player in the conspectus of American publishing. That's a really exciting thing and I think Mitzi's doing a fabulous job. So we're trying to expand our bouquet. We also have people like Lorin [Stein] and Courtney [Hodell] coming along who are doing really fresh publishing, and we're trying to give them the support they need. We're also trying to expand our nonfiction publishing to balance the literary publishing because a lot of serious readers read nonfiction and we want those readers too.

Tell me about some of the high moments in your life as a publisher.
One of my happy moments has to do with Denis Johnson. We published two books by Denis in the early nineties: Jesus' Son, which was one of the best books I ever published, and Resuscitation of a Hanged Man, which was also a wonderful book. But then Denis left. He went to Robert Jones at Harper. He was dissatisfied. He didn't think that we were doing enough for his books. But he came back to us for Tree of Smoke and it became a New York Times best-seller and won the National Book Award. So there was a great sense of happiness and accomplishment that we came back together and were able to help him achieve so much.

What are some other great moments like that?
When the manuscript of [Marilynne Robinson's] Gilead came in. This is a book that had been under contract for so many years that...it wasn't that we forgot about it, but we didn't know if or when it would appear. And then it came in. It was perfect. Almost nothing was done to it. It was one of those experiences of spiritual uplift. To come across a book that you knew was a great book? And you were reading it first!

The second great moment is when it actually becomes a book—a physical thing. I always feel that when you put a book into proofs it gets better just by virtue of being set in print. I know a lot of writers feel that way too. It takes on a kind of permanence. And then it's even more satisfying when it becomes an actual book.

How did you meet Alice McDermott?
Alice was sent to me by Harriet Wasserman, who was a very important person in the beginning of my publishing life. Her office at Russell & Volkening was in the same building as Houghton Mifflin's New York office. I got to know her and eventually became very close to her. We did a number of really interesting projects together and Alice was one of the first. She gave me these pages from this book about a young woman working at a vanity press, and that was the beginning of A Bigamist's Daughter. She was such an assured writer. She had such definition and wit and this very subtle, cool, deadpan humor. She's one of the most amazing stylists I know. And she's such a modest and well-spoken and well-behaved person. I took that project with me from Houghton Mifflin to Random House, and I remember that, after she turned it in, several weeks went by and somehow it came out that I hadn't paid her the advance that was due on delivery. I said, "Why didn't you tell me? Why didn't you ask for it?" She was too well-behaved to ask. [Laughter.] She's someone who didn't write just one wonderful book—she's produced a lot of them. Her methods of writing are very original. She's always writing two books at once, and she ends up choosing one. The other one goes in a drawer somewhere. Which means there are all these incredible, unrealized books by Alice McDermott somewhere. But she uses one to bring out the other. I think it's a very interesting psychological thing. It's like she's always having twins. One twin comes to life and the other twin is still gestating somewhere.

One thing that always fascinates me is how people view their jobs and their various responsibilities. Give me a sense of how you view yours.
I think my responsibility—my task and my joy—is to try to make FSG as effective an instrument for publishing as possible. To make it strong and to help it make a difference in the publishing business. FSG is a lot different than it was when I came here. But what I don't think is different is the attitude about what's important to publish. That is my biggest responsibility—to make sure that that stays at the center of what we're doing. And that we believe literature is important and that our mission is to enhance the dissemination of it. So while everything has changed around the core of FSG, I don't think the core has changed at all.

And if you had to articulate that core and what's important to publish?
I think it's about the voices of writers. FSG really became FSG when Bob [Giroux] came and brought people like Flannery O'Connor and Robert Lowell and Elizabeth Bishop. Those writers, who were all very distinctive and idiosyncratic, contributed to the essence of American literature in their time. And our desire is to continue to be a place where people like that feel at home and feel that we're doing the best we can for their work—and the public feels that the books we publish have value. It's a business, and I love the fact that it's a business. I really think it's much better for publishing to be a commercial enterprise. But it's not just a business. It's about selling something that you believe in.

What houses do you feel competitive with?
I feel very competitive with Knopf. But I feel competitive—and when I say "competitive" I also mean that I feel collegial—with people all over. You and Morgan [Entrekin]. New Directions, who I love. Penguin Press, both in America and in the UK, is a really fabulous publishing house. I think Cape is great. I think Chatto is great.

Who do you feel the most competitive with?
I guess we still think of Knopf as the big giant. We're the we-try-harder. But we're not really like Knopf. We're different. We're smaller. But I think they do a really good job with a lot of great books.

When you suspect you're going up against them for a book, what's your pitch?
My answer to that is that it only makes sense for authors to be published here who want to be published here. In other words, if they buy into our approach and feel that we will do well by their work, that works. If it's about money alone we're not going to tend to win those contests. Someone else can always come up with more money. So what we have to offer is ourselves, and our approach, and what I would do to compete is just tell the author what we think about the book, ask him what he wants from a publisher, and show him how we've done other books in the past. What else can I do?

What's the biggest practical difference, in your mind, between FSG and Knopf?
We're smaller, and that means we can give more attention to each project. We have a very good publishing team. Jeff Seroy is a brilliant publicity and marketing guy. Spencer Lee, our sales guy, is terrific. And there's a cohesiveness to what we do.

It can be difficult to articulate what exactly you're looking for as an editor, but tell me about something recently that captivated you for whatever reason, and talk about why.
The book that we're doing now that comes to mind is All the Living by C. E. Morgan. It's a first novel by a young woman and it's about Kentucky. It was sent to me by Ellen Levine, who is Marilynne Robinson's agent. We publish Marilynne, and this author admires her a lot. I think it was offered to other publishers too, and I don't know if we offered the most money, but we certainly paid a serious advance for it. What I felt was so unusual about it was the voice and the consistency of her approach. She's created a sort of small myth. It's concise. It's intense. It's very different from most other fiction we see in that it's so much about the place. It's very American in that way. It's not ironic. It's not disabused. It's very American in its romance about place and about death and love. I found it very primal and beautiful in a restrained way.

But right now we're also publishing John Wray's book, Lowboy, which Eric's doing. Courtney's doing the Wells Tower book [Everything Ravaged, Everything Burned]. Lorin's about to publish Clancy Martin's book, How to Sell. All of these books are different in terms of their angles of attack, but they're all very strong voices. And they don't sound like anyone else. I think the voice is the most important thing—and then the shape.

One thing that I don't see a lot of today, and that I used to be very taken with, is the bigger kind of novel. Social novels, even. I think of The Twenty-seventh City. That was a first novel that just blew me away. On the one hand there was The Twenty-seventh City and on the other hand was The Virgin Suicides.

Another book that I'm really excited about is Amy Waldman's first novel, The Submission, which is a social novel. It's a fictional account of the attempt to build the World Trade Center memorial. It's a fantastic book about politics, art, religion, and all the different issues there. I very seldom see novels that have that kind of social reach.

What else are you looking for when you're evaluating a piece of fiction? Are you looking for a certain kind of sensibility or anything like that?
I think that would fall under voice. I remember when I read [Roberto] Bolaño's Savage Detectives. I read an Italian version and just thought it had so much verve and humor. It was so sexy. It had a kind of buoyancy and it was so alive. Voice is one way of looking at it but aliveness is another way. And I think voice is kind of being killed in a lot of writing today. When you look at the New Yorker, the voices are much less idiosyncratic than they used to be. It's being edited in a different way than it used to be.

Why do you think that is?
I don't know. They used to publish a lot of long pieces and it may have something to do with readers' attention spans being different. We published a very good book last year, the autobiography of the composer John Adams. The New Yorker ran a piece of it and the author told me that they tried to iron out the idiosyncrasies of his style. He gave them a fight. He was very bemused by why they would try to change his little quirks.

One of the books that I was most proud of publishing last year was the Lowell-Bishop correspondence. The thing that makes that book so wonderful is the idiosyncrasy of the way they write.

I have a quote for you: "Most words put down on paper are not interesting, or don't make sense, or are stilted. You can tell within two pages that something is not going to work." That's you, twelve years ago. I completely agree and I'm curious what common problems you notice in the work of beginning writers.
I used to be kind of uptight about writing-school writing—it can be hard to emerge with your own voice—but I'm less aware of that now. I think a lot of people learn to write by imitating and that's perfectly legitimate. That's how poets learn to write. I remember that Elizabeth Bishop used to make us write imitations of other writers. But if you want to publish your work, you better have moved beyond that. Only a few people in the world are meant to be writers. And those are people who really can't say things the way other people would. It's involuntary. Milosz had this great line that poetry should only be written under unbearable pressure and in the hope that good spirits, not evil, choose us for their instrument. The idea is that the people who should write are the people who can't not write. I think there are a lot of people who want to write, and who want to say something, but a lot of them don't have anything to say.

What will make you want to throw a first novel across the room?
Pretentiousness. When the writer is trying to be cool, or ironic, or when the work just isn't genuine. It's like what [U.S. Supreme Court Justice] Potter Stewart said about pornography: You know it when you see it. You can tell when you're reading something genuine. You feel it. There are writers whose voices are quite self-conscious and who I think are great. André Aciman, for example. I'm working on his new novel right now. His writing is about self-consciousness. It's about questioning what you just said, revising what you just said. It's very Proustian in that way. And I love it. It's very genuine. That's just the way his mind works.

What is it about the work of a debut poet that will make it stand out from the others enough that you want to take it on? Is it different than with fiction?
It's not really different. It's the voice and the angle and the attitude. We don't take on very many debut poets because we have so many ongoing writers. I miss that. I read that piece in the New Yorker about the Dickman brothers and felt a little out of it.

Is there a debut poet you've taken on recently who you could talk about?
Maureen McLane is an example. I knew Maureen as a critic before I read her poetry. She's a brilliant critic of contemporary poetry. And then I read her poems, which have a kind of freshness that takes you back to the modernism of H. D. and Pound. It's very classical in its directness. I thought, "This is totally outside the lingo of most poets." It's pure and in touch with tradition in a very direct way. I felt the same way about Eliza Griswold's book, which we did a couple of years ago and which won the Rome Prize. Both of those poets write in ways that are outside of the lingo of the various schools of poetry. They're different. You can't tell who their teachers were.

You've lamented the blockbuster mentality that's arisen in publishing, where it's become easier for a publisher to sell a first novel and harder for an author to build a career over a number of books that sell modestly. Can you speak to that for writers?
Suppose I had written a first novel that five publishers wanted to publish and the range of offers was from fifty thousand dollars to four hundred thousand. I probably wouldn't go with the fifty-thousand-dollar offer, and I might well go with the four-hundred-thousand-dollar offer. But I hope that I would think through how the publisher was going to try to make that money back. What's the publisher's idea of what to do with my book? Of course if you're a young person who has never made a penny and all of a sudden somebody offers you a lot of money, you're going to take it. You need it. But I don't think that's necessarily the right thing to do.

Why?
Because if your book doesn't do well and earn that money back, or make a credible showing, you're going to have a harder time the next time. That's why I think the old system was better. Forty years ago, your agent would likely have sent your book to editors one at a time, but even if it was done as a multiple submission, the differential between the offers would not have been as great. The choice would be made on other bases. I know that this may sound self-serving, but I do think that real careers are built stepwise. I still believe that. And I haven't seen a lot of careers built the other way. I think a lot of agents, especially younger ones, feel that the commitment the big advance represents is what's going to bring the author success. But I don't think that's true.

That's the Andrew Wylie philosophy. You have said that FSG is a living contradiction to that model, where more money is perceived as meaning more oomph.
I think that a really good agent should be able to get the right publisher, which the agent has already figured out, get as much money as she can from that publisher, and make a deal, rather than have the amount of money determine the sale. That's what the best agents do. They may solicit a lot of action, but they know where they want to place the author. They may use competition to jack up their preferred publisher as high as they will go, and there may be times when the differential is so big that they aren't going to be able to go with that target publisher, but I think that's the right way to do it: for the agent to work the process so that the author ends up with the right publisher paying as much as they comfortably can. There's an edge of commitment that makes the publisher feel they have to be alert, but they haven't gone beyond their zone of comfort for the book.

But Andrew might say that they should be pushed beyond their comfort zone. Is there any chance he's right?
I haven't seen that here. We don't sit around and say, "Well, we paid x for this book so we'd better do something special." Everyone knows what the situation is. But even if you'd better do it doesn't mean that it's going to work.

But we know that there are different levels of effort.
Sure.

That's why I sometimes wonder if there's any chance he's right. I mean, I'm with you. I work at Grove, for God's sake.
Part of what I'm talking about is the agent using the process to push the publisher to the point where it's costing them something to acquire the book. They're not just picking up the book for nothing and throwing it against the wall and hoping it sticks. They're going to have to think and be creative in publishing it. You can blame Andrew all you want, but the people who are responsible for the overpayments in publishing are publishers, not agents or authors. The publishers are the ones who agree to do it, and they're the only ones who can be blamed for it. We walk away from books that we'd like to publish every day because they're out of our comfort zone—out of our rational calculation of what we think we should be risking on them. Very good agents, who I have a lot of respect for, have said to me, "If I were you I wouldn't be paying big advances." I think that if we could inject some of that realism into the process we'd have a healthier business.

They say that to you kind of off the record?
Yeah. I'm not going to say who they are, but yes, very good agents have said that to me. Because I think they understand that if the publishers kill themselves off, the agents aren't going to have people to publish their authors' work. It's not that I don't want authors to make money. I do. I want them to get rich, because then their publishers will be doing well too. But I don't want them to get rich at the expense of the larger institution. That's no help to them. It will weaken the publishers, and then we won't be effective.

Are there any other insights you can offer writers about agents?
I think the ideal publishing experience is when the agent and the publisher can work together to promote the career of the author. Yes, the agent sometimes barks at the publisher about something, but basically they all feel that they're on the same team. That's how really good agents operate. Really good agents are also just as devoted to the work as you and I are. It's the same profession from a different angle. As I said, authors should want an agent who knows where to place them—not someone who's throwing a ball up in the air and seeing who jumps highest.

But if you're a writer, and you don't work in publishing, it can be hard to figure out which agents do that.
But what you can tell is how they react to your work. You can listen to what they say about it editorially and aesthetically. That's the first thing you would want: someone who understands what you're doing and is not trying to make you into something you aren't.

But once the agent has cleared that hurdle in your mind, as a writer, how do you figure out the other stuff? How do you know how good they actually are at placing your work at the right house?
I think it's like picking a dentist—you go by recommendation and word of mouth and looking at who else the agent represents. What's happened to those other writers? I think that's how agents get their clients.

With nonfiction, agenting has evolved to the point where agents have become very involved in the proposals.
Sometimes they write them.

Exactly. Do you think it's ethical for agents to work very heavily on a proposal without disclosing that to prospective editors?
We often talk about this. I think that a good agent is an editor, but at the same time it's not ethical for an agent to write a proposal for an author. The author needs to write it. The agent can criticize it and suggest improvements—and should—but sometimes we wonder who actually wrote the proposal. You can usually get a feel for that. But I don't think it's ethical for an agent to do more than make suggestions to the author. They have to write it themselves.

How do you feel about the new primacy that agents have assumed in the lives of writers? Editors and publishers have been displaced to some extent. Are you okay with that?
What I don't like is when an agent tries to interpose his or her body between you and the author—when the agent is proprietary and everything needs to be communicated through them and they don't want you to have your own relationship with the author. I find that very frustrating and alienating and counter to the idea I was just talking about where it's a collaboration between the agent and the publisher and the author. I think you're right in that over time the agent has become more important in the author's life, partly because authors move around more than they used to. But when you've worked with an author over many years, you do develop a really close relationship. The agent has his or her own relationship with the author, and a good agent wants you to be close with the author.

What do you find most frustrating about agents?
I have a certain sympathy for agents on the money thing. They're getting pressure from their authors. Just the way that you and I feel like, "Well, if we don't come up withx amount of money, Ann Godoff will," they feel that too. They may lose their author if they can't deliver what the author needs. I empathize with that. But I think a strong agent is confident enough and knowledgeable enough about the business, and about history, and about how careers work in the long term, that she can say to her author, "Look, this is what's in your interest. It may not seem to be in the short term, but it is in the long term." And that's coming from the seat of experience. I'm close to a number of agents, personally, and I have a lot of respect for their contribution to our business. And yes, we argue. We don't always agree. I sometimes feel that they're trying to take advantage. But all in all, it's just like how I said it only makes sense for authors to be here who want to be here: The agents who we work with best are the ones who get why FSG is good for their authors. It's a collaborative process and doesn't need to be hostile. A really good agent is your ally as well as your adversary at times.

On the flip side of the world of huge advances is the midlist writer, who is really struggling today because of the computer and the sales track. Put yourself in that person's shoes and, knowing what you know, tell me what you'd do to try to change your fate.
Most books have to be midlist because only a few can be best-sellers. If you're a serious writer, you should be writing the books you're going to write.

But what if you have some ambition, as all writers do, and really want a readership and think that you deserve one?
If they deserve one, they'll get one. I believe that. I believe that eventually they will get their readership. Now, I also think there are way more people writing books than are going to get a readership. But I think that the books that really make a difference are going to have a readership. It may not be immediate. There are many examples of writers who have labored in relative obscurity for a long time until their ship came in. Look at Bolaño. His great success is posthumous and not even in his own country.

Writing is its own reward. It has to be. I really believe that. This is a part of publishing that's really hard to come to grips with. But publishers can't make culture happen the way they want it to happen. They can stand up for what they believe in, and they can work to have an impact, but in the end it's like the brilliant thing that Helen Vendler said about poets. She was asked, "What's the canon?" and she said something like, "The poets are going to decide what the canon is. The poets who poets read are the canon." I think that, in the end, that's true about all literature. The books that people read over time, and keep reading, are the books that matter. We can huff and puff and pay money and advertise and everything else, but in the end, if the readers don't come, we can't do anything about it.

Twenty years ago you called writing "a very cruel sport." Has it gotten more or less cruel since then?
I think it's probably gotten more cruel because there's more competition for people's time as readers. But all sports are cruel. Golfing is a cruel sport because only a few people are going to play on the PGA Tour. Poetry is a good bellwether because there are only a few poets who matter in the end. Even a lot of the poets who win honors are going to be filtered out in the end. It doesn't mean they aren't good. It is cruel. It's Darwinian. So if you're going to be a writer, you'd better take rewards from it over and above the public recognition. I remember something Montale said to the effect that even being a minor poet is an honorable thing. Being a novelist or a poet whose books aren't popular is a wonderful accomplishment.

In talking about book promotion you once said something interesting about believing that authors should focus on their work and leave the promotion to others. Some people would disagree with that.
Unfortunately publishers need authors to do some of that. We need authors to be able to go on Charlie Rose and the Today show and All Things Considered. We're dying for them to do those things. We're selling authors, not books. We're selling people the illusion of an experience with an author. They want to know what the author looks like, what he smells like. They want the full experience. In the old days it was "Read John Updike's new book." Now it's "Meet John Updike" or "Listen to John Updike on the audio version" or "Watch John Updike give a reading." All of that can be very distracting for writers. Certain writers aren't any good at it. If you think about it, if a writer has forty good writing years, and he publishes a book every two years, does he want to spend a third year of that cycle on selling his book, in the United States and in Europe and everywhere else? That's a big chunk out of his working life. Even though it can make things hard for us, I'm very sympathetic to authors who don't want to do that. It's not what they're best at. Their real talent is writing.

What drives you crazy about authors?
It's hard for them to drive me crazy. I actually really empathize with authors. Of course there are certain authors who are so obsessive about every little thing, and sometimes I have to deal with those things. But I can usually say to them, almost as a joke, "You're the most obsessive person I've ever worked with!" But their perfectionism is what makes them that way, and of course that's something I value in their work. And then there are authors who are just very, very selfish—just like there are people who are very selfish. You can't admire that. They can be mean, sometimes. I don't like authors who aren't appreciative of the people who help them publish their work. Some of our most famous authors are among our nicest, and then there are others who have been among our most disliked. They can earn the love or the contempt of the people who work for them. But by and large I feel that their problems are very human problems. I think authors are heroic, so I tend to think that their narcissism is justified. And let's face it: The authors you are working with are ones who you've decided are important, so you've already bought into them.

You have lamented how the role of the editor has changed over the yearsthat it used to be more about the text and now it's more about promotion.
I remember being so impressed by something I was once told by Bob Loomis, who's still going strong in his eighties and is one of the great editors at Random House. This is someone who has published so many award winners and best-sellers of all different kinds. He once said to me, "I really just work on getting the books into the best shape possible and I don't worry that much about the selling and so forth. That's other people's jobs." I thought, "Wow. That's the opposite of what everyone says you should be doing." In a way, maybe he didn't have to worry about it because he has such credibility—people believe what he says about a book and go to work. I actually think that's how it works in publishing: Once you've done it successfully a few times, it gets a lot easier. People pull with you instead of you feeling that you have to pull them along. It's true that the editor today should have ideas—he should be market-wise in acquiring books and have ideas about how to sell them. But it all starts with the book. I think the editor's principal job is to identify books and to help them be the best they can, and then to work with the rest of the company to get them across. I think Bob was absolutely right about the primary contribution an editor can make.

But that is changing, wouldn't you say?
I guess it is. I hear a lot of stuff about how editors behave and how they're playing hopscotch and how they don't really care how much they pay for books because they know they won't be around when the chickens come home to roost. I just haven't seen that. Maybe I'm working in a bit of a bubble because we're a little different than some of the other houses. I hear stories about editors who are competitive with other editors within their publishing house. I think that's very counterproductive and kind of takes the fun out of it. It's a collegial business. You're on a team together and not trying to best each other. But I see people like you and Lorin and Eric coming along who have the same sort of idealism about it that people in my generation had. I mean, why else would you do it? If you wanted to make a killing, you wouldn't go into publishing. You have to be doing it out of love.

Speaking of Eric, would you take us inside the FSG editorial meeting? What's it like?
When I first got here I wasn't very happy with the FSG editorial meeting. I remember Bob Giroux saying, "The editorial meeting is a disaster. Roger has everyone report on what they're doing, and Roger has to be in the meeting. He's too dominant." That was very indicative of the struggles between them and their differences in personalities. It was true, though. There was something about our editorial meeting that didn't allow for the kind of free-flowing quality that you want, where you bat around ideas and talk about the competition and so on. I don't think I was ever very good at that—I hate meetings—but Eric runs the meeting now and he is good at it. He's much more relaxed. We go around and talk about various projects, but there's also some general discussion. We don't use the editorial meeting to acquire books. We use it to talk about what's being considered and what we might think about doing. Even in a small house like this, we don't really know what's been submitted to everyone else. There are ways of solving that but they're quite laborious. Sometimes I hear about books that were sold and think, "Why didn't we get to see that?" Of course we did get to see it, but I didn't know about it. There are so many books out there that I wish we could have published. But as one of my bosses once said, "Don't worry about the ones that got away. Worry about the ones you're stuck with." [Laughter.] There's another line that was said by Ferris Greenslet, who was a famous editor at Houghton Mifflin in the twenties. One of his little nostrums that was quoted at us was "When in doubt, decline."

Talk to me a little about publishing in translation, which is one of the things that FSG is known for. This year you've had amazing success with Bolaño. Do you feel that it's getting easier?
I think we're getting better at it. I don't know if I've talked about my current little buzzword that I'm thinking about a lot: essentialism. We should only be doing things that are essential. I think that's a good way to approach doing translations. I myself have been guilty of not always following that rule. But Bolaño is essential. And Gomorrah, by [Roberto] Saviano, is one of the most important European books of the last five years. We're just being more selective. Another book we just bought that I'm wild about is Roberto Calasso's La Folie Baudelaire. It's about Baudelaire's Paris. He's been published by Knopf until recently but for some reason they were in doubt and declined, and we picked it up.

In a way, the market in translation is an interesting microcosm of publishing in general. You have to approach it in the same way that you do as a publisher, where you're out selling books to the world that you're saying are important. But you know that some of them will turn out to be important and a lot of them won't. You can't just go for the books that all of your foreign colleagues tell you are their important books—they have their reasons for telling you that—but the few books that are actually going to have an impact in your market. You have to look for exactly what you're looking for as a reader. And that's not always the big books. It's not always the books that are part of the big commerce of publishing and that you hear about on the fast track. Sometimes it's books that are published by small publishers and sort of come in from the side. On the other hand of that you have Gomorrah, which was the biggest book in Italian publishing in many years and which we did hear about on the fast track.

What's your favorite way to hear about an international book?
From a friend. I actually have a scout in Italy. It's the only country where we have a scout. She's a really smart woman named Caterina Zaccaroni. I don't necessarily hear about the books from her, but I'll say to her, "What about this one? What about that one?" and she has opinions about them. She saves me a lot of work. And she has books that she pushes on me herself—books that she has decided are important. There's one book that she's been trying to get me to publish for several years now, and I may just cave in and do it because she's so passionate about it. But one of the ways that FSG became an important publisher was because Roger had these people in Europe who would recommend books to him. He published all of these books in translation that other people hadn't picked up. Italian in particular was important for the early FSG. But it's hard to be confronted with the number of so-called "important" foreign books and then to figure out which few are right to publish.

Do you enjoy the international book fairs?
I love Frankfurt. Roger loved it and I inherited that love from him. I love the rituals of Frankfurt. You basically have the same appointments every year. You see the same people. You see them age and think, "Oh, if they're aging, I must be aging." [Laughter.] It's more about relationships than doing business. We try not to buy books at Frankfurt, but renewing our ties is very important. And Frankfurt is one place where American publishing doesn't dominate as much, which is nice to see. A lot of American publishers don't really get Frankfurt, and don't enjoy it, because they don't engage with the foreign publishers as much. But that's the fun part.

What disturbs you most about the way the industry has changed?
What disturbs me most about publishing today, or the reading world, is that readers aren't loyal. You can't count on continuity. There's still a certain base of readers for an author, but it's much lower than it used to be. Readers don't stick with authors. I think that's partly because readers are more occasional now, and they don't come to books on their own as much as they're told by somebody. They're told by Oprah. They're told by their book club. So they may read another book, but the next book is the next book they're told they should read. It's not that they read Anna Karenina and then go out and read War and Peace. They're less informed and less knowledgeable. They need help. I love book clubs, but I think they're indicative of the fact that reading is now an occasional entertainment for a lot of people and not the kind of obsessive devotion that it used to be. It feels like a lot more people used to read every novel by John Updike, for example, and I don't think those kind of readers are as present as they used to be.

Should publishers be doing anything to try to reverse that trend?
I don't know the answer to that. I always feels sort of ham-fisted when the ABA or AAP does those "Get caught reading" campaigns. That's not what's going to change people's reading habits. I think what publishers should do is try to publish books as well as possible and try to reach their readers in as innovative ways as possible. We have these terrible problems—that book reviews don't matter anymore, that there are fewer of them all the time. And what is taking their place? How do you reach your readers? I guess you have to do it through the Web, but I don't know if I'm buying any books because of Internet marketing. I just wonder how we're going to find the readers. The readers are there. Look, we've sold a hundred thousand copies of 2666. Somehow, people learned about that book and wanted to read it. That shows you that the readers are there. It's just getting harder to get their attention and to get them interested.

What is your take on the current retail landscape?
Bad. Actually, at our sales conference yesterday, some of the salesmen were saying that neighborhood bookstores are doing better in the economic crisis because people are more interested in buying locally and supporting small businesses. I think this crisis could have a lot of good effects for the culture. It's slowing things down—slowing down the pace of change—and making people aware of what's important in life. It's not just more, more, more. But I think all of the traditional bookstore chains are in trouble. Amazon is very, very effective. But I think Amazon is a potential...it's a frenemy. It's not just interested in being a bookstore. So I think we have to sell our own books to people.

Are you guys doing that?
We do it. We don't want to muscle out the retailers. But I think that in the conspectus of the different players in the publishing business, the bookstores are the weakest link in the chain. It's just like with music. There are always going to be bookstores, but I don't think that's where the future of bookselling is.

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Where do you think the future of bookselling is?
With the publishers. I think the publishers will be selling the books directly.

Are you talking about digitally or physical books?
Both. I think there are always going to be people who want physical books, but I think the digital part of the business is going to increase. One of the things that all publishers are worried about now is this idea that a book on Kindle is worth $9.99. If that establishes the price of what a book is worth, what does that say? What if I want to sell Maureen McLane's book as a hardcover for twenty-four dollars? I think that's a problem. Again, it's a lesson from the music business. People have been used to the idea that intellectual property—that a book, an artwork—is worth a certain amount of money. It's a mark of respect, in a way. But if you turn it into a widget, where every book is worth the same amount, it's not good. This is where the author, the agent, and the publisher should be working together to protect their mutual interest. And not have the business be decided by a seller.

By Amazon.
Yeah. We should be deciding what a book is worth, not them. It's a problem.

Are you envisioning bookstores going away the way that record stores did?
I think that bookstores are going to be around, but I don't think they're going to be the major channel. Especially if we go more and more digital.

It will be like in music, where there's a nice little record store down the street that nobody goes to.
They buy their music on iTunes. I still buy CDs, but a lot of my friends don't bother. They download it onto their iPods.

So how do we protect our authors' interests and our interests in a situation like this where it's very complicated and there are a lot of competing interests, including bookstores?
Look, I don't want bookstores to go away. But I think they're vulnerable. I just don't think we should be letting a retailer decide what a book is worth.

What's the bigger issue in your mind? Is it the digital stuff or is it the old issues like returns? It's complicated because it's all happening at different speeds.
In a digital world there would be no returns. Returns are a huge drag on our business. The waste is just enormous, and once that is gone it will help our business enormously.

Do you think this digital stuff is going to happen that quickly?
Well, it seems to be speeding up. It's still a very small part of the business, which is something you have to keep in mind as you do your business. We're still selling physical books, mainly, and mainly through bookstores. But everyone's obsessed with change, and everyone's afraid that if they aren't on top of it, they're going to be eaten. And they should be afraid. But in the meantime we have to continue publishing the old fashioned way. That's the thing about these kinds of changes: They're all add-ons. Yes, you're doing Internet marketing, but you're still doing all of the old processes too. So that's a strain on our systems—we have to do all of this R&D. But still, as I said earlier, when the dust has cleared from this crisis we're in, I think we'll have a smaller business but a healthier business.

How do you feel about paperback originals?
I'm for them. We're doing more of them. There's a practical problem with paperback originals, which is that you can't pay that much for them. So you have to find an author who understands that. People always say, "Why don't you do this book as a paperback original?" Well, fine. But the advance available for that is going to be about a quarter of what you might get if we did it in hardcover. We still haven't solved that. But we're doing it more and I think it's the right way to publish a lot of books. And if it works, it can launch an author and later they can do a hardcover book.

You have voiced concerns about the model of conglomerate publishing and its demands of growth in a notoriously low-growth business. When you look toward the future and think about what's best for authorsserious authorswhat would be the best publishing industry of the future look like?
I think small is beautiful. I think small houses like yours and mine are very hospitable to serious writers because they become part of the family. It's a family business in many ways. When a relationship is good, and when the results are good, the author becomes part of the family of the publishing house. There's a kind of collaborative emotional component. The fact is, in the digital world where everybody can do everything at his own desk, it's not like you have to go to a Simon & Schuster to get your book published effectively. It can be done by anybody who's a pro. What you get in the small house is a connection with someone who understands you and can promote your work with a personal commitment.

Do you feel like the big, publicly traded media companies might give up on book publishing?
I actually think there is going to be more consolidation. Look at something like Penguin. They have a lot of little pods—that's their approach—and it works well for them. I think it's possible that some of these companies will get spun off. But if I were running one of these big companies I would try to have smaller entities within them. I don't really know the answer. Look at what's happening to Houghton Mifflin. It's so sad. The midsize companies have really been squeezed worse than the small ones.

A few years before FSG was sold, you said the company was doing well because it wasn't able to play "the money game." Now that you are able to play the money game, and sometimes do pay big advances, why would you say you're doing well?
I think we've stayed pretty close to our mission. I think we've become more focused as a publisher. With regard to big advances, I'll tell you a dirty little secret. I think that very often the big advances you pay, at least for a company like ours, don't end up having the result you want. Sometimes you just have to pay them. But the real successes, which make the difference in our business, don't come from the books for which we pay big money. When we pay a big advance our job is to earn back what we gave the author so that we come out clean—basically break even or make a small profit. Whereas a book where we start much lower, and go a big distance, is much more mutually profitable. That model is also much more what we ought to be about, I think.

So, no, there aren't books that we can't buy because of money. When Becky Saletan was here we had the chance to bid on Hillary Clinton's book. And we did. We bid a lot of money. I always knew we wouldn't get it because we were being used to bid up Simon & Schuster. We all knew that. We didn't offer as much as they did, but we offered a lot of money, and I suppose we would have made that money back. But we're a small house, and a big advance that doesn't work out can do a lot more damage to us, relatively speaking, than it does to a Simon & Schuster, which takes a lot of bets all the time. So yes, we do pay big advances sometimes, especially for our established authors, but the real lifeblood of our business is not in doing that.

Do you think the proliferation of big advances will ever change?
I think it is changing. Books that seem like a sure thing are always going to be worth a lot of money, but I don't think they're worth quite as much as they were. And if they don't work out? I think there's more realism, even on the part of the really big authors.

When you find yourself in a situation where you're bidding aggressively on a book, how do you decide whether to go further or to stop?
We try to decide beforehand what we think the book is worth—we do P&Ls and all of those calculations—and stick to it. And most of the time we're pretty disciplined. But when we stretch? It's because of belief in the author, the prospect of a long-term relationship, and passion. But if you stretch beyond the prudent level it can feel like, "Where's the morning-after pill? Sure, that was really great sex, but...." I'd much rather have that experience when we publish the book.

Tell me about the moments when you feel the burden of your office.
It's no fun to tell an editor they can't do something they really want to do. It's no fun to have an unpleasant conversation with an author or an agent. I like to make people happy, if I can. But I've found that it's just like anything else: The anticipation of those things is usually much worse than actually carrying them out. I mean, I've been fired, so I know what it's like on both sides. This will probably sound callow, but it's usually better for everyone. If it's happening, it's happening because something isn't working. So it's better for both parties to cut their losses and start anew.

So many people in the industry admire you. I'm curious about some of the people who you admire the most.
There are so many of them. I'm not very good at pulling names out of hats so I'm sure I'll wake up tomorrow and think, "Why didn't I mention this person or that person?" When I was starting out I had a huge amount of admiration for Bob Gottlieb. He was just one of many people I admired, but I thought that he was good at so many different kinds of publishing. He sort of set the standard, in fiction especially. These days I admire Sonny [Mehta] very much. I admire Pat [Strachan] a great deal. I admire Morgan [Entrekin]. He's the last of the breed that Roger was, as an independent publisher. He does it in a different way than Roger because the competitive playing field is less even than it was when Roger was doing it, but he's definitely a gent and a man of great integrity and a wonderful publisher. He's really good for our business. I admire Graywolf Press—I think Fiona McRae does a fantastic job. I admire Lynn Nesbit, among a lot of other agents who have been great for our business.

What makes you admire somebody?
I admire people who are having fun doing what we do and who do it with passion and devotion and integrity—and do it really well. I mean, you have to remember that I was a very slow starter in this business. I slogged along for a long time until I had some good fortune and found a place where I could do what I believed in. I think the thing I really admire... Pat is a good example. She's just kept doing what she believes in, very, very consistently, for a long time. Drenka [Willen] is another editor I admire in the same way. I admire Norton—they've stuck to what they do. I grieve for places like Houghton Mifflin and Harcourt, whose approach to publishing seemed very right and true. I just think that they were eviscerated by their owners, and it's a terrible shame. Jonathan Burnham is a very formidable competitor and someone I admire a lot.

How are you feeling about Grand Central after losing Scott Turow to them?
I'm very fond of them, actually. Jamie Raab called me and there are no hard feelings. I'm absolutely sure that it wasn't a case of Grand Central going after him. I think Scott decided that he needed to take a new tack in his career. I'm sure he decided to go to them because they have his paperbacks. And their approach to publishing is different than ours. In the days when we sold our paperback rights, we sold more books to Warner [now Grand Central], at a certain point, than anyone. They were very good. I also admire St. Martin's Press—they do a fabulous job.

Did you read the proposal for the book they just bought about the history of FSG?
I did read it. It came into my hands. I actually thought that Boris [Kachka] got the story really well. I mean, I don't know who's going to want to read it.... [Laughter.]

Did they come to you and ask if they could buy it?
They asked if we had any objections and I said no. I don't think we should be censoring things like that. I don't think there are any dirty secrets to tell. I'm sure there are juicy stories, but I don't think there's anything to hide.

Are there any books that you feel embarrassed for not having read?
There are a lot of great books that I haven't read. I've never read Bleak House, for example. I've never read The Brothers Karamazov. I haven't read Thomas Bernhard. How's that? [Laughter.]

Do you have any big regrets?
If I had been a different person, I might have tried to be a writer instead of getting a job. My friend Jim Atlas went off and wrote his Delmore Schwartz book after school. I've always thought that was a very gutsy thing to do. I always admired his courage and craziness in doing that, and he wrote a great book and it paid off. Or look at someone like Jonathan Franzen, who went and sat in a room for five years and wrote The Twenty-seventh City. I've always thought, "That's heroic." And I'm not heroic. So I don't know if that's a regret but it's definitely a Walter Mittyish admiration for people who do that.

I regret that I was too callow to make my time at Random House productive. I never learned how to operate in that system. I had been coddled at Houghton Mifflin, and I think I was cocky, and then I came up against the monolith of Random House. They weren't bending to do things my way and I should have tried to figure out how to do things their way. I think I could have learned more.

You grieve over relationships. We published Oscar Hijuelos's book The Mambo Kings Play Songs of Love, which was another book I did with Harriet. It won the Pulitzer Prize and did wonderfully. We did one more book together, and it didn't go terribly well, and then he left. That was sad—we had been very close and we aren't any more. I'm regretful that my time working with Scott Turow is over and that we aren't going to be publishing the sequel to Presumed Innocent, which would have been a lot of fun. I'm regretful that Tom Wolfe had to leave FSG. I'm regretful that Pat Strachan left FSG all those years ago. It would have been fun to have worked together and it would have been enriching for us. I'm very regretful that Philip Roth left Farrar, Straus. I think that was unnecessary, and it was very sad. It was a real loss for us—he was a perfect FSG author. I regret that Joseph Brodsky died so young and that Thom Gunn is no longer with us.

The more I think about it, the more regrets I have. [Laughter.]

At the end of the day, what's the most rewarding part of your job?
It's the intimacy with the author—the love affair with the author. When you're reading the author's book, it's as intimate as any love experience, really. And if you can give them the kind of unconditional love and support that goes with that, and they feel that you're on their side, and doing good things for them, they give that love back to you. The connection with the author is very moving. And then a core of trust is built and you're sort of bound together at the hip in this aspect of life. That's one of the best feelings in the world. That's what it's all about for me.

Jofie Ferrari-Adler is an editor at Grove/Atlantic.

Agents & Editors: Jonathan Galassi

As part of his ongoing series of interviews with publishing professionals, Jofie Ferrari-Adler stopped by the office of Jonathan Galassi, the president and publisher of FSG, and asked him what he would change about his job if he could.

Agents and Editors: A Q&A With Four Literary Agents

by
Jofie Ferrari-Adler
5.1.09

In "Goodbye to All That," her 1967 essay about the years she spent in New York City as a young writer, Joan Didion recalls trying to coax a world-weary friend into attending a party by promising him "new faces." Her friend "laughed literally until he choked" before explaining that "the last time he had gone to a party where he'd been promised ‘new faces,' there had been fifteen people in the room, and he had already slept with five of the women and owed money to all but two of the men."

Several decades later, the details may be different—casual sex? what's that?—but the literary world is every bit as small as it was in Didion's heyday. The agents who congregated at the offices of the Council of Literary Magazines and Presses for this conversation (and who were chosen, it should be noted, by the editors ofthis magazine) are not new faces—to one another or to me. During our talk, one of them said that she hopes to "grow old together" with her clients. The same might be said of us publishing people, who, unlike Didion's friend and especially in these tough times, are likely to view our shared history as a comfort rather than a curse. Some particulars:

 

MARIA MASSIE worked as an agent for twelve years before joining Lippincott Massie McQuilkin as a partner in 2004. A few years ago Maria broke hearts all over town (mine included) when she sold Nigerian priest Uwem Akpan's Say You're One of Them to Little, Brown for an ungodly advance. Her other clients include Peter Ho Davies and Tom Perrotta.

JIM RUTMAN, an agent at Sterling Lord Literistic for the past ten years, is mild mannered until he steps onto a basketball court—we play on a publishing team called the Jackals—at which point he turns into a ferociously competitive shooting guard who sometimes scores half our points. His clients include Charles Bock, J. Robert Lennon, and Peter Rock.

 

ANNA STEIN worked at three other agencies before joining the Irene Skolnick Literary Agency in 2006. Once, after a writers conference in New Orleans, Anna took me and my wife to a second-line celebration (imagine a loud, roving bacchanal) in the Ninth Ward. We made our plane, but barely. Her clients include Chloe Aridjis, Yoko Ogawa, and Anya Ulinich.

 

PETER STEINBERG spent twelve years at other agencies before founding the Steinberg Agency in 2007. Peter is a kind of throwback to the golden age of publishing, when men did things like hold doors open for women and send handwritten thank-you notes—not to embarrass him or anything. His clients include Alicia Erian, Keith Donohue, and John Matteson.

Let us inside your heads a little and talk about what you're looking at and thinking about when you're evaluating a piece of fiction.
STEIN: It's really hard to talk about why a piece of writing is good, and moving—even if it's funny—and what makes us keep thinking about something after we've read it. And it's incredibly subjective. That's why it's hard for agents who represent fiction, especially literary fiction, to find it. It's so rare. We can all talk about the things we don't like. When I see clichés, for example, on the first page or in the first chapter of a book, that kind of kills it for me immediately. The romance and the chemistry is just over. That's just one example of the negative side of that question, and I'm sure you guys have a million others. If I knew how to describe in language what makes me fall in love with something, then I would be a writer. All I can say is that if I read the first few pages of a novel and think, "Jesus Christ! Who the fuck is this person? Why are they letting me read this?" then that person is onto something. And we don't have that feeling very often. But when we do see it, it's so exciting.

MASSIE: Anna's right. It's like you have this moment of clarity and you recognize something that you're so absorbed with. I read a lot of things that are beautifully written where I say to myself, "Oh, this is good," but I'm not bowled over or sucked right in. It's so subjective. I can read something and pass on it and I hear, two days later, that there was a bidding war and it sold for a ton of money, but it just wasn't the thing that I was going to fall in love with.

STEINBERG: And you're okay with that.

MASSIE: You have to be okay with it because it's so subjective. I'm not necessarily going to see what somebody else sees, or read a book the way somebody else reads it. That's one thing that writers who are looking for an agent should always remember: All agents are different. Everyone has different tastes. What I like to read might be different than Anna or Peter or Jim. That's a great thing about what we do—there's so much to choose from. And what you fall in love with is a very personal choice.

RUTMAN: And the reactions are necessarily self-contained. It's impossible to articulate what you hope to find as an agent. How could you explain to somebody what moves you? Because hopefully you're capable of being moved by things that you didn't anticipate being moved by. So you sit down with something, and all the preamble is basically pointless until the moment that you actually start searching around and rummaging for your feelings and response. It might happen on word four, or it might happen on sentence seven, but if it hasn't happened by page two, will it happen on page two hundred and fifty? I wish it did. But I don't know that it does.

Are there any specific things that can make you fall in love with a piece of writing?
STEIN: I would say that being able to make me think, especially in dialogue, "Oh, shit. This person has got me. This person has just seen into what we all feel every day but don't say. This person has looked into our souls, especially the worst sides of us, and sort of ripped them open and put them on the page." Psychology, to me, is one of the most exciting things to see work well in fiction—when it comes alive on the page and is totally devastating.

STEINBERG: When you read something and think, "I can't believe they just said what I've thought in my deepest thoughts but never articulated," that is always an eye-opener for me. And it's also about reading something that doesn't seem familiar. Writers should realize that agents have a ton of material to read, and when things seem familiar, it's an easy reason to pass. If it's something that's new, it really makes a huge difference. And I'm not talking about something being so wildly creative that it's ridiculous—not a talking plant falling in love with a turtle or something like that. I'm talking about, in a real sense, something that is genuinely new and also deeply felt. That's what we're all looking for. But at the same time, I do get things and think, "How is this like something else that has sold well?" It's a difficult balance. You have to have one foot in literature and one foot in what's going on in the marketplace.

RUTMAN: Writers probably shouldn't trouble themselves too much over that consideration. If they're aiming to hit some spot that's been working—trying to write toward the books that have made an impression—that just seems like a pretty pointless chase. You know, "I hear that circus animals are wildly appealing and I've had some thoughts about circus animals...." That doesn't seem like a very good way to go about it.

STEINBERG: A writer was just asking me about that and I said it's the agent's job to spin a book for the marketplace—to talk about it being a little like this book and a little like that book or whatever. Writers should put those kinds of thoughts out of their heads and just write.

RUTMAN: I don't know who to blame for trends. If a run of books comes 
out that are all set in a particular 
country—which happens all the time—to whom do we attribute that? To writers who are looking at things and saying, "Hmmm, I notice that fourteen years ago India was interesting to people. I think that's where I'm going to set my book"? You can't blame writers for asking what subjects are interesting these days, even when we're talking about fiction, and I wish I had a useful answer for them, but I just don't think it works that way.

STEINBERG: I would basically go with your passion. The subject matter can be very wide ranging, but if you go with your passion, even if it doesn't work, at least it's heartfelt.

STEIN: On some level, what else are you going to do? Are you going to write a novel because it's "commercially viable"? I mean, I guess people do that. But we're not going to represent them.

Because you hate money?
STEIN: We. Hate. Money. [Laughter.]

But seriously, I sometimes think that people in the business read in different ways than normal readers. Are there things that you're looking atcontextual things, like who the author isbeyond what's on the page?
STEINBERG: Those things very much take the backseat for me. It really is just what's on the page. All of that other stuff comes later. Maybe once I get a third of the way through a novel and I'm loving it, then I will look back and see who the author is and all that stuff. I think it's important to stress that the synopsis and the cover letter and all of those things are not really important. It's the work, the work, the work. You have to focus on the work. I think sometimes writers get lost in getting the cover letter and the synopsis and those kinds of professional things right because they're afraid of focusing on the work.

STEIN: I don't even read synopses. Do you guys?

STEINBERG: I skip right over them. I go to the first page.

STEIN: I hate synopses. They're terrible.

RUTMAN: It's hard to write a synopsis well. And when we're talking about literary fiction, it will probably not make or break an agent's interest going into page one. You're not like, "Oh, there's going to be an unexpected plot twist two-thirds of the way through. I'm going to hang in there long enough to find out how that goes."

STEIN: I'm still surprised when I call an editor to pitch a book and he says, "So what's the novel about?" I'm like, "You actually want me to tell you what happens in the plot? Are you serious? I mean, we can do that if you want." But that's not really the point. I don't want anyone to tell me the plot of a novel. It's so boring.

But are there any other things you're looking at beyond what's on the page? Things that maybe you can sense after years of experience.
MASSIE: Sometimes it's when you're reading a manuscript and you can see that the person is a really talented writer with a beautiful voice but the story is not quite there. But you see the potential. Sometimes you sign those people on because you think, "Okay, maybe this isn't going to be the big book, or maybe it won't even sell, but this person has a quality—they have the writing, they have the voice—and the potential is there. This writer is going to go far. And maybe the next book will be the one." I've taken people on under those circumstances.

RUTMAN: I mean, reading "professionally," if that's what we do, is a compromised process because you are reading a book with an eye toward asking somebody for money. You are reading in a different way than you are when that's not a consideration. So I think it's filtered into the experience from the beginning. You are reading to be moved, hopefully, if that's the kind of novel you work on, but at the same time it probably would be disingenuous to suggest that you're not taking in some superficial considerations. They are all distantly secondary to the work itself. Because if an agent is reading with an eye toward various recent trends that have worked, he's probably not going to succeed all that well either. The same thing is true of the reverse. Any categorical dismissal of some kind of novel feels bogus because there's got to be a counterexample for every single example. So if somebody comes along and has this long list of accolades and prizes, it doesn't damage your regard for them. And if somebody comes to you on novel fourteen, with twelve of them having done exceptionally well, and the last one maybe less well, you think about that, too. You're thinking about how difficult it could be given certain practical considerations. But it's still all pretty far receded from the work itself.

STEIN: There is the question, now more than ever, of whether or not a book is publishable. By publishable I don't mean, "Is there a great plot and is the writing amazing etcetera?" I mean that if we were in your shoes, as a publisher, how would we publish the book? What kind of jacket would we give it? How would we position it? I mean, we're talking about literary fiction? You can't publish literary fiction today. How do you do that? [Laughter.]

RUTMAN: Legally, you can, but...

STEIN: So, given that it's basically impossible, it's our responsibility as the first guard to begin to think about, "Is it possible?" And if we're so bowled over and we're so in love that we think somebody should publish it, how would we do it? This is something I really struggle with because I'm not very creative. I don't have the mind for it. I admire publishers all the more today because the ideas they come up with just amaze me. And I'm not trying to flatter them, at all, because I love to talk trash. But it really does amaze me. I'm thinking about a book right now, for example, that I want to sell. I think the author is fantastic and well positioned and that the novel is perfect—there's nothing wrong with it. But in a way it would be a funny book to publish. In a way, I don't exactly see how it fits and how it could break out. So I see the problem there, which maybe we didn't have five years ago as agents. And I see it becoming more and more of a problem as the market contracts. So I'm reading a little differently because of that. I might not be altering my habits about what I take on, but maybe I am.

STEINBERG: I think you're sort of unconsciously changing and adapting to the marketplace. I find myself doing that. I think when an agent says, "I was following my gut instinct," what that really means is accumulated wisdom and taking a lot of different variables into account. You spend your day reading Publishers Weekly and Publishers Lunch and you take these things into consideration. You're having lunch with editors who are saying, "Such-and-such is so hard" and you're processing all of this information. And when you open a manuscript, you're reading it with that eye. It's hard for us to say exactly how we're looking at material but I think we are taking a lot of different things into account.

Is the economy affecting how you're reading?
MASSIE: It's starting to.

STEINBERG: I would say yes too. It feels like things are tough.

MASSIE: Right before Black Wednesday I had a novel out that I was really excited about. I was getting great reads from a bunch of people who were all calling to say, "This is great. This is wonderful." And one by one they slowly disappeared on me, except for one editor, who actually ended up being the perfect editor. But I did see everything diminish. I had an idea of what the novel was going to sell for and it didn't quite get there. It was actually shocking, because it's a wonderful novel and the responses were amazing and I really did see people pull back. Her first novel had done okay but not great and all people could say was, "Her numbers are just not good enough." Her numbers were not bad for a literary novel. So that was my first moment of a little bit of fear. I haven't quite gotten to the point where I'm conscious that the economy is affecting my thinking, but I'm sure I will at some point.

RUTMAN: Especially with fiction, you're largely at the mercy of what comes in. Certainly you solicit your share, but when you're relying on the kindness of your acquaintances, or referrals, wherever they happen to come from, you can only adjust so much. But it's certainly nice to glimpse something behind the page whenever you can, whatever it may be. If a novel happens to have a nice, portable summation—if it's pitchable—that doesn't upset me.

MASSIE: If there's a hook.

STEIN: Or when the author has a platform.

MASSIE: When they've been published in the New Yorker or something.

RUTMAN: When you're reading something, one of the things you're trying to glimpse is whether you can imagine more than a few people warming up to it. But things that work in various ways...I mean, not to be indirectly nepotistic here, but on what planet should 2666 have worked commercially?

STEIN: I wasn't going to bring it up.

RUTMAN: That's why I did.

STEIN: Well, let's start with The Savage Detectives. I mean, why should anybody have finished that book, let alone have it be successful? [Laughter.] Now I'm going to say something nice about the publisher, but it really was a beautiful piece of publishing.

RUTMAN: It was exquisite. How did that work? Why did that work? I want somebody to explain it to me. Gut instincts are referred to retrospectively when they have worked—people don't really make much reference to their gut instincts when they're looking back regretfully. It's not like, "Ugh, my gut instincts. Son of a bitch." Gut instincts are wrong just as much as they're right. But there is such a thing as publishing something well, and resourcefully.

STEIN: And I find that inspiring—the fact that Lorin Stein is my brother aside—because we are in the position now where we're selling books for lowly five figures that we might have sold for six figures very recently. And I don't want to alter what I take on because of that.

RUTMAN: Do you think you would know how to alter it?

STEIN: I don't think I would.

RUTMAN: If I could see clearly enough and far enough to think, "If I just adjust my taste this much, I think I'll be a very successful person," I would think about trying it. [Laughter.] I just don't presume to know how that would work.

STEIN: But here's how I might alter. I might say, "Look, I can't take on an Icelandic writer right now." Or, "I can't afford to invest my time in editing the sample translation of this Icelandic writer right now. It's just not the time for that. Maybe when things are sunnier."

STEINBERG: I feel like I can adjust when there are natural inclinations a certain way. For instance, I was reading that young adult books are selling better than adult books. I have kids and I'm starting to read what they're reading, and I thought, "Oh, I'm sort of interested in this. Maybe I should do a little more young adult." So that's something that I've consciously done in terms of categories. I think I'll still look for the same type of material within the young adult category, but I'm definitely thinking about the category a little bit more because of the marketplace.

Where are you finding writers, aside from referrals? Are you reading literary magazines? Are you reading blogs?
MASSIE: No blogs.

RUTMAN: Not for fiction.

STEIN: Hell no.

RUTMAN: Referrals are about 75 percent of how I find writers.

MASSIE: A lot of my clients teach in MFA programs, so I get referrals from them. I get referrals from editors. I get referrals from other agents.

RUTMAN: There's a big range of where referrals come from.

STEIN: But every now and then there will be something in the slush—and I bet this is true for you guys, too—that's not just well written but is also well researched and shows that the person knows your list and is really appropriate for your list and also has published well.

MASSIE: And sometimes when I read a short story that I like I'll send an e-mail. "Are you represented?" Once in a blue moon someone's not represented.

RUTMAN: There are too many of us.

MASSIE: There are a lot of us.

STEIN: There are way too many of us.

STEINBERG: A lot of times, when people are in literary magazines, it's too late.

MASSIE: Exactly. Agents are submitting those short stories.

RUTMAN: And MFA students are going about things in an entirely different way.

STEINBERG: They're savvy.

MASSIE: They're so savvy.

STEIN: That's what they pay for.

MASSIE: I was amazed by going to MFA programs and talking to students. The first thing they want to know is, "Okay, what do I need for my query letter? What do I need for this thing or that thing?" It wasn't questions about the work. Their questions were really about the business side.

 

Do you think that's healthy?
MASSIE: No. I don't.

RUTMAN: Ultimately, no. If that is more of a priority than the work, it can't be all good. I mean, it's fine that they have a sort of professional track and that they're exposed to whatever realities they are ultimately going to encounter. But when they take a sort of sporting interest in it...

STEINBERG: It's a good way to eliminate potential people, for me at least. When they ask me, "What's the query letter consist of?" I usually think, "Well, that's probably not a potential client."

RUTMAN: It's true.

What do you wish beginning writers would do better?
MASSIE: Take chances. Don't worry about writing a perfect novel. Sometimes it's nice to have something that's a little bit raw and has a little bit of an edge to it. Something that's just perfect all the way through is sometimes a little boring.

STEIN: I wish they would get their friends, who may be writers or may not be writers, to read their work and tell them, "Don't say anything nice to me. I don't want to hear anything nice. I want to hear everything not nice that you have to say."

STEINBERG: And be smart about picking those people. Find your two or three friends who hate everything.

STEIN: Exactly. And have those people—those hateful friends—give you feedback before you even think about sending out your work.

STEINBERG: I would also say, once you think the work is done, work on it for another year.

STEIN: And never trust your spouse if your spouse says it's good. Your spouse has no idea. Neither do your mother or your father.

RUTMAN: Check your eagerness to share. A lot of professors may even encourage you, as a way to hasten the process along. You know, "I think it's time for the world to tell you what they think of this." It may well not be time for the world to pass judgment just yet. Hold on until you are absolutely certain that it's ready for broad, indiscriminate exposure. Don't hurry that.

STEIN: And this is a cliché for us but it seems worth saying that most writers' first novels aren't really their first novels. If you have to scrap your first novel, you'll live. Your first novel probably won't be the first novel you publish. Maybe your second one will be. But you'll live. And you'll be a better writer because of it.

What are some of the common mistakes you see in the submission process?
STEINBERG: Don't say, "If you don't like this novel, I have many other I could show you." Don't say, "This will make a great movie, too." Don't do that fake thing where you pretend you know all about the stuff I've agented. It's funny because I think that's a piece of advice that writers always gets—research the agent and talk about the other work they've sold. But it always comes off as very false to me unless you've really read something I've sold. And I don't want you to waste your time reading something of mine just to write a query letter.

STEIN: I would say to go the other way around. Write to agents whose books you're actually in love with.

STEINBERG: But what if those agents pass and you still want an agent?

STEIN: Then you should read more books. [Laughter.]

What else?
STEINBERG: Don't talk about a character sweating on the first page or two.

RUTMAN: Sweating?

STEINBERG: Yeah. It happens all the time. The writer's like, "He was sweating profusely...." It's supposed to denote tension, I think.

RUTMAN: Also don't write the phrase "sweating profusely."

STEINBERG: I have a joke in my office where if a character is sweating in the first two pages, I go, "Sweating!" [Laughter.] Also, people are always "clutching" steering wheels in the first few pages.

STEIN: That's the cliché thing.

STEINBERG: And don't wake up from a dream on the first page. No dreams on the first page.

STEIN: It's best to avoid dreams if possible.

But this is all craft stuff. Let's go back to the submission process.
STEIN: Don't write "Because of your interest in international fiction..." or whatever you think the agent's interest is. That means you've been trolling some Web site, and that freaks me out. Don't let me see that you've been trolling some Web site that says I like a certain kind of genre. If you know who I am, you should know who I am because you've done some kind of research that has to do with the specific books I represent. That should only be because you've fallen in love with one or two of those books. And that's pretty unlikely because those books haven't sold very many copies. So you probably shouldn't be writing to me to begin with. [Laughter.]

RUTMAN: "Just avoid me altogether. I haven't helped any of these people, really, and I'm not going to help you."

STEIN: Exactly. There shouldn't really be anybody writing to me at all.

STEINBERG: That's off the record, right? Can I say "Off the record" on your behalf?

STEIN: What can I say? I'm funny.

STEINBERG: And of course with the e-mail submissions, don't cc a hundred agents and say, "Dear Agent...."

STEIN: I got an e-mail query addressed to "Elizabeth" today.

MASSIE: I get those. Those are an instant delete.

STEIN: They are.

RUTMAN: Don't try to write eye-catching cover letters. It just isn't really going to enhance my anticipation going into the manuscript.

On the flip side of that, what do you want them to do? I think it can seem really hard to get an agent's attention when you live in a small town somewhere and you don't know anybody.
STEINBERG: Well, know somebody. [Laughter.] I'm serious. We're in the age of e-mail and the Internet. If you e-mail twenty of your friends and say, "Do you know anyone in publishing?" someone has to know somebody. Or somebody who knows somebody. You know what I mean? Find how you know somebody.

STEIN: But you know what? I've actually taken on several clients who didn't know anybody in publishing. I'll give you an example: Anya Ulinich, who's done pretty well for somebody who didn't know anybody. She did some research and asked herself, "Okay, I'm Russian, and my novel has something to do with Russia, so who represents Russian novels?" She did some research and targeted those agents and wrote a query letter that was just really straightforward. It was like, "Here's my deal. Here's why I'm writing to you." It was completely unpretentious and completely straightforward and well written, and because of all that and because there was nothing in it that made me think, "Oh, she's read some book that tells you how to write query letters"—it was just very natural—I asked to see pages. I don't think you have to know somebody.

STEINBERG: But it is one way of getting an agent's attention. I have a lot of clients who didn't know anyone either. But it is a good way to do it. Because when I get a query from a friend of a friend, it definitely goes in a different pile. I would also say to follow what the agent's Web site says. If it says, "Send the first twenty-five pages," do that. And don't send the thirty-third chapter of your novel. Send the first chapter.

MASSIE: And don't try too hard. Sometimes I get these queries that describe the book as a cross between this best-seller and that best-seller and ten different other things. I always find that really distracting and unhelpful.

STEIN: And don't compare the book only to movies.

RUTMAN: I feel like people have generally read something that tells them how to write, at the very least, an unobjectionable cover letter. I like it when they are fairly matter-of-fact. To me that suggests, whether it's well placed or not, a certain confidence that you're going to appreciate the pages rather than the letter. I don't have any sort of pointed advice about what people ought to do in a cover letter. It just doesn't matter that much. It's going to get read.

By your assistant. Just to play devil's advocate.
RUTMAN: Some of it, yes. But she has excellent taste. And if you're working with someone whose taste you really value and trust, they bring you the things you probably would have plucked out yourself.

MASSIE: And she's looking for certain things. Has the writer been published before? What are their credits?

RUTMAN: I think if anybody reads a certain number of cover letters they start to sense what is nice to have in a cover letter. But people generally seem to know. And if you've already published things, it suggests that you've been willing to subject yourself to some of the cruelties of the process and that you realize it's probably part of the deal.

STEIN: That's the thing. It's possible to get published in some good literary magazines without an agent. Very possible. In fact, in some places it's easier. And if you're writing fiction, and especially if you have the misfortune of being a short story writer, then you should spend a lot of time and energy getting published in those places before you start looking for an agent. Because it'll make everybody's job so much easier.

Does anybody have a success story about finding a writer in a literary magazine?
STEINBERG: I read a great short story in the Southern Review a few years ago and called the writer and eventually sold the novel-in-stories to Ann Patty at Harcourt, who's great and who unfortunately is no longer at Harcourt. It was called The Circus in Winter by Cathy Day. It's funny because I originally looked at the story because I liked the author's last name. I don't know if that means I'm superficial, but at the time I was interested in writers whose last names were words, and her last name was Day, so—

RUTMAN: This was a phase you went through?

STEINBERG: It was! I also went through a phase of looking for names with alliteration.

STEIN: Note to readers.

STEINBERG: For example, I represent a guy named Brad Barkley.

STEIN: What's your phase right now? What are you into?

STEINBERG: Now I'm in the supporting-my-three-children phase.

How's that going?
STEINBERG: It's going okay. [Laughter.]

How do you guys feel about short stories?
STEIN: If they're awesome, they're awesome. Even if we can't sell them, they're still awesome.

MASSIE: I'm with Anna. I love short stories.

And can you sell them?
MASSIE: On occasion. It's hard. It always helps if there's a novel coming. But if you've got a great short story collection, it will stand out. I represent a writer who was referred to me by an editor at a literary magazine. I read it and it blew me away. I sold it, it was published, it got great reviews, but it did not sell very many copies. But then the writer, Robin Romm, went on to write an amazing memoir that was just reviewed on the cover of the New York Times Book Review. She's a fantastic writer and you never know where a short story writer is going to go or what stories they have left to tell. So, you know, she wasn't making a lot of money in the beginning, but she's going to have an amazing career.

STEIN: And here's another thing. A short story writer might end up just being a short story writer, which might be our nightmare, but what if he ends up being one of those—

MASSIE: Alice Munro or somebody.

RUTMAN: We don't really have much choice but to represent talent in whatever form it happens to come. And if it happens to come first in short story collection form, that does not make things easier, practically speaking, but it's not in itself a reason not to do it. The climate hardly encourages it, and it's not fun to call an editor and say, "What I have for you now—brace yourself—is a collection of short stories." I mean, that's like a meta-joke, I suppose, at this point. But you shouldn't just abandon it. You know it's going to be hard so you ask yourself, "How fired up am I about trying this?" With a story collection, that question is a good test of how intrinsically great you find it.

STEIN: It had better be super-duper-duper-duper good.

RUTMAN: Right. One of my colleagues gave me a collection not that long ago. It was sort of short, and the author had not really tried to publish any of them, and I took it home, sort of unhappily, and I ended up being like, "Oh. Okay. So this is a person who can do this." If you feel that way as an agent, what are you going to do, say no? It just doesn't really feel like a smart option.

STEIN: But novels are beginning to feel that way too. I mean, really—it's like the novel is the new short story.

RUTMAN: The short story is the new poem...

STEIN: Yeah, the short story is the new poem, novels are the new short story.... It's hard out there.

RUTMAN: If you're talking to a certain audience, say an MFA audience, you hear the sentiment of, "Ugh, if only I could get past the short story collection and get on to the novel, easy street can't be far behind."

STEIN: There is no easy street.

RUTMAN: Exactly. It doesn't exist. But there is this unhelpful assumption that you just need to get to a novel, at which point your publishing fortunes will brighten.

STEINBERG: There are probably only a hundred people in the United States who make a living off novel writing.

STEIN: Did you make that number up?

STEINBERG: Yeah, I just made it up.

STEIN: I think that's a really great point and that number sounds about right to me.

STEINBERG: I think all of my clients have day jobs. Writing is just not going to be a way to stop doing what you're doing for a living, probably. And I wouldn't advise it. I have clients who sometimes sell their books for a decent amount of money and are like, "Ooh, should I quit my job?" And I panic and say, "No!" It also affects your work because you start writing for the marketplace too much.

STEIN: And the money is never what the money looks like.

STEINBERG: Exactly. The money has to be gravy and not a base salary.

MASSIE: And you never know what the second book will do, versus the first one, and what the advance for the next book is going to look like.

You are all deep inside this world, but so many writers aren't. If you were a beginning writer who lived out in Wisconsin or somewhere and didn't know anybody and you were looking for an agent, how would you do it?
STEINBERG: I would not worry about looking for an agent. I would work on my writing for a long time. And then when I was finally ready, I would ask everyone I know what they thought I should do.

MASSIE: I agree with that. I would concentrate on getting published in well-regarded literary magazines and, chances are, agents will come to you.

RUTMAN: I wouldn't relish the prospect of looking for an agent if I had not come through a program, where a professor can often steer you in some helpful direction. I guess you'd start at the bookstore.

MASSIE: You pick up your favorite books and look at the acknowledgments and see who represented them and write those people a letter.

STEIN: I'm with Peter. I wouldn't worry so much about finding an agent. The thing is, there aren't that many great writers. Right? And there seem to be a lot of people trying to write novels and find agents. If you're looking for an agent, it means you want to sell your book. But if there are only a hundred people making money as writers—and I think that number sounds about right—and you're trying to sell your book to make money, then that doesn't really make sense. It's like playing the lottery. If I thought I'd written something brilliant, I would hope that, like Peter said, I would be continuing to work on my writing.

RUTMAN: But don't you think most people who are working on their writing feel kind of persuaded that they are brilliant and have something really unique and wonderful to say?

STEIN: I also think they feel this pressure to get published. With all the MFA programs, and with all the writing conferences and programs that they pay money for, there's this encouragement to get published.

RUTMAN: Sure. It's the stated goal.

STEIN: Right. That's the goal. But for 99 percent of people writing fiction, that shouldn't necessarily be the goal. Maybe writing should be the thing they work on for many years and then maybe they should think about getting published.

RUTMAN: I think being published has come to feel, for reasons I can't explain, too achievable. To take a step back, I think the idea of writing a book has come to seem too achievable. I don't know what to attribute that to. It may be the fact that famous people have access to people who can write a tolerable book for them, which might create the impression that most of us should be thinking about writing a book. I think it used to feel rightfully daunting to write a book. People should be daunted by the prospect of writing a book—and more than they may be at the moment. I'm not saying that writing can't be a hobby. But professionalizing it? That's a whole other step, and you then expose yourself to a whole other set of challenges and disappointments that you have to take into consideration. But at some point I feel like there was some kind of fundamental shift that made writing a book—and finishing it and publishing it—seem like not that big a deal. Or not a big enough deal.

STEINBERG: One thing we should convey is how rare it is that a great piece of fiction crosses our desks from someone new.

ALL: Yes.

STEINBERG: It happens maybe, what, once a year? Twice a year? That's it. It's so rare. So for people in Wisconsin who might be reading this and trying to figure out how to get published, they should keep that in mind. That's why stressing the work is so important—because it's so rare that something extraordinary crosses our desks. I like to think that all of our instincts are good enough, and we're well trained enough, and we've done this long enough, to recognize it when it arrives. But that aspect of it can't be stressed enough, which is why I say to work on it for a long time. You also only get one shot with an agent. There are no do-overs. When we get letters that say, "I know you passed on this six months ago but I've rewritten it," it's difficult to look at it again. You really do only get one shot.

Do you guys feel competitive with other agents?
RUTMAN: I'm not sure I feel that competitive. I'm definitely envious of other agents. [Laughter.] But that's not the same thing.

STEIN: I know Jim's not competitive because we were competing for a client once and both of us are so uncompetitive that he was like, "No, no, Anna's so great," and I was like, "No, no, Jim's so great."

Who won?
STEIN: Jim.

RUTMAN: Competitive just feels like the wrong word. I can apply competitiveness to all kinds of other arenas but I have trouble, for some reason, doing it here. Because even competing for a client feels...I mean, maybe if I was a huge rock star I would just sit back and point at my shelf and say, "That's why you should be represented by me." When that's not really an option it becomes a charm expedition. You're trying to persuade somebody that you care enough, or that you see enough in what they've done, to suggest to them that you would be the right person for the job.

Tell me a little about how you view your jobs. How do you think about your obligations and responsibilities to your clients?
RUTMAN: The responsibilities are so amorphous and encompassing that it's hard to sum up. I've never done it very successfully. I guess the boundaries are fairly few. You're trying to find books that you believe in and feel like you'd be doing the author and yourself a favor by involving yourself with, and then you're advising them about its readiness to be exposed to these calculating strangers, and then you choose the strangers you're going to share it with, and then, if you're lucky enough to have options among those strangers, you're telling them which one is best. And then the book gets published and the landscape changes to a whole new level of abstraction about what constitutes a good publication experience and what doesn't. And how many people wind up being published without feeling aggrieved or getting less than what they could have from the experience? A lot of people are disappointed by it. It's a pretty boundary-less relationship. It extends into all kinds of areas that are personal, that involve editorial work, that involve.... The editorial part's nice because at least it's a place to stop. It's also, for my money, the most interesting part of the process. You're talking about something that, presumably, has moved you enough to want to think and discuss.

STEIN: It sounds so cheesy to say, and everyone will agree with it, but the job is about finding books that you feel should exist in the world, and should for a long time. I mean, this summer I read Anna Karenina, and it made it impossible for me to even think about taking on a book for months. It's really important for us to read published books that we don't represent while we're reading our own clients' books. It's important for us to stay current, but also to read classics. And it reminded me of why I really do what I do. It's because I want the books I represent to be important, and for a long time. I don't want to sell a book just to sell a book. I want each one to matter. I mean, that's a little heavy, and none of your books is ever going to be Anna KareninaAnna Karenina is Anna Karenina, let's not touch it—but that's the idea.

RUTMAN: That's why the job is interesting. There is always the chance, no matter how remote, that that could happen. It won't necessarily be Anna Karenina, but you can find something that you didn't expect, and you can glimpse stuff in it that you couldn't anticipate, and the writer can change the way you think about something. That is, in a job, a pretty interesting thing, even if it remains largely in the realm of possibility. It's still a nice possibility to encounter on a daily basis. I mean, that's better than most jobs I've been able to conceive of as possibilities for myself.

MASSIE: It's terrific. It means that you learn something every day. You pick something up and you don't know what world it's going to take you to or what it will teach you, and that's an incredible thing. I think that's one of the wonderful things about what we do. If you find something that you're blown away by, you actually can help get it to a larger audience. It's amazing when people will say to you, "I read that book you represented. God, that was amazing. It really affected me." That's a great feeling.

How about your responsibilities?
MASSIE: I sometimes feel like a cross between a mother, a shrink, an accountant, a lawyer.... You wear so many different hats on a daily basis. You're juggling so many things, and the clients are so different. They all have different personalities and one person needs handholding or reassurance after every rejection letter and others just want to hear from you when there's news. It's different with everybody. I haven't ever seen myself as doing one thing. I mean, with one client you're going over royalty statements and with another you're hearing about her marriage or some trauma she's going through. It's a pretty intimate relationship.

STEINBERG: It's a friendship.

MASSIE: It's a relationship. You have your ups and downs, and the good and the bad, and it's the mark of a really great relationship with an author that you can weather the storms and get through the good publications and the bad publications, the good reviews and the bad reviews.

RUTMAN: We're like disappointment brokers.

STEIN: That's why trust is so important.

MASSIE: Trust is key.

STEIN: That's why, from the very beginning of the relationship, the more up-front you are, the better. The way you approach an agent says so much about your personality and your character. So if you're very straightforward in your query letter and cover letter, that shows us something. And if we're going to have a long-term and trusting relationship, that's important. Let's say you have several agents interested in you. Let's say you go with one agent and you don't tell the other agents, or you're somehow a little dishonest about the process. Things might not work out with that agent—that agent might move to Wisconsin for some reason and decide to leave publishing—and you're going to have to face those other agents. It's just really important to have integrity and to be honest and to be gracious from the very beginning.

STEINBERG: I think we've all done this long enough that we can sort of suss out when someone's being false or fake or dishonest. So you really shouldn't even try.

RUTMAN: Because if you start to get the sense, early enough in the process, that someone seems like trouble, those suspicions are rarely misleading or without some kind of foundation. One time I was in the rare position of dealing with a writer who was wildly and indisputably talented but came with some warning signs. Actually they weren't warning signs so much as actual warnings from people who knew the writer and said, "I'll be up-front with you. This writer is remarkable in the most important ways and a challenge in a great many other ways."

STEIN: "Totally insane" is what they probably said.

RUTMAN: Yeah, that's what they meant. So what do you do? Is it a measure of how heroic an agent you are if you take them on? Is it a good idea? I'm not so sure that it is.

STEIN: I tried that once. I took on somebody who was insanely talented but also insane. And I tried to be heroic. I tried my very, very best. And it ended, not only in tears, but in legal fees. I made a New Year's resolution: No more. No more crazy ones, ever again.

STEINBERG: It's not worth it. Life's too short.

MASSIE: There are also the clients who are blamers. They're always looking for somebody to blame. They're like, "That person didn't do this" or "You didn't do that."

STEIN: Those are agent-jumpers.

MASSIE: Exactly.

STEINBERG: That's another reason why writers should make sure it's the right match. You don't want to switch agents unless you have to. If you have to tell an agent, "Oh, I've had two agents and it hasn't worked out," the new agent will perceive that as a warning sign. Unless it's legitimate. Sometimes things don't work out or the personalities just aren't right.

STEIN: But in general, everybody wants the relationship to work. I mean, we're all pretty young and we're not naïve, but we are a little bit romantic or otherwise we wouldn't be in this industry—obviously there's no money in it. We go into the relationship thinking, "We want to grow old together." It's a real relationship. It's like a marriage. We want to grow old together. So if it doesn't work out it's usually for pretty serious reasons.

STEINBERG: My clients and I talk about growing old together. We sort of joke about it. "When we're old we'll do this or that."

MASSIE: Right. It always worries me when you're talking to a writer about representing them and they ask, "So, do you work on a book-by-book basis?" I'm like, "No. I do not work on a book-by-book basis." I'm not interested in working on a book-by-book basis. For me it's a long-term relationship.

STEINBERG: That's one of the reasons why you take on short story writers. You see the relationship in a long-term way—you're trying to see the forty-year arc. And when you work with storytelling so much, one thing you learn is that there's a story arc to the client-agent relationship, too. You have an arc of a story in the way that your relationship develops.

What are the hardest decisions you have to make as an agent?
STEINBERG: A lot of times it's books that you know you could sell for a lot of money but you still say no.

STEIN: Or you take the preempt because you know it's the right house, or you take the lower offer because you know it's the right house. And you hope that you're right.

MASSIE: Another hard one is telling an author that his newest book is not there, or not the one, or you're not happy with it, or you just don't see it or know what to do with it. That's a really hard conversation to have, especially with someone you've worked with for a long time. For me, at least, that's the hardest conversation I ever have.

STEIN: Firing a client.

STEINBERG: Or not being able to sell her work. That's one of the hardest things about the business. You take things on because you inherently love them. That's why you do it. You think you'll sell them, and you think everyone will be happy, and then you come to that end of the road where you've done your second round of submissions and wracked your brain for the last three unlikely suspects and they all pass. That's a very difficult conversation.

STEIN: And that's the novel that haunts you for years. That's the novel you think is, in some ways, the best novel you've ever taken on.

But that's not a decision you have to make.
RUTMAN: We're just eager to get to the "What are the worst features of the job?" question. Can we skip right to that? [Laughter.] Seriously, though, deciding what to take on is probably the hardest decision. I find myself sitting on fences a lot more often than I would like. Sometimes I feel like I just run out of critical faculties. My discernment just isn't guiding me very authoritatively and I can't decide whether I ought to be working with a book or not. Because you see its virtues, or your hesitations kind of nullify each other enough to make it hard to decide.

When you guys find yourselves in that situation, how do you decide?
STEIN: If it's something brand new—if the author is not a client—sometimes it's about the writer. If I have an editorial conversation with the writer, and I'm sort of feeling out the situation, that will sometimes do it for me. Because if they're with me, and I feel like we'll have a good editorial relationship—we need to have a good editorial relationship, probably for a long time, before we send out the book—that will become clear. If we have those initial conversations, and I feel like we won't work well together, for any number of reasons, then the decision becomes much easier.

MASSIE: If I'm on the fence for too long it's not a good sign. My feeling is that usually, when I love something, I'm jumping all over it. So if I'm on the fence it's probably not good for the writer and it's not good for me. If I can't imagine myself getting on the phone and calling ten editors and saying, "I love this. You should read this right now," then it's probably not right for me. It also wouldn't be fair to the author for me to take it on.

RUTMAN: You're right. It's not fair to the author. But I also have the misfortune of having my enthusiasms located on some difficult-to-access frequency. Sometimes I'm just not sure what I think, and I'll react differently to a book on different days. I've certainly had the experience where I return to a manuscript and think, "I was wavering about this? This is obviously exceptional and I should take it on." And, less happily, the reverse. It's nice to have access, or confident access, to your feelings.

STEINBERG: It's also nice to know when you're not ready to make a decision. "I'll wait till tomorrow because I'm in a bad mood or tired or whatever it is." And I also use the phone call as a sort of determining factor. But, like Maria, I'm not really on the fence that often. I think that's a good thing.

MASSIE: I just know from experience that if I take something on that I've been on the fence about, it won't necessarily take priority. If I take on something with guns blazing, and I totally love it, that's at the top of my list all the time. If I've been on the fence about something and I decide to take it on thinking, "Okay, I'm on the good side of the fence now," I've been there and I can sense that it won't take priority and I'm not going to give it as much as I should. It's just not fair to the author. It's not fair to me, either, because I have only so many hours in the day.

STEINBERG: I think editors can sense it too.

MASSIE: Editors totally know. They absolutely know.

STEINBERG: Just as we're good at sensing things, they're good at knowing when the agent isn't enthusiastic enough.

STEIN: And you will see all the doubts you had about the book in the rejection letters. You can often gauge your true reaction to a book by the rejections. If it's something where you're really guns blazing—if you really love it—when you see the rejection letters you think, "You. Are. Out. Of. Your. Mind. You're out of your mind!" And that's how you should feel all the time.

MASSIE: Exactly. You see the rejections and you think, "No. I don't agree at all. You don't know what you're talking about!"

RUTMAN: When you strenuously disagree with a rejection, that's a really reliable gauge. Because a fair number of times I think, "Oh, well, yeah. I half anticipated that and I suppose I can see your point." When you sharply disagree, you were right to take it on.

STEINBERG: I think it's also the art of the agent to anticipate the rejections from the editors and try to fix the material before you get the rejections. One thing that I'm cursed with is that when I read the material I sort of see the rejections go across my eyes. I can see how people will reject it, and you work on the material in light of that. Invariably, whenever I don't listen to my own instincts and fix that thing that was nagging at the back of my mind, I will get a rejection that says the very thing that I should have fixed. It's like, "Damn. Listen to your instincts." That's a big part of the job these days, especially because editors are looking to pass. They have a billion things on their desks and they think, "Oh, I figured it out. This is how I'm going to pass on this book." You can't give them that. You can't let them find their entry point to pass.

STEIN: Which is why we'll have that extra paragraph in our pitch letters in a year that will basically say, "This is how you can publish this book. I've already thought it through and this is how you can publish it."

STEINBERG: It'll be like a marketing section for fiction, just like nonfiction proposals.

MASSIE: Exactly. That's got to be the next thing, right?

STEINBERG: That's depressing.

Tell me a little about how you spend your days.
STEIN: The morning is all e-mail.

MASSIE: E-mail, phone, contracts.

RUTMAN: Not reading.

MASSIE: I never read in the office.

STEIN: Manuscripts are for travel. Trains. Planes.

MASSIE: Thank God for the Sony Reader.

STEIN: I can't get mine to work. I can't get it to charge.

Sony's not going to be happy to hear that.
STEIN: Sony can send me some swag to make it up to me. [Laughter.]

MASSIE: I don't know about you guys, but I feel like I sit in front of my computer doing e-mail all day.

RUTMAN: Sometimes I feel like a typist.

MASSIE: You're just dealing with whatever's in front of you. Answering questions. Sending things out.

RUTMAN: How many stray issues are floating in front of you at any given moment? How many small but unignorable questions are hovering at any given moment?

STEIN: By the afternoon I can start returning phone calls and dealing with shit on my desk, whereas the morning is just an e-mail suck.

STEINBERG: It's reactive.

STEIN: Exactly. It's e-mail suck reactive. But sometime after lunch you can start—and when I say "after lunch" I don't necessarily mean going to lunch, because we don't necessarily go to lunch anymore—but in the afternoon you can start to look at the contracts and return the phone calls and whatever else. Unless you're submitting a book, in which case it takes up the whole day.

What about after the afternoon?
STEIN: Drinks.

MASSIE: Home to the kids.

RUTMAN: Roundtables, mostly. [Laughter.]

STEIN: If I'm not going out, I work until nine. Not that I do that often, but that's what I do. And I'm not reading manuscripts. It's more of the same stuff.

So when do you read?
STEINBERG: If I have to read, I don't go into the office. I've tried that before and thought, "Okay, I'll do some work and then I'll read for a few hours." But it just doesn't work. You get sucked into your e-mail and the other issues of the day. Sometimes in the morning, when my brain feels fresh and I can really concentrate, I'll go straight to Starbucks or somewhere that's not my office and read or work on some material. I try to read late at night but I always fall asleep. My wife finds me on the couch with the manuscript pages fallen off onto the floor.

STEIN: I won't take a manuscript into my bedroom.

MASSIE: I don't either.

STEIN: Only books.

MASSIE: Me too. I have to read at least ten pages of a book that I have nothing to do with.

STEIN: For me it's twenty-five. Not that I actually make it to twenty-five, but I try to set that as my goal. I say twenty-five so that I make it to maybe eight.

MASSIE: I have to do that to clean my head. I try to read for at least an hour after my kids go to bed every night.

STEINBERG: I love to read on airplanes. I get so excited. I'm like, "I'm going to read this whole thing!" That's a great feeling.

STEIN: As long as there aren't really good movies on the plane.

STEINBERG: I have a rule that I won't buy the headphones.

STEIN: I don't have a TV at home, so I get very excited when I'm in front of one. [Laughter.]

STEINBERG: I also have a rule that if I'm on a train or something, I'm not allowed to buy the newspaper. Because I have to do work. But I'm allowed to look at other people's newspapers.

You mentioned before that editors are looking for excuses to pass on projects. I'm curious what else you see as changing about your jobs. Or what's getting harder?
STEINBERG: One thing that's changing is that everyone is reading on Kindles or Sony Readers. I've made an adjustment in my head and when I envision an editor reading the material, they're sitting somewhere and reading on the Kindle or the Sony Reader. I don't know how that affects what I submit yet, but it's certainly something I'm thinking about.

STEIN: With nonfiction I think about trends all the time because it follows trends in a much more obvious way than fiction does. With fiction, none of us follows trends—we fall in love. We also fall in love with nonfiction, but there's a measure of practicality that goes with it, which also has to do with our own interests. I'm particularly interested in politics but I haven't wanted to take on a political nonfiction book in several years. And I don't envision wanting to anytime soon. Well, aside from Cory Booker. Do you hear me, Cory Booker?

What about Jon Favreau? Wouldn't he be the biggest get right now?
MASSIE: Everyone must want him. Or Reggie Love.

STEIN: But if I'm interested in something and I need to help shape it—because often nonfiction will come in as an idea rather than a real proposal—I definitely try to think about whether there's a market for it considering where we are now, and where we are in our times. That's not something that's different from ten years ago or five years ago. But I think that considering the shrinking market will become all the more important. There just isn't room for books that are kind of interesting to some people anymore.

MASSIE: I think about the lack of book reviews. All of these places are getting rid of their book review sections. I think about that in terms of "How is a book going to get out there? How are people going to find out about it? What can I do and what should the author be doing beyond what the publisher is doing?" When you think about how overworked publicists are and how small publicity departments are and how many books they're working on, it will sometimes keep you up at night, especially if one of your clients has a book coming out. I think, "Oh, God. What should we be doing? What should we be thinking about? How do we get the word out?" Because there's no such thing as a review-driven book anymore.

So what should writers be doing? What are your authors teaching you about that?
MASSIE: To think outside the box. To think about other ways of getting the word out. It used to be that you'd have a meeting with the publicist, or a phone call, and there would be almost a checklist you'd go down. "We're going to send it to the newspapers and the magazines and this, this, this, and this." That doesn't exist anymore. It's a whole new world. There are so many other distractions out there. You really have to think, "Well, how do people find out about books? Where do they hear about them?"

And what are you learning about that from experiencing it on a daily basis?
MASSIE: I think a lot of it is word of mouth. It seems like there's a critical mass that a book has to achieve in order to work. You have to get all the big reviews, and if you don't, how do you get that critical mass? Is it the independent booksellers hand-selling a book? Is it having great placement in the front of Barnes & Noble? I mean, I don't know. I'm still trying to figure out what you have to do.

STEIN: I do think, with literary fiction, it's about getting it in the hands of the bloggers, who we don't read. When I say that I'm joking, but I'm also not joking. I should say the bloggers who a whole new generation of readers are reading. And the social networking. Everyone should have a Facebook page. Part of it is personality. Some authors are incredibly magnetic and funny, and that's not something you can tell your author to be. You can't tell your author, "When you do your readings, make the audience fall in love with you."

RUTMAN: "Be more charismatic." [Laughter.]

STEIN: That's something that just happens, and that sells books. There are certain authors who are very funny at their readings and draw crowds, who maybe at a different time wouldn't have sold as well as they do now. But they're just the right thing for the blogging atmosphere and just the right thing for buzz. There's something underground about them because they give almost stand-up comedy routines when they read. I think it's going to be different for every author in a way that it wasn't before, and that's why we have to think about how to publish each book individually in a way that we didn't have to before.

What else are they teaching you?
STEINBERG: I have a client named Keith Donohue who wrote a book called The Stolen Child, and Amazon optioned it for film. I think it might have been the only time they ever did that. So they had a vested interest in making the book work. And they made it work.

But that sounds like an exception to me.
STEINBERG: That's my point. We have to do exceptions. With fiction, these days, you have to work under the exception rule because fiction does not have a platform. Publicists are stumped. That's why I think nonfiction has come to the fore a little more. Publicists are sort of like, "Well, no, we don't know what to do. We're not really sure." They used to be able to rely on reviews and now even that's gone. One thing I ask myself, even though I said that writers shouldn't put "I think this could be a great movie" in their query letter, is, "Could this novel become a movie?" I used to work at the agency that represented Chuck Palahniuk, and before the movie version of Fight Club came out, that hardcover had sold about five thousand copies. And after the movie came out I think the tie-in edition sold something like a hundred thousand copies in the first few months. So that's something I think about. I'm like, "Wow, I need to re-create that for my clients." If a book is made into a movie, no matter how small, it helps the writer forever.

STEIN: This is kind of an abstract thing to say, and I don't know exactly what I mean because it hasn't happened yet, but I think the agent's relationship with publishers has to change a little bit. I think that it has to become a little bit less adversarial and a little bit more open and cooperative. Which means that the publisher has to do their part so we don't have to be adversarial. But there can be a way for everybody.... Look, we're all in a sinking ship. So all fucking hands on deck. I think there's a little bit of editors not wanting to tell agents what's really going on and agents feeling like they have to sort of choose their shots with regard to when they call editors and ask for numbers, ask what's going on with publicity, ask about the marketing plan, all of that stuff. And we shouldn't have to do that. We're partners in this thing, and we're all trying to do the same thing. We shouldn't have to feel that way, and the editors shouldn't have to feel like they have to keep secrets. I mean, if there's a secret, or if there's something to feel ashamed about, we should figure out what to do about it.

RUTMAN: Preemptive sharing is really great. When editors keep you overly appraised—there's no such thing, really—and just give you information without having to be asked, it is deeply appreciated. I find that when a book works, it's almost always in that situation. You feel like all of the parts of the house are working in tandem and the editor is inclined to update you because they're pleased with the way everything is coming together. If you have to excavate the information—

STEINBERG: It feels like pulling teeth.

RUTMAN: Or there's just nothing planned.

STEIN: But Jim, let's say you do have to excavate. Or the editor is in a position where they feel like maybe something at the publishing house has fallen short. In that situation it's best that the editor is up-front with the agent so that they, with the author—because it's the author's job too—can all save the day as much as possible. It's just got to be all fucking hands on deck. You can't be all hands on deck if everybody doesn't know what's going on.

MASSIE: There's no transparency. You ask, "What's in the budget? What's in the marketing plan?" You're constantly asking and you think, "Why can't you just know what's in the budget for this book? Why can't you know what's being allocated for this book?" They're like, "We'll see, we'll see, we'll see." No.

RUTMAN: I think there's an assumption that you will find it lacking, and will want—

MASSIE: But it's so much better to know. It allows you to manage expectations. It allows you to think about what else you can do. It's so frustrating to constantly.... Managing an author, especially a first-time author, is difficult enough. Just trying to find out what you have to work with is so frustrating.

STEIN: They aren't used to this new wave of reasonable agents. [Laughter.]

STEINBERG: It's also this frustrating catch-22 where they don't throw money at a book until it does well.

MASSIE: Which means it's not going to do well. That kills me.

STEINBERG: That is incredibly frustrating to agents because a book isn't going to do well unless you're actively doing something for it. You can't just wait and see if it does well and then try to make it do even better.

I hope you know that that's frustrating to editors, too. We aren't the ones making those budgeting decisions.
STEIN: That's my point. If nobody else at the house is doing anything for a book, the editor and the agent and the author, every now and then, can have a flash of brilliance and come up with something that might work.

STEINBERG: It's hard. Sometimes you get to that conversation and you're like, "Let's think of those out-of-the-box things that no one usually does, and let's do them," and there's sort of silence on the phone.

MASSIE: Total silence. They're like, "Um..."

STEINBERG: You can hear the crickets. They're like, "Well, anyway, I've gotta go..."

MASSIE: "I'll think about that and get back to you!"

STEINBERG: "I'm going to brainstorm tonight and I'll get back to you tomorrow."

But what are the out-of-the-box things that are working?
MASSIE: I think it depends on the book. But I also think about, "Does John Grisham really need a full-page ad in the New York Times every time he has a new book. Really? Does he? Is he not going to sell those books?"

STEINBERG: His agent would say yes.

MASSIE: Fine. But do the authors who are so well established really need the biggest piece of the marketing budget? Their audience is there. They know when their books are coming out. They're there and waiting. Why not use that money for establishing an author?

STEIN: Think about when a really big band goes on tour. They always have a couple of opening bands, and those opening bands get exposure. So why isn't Grisham giving some exposure to a young writer or two? Why isn't he doing the same thing? Why isn't he going on tour and saying, "This is my opening act and I'm supporting them"?

MASSIE: That's a great idea.

STEINBERG: I think somebody like Stephen King has thought of that and is doing it in Entertainment Weekly.

MASSIE: Stephen King definitely does that.

STEIN: Absolutely.

RUTMAN: A book campaign gets interesting when it starts to look like another industry's campaign. I was lucky enough to work on a book where we did really cool tour posters, for example. And one day the author suggested, "Hey, it would be really nice if you guys would print up some guitar picks. I would throw them out to people at readings." The publicist said, "That's a great idea. Let's print up some guitar picks." That doesn't take a huge effort, and I don't know that it made the difference for the book, but swag is always appreciated. I'm not saying that that's a uniformly good approach, but thinking about a book as a potentially cool object—something you could covet in a way that you might covet some other cultural product—is, I suppose, the way it's going. Publishers probably don't need to be encouraged to treat books more like products, but at the same time, something basic is changing, isn't it? I mean, if book review outlets are as fleeting as they are.

STEINBERG: I think we're in an in-between time period. Reviews are going away but there's nothing there to take their place. It will be the Internet in some form, but nobody knows how, exactly.

STEIN: If those short-form book reviews that are just like, "This is the book, here is the plot, thumb up, thumb down, or thumb in-between," are the ones going away, so be it. If what's left behind are the book reviews that actually say something about books, great. Let's do something exciting with what used to be the space for those, frankly, boring synopses of books.

STEINBERG: I think we can also take a lesson from something I saw in a bookstore in Salt Lake City once. I was there for a writers conference. I went into the YA section and all of these teenage girls were talking about books as if they were cool. I was like, "That's what we have to do. We have to make books cool again." How do we do that? I don't know.

RUTMAN: Was there a time when books were cool? I guess there was.

STEINBERG: I don't know. But the vibe in that YA section? Those girls were all like, "Oooh, what did you read?" They were trying to one-up each other with what they'd read. It was amazing.

RUTMAN: Kids talk about books differently than adults do, and that's why a handful of YA books are such spectacular successes. There's this unself-conscious discussion and inclination to share. I don't know how we appropriate that and make it a possibility for adults. When we're considering a manuscript, one of the things that we're trying to glimpse is whether or not it might be adopted by book clubs. How often do you get something that you feel could become the subject of conversation among people who, you know, maybe their first inclination is not to evaluate the merits of a book. And the books that tend to get that far probably don't do it because of an especially successful campaign. The frustrating possibility we're always forced to consider is that it's not really within anyone's control, even if a publisher makes a really concerted effort. Part of our job, and certainly part of our responsibility, is to see that the publisher carries out its duty as fully and faithfully as possible. But they certainly do that and books still fail to reach more than a few souls. I don't know what makes people like books. There's a basic mystery.

STEIN: But I just saw Revolutionary Road this weekend and walked out of the movie and could hear everyone saying, "Have you read the book? Have you read the book?" I thought, "Thank God. Thank God people are saying that." And that book is on the best-seller list now.

I find that amazing. It's one of the bleakest books of all time and it's been on the best-seller list for fifteen weeks.
STEIN: It's totally bleak, and it's brilliant, and it's so much better than the movie, not because the actors didn't give it their best shot but because Sam Mendes was a terrible director.

STEIN: But that's the thing. People want to read that book. That's exciting. It's cool and it's hot and it's depressing all at the same time. And maybe after they read Revolutionary Road they'll want to read another depressing novel. It's cool to read depressing novels.

RUTMAN: There's little that I find cooler.

You guys work on commission. How does that affect the decisions you make when it comes to selling a book where maybe you have multiple offers?
STEINBERG: It's always a combination of the money and the right place. What that combination is varies, but you have to take both into account. I've taken less money a lot of times to have the right publisher—probably not a lot less money—but a little less money to be published in the right place.

MASSIE: The right place for a little less money, over time, could be more money. It can't just be about the money. There are so many different factors.

STEINBERG: An advance is an advance against royalties, and royalties are an aspect of it.

MASSIE: Right. And if you don't earn out that advance, your next one may not be as big.

STEIN: And to clarify, when we say "the right place" we mean the place we think will be just as enthusiastic, or even grow more enthusiastic, from the moment they buy the book until it's published, and make it a best-seller if possible. And the place where the book won't disappear if, you know, Alan Greenspan or Hillary Clinton or Obama happens to pop up on their list.

STEINBERG: Stability is also important these days. I was selling a book recently and there were a few publishers that I'd heard weren't doing so well. I definitely took that into account. Because it can take a year or two for a book to be published after you sell it. Will that place be around in two years? Will the editor be around? Stability is so important to writers, which is why this time period is even tougher than you may think.

RUTMAN: What we do is really hard, readers. We just need you to know that.

STEIN: We have to think a lot. [Laughter.]

You're joking but my wife is an agent and I know that it is really hard. Especially when you're less established than some people. How do you compete with people who are more established?
STEIN: I thought you were going to ask, "How do you pay your rent?" [Laughter.]

STEINBERG: If you want to talk about what's at the forefront of our minds....

But seriously, how do you compete with people who are more established?
STEIN: I don't. I don't think that I compete with people who are more established. I think they throw me a bone every now and then, if they're too busy. People who are really established? If they want a writer? I don't think I'm going to compete with somebody who's been in the business for twenty-five years. I think that's unreasonable. Why would I compete with somebody who's been in the business for twenty-five years? Unless it's a perfect match, for some reason. I just can't see a competitive situation unless, for example, a writer is recommended to an agent who's been in the business for a long time and some younger agents and there's very good chemistry and a good match. I think that experience in this industry is really invaluable, and I respect experience a lot. So if I were in the shoes of a writer who was choosing between good chemistry with somebody with a lot of experience and good chemistry with somebody who was young, I would probably go with the person with a lot of experience.

RUTMAN: The only thing at your disposal in that situation—if you're at an experience and success quotient disadvantage—is the quality of the attention that you can offer the writer.

STEIN: That's true.

RUTMAN: And that's what you're presenting to them. It's like, "Look, I will talk to you more often."

MASSIE: "And I won't pass you off to my assistant."

RUTMAN: And we're probably going to be more engaged in things that they want to be engaged in. You know, talking about what's wrong with the material in a closer way than somebody else. What else can you really offer? And that's something.

STEIN: "I'll edit your book."

RUTMAN: All you can really do is try to work up superior chemistry to the chemistry you think they may be working up with somebody who just doesn't have the time or inclination for them in the way that you might. I also don't like to know—I don't need or want to know—who I'm competing with.

MASSIE: I don't either. I never want to know.

And they should never tell you, either.
MASSIE: Some people do, though.

But they shouldn't.
MASSIE: You're right.

RUTMAN: They shouldn't. You want to say, "Really? Oh, she's really good. She likes this? Congratulations!"

STEIN: But how do you guys feel about this. If there's an agent who you really respect—who's been in the industry for a long time and who you may even think of as a mentor—and if you were a writer, wouldn't you go with somebody like that, even if you knew they were busy, over you? Or would you go with you?

RUTMAN: I'm supposed to be me in this scenario?

STEIN: You would give them more attention and more of your time, and that person might have them dealing with their assistant more often, but that person is a mentor to you for a reason. They have so much experience and knowledge that you couldn't even begin to have.

STEINBERG: In my experience it's so rare that you compete with other agents. I don't really think about it too often. It's not like being an editor, where one agent submits to twelve editors and you know you're competing with other editors. As an agent, usually it's a single submission, just to you, because you know the person somehow. Or you get to the material so much faster than everyone else because you're immediately drawn to it off the slush pile and you know that other agents aren't involved. In my experience it's very rare.

RUTMAN: You don't find that with referrals? Where maybe some thoughtful referree has given the writer three or four names?

MASSIE: Of course. I always assume that.

STEIN: I assume that too.

RUTMAN: And then you think, "Oh, crap. This is really good. Agent so-and-so is probably going to see this too." And then they do.

So what do you do? That's what I want to know.
MASSIE: You fight as hard as you can and you argue why you're the best person for that project and that author and you hope that they agree.

RUTMAN: Or why Anna is, depending on the situation. [Laughter.]

STEIN: Exactly. I try not to get clients as much as possible. Can you tell?

STEINBERG: Speed is a great help in those situations. You can be like, "I'm going to read this tonight and call you tomorrow."

MASSIE: That is so hard, though. I have two small children so I just can't do speed.

STEIN: I don't like to tell writers that they need to make a decision right away if the book is still out with other agents. I think it's important for them to have a choice, in the same way that we want a choice between editors. We like to be able, if we can, to shop an offer. We like to be able to make a decision between editors. I think authors are entitled to that decision between agents, too.

RUTMAN: You also don't want them to go with you if they have doubts in their mind. Because that will affect the relationship down the line. There have been instances when I've been like, "Oh, go with the other person," because I could just tell that they wanted to. That's fine. Sometimes the other agent is a friend and I'm happy for them. Until it hits the best-seller list. [Laughter.]

Talk to me about what editors do that makes you the most frustrated.
STEINBERG: The bandwagon mentality. When I submit a book to them and they call and say, "What's going on?" They're not supposed to say, "What's going on?" They're supposed to either say "I hate this" or "I love this" or "It's okay" or whatever. It's their job to tell me what's going on at that point. I've done the work, I've submitted to you, and you're supposed to tell me what's going on. If you're calling me and saying "What's going on?" then you're just wondering what you might miss out on because other editors might be interested and you're not going with your passion.

RUTMAN: Or perhaps don't call and ask what's going on without having some intention of your own to offer.

STEINBERG: That's very frustrating.

MASSIE: Or flip-floppers. Someone who disappears on you. Somebody who sends you an e-mail like, "Don't do anything without me. I'm loving this and getting other reads," and you never hear from them again. You're like, "What happened?"

STEIN: And we all know what happened.

MASSIE: But call and tell me. We need closure. The author's like, "What did they say? What's going on?"

STEIN: Show your confidence in your taste. And if you lose in the house...

MASSIE: Just say so. It's so much easier. And then you trust that editor. They loved it and for whatever reason the other readers didn't. But be transparent about it. It's so much easier to know what they're thinking than to wonder.

STEIN: And you'll go back to them because you understand their taste.

MASSIE: Yes. And if they don't tell you, you won't go back to them. There are editors who I won't go back to. And I'm sure all of you have your list of those editors.

RUTMAN: Explaining yourself is really helpful. I want to know on what grounds you are saying no, or on what grounds you couldn't get something through. It's all useful because it rounds out your sense of who you're offering a book to.

MASSIE: And it's so important to an author to hear about how people are responding to their work. When people don't get back to you, or they disappear, it's so frustrating because you're the person stuck in the middle trying to manage your author's fears and hopes and expectations. If it's a no, it's a no. It's easy.

STEINBERG: I also don't like when the editor has his assistant write the pass letter. I'm not submitting to the assistant—I'm submitting to you. I didn't have my assistant work up this submission for you. Because you can tell when the assistant's doing the form rejection. Agents should not get form rejections. You just don't do that.

STEIN: It's also frustrating when editors disappear after they've acquired a book. If, for some reason, things aren't going as well in-house as they'd like, they sometimes hide. Or if they're just really busy. Look, everybody's busy. Just say, "I'm busy." The disappearing act is just unattractive behavior.

Do you resent how collaborative the acquisitions process has become?
STEINBERG: I try to submit to places that aren't like that. I go out of my way to try to find the few remaining places where people can make decisions because they want to.

RUTMAN: Is that a matter of place or editor selection? Finding an editor whose opinion doesn't need—

STEINBERG: I guess it's the person.

STEIN: But I also see it—buying by committee—as something that has become pretty necessary. If an editor is really passionate, and everybody else isn't so passionate, it's going to be pretty hard to publish that book. I see it as something that's more and more necessary these days. If you sell a book to an editor who doesn't need all of that back-up, it's kind of tricky. Let's say you end up with sales and marketing people who just aren't that psyched about it. That's not so great for the book. I don't have so much of a problem with the committee as I do with the taste that the committee is coming up with. Which has just been really mediocre over the past few years.

RUTMAN: Good distinction.

STEIN: I don't think that the individuals have bad taste. I think it's just been a taste of fear over the past few years, and I hope that the committees will somehow—and this is just hope—become more courageous over the next few years. That somehow, with the market contracting, instead of thinking, "We need to be more mediocre," they will be thinking, "If we're actually going to be publishing literary fiction, it has to be really fucking good." And that means that some people in the house will kind of hate a book, but see what's amazing about it, and other people in the house will really, really love it. There wouldn't have to be consensus within the committee for the committee to get behind it. It would be a little different kind of committee, if that makes sense.

RUTMAN: And I guess this applies more to nonfiction than fiction, but please acknowledge comp titles as the limited and specious resource that they are, at least as the basis for making your decision.

But in the publisher's defense, it seems like sometimes that's how the accounts are making their decisions. At least to some extent.
RUTMAN: True. But I feel like a house has to have enough consequence, built in, to persuade a buyer. It's not like the house can't anticipate the reluctance that the buyer may ultimately express, and there's got to be a way to overwhelm that reluctance with the fact that they give a shit.

STEIN: But I think that also comes back to us, and to what we advise our authors to do in our nonfiction proposals now. The comp titles shouldn't necessarily be limited to the subject they're writing about. We have to broaden the spectrum to the kinds of books that could possibly work. We have to think about the moment when the sales reps have to face those guys. We have to think, "Jesus, what kind of comp titles could possibly relate to this in a way that could work?" I mean, it's so boring to have to think about that. But we can't rely on them to do that job for us anymore, unfortunately. That's another way that our jobs have changed.

RUTMAN: The anticipation of just about every possible objection. I mean, there are always a lot of possible objections. The list is long. And you try to speak to them as much as possible, even in the introductory conversation. I think we all appreciate how many rounds of approval the editor is responsible for securing, and that they have to create some kind of consensus with a really disparate group of tastes and responsibilities. When you think about all of those different barriers, it's kind of a wonder that as many books get bought as they do. How do you get this much approval from that many people this often? So it's kind of amazing when you hear how many books a certain group within Random House or something is going to publish. You guys are going to publish twelve hundred books this year? This one group found enough to agree on twelve hundred times?

Do you guys think the industry is healthy? Just give me a yes or no around the table.
STEINBERG: No.

MASSIE: No.

RUTMAN: I don't think so.

STEIN: No.

RUTMAN: But I do wonder if there's ever been a point when you could get four people to say yes.

STEIN: But here's the silver lining: It's unhealthy enough that it's an exciting time. It's broken enough that publishers and agents and everyone has to change. Everyone has to rethink what they're doing. So we have a group responsibility, and an opportunity, in a way that the industry has probably never seen before.

RUTMAN: Part of me craves that. If we're near a precipice, we might as well actually be on it. Let's get to the moment when some basic model really gives way to whatever other model that really smart people are going to help conceive of. Is this what Jason Epstein's been talking about for a long time? Maybe. Is the big company going to acknowledge, "Is this business for us, ultimately? We tried this. We kind of gave it a look. Eh, it's okay. Synergy's overrated. It's a stupid word. We're going to abandon that." Is it going to become a business for the fewer? Is it going to return to the financial interest of a select few wealthy people who are prepared to collect a really modest profit, if any? And does that make for more interesting publishing? Possibly. Maybe.

STEINBERG: Or will it go the other way, like you were saying before? Will we start making concert posters and guitar picks for publicity and using other industries' models to promote books? It could go that way and become more like the movie business.

RUTMAN: And those industries are claiming a state of serious unhealthiness as well. So if every single culture industry is ill at the same time, what do we have to look to?

STEINBERG: And maybe we also shouldn't feel so bad.

MASSIE: It's an interesting time, if you think about it. Look at how the music industry got hit so hard by iTunes and iPods. They had no time to react. But the book publishing industry actually has a little time to think about things and explore possibilities and try to figure out what the next thing is going to be without being hit so hard.

What are the big problems in your opinions, and who are you looking toJim said Jason Epsteinfor the solutions? Is it Bob Miller? Is it Jon Karp? Who is it?
STEIN: Those are the first two people I would have mentioned. The big problems are too many books, inflated advances for—

RUTMAN: The few.

MASSIE: Marketing budgets going to big, established authors.

STEINBERG: No one ever hearing about great books that are published.

STEIN: Returns.

RUTMAN: Trend-hunting.

STEINBERG: Barnes & Noble making many decisions for publishers.

STEIN: Inflexible models across the board. For example, it's time for us to be reasonable as agents. We shouldn't ask for unreasonable advances. But in exchange, shouldn't we be able to ask for paperback escalators? Publishers will say, "It's our company policy not to give paperback escalators." But we're going to give a little bit, so publishers should give a little bit.

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So who are you looking to?
MASSIE: I don't know who to look to yet.

STEIN: Nobody's really stepped up yet except for Bob Miller. He's really the only one. Jon Karp had a great idea ahead of everybody else but he hasn't done anything that's quite like what Bob Miller is doing.

I feel like paperback originals might be one place to look in the short term. What if some established publisher said, "Hardcover books are the eight-track of the publishing industry. They don't make sense anymorein this culture, in this economyand we just aren't going to do them anymore"? Would you all continue to sell them books?
ALL: Yes.

RUTMAN: Because every house with a serious line of original trade paperbacks is usually publishing some really interesting books. Think about a handful of years ago when Vintage was making a concerted effort and publishing what I guess they were designating as more "difficult" books. One of the most beautiful trade paperbacks they did—it had French flaps—was Notable American Women by Ben Marcus. That thing was just too cool. It was the perfect trade paperback. I thought, "Okay! Maybe this is a kind of turning point." Not because it was a book that was ever going to sell Jhumpa Lahiri numbers. But that turned out to be a small little experiment that seems all but discontinued.

STEINBERG: I think it's always attractive to agents when publishers have a vision. If they said, "We're just going to do trade paperbacks, and we're going to make it work," that would be immediately attractive. Because they have a vision. It's not just like, "Oh, let's publish this and see what happens. Good luck to us all! Bye!" [Laughter.]

RUTMAN: But if you sell a book and it's acquired with the intention of making it a trade paperback, and three or four months later the publisher comes back to you and says, "We've reconsidered. We're going to make this a hardcover," it's not even implied—it's basically stated—that "we thought we were acquiring nothing, and we've actually had a change of heart. We think we have something. Congratulations to us all." If you were ever under the delusion that there was no hierarchical relationship between the two, it's dismissed pretty thoroughly. And what's going to change that? The Great Depression II might go some way.

STEIN: It used to be about reviews. There was this idea that you couldn't get reviews for trade paperbacks. But there aren't reviews anymore so we don't have to worry about that.

STEINBERG: Silver lining.

MASSIE: Grove's had a couple of original trade paperbacks on the cover of the New York Times Book Review. So that's not the story anymore.

STEIN: Grove does wonderful trade paperbacks.

Stop it, you're going to make Morgan blush. But seriously, I wish the whole economics of advances would change so that we could do more.
RUTMAN: And if e-books are costing about what trade paperbacks cost, maybe we can have a more uniform price for books. So you wouldn't have this disparity.

STEINBERG: But one of the goals of agents is to get a good advance, and the way that publishers get to higher numbers is by doing hardcovers.

STEIN: But that could change a little bit. If there wasn't the sort of hardcover-paperback hierarchy, and if we started doing a lot more trade paperbacks, the price of paperbacks could rise a little bit. And there's no reason we should have such low royalties for paperbacks.

STEINBERG: Someone in publishing told me that that's why publishing still exists—because publishers held agents off from having escalators on paperbacks. That's where the money is made.

STEIN: But we need a little of that money if we're not going to ask for high advances.

What are you most worried about with regard to the industry?
STEINBERG: I think if Barnes & Noble folds, or something like that, it might be so devastating that we can't get around it. If Barnes & Noble were to fold, what would happen to all of us? I mean, there's no way that publishing could really continue. We've put too many eggs in one basket.

STEIN: Publishing could continue.

STEINBERG: It could continue, but it would be at a much different scale.

STEIN: Agents would just sell the books to Amazon. It would be the publishers that would be out of business.

STEINBERG: Isn't Barnes & Noble like 50 percent of the market?

RUTMAN: But there is also a pretty astounding percentage of books that are sold in non-book-retailing locations. Which is problematic at least for the likes of most of us because we don't do so many of those books.

MASSIE: They tend to take a certain kind of book.

STEIN: Which is why, although we're very grateful to Amazon, we need to keep our bookstores in business. So if you're going to buy a book, buy it from an actual bookstore.

MASSIE: Look at Harry Schwartz.

It's really sad.
MASSIE: That was really devastating. And it's like a new one every day.

STEIN: If you buy a book from Amazon, you're killing us.

RUTMAN: There, she said it.

STEIN: And you're killing yourself. Thank you. [Laughter.]

What are the other things you're most worried about?
RUTMAN: That the balkanization of commercial publishing will be so complete that an even smaller number of books that claim all of the available resources will take up even more available resources and the ghetto for everyone else will end up being vast. That the midlist will come to encompass everything that isn't a couple of titles.

STEIN: That the midlist, and the kinds of books we do, really will become the new short stories or the new poetry.

RUTMAN: The assumption is that you can still anticipate something that will work commercially. Which I guess sometimes you can, but not often enough to justify that as a prevailing strategy. I mean, can we stop paying senators and politicians—sorry, Flip [Brophy, a colleague at Sterling Lord]—and various other famous people tons of money for stories that are—and I apologize, readers everywhere—insubstantial in the extreme?

With one exception, right?
RUTMAN: Obama. [Laughter.]

He's a great writer.
RUTMAN: Exactly. If they write their own books and they write them well, then we have a crucial exception. But generally speaking, this thing of giving somebody, on the basis solely of name recognition, disproportionate resources that could be so much better spent elsewhere? Why do we do that?

STEIN: Imagine a world where books would have to be submitted without the author's name. Obviously there would be no platform. So if the proposal was really shitty, and the writing was really shitty, there would be no sale.

Anna wants a meritocracy in publishing.
RUTMAN: Aw, that's sweet. [Laughter.]

But that raises an interesting point. Why do you all focus on serious literary work when it's so obvious that the real money is elsewhere?
MASSIE: It's what I like to read.

STEINBERG: I like going to work every day and the feeling of liking what I do. I think if someone said to me, "You can do only fiction, and no nonfiction, forever. Will you do that?" I would say, "I don't think I'll like that very much, because I still like nonfiction, but I'll do it." But if somebody said to me, "You can do only nonfiction. No fiction," I'd be like, "I'm just going to quit." There wouldn't be any point.

RUTMAN: I just don't feel equipped to make judgments about anything other than what I like. I feel like my capacity to gauge commercial prospects is kind of restricted. The only thing I can really respond to is what I think works in some way that means something to me.

STEIN: I'm a hopeless optimist, and I think somehow, someday...well, look, Revolutionary Road is on the best-seller list right now. I'm an optimist, and because it can happen, I think it will happen, and I want to be on the front lines when it does.

Are you encouraged by anything you're seeing on the front lines?
STEIN: Our president is a writer. We have a president who loves books and who's all about promoting the arts. That's amazing.

STEINBERG: I like the Kindle and the Sony Reader. I think they're a step forward and sort of address the cool factor. I think it's cool that with the Kindle you can think of a book you want and have it at your fingertips a minute later.

RUTMAN: It's also nice because it means that books are eligible to be included in the world of new technology.

STEINBERG: When you're on the subway, people are intrigued by it. They're like, "What's that?" And that intrigue factor is important.

STEIN: Except they can't see what you're reading.

MASSIE: It also feels like the YA world has really taken off in the last few years and kids are really excited about reading. It feels like there's a whole new generation of readers out there, doesn't it? And it's not just Harry Potter. There are all these authors, people like Cornelia Funke, and all of my nieces and nephews have their favorites. They've all discovered their own different authors who they're so excited about. It's great. I feel like there was a generation that sort of skipped that.

RUTMAN: I'm also encouraged by the things that succeed, for the most part. Look at something like A Series of Unfortunate Events. You have this very self-conscious, writerly line of books that kind of flatter kids' ability to appreciate a certain context in which the books have been written. And kids seem to live in a text-filled world in a way that even we didn't. I don't know if it's the right kind of text, but it might function as the basis for some broader appreciation of written communication.

MASSIE: And look at the YA books that are doing well—they're doorstops. Look at The Invention of Hugo Cabret, that Brian Selznick book. It's huge.

STEINBERG: My daughter loves that book.

MASSIE: My son loved it too.

STEIN: Is it good? Have you guys read it?

MASSIE: It's great. I loved it.

RUTMAN: I think the girth of a fat children's book is a factor in its success. Kids must feel like they're being entrusted with something enormous. It's like, "I don't care that you're only eight. You're going to read 960 pages of epic...." And now that they wheel their backpacks, it's okay. It's safe.

At the end of the day, what's the best part of your job?
MASSIE: Working with great authors. Discovering new voices. When an author's book arrives for the first time—when you get that messengered package and rip it open and there's the book. That's the best feeling. Getting the book in your hands is better than getting the deal.

RUTMAN: Having some part in the creation of a book that you feel strongly about. However incidental your role may be. I mean, I haven't written any books and it's really nice to have helped bring some of them about. That's more than I expected from a workday.

STEIN: I agree with all of those things and, for me, it's also just about making the author happy—making the author's hard work pay off in a way that you just know their endorphin rush is going to go on for a week. That's what makes your endorphin rush happen. It's not the deal. It's their scream.

STEINBERG: I love dealing with creative people on a daily basis and just seeing how their minds work. It just makes me so happy. I think that's probably why I do what I do. I just love what they come up with. Great twists in plot. Things that are unexpected but extraordinary. That's always the best part. I'm really sad when I'm not reading some great piece of fiction for work.

RUTMAN: Constant access to people who are smarter than you is a really nice part of the job.

STEIN: Smarter. More creative.

STEINBERG: More disciplined.

RUTMAN: Better. Just better.

AGENTS ANONYMOUS
In the third hour of our conversation, with a few bottles of wine sloshing around in their brains, the agents agreed to speak anonymously on a variety of topics that would be difficult to discuss for attribution. Any number of verbal tics have been altered in order to disguise the identities of the speakers.

 

What would you say to writers if you could be anonymous?
Work harder. Be gracious.

Don't be so needy. Don't need constant affirmation.

Once you make a decision to go with an agent, trust that agent.

When authors leave their agent to go to a "better" agent, it is almost always the author's fault. I don't blame agents for poaching. I blame authors for allowing themselves to be poached.

And nine times out of ten it's the wrong decision.

Tell me about some overrated publishers, in your opinion.
Little Random. I think the reputation they built in the era before we came into the industry has gone out the window in the past five years. I can't think of one book of theirs that I've read in the past five years that I've admired. They have no vision. There used to be some good literary editors there—Dan Menaker, Ann Godoff—who had some vision. I think the house publishes schlock now, for the most part.

Spiegel & Grau. They just care about the celebrity-type books. Even if the writer is not an actual celebrity, they only want to buy big books by the sort of literary celebrities. They pretend they're in it for the art but in my view they're not.

Scribner. It's kind of strange because they have this great literary reputation, and I've always thought of them as a great literary house, but I just can't think of anything of theirs that I've admired in a long time. Maybe a little bit of their nonfiction, but not much of it. I can't figure out why that is because, you know, it's Nan Graham and that shouldn't be the case.

Riverhead, these days—after Cindy [Spiegel] and Julie [Grau] left—has not found its footing yet. I mean, the books that have done well for Riverhead lately were under contract already. Junot Díaz. Khaled Hosseini. Aleksandar Hemon, but Sean [McDonald, his editor] was there before the new regime. We'll see what Becky [Saletan] does.

What about on the flip side of that? Which houses do you think are underrated?
Algonquin. They do a great job and they have integrity. They know the right amount to pay but they don't overpay. And they do great publicity.

I wish more houses were like Norton. They have a pretty big list but they also acquire carefully, for the most part, and there's a nice range of serious editors. Their acquisition process is rigorous and they don't often go nuts to overpay for something. They're an employee-owned company and everybody is invested in what goes on. Their offices are really crappy, which is kind of reassuring. And they take chances on books that are ultra-literary while doing unapologetically commercial stuff too.

I feel like Algonquin uses them almost as a model. They're similar in a lot of ways.

They're the last of a dying breed. How many independent houses of that size exist anymore? And there's a reason we haven't heard about any cutbacks or financial issues at Norton. They operate responsibly.

Tell me about some editors you really like to work with.
I'm working with an editor I've never worked with before, Tom Mayer at Norton. He's tireless and will do anything for this book. The author wasn't happy with the cover, and Tom went and got them to hire somebody else. I mean, that never happens. Usually editors are trying to say, "We all love this and the author should too." I've never seen such an advocate for a book.

I would say Kathy Pories at Algonquin. She has amazing taste and she's also a fantastic editor. She makes novels the 25-percent better that they need to be. She's such a straight shooter, she's fun to talk to on the phone... [Laughter.] That can't be discounted! It's a joy to call her. And it lets me be a straight shooter myself and not need to spin anything. That's a nice feeling.

It's only been one instance, but if somebody's had a better experience with an editor than I was lucky enough to have with David Ebershoff, I would wish it on all of you. The level of attentiveness and awareness of the whole process from beginning to end was just incredibly heartening, from securing a publicist to being honest about certain potential impediments. His advocacy was inexhaustible.

Molly Barton is the same way. She will not let a book die. She's still there after publication. She's still there after paperback publication. She just keeps a book alive and does absolutely everything possible. She does things for her books that I didn't even know were possible. She came up in a slightly different way and has a sort of big-picture publishing knowledge that a lot of editors don't have.

Anybody have any horror stories from lunch?
I once had lunch with an editor at HarperCollins, and this was so long ago that I don't even remember his name or if he's still there, but he talked the whole time—very excitably, kind of spitting his food—about television shows and action movies. It's kind of a cliché to talk about going to the bathroom and seeing if you can figure out a way to slip out. But I actually went to the bathroom and thought, "I can't go back. I can't get through this lunch. This has got to be Candid Camera. I can't do it." But I went back and finished the lunch. I thought the whole thing had to be some sort of joke. But it wasn't. It was real and he was real.

I had one lunch where the editor called me by the wrong name the entire lunch. He didn't even know my name! And I didn't correct him because I was so angry. After lunch I went back to the office and wrote him an e-mail so he'd see my name and know.

Of all the people and places who write about the industrynewspapers, Web sites, blogswho are the smartest and who are the dumbest?
I feel like Publishers Weekly has really gone downhill. I know it's a trade magazine so it's supposed to be boring, but I think it's really boring. I also don't trust the reviews. I kind of liked Sara Nelson's column, though. Just as a barometer of things.

I always feel like when I'm reading Michael Cader he might say something intelligent. Publishers Lunch is one of the better ones.

I thought Boris [Kachka] got a little too much shit for his New York magazine piece. I don't think it was a dumb article. I felt more sympathetic to what he was trying to do than I think most people did.

I think that guy Leon [Neyfakh] at the Observer is really good at digging in and getting scoops. He really keeps going.

It's his first job.

And he knows how to become friends with you and get stuff out of you. He's very good in that way. And he treats publishing like it's something to care about, which is nice. It's like he's always looking for some secret that will be amazing. The things he finds are usually kind of silly, but at least he's trying.

Which is different than Motoko [Rich, of the New York Times], who approaches it like it's a business. A business that doesn't make any money.

Don't you always feel a little surprised that the Times will cover a publishing development as prominently as they sometimes do? They're like, "Layoffs at Doubleday!" and you're like, "That warrants coverage in the New York Times? Really?"

Anything else that you want to get off your chests?
I think book jackets are incredibly important but they're one of the weakest parts of the business. We need to pay jacket designers more money. We need to attract better people. It's one thing that we can control.

We should steal all of the indie-rock designers and bring them into books. Because that shit is great. Walk through any record store. They are so consistently good, and they get paid nothing.

I emphatically second that idea. And I think raiding another industry could be the way to do it.

There are so few things you can control, and the jacket is so important. It's what people look at. Women's legs are not inherently interesting as cover subjects.

Or shoes.

Or the face of an adolescent girl who is blowing bubbles.

Oh, I disagree with you there. I'd love to support you, but I can't. [Laughter.]

 

Jofie Ferrari-Adler is an editor at Grove/Atlantic.

Agents and Editors: A Q&A With Four Young Editors

by
Jofie Ferrari-Adler
3.1.09

If the economic Tilt-A-Whirl of the past few months has proven anything, it's that this carnival life of ours—writing, publishing, trying to find readers—isn't getting any easier. Booksellers and publishers are in turmoil, with scores of staffers having already lost their jobs to "restructuring,""integration," and all the other corporate euphemisms that are dreamed up to soften the harsh reality: It isn't pretty out there.

While it goes without saying that our problems are nothing compared with those of many industries, one's heart can't help but ache for the literary magazines and publishing houses that won't be around in a year; the unemployed editors, publicists, and marketing people with mortgages to pay; the authors whose first books are being published now, or a month from now, or anytime soon.

But difficult times don't have to be joyless times. As I listened to these four accomplished young book editors talk about what they do, I was reminded of a simple and enduring truth, trite as it may sound: We are all—writers, agents, publishers, booksellers, librarians, and readers—in this together. And there are concrete things we can do to connect with one another more effectively. These editors are full of insight about how to do just that.

It seems appropriate, at such a humbling moment, that we met over pizza and bottled water (okay, maybe not exclusively water) in the glamorously unglamorous offices of Open City, the independent press and literary magazine based in downtown Manhattan. Over the years its editors, Thomas Beller and Joanna Yas, have introduced readers to some of the most distinctive voices of our time, from Meghan Daum to Sam Lipsyte. Here are short biographies of the participants:

LEE BOUDREAUX was an editor at Random House for almost ten years before leaving to become the editorial director of Ecco in 2005. She has worked with Arthur Phillips, Dalia Sofer, and David Wroblewski.

ERIC CHINSKI worked at Oxford University Press and Houghton Mifflin before moving to Farrar, Straus and Giroux, where he is vice president and editor in chief. He has edited Chris Adrian, Rivka Galchen, and Alex Ross.

ALEXIS GARGAGLIANO worked at Simon & Schuster and Knopf before moving to Scribner, where she is an editor, in 2002. Her authors include Matt Bondurant, Adam Gollner, and Joanna Smith Rakoff.

RICHARD NASH worked as a performance artist and theater director before taking over Soft Skull Press, now an imprint of Counterpoint, in 2001. His authors include Lydia Millet, Matthew Sharpe, and Lynne Tillman. [UPDATE: Richard Nash has resigned as editorial director of Soft Skull Press and executive editor of Counterpoint, effective March 10, 2009.]

Every reader understands the feeling of falling in love with a book. You guys do that for a living. I'm curious if you've given any thought to the specific things that can trigger that experience.
GARGAGLIANO: I don't know if there's a specific thing, but you know it immediately. The minute I start it I know that it's the book I want to fall in love with. And that's the one I keep reading. I will read a hundred pages of something else, but I won't fall in love with it. You have this immediate sense of texture and place, and you're just inside it from the first sentence. I think the thing that everybody says about first sentences is true. Everyone should try to get that first sentence perfect. I make my authors do that all the time.
NASH: But if you make them do it, they didn't quite do it the first time, did they?
GARGAGLIANO: Well, it might be that you've had them totally rewrite the opening.
CHINSKI: Do you feel like it's different for fiction and nonfiction?
GARGAGLIANO: I do. I always hate that with nonfiction, when you read a proposal, you don't get the writing first. You get the pitch first. I always look to the writing.
CHINSKI: For me, with fiction, there's that funny moment when you feel like you actually want to meet the author. You want to know who the man or woman who's writing it is because there's a real sensibility in the writing. It's not just that the writing is good—there's a kind of intensity of imagination to it. You wonder, "Who is this person who's able to telescope all of these ideas into something that feels accessible?" I think that's one similarity between nonfiction and fiction, even though obviously they're different in many ways: It takes the ordinary and makes it extraordinary. You sort of recognize something but it allows you access to it in a totally different way. But I can't tell you how many times, thirty pages into a novel, I actually want to write the agent and say, "Who is this person?" You just wonder, "Who's coming up with this?"
BOUDREAUX: I think there's always a moment of surprise and delight. It comes in the form of a word. You get to the end of a sentence and go, "Wow, I didn't see that coming. That was perfect." The language just goes click and the whole thing has gone up a notch and you know at that point that you're committed to...a hundred pages? Two hundred? Or you're going the distance with it. The gears just click into place and you realize you're reading something that is an order of magnitude different than the seventy-five other things that have crossed your desk lately, many of which were perfectly good and perfectly competent.
CHINSKI: And doesn't it feel like it's not even just talent? It's the sensibility of the writer. I think about a writer whom I don't work with but whom I admire, Aleksandar Hemon. He does that funny thing where he doesn't use words in an ordinary way, and yet they work and they suggest a whole worldview. Or look at Chris Adrian, whom I do work with and adore. I mean, his writing is really difficult. It's about dying and suffering children—you can't imagine a more difficult subject. But again, there's a kind of intensity of imagination and a way of articulating things that goes beyond good writing. There is a force and energy to the writing. I think that's the hardest thing to find in fiction, at least for me, and that's what I find myself responding to again and again.
NASH: For me it's also when a work of fiction has the force of society behind it on some level. Which is not necessarily to say that it has to be political—I do far less political fiction than people think—but I do want to feel that the writer has access to something larger than himself. To me, the energy you're talking about is something that possesses social force and a concatenation of relationships and responses to the world lived in a certain kind of way. I try to forbid myself from using the word authenticity because I don't actually know what the hell it is, but that's one way of talking about it.
CHINSKI: I have a related question. What do you all think of the word voice? It's one of those words that we all overuse, but do we actually know what it is? I always find myself reaching for it when I want to describe why I like something and why I don't like other things that are perfectly well written. But when I really try to figure out exactly what I mean by it, I come back to what I was saying before. Is sensibility the same thing as a writer having a voice?
GARGAGLIANO: If it comes alive for you, and you can hear it in your head, and it sort of lives inside you, that's when I feel like a writer has a voice. That's when I'll keep going back to something again and again. One of my favorite writers when I was falling in love with literature was Jeanette Winterson. It was just about her voice. I kept loving her books even when the stories themselves started to fall apart. I just wanted to hear that voice in my head. For me, with her, it stopped being about the storytelling, which is unusual. I love story. I want plots in my books.
CHINSKI: And you can think about writers who don't actually tell stories. The Europeans, for example. We always have one: Thomas Bernhard; Sebald; now Bolaño. It feels like there's always one of these writers who isn't writing plot-driven fiction. The voice is so strong that that's what people are responding to. With Bolaño, I find it kind of amazing that you have this nine-hundred-page novel by a dead Spanish-language writer...I mean, I can't honestly believe that everybody who's buying it is reading the whole thing. But it goes back to what you were saying, Richard, about the voice having the force of history and almost being haunted by these bigger issues.
NASH: Haunted is totally the word. Beckett had it too, obviously.
CHINSKI: Or look at Philip Roth. Even in his lesser novels, you can always recognize that kind of force in his writing.
NASH: What you just said reminds me of an artist named Bruce Nauman. I went to see a retrospective of his before I was in publishing. There was this sense, as you went from room to room, that the guy just had access to something that he wasn't going to lose access to. You know what I mean? There was a certain frequency of the world to which he was tuned in. It could express itself in different ways, but he wasn't going to lose his capacity to listen to it, as a result of which the work was always going to be operating on a certain level. He might vary between, I don't know, brilliant and mind-blowing, but he wasn't going to fuck up. Those voices, and those Europeans you were mentioning, are probably at the very upper level.
CHINSKI: That's right. They always seem to have a certain set of questions that they're asking. Even if they're writing very different novels from book to book, they're haunted by one or two or three questions, and no matter what they write, they seem to circle around them. That may have something to do with the voice they bring to a book. I mean, even Sasha Hemon, who's only written three books—you can tell what his obsessions are. That's another thing: I like writers who are obsessed. Chris Adrian is obsessed too. That's what's exciting about reading certain fiction writers.

Aside from what's on the page, and somebody's skill as a writer or voice or obsessions, what other things influence your thinking and decision-making?
GARGAGLIANO: One of the things can be when a book taps into something that's happening in the moment. I'm editing a book right now that's set after World War II in a psychiatric hospital, and it's really a book about what happens to soldiers when they come back from war. I find myself obsessed with the news and weeping when I watch Channel Thirteen because I've been inside of this story for so long and I understand the psychology of these men coming back. I'm hoping that there will be a resonance when we publish it. You're always trying to process things in the world, and when you read a really good piece of fiction, it helps you process things.
CHINSKI: The word necessary always comes to mind for me. Beyond a good story, beyond good writing, does the novel feel necessary? A lot of good books are written, and I'm not saying that they shouldn't be published, but as an editor you can't work on everything, and the ones I tend to be drawn to are the ones that either feel personally necessary or globally necessary in some vague way that's hard to define. And that should be at the sentence level, too. People who can write really well sometimes get carried away by their own writing and forget what's actually necessary on the page. I would also raise the question of believability. A book can be surreal and fantastical and all that, so it's not believable in any straight sense, but it has to be believable in the sense that the author believes in what he or she is doing. Sometimes you feel like an author is just writing for the sake of writing, and that is a big turnoff. It's got to feel necessary at every level.
BOUDREAUX: As an editor, you know how difficult the in-house process is going to be—the process of getting a book out there. The necessary quotient comes up when you ask yourself, "Is this something that really fires me up? What's going to happen when I give it to these two reps to read? Are they going to have the same reaction to some pretty significant extent and feel the need to convey their enthusiasm down the line?" Because I think word of mouth remains the best thing we can ever do for a book. So is there that necessary thing? Is there that urgency? Is it in some significant way different from any number of other novels that purport to talk about the same topic? It's almost like an electrical pulse traveling down a wire. It starts with the author, then the agent, then the editor, and then there are a lot of telephone poles it's got to go through from there. If it's lacking in any way, you know that the electricity is going to peter out. Sometimes you can almost see it happen. You can watch it happen between one sales rep and another sales rep. You're like, "Oh, that just petered out between those two telephone poles." And the book is only going to do so much.

When a lot of us were starting out I think we may have felt like, "Oh, it's a little book, but it's my job to make it work, and I'm going to." I feel less like that now. Because you can't work on everything, and you can't do everything for every book. Even when you do do everything you can think of, so many good books get ignored. So many good books go by the wayside. You've got to be able to figure out if each one is necessary enough that you can really do something with it. Because it's not that rewarding as the editor, or as the author, to just have a book sit there—when it dies a quiet death and nobody even hears it sink. "We tried! We'll do better with the paperback!" The number of times you hear that! You know you're lying and they know you're lying and everyone's just going to pretend it will be totally different a year from now.

It's got to have enough juice in it to go somewhere. I feel like that juice can take any number of forms. It's an ineffable quality, but you kind of know it when you've got it in front of you. Everyone is not going to agree on fiction, either. I do pretty much all fiction. When I want to buy something, in most cases nobody else is going to read the whole thing. They're going to believe me when I say it's good all the way to the end. They just like the voice and then we run with it. You're never going to get a whole roomful of people to agree on fiction the way you sometimes can with nonfiction: "Is this the right book at the right time by the right person with the right platform to write the book on whatever?" With fiction it's all sort of amorphous, and you've just got to feel like you're picking the ones that are potent enough to go the distance.
NASH: We're all just proxies for the reader. But we're going to have different ideas about who the reader is and how we connect to that reader. Do we have commonality with this imaginary reader? But I certainly find that I am powerfully animated by the sense of having a duty to connect the writer with the reader. Is this a book that's going to get one person to tell another person that they've got to read it? Which is the closest thing, I think, at least in the land of fiction, that's going to pass for figuring out what the hell is meant by the word commercial. As you said, your own energy can always get one other person to read the book. But is that one other person going to get the next person to read the book?

Are there any other things, besides what's on the page, that you're looking at when a book is submitted?
GARGAGLIANO: This was one of the hardest lessons for me. Unlike what Eric was saying earlier, when I used to read fiction before I was in publishing, I never wanted to know who the author was. I didn't want to look at their pictures. I just wanted to exist in the worlds that they had created. That was it. When I got into the industry, I quickly learned that that was not acceptable. The first thing I get asked at our editorial meeting is, "Where have they published?" You want to know that somebody has been publishing their short stories, even if a total of a hundred people have read them. It's always the first question.
CHINSKI: One thing I'm looking for is experience in the world. I keep coming back to Chris Adrian, not for any particular reason. But he's somebody who has an MFA, he's a practicing doctor specializing in pediatric oncology, he's in divinity school, and you can feel all of that in his writing. There's an urgency, a sense of questioning, and an obsession. You can tell that all of that experience is getting distilled into his writing. He wants to understand something about loss and our relationship to transcendence. I feel like with the best writers, you recognize that in their work. It's exciting to me to feel like it's being drawn not just out of the desire to write an interesting story and find readers. It's a different form of necessity that they feel they need to wrestle with because of their own life experience.
BOUDREAUX: I've never been able to say what my books have in common. I'll make an argument for escapism. I want to be transported. I don't care where you take me, but I want to have that moment that we all had when we were reading as kids, when the real world ceases to exist and your mother tells you to come have dinner and it's like resurfacing from the bottom of a swimming pool. "Where am I? What am I doing?" That's what I want. I'm not looking for any particular kind of book, I'm just looking for the intensity of that experience. It doesn't matter what agent it comes from. It doesn't matter if it's long or short. It doesn't matter if it's a young voice or something that's more mature. I just feel like you sit there as a proxy for the reader, open to having a new experience. And if they can give it to you, great. I don't even need it to happen in the first sentence. I'll give it three or four pages sometimes. [Laughter.] I'm seven months pregnant so I'm feeling patient and maternal toward the world—I'll give them four or five pages to say something that I find interesting.

On the flip side of that, give me some things that you find beginning writers doing wrong.
NASH: Not listening. Not listening to the world around them.
GARGAGLIANO: Trying to sell stories that aren't really a book. They're not a cohesive whole. There's no vision to the whole thing that makes me feel like this person has a reason for writing a story collection other than that they had twelve stories.
NASH: Assuming that having an attitude equals...anything.
CHINSKI: Or assuming that good writing is enough. I'm sure we all see a lot of stuff where the writing is really good. It's well crafted and you can tell that the writer has talent. But, again, you don't really feel like the writer necessarily believes in his or her ability to open it up into a novel. I know the old adage "write what you know." I'd kind of rather somebody write what they don't know. And figure out, beyond their own personal experience, why what they're doing should matter to the reader.
BOUDREAUX: I've always wanted to give people that advice too. "Do you have to write what you know? If you know it, I might know it. Which means I've already read it. Which means that your book is the nineteenth novel about a mother-daughter relationship. And I. Don't. Care." The crudest way to put it is the "Who cares?" factor. Why, why, why do I need to read four hundred pages about this? The necessary thing, and the authentic thing, and the voice thing are all much better ways of saying it than the "Who cares?" factor, but it's basically the same thing. "What is the necessity of reading this? What are you doing that is different?"
CHINSKI: I'd rather somebody be ambitious and fail a little bit than read a perfectly crafted, tame novel.
NASH: I have published novels, especially first novels, that I knew failed on some level because of what they were trying to do. I felt that that was okay.
CHINSKI: That's more exciting.
NASH: But what would be the version of that that actually answered your question?
CHINSKI: "Have courage"?
NASH: Don't try to be perfect. Don't be boring.
CHINSKI: That's really what it is 99.9 percent of the time—good writing, but boring. And it's the hardest thing to turn down because you think, "This is good. But it doesn't do anything for me."
BOUDREAUX: That's the thing. You're like, "There's nothing wrong with this. I've got nothing to tell you to do to fix it. It's just...there."
CHINSKI: And that's a hard rejection letter to write, too. Because it's not like you can point to this, that, and the other thing that are wrong with it. It just doesn't move you in any way. It doesn't feel necessary.

Do you think it's too hard to get published today?
GARGAGLIANO: I think it's hard but not too hard. I don't know how many more books we could have out there.
BOUDREAUX: I think we all kind of know that too many books get published. You can listen to your own imprint's launch meeting, you can listen to all the other imprints' launch meetings, and multiply that by every other house, and you know that every book did not feel necessary to every editor. When you think about it that way, it doesn't seem all that hard to get published.
CHINSKI: But there are also a lot of people who can't get published.
NASH: There was a great little moment in an article in Wired about a year ago. It was an article about the million-dollar prize that Netflix is giving for anyone who can improve their algorithm—"If you liked this, you'll like that"—by 10 percent. One of the people in the article was quoted as saying that the twentieth century was a problem of supply, and the twenty-first century is a problem of demand. I think that describes a lot about the book publishing business right now. For a long time, racism, classism, and sexism prevented a whole array of talent from having access to a level of educational privilege that would allow them to write full-length books. That hasn't been completely solved, but it's been radically improved since the 1950s. Far more persons of color, women, and people below the upper class have access now. An entire agent community has arisen to represent them. But finding the audience is the big problem. I guess I'm imposing my own question on the question you asked—"Is it too hard to get published?"—and I think we all may have heard a slightly different version of that question. The version of it that I heard was, "Are there too many books?" I personally don't feel that way. And I get a lot of submissions at Soft Skull. I get about 150 a week. And it's hell having so much supply. But we didn't exist before 1993, and you guys all existed before that, so you are feeding off a different supply and we're enabling this new supply. I love the fact that Two Dollar Radio exists, and all the other new indie presses that have erupted. I think that's healthy. I don't think a solution to the problems we face as an industry is to say we're going to reduce consumer choice by publishing fewer books. Now, at the level of the individual publisher, I totally understand it as a rational decision that a given executive committee would make at a large company. My comment that there are not too many books published has to do with culture rather than a given economic enterprise. I think we could publish more books. You just have to recognize that they may be read by five hundred people. And that's perfectly legitimate. Blogs can be read by fifty people. You just have to think, "What's the economically and environmentally rational thing to do with this thing that has an audience—but that audience is just 150 or 250 people?" It may not be to print the book. It may be to publish it through a labor-of-love operation that is completely committed to a given set of aesthetic principles and will print it in a way that is environmentally sensitive—chapbook publishing, let's say. The poetry model could have a lot to say to fiction and nonfiction publishing.

I think about the midlist writer a lot and I feel like it's harder and harder to build a career the old-fashioned wayslowly, over several books that might not be perfect but allow you to develop as a writer. Part of that has to do with the electronic sales track. Put yourself in the shoes of a beginning writer and speak to that.
BOUDREAUX: When we published Serena by Ron Rash it was such a proud moment of doing that thing—of almost reinventing a writer. So I feel like it can still happen. The model of building somebody hasn't gone completely out the window. It gets hard with the "This is what we sold of the last book, this is all we're ordering this time." And you're stuck with it. But a lot of editors and a lot of publishers stick with people.
GARGAGLIANO: I feel like Scribner is really good about that. We can't do it with everyone, but there is definitely a stable of authors. I have writers for whom I haven't had to fight that hard to buy their second or third books. It's because everyone recognizes their talent.
NASH: It can be because the reps love selling them. The reps love reading that galley, even if they're going to get [orders of] ones and twos. But it makes them so happy to read that galley that they're not going to fight you when you present it to them.
CHINSKI: You have to think about the identity of the list as a whole, too. Sometimes it means paying an author less than what they've received before, but it doesn't mean we're giving up on those authors. I think, speaking for FSG, it's important to us to try to build writers. Roger Straus apparently said, and Jonathan always says, "We publish authors, not books." That's more difficult today, given the way of the world, but it's still the guiding principle. Think about Jonathan Franzen, who published two novels that got great reviews but didn't sell particularly well. Then The Corrections came along. There are tons of examples like that.

But aren't you guys and FSG the exception to that in a lot of ways?
CHINSKI: I wonder if it's really that new. Obviously the mechanics have changed, but there's always been a huge midlist. We remember the really important writers. We probably don't even remember the best-selling writers from twenty years ago. You remember the important ones—or the ones that have been canonized as important. The economics have changed and obviously the chain bookstores are a different part of the equation than they were fifty years ago, but I suspect there's always been a vast midlist.
GARGAGLIANO: I also don't think it's very constructive for authors to think about that too much. You're sort of fortunate if you get published at all. You're fortunate to find an editor who you have a great relationship with and a house that believes in you in which everybody works as hard as they can for you. There's only so much you can do.
NASH: If you're going to stress about something, be worrying about your reader. Don't stare at your Amazon ranking and don't stare at the number of galleys your publisher is printing. Get out into the world. And if you don't have the personality to get out into the world, then you have to ask yourself, "Why does everybody else have to have the personality to get out into the world, but I don't? What makes me so special that everybody else has to go out and bang the drum for me, but I don't?" I have a fairly limited tolerance for people who assume that it is everybody else's job to sell their books while they get to be pure and pristine. They don't have to get the book-publishing equivalent of dirt under their fingernails. Which involves whoring, to use a sexist term, but one that I use to describe myself. [Laughter.] Go out and find a reader. It's not about selling a reader a $14.95 book. If you have ten more books under your thumb, then that reader could be worth $150 to you, and it might actually be worth three minutes of your time to respond to their e-mail or chat with them for an extra two minutes after that reading at which it seemed like no one showed up. Those eight people might have some influence out in the world. None of us is in this for the money. It's sort of mind-boggling how many people think that we're sitting there behind our cushy desks. There's just no one in publishing who couldn't have made more money doing something else. At a certain point, yes, we may have become unemployable in any other industry. But there was a period of time in everyone's career when he or she could have gone in a different direction and made more money, and chose not to.
GARGAGLIANO: Can I add one more thing? We keep talking about self-promotion, and I think there's a stigma that it's a negative thing. It's really an extension of that deep involvement we were talking about earlier. It's about being really passionate about your book. It's a way to figure out how to make the world of your book bigger, and to give other people access to it. I think it's helpful if authors can wrap their heads around looking at it from a different perspective. I have a lot of authors who are afraid to go out there. They think it's about them. It's actually about the book. It's about the writing. It's not about you personally.
NASH: It's about being part of the world around you. One of the freelance publicists I know—I've never been able to afford to use her, but I'm friendly with her—does something that I think is brilliant in terms of dealing with a new author. Rather than trying to make an author blog, which is always hell, she says, "Here are twenty blogs that you should read." And by doing that, they get into it. They start commenting. All of the sudden they start getting that this act of communication is no different than a conversation between two people. It gets the author to start realizing that they're in a community, and that participating in that community is what we're talking about when we say "self-promotion." It isn't this tawdry, icky activity that will demean them. It will help make them feel more connected to the world, and happier.
GARGAGLIANO: I'll give you an example. I published this book about fruit—talk about obsessive people—called The Fruit Hunters. The author is this guy who was writing food stories for magazines and became obsessed with fruit and went on to discover this whole obsessive world of fruit lovers. The book came out and got a lot of attention, and the sales were okay, but it has fostered this whole community of people who are also obsessed. The other day they had an event in a community garden in the East Village. They call themselves the Fruit Hunters, after the book, and they're going to take trips together and everything. There are already a hundred of them. It's this amazing little story of obsession. It's exciting. The author is very involved online. He's happy to engage with anyone who wants to talk to him. He's just really present, and that makes all the difference.

I'm interested in how you guys view your jobs. It seems to me that things have changed quite a bit over time and I'm curious how you see what you do.
CHINSKI: Things have changed a lot. But in terms of the actual editing and acquiring, I don't feel like I'm thinking very differently about what I'm signing up, and in terms of the editing, I still have the same basic ideas of what my role is, which is to make the book more of what it already is—rather than coming in with some foreign idea and imposing it on the book. I try to understand what the writer is trying to do with the book and edit it along those lines. But when I first started in publishing, I had no idea that the role of the editor was to communicate to the marketing and sales departments. I had this very dark-and-stormy-night vision of the editor sitting in a room poring over manuscripts. But you very quickly realize that a natural part of being excited about a book is wanting to tell other people about it, in the same way we do as readers. That's what our job is in-house. And obviously it probably is different now, in terms of the chain stores and all these other things. But I think an editor's job is basically to fall in love with a book and then to help it be more of what it already is.
GARGAGLIANO: I feel very similarly. I'm the first reader, and I'm there to make the book what it wants to be, and then I'm its best advocate. I'm its advocate to people in the company because often they're not going to read it—they're only going to get my take on it—and then I'm its advocate to the rest of the world. I write handwritten notes to booksellers. I write to magazine people. I'm constantly promoting my authors. I feel like I'm the one who was responsible for getting them into the company, and I'm the one who's responsible for getting them into the world. I have to take care of them.
BOUDREAUX: The most fun part of being an editor is getting to actually edit—getting to sit and play puzzle with the book. God, that is so much fun! That's what we like to do. We need to do all of these other things...but sitting there with the paper, which you only get to do on the weekends? That's when you get excited. Like, "I'm a real editor!" But this myth that nobody edits anymore compared with a hundred years ago? I've never worked with an editor who doesn't edit all weekend long, every single night. That's the fun part.
CHINSKI: I think that's important to emphasize. I think we all hear that editors don't edit anymore.
BOUDREAUX: I just don't know who they're talking about. Having worked at two different houses, I literally do not know who they are talking about. Who just acquires and doesn't edit? I feel like everybody I've ever worked with sweats blood over manuscripts. And you reap the rewards of doing that.
NASH: I suspect that agents are doing more editorial work on books before they submit them in order to polish the apple. To some extent the process of acquisition has become more collegial, and it's helpful if a book is not a dog's dinner when you're showing it to people before you can start working on it yourself. That can create the perception that not much happened after it was acquired. And when you have the goal of helping to make a book as much like itself as it can be, that can involve a level of editing that doesn't look very intense on the surface but actually can be quite important. It doesn't have to involve a whole lot of red ink. But the right red ink in the right places, especially when it's subtractive rather than additive, can really make a book fluoresce.

Why did you all become editors instead of agents? And why do you stay editors when by all accounts you could make a lot more money being an agent?
CHINSKI: Has anybody here ever worked at an agency? My first job, for three months, was at an agency. That's why I'm an editor. But sometimes I do think that agents get a more global view of things. Dealing with film and foreign rights and so on.

But in other ways they get a more limited view because they don't have to do all the things to make a book work.
CHINSKI: I think that's true. Wouldn't that be more fun? [Laughter.] But seriously, when I was working there I didn't leave because I didn't like working at an agency. It just wasn't working as a job. I have a really hard time imagining myself as an agent. It's partly just the obvious stuff of doing the deal and so on. I think you have to have a certain personality to get really excited about that. I'd rather go home and really devote myself to doing the editing. I know that some agents do that. But it's not, kind of nominally, what they are there for.
BOUDREAUX: I literally didn't know there was such a thing as a literary agent. I didn't know anything. I was like, "I guess those people who get to work with books would be editors." I just didn't know any better. And I love to play with the words, which they also get to do, but they're not the final word on it. I also don't do enough nonfiction, which I feel like any editor who's got any sense learns to do. But I just don't have the antenna for it. As an agent it would be even scarier to have a list that is 95 percent fiction. You probably need a balanced portfolio in a way that an editor can still get away with being more fiction-heavy.

What are the hardest decisions you have to make as editors?
CHINSKI: Jackets. I find that the most harrowing part of the whole process. As an editor, you're in this funny position of both being an advocate for the house to the author and agent but also being an advocate for the author to everybody in-house. The editor is kind of betwixt and between. And for a lot of books, especially fiction, the jacket is the only marketing tool you have. It's really difficult. I also find that I know what I don't like, but I don't have the visual vocabulary to describe what I think might work.
BOUDREAUX: And the cover is so important. Even if it's not the only thing that's being done for a book, it's still got to be one of the most important things. You've got reviews and word-of-mouth, and then you've just got the effect it has when somebody walks into the store and sees it. I think it's so important to work somewhere where your art people will read the book and come up with something that you never would have come up with yourself. The idea of a jacket meeting where you have twelve people around a table and you bring it down to the lowest common denominator of "It's a book about this set there. We need a crab pot at sunset with a..." People do that! They think it's a marketing-savvy way to go about it. "We need a young person on the cover. But you shouldn't be able to see the person's face. It has to be from behind!"
GARGAGLIANO: The same thing happens when the author tries to deconstruct the cover.
CHINSKI: Exactly. That's one thing that's changed a lot. When I first started, we would send the author hard copies of the [proposed] jacket. Now we email it to them and they send it to everybody in their family. You can predict exactly what's going to happen.

What are the other hard decisions you have to make?
GARGAGLIANO: I have two, and they're related. One of them is when I love a book but I don't actually think that we're going to do the best job of publishing it. I anguish about that because I want the book for myself, but that doesn't necessarily mean it's the right thing for the author. The step beyond that is when you've already been publishing someone, and it's the question of what's best for their career. You offer a certain amount of money, and the agent wants to take the author somewhere else, and you have to ask yourself whether or not you go to bat for that person and get more money because you want to keep working with them despite whether the house might really support them. That's a hard thing to figure out.

I think part of what makes it hard is that editors serve different mastersthe authors, the agents, the house. How do you guys navigate those allegiances and responsibilities?
NASH: I will confess that I came into this business not motivated to become an editor. I was a theater director and happened upon Soft Skull because the guy who founded it was a playwright whose plays I directed. The whole thing was going belly up in the middle of my friendship with this dude. He basically did a runner, and there were these two twenty-two-year-olds at the company, and no one else, and there were all these authors, and the whole thing was fucked. I had a messiah complex and came in and tried to be Mr. Messiah for six months. And in the middle of my messiah complex, I fell in love with the process of publishing. So in a weird way, I did not come in with the idea of working with writers. I came in as a problem solver, and that's all I've ever been in a certain sense. The problem I try to solve is, "How do you connect writers and readers?" Those are the two masters for me. Recently I've been trying to think, believe it or not, of the publishing business as a service industry in which we provide two services simultaneously, to the author and to the reader. We may pretend to offer a service to the agent, and we may pretend to offer a service to the company. But only to the extent that we fulfill those other two services—to the writer and to the reader—are we truly serving the agent or the company. And we have to use our own instincts on a minute-to-minute psychological basis. Obviously you're accountable to the bottom line and P&Ls etcetera, but you're being asked to use your own instincts, and that's what you have to use in order to bring writers and readers together.
GARGAGLIANO: There are moments when it's sticky. When you're dealing with a jacket, for example. But on the whole, everybody wants the same thing, and that makes it easy. The thing that I always have to remind myself is that the people who are on the sales end also love books, and they also love to read, and they could be making more money in some other industry too. When you remember that, it makes your job much easier.
CHINSKI: I agree that we do all want the same thing, but don't you find that sometimes people don't behave that way?
GARGAGLIANO: Sometimes. But sometimes they do.
CHINSKI: It just amazes me how combative the relationship can become. I mean, it doesn't happen that often, but it does become combative sometimes. When we were talking before about authors saying that editors don't edit...there's just this assumption that the publisher isn't doing enough. Sometimes agents don't quite understand how things actually work in the publishing house. I'm not saying that across the board. But it does happen. I find those situations really difficult, where you feel like you're being accused of somehow not caring enough about the author when we all know how many hurdles there are. I mean, we wouldn't be doing this if we didn't care.
GARGAGLIANO: I've been very lucky with my authors. I haven't had many bad ones. The relationship is all about trust, and once you start that relationship and you start that dialogue, they trust that you're taking care of them. But there is a point when it's out of the editor's hands. And if they've trusted you that far, most of the time they'll accept whatever happens, in my experience. Usually the call I get will be from the agent.
BOUDREAUX: It's like you can almost have two different conversations. In one of them the agent gets what's going on and is just being helpful and trying to get everyone on the same page. And in the other one somebody is making demands or accusations that aren't going to actually help anything. It's more just for show. You know, "Emboss this part of the jacket" for no good reason. You do get the feeling sometimes that they are fulfilling their service to the author in a way that actually doesn't have that much to do with the book.
GARGAGLIANO: But that's the agent. I'm more worried about my author's happiness.
CHINSKI: I agree with that. A combative relationship with an author is pretty rare. Obviously it happens sometimes, but I'm thinking more about the agent. I don't want to overstate it, but sometimes it does feel like we should all understand more that we do all actually want the same thing. No publisher or editor signs up a book in order to sink it. Who would do that? We're not getting paid enough to be in this business for any reason other than we actually love the books we're working on.

What do you wish writers knew about you that they sometimes don't?
GARGAGLIANO: I think most writers don't realize that every editor goes home and reads and edits for four hours—that they're not doing that in the office. That in the office they're advocating for all of the authors they already have.
NASH: I don't even get to read when I go home. When I go home, I'm continuing to advocate. I haven't been able to read at all recently. I've really just become a pure pimp.
CHINSKI: I thought you were a whore.
NASH: I'm both at once! It depends on the street I'm walking down.

What else?
GARGAGLIANO: I think it's important for writers to remember that we're not their enemy. We love books and we're looking for books that we love.
CHINSKI: And ads are not love.
GARGAGLIANO: And ads do not equal sales.
BOUDREAUX: If those two things appear in print—that we're working nights and weekends and ads don't sell books—we have all done a fine job here. We are martyrs to the cause and ads are ridiculous. But I think editors like ads too. It's like having your business card published in the New York Times.

Have you guys ever gotten any great advice about your jobs from a colleague or a mentor?
CHINSKI: I can quote somebody, Pat Strachan, who is one of the most elegant, serious, and lovely people in the business. She said to me, "Just remember, when you're all stressed out, that the lives of young children are not at stake." And I do think that's worth remembering. We all love what we do and we take it really seriously, but you have to keep things in perspective. I also have one from David Rosenthal. He used to say, "If you're going to overpay for a book, you should at least be able to imagine the things that have to happen for it to work at that level, even if it may not actually work at that level."
BOUDREAUX: It should be in the realm of possibility.
CHINSKI: Yeah, and you should be able to picture, very concretely, what would have to happen and how you might go about making those things happen. You don't want to just buy something blindly.

What have your authors taught you about how to do your job?
GARGAGLIANO: To be honest with them. I often have the impulse to protect my authors and treat them as if they are more fragile than they actually are. It's better if I can have an open conversation with them. If I start that early on, the better our relationship is going to be going forward, and the easier it will be to talk about tough things. That took me a while to figure out.
BOUDREAUX: They teach you over and over and over—and this is soobvious—but they will always have a better solution to an editing problem than anything you could come up with. If you just raise the question, they will solve it. The universe of their book is more real to them than it could ever be to anyone else. You trust them with the internal logic of what's going on. You just show them where the web is a little weak—where everything that was so fully imagined in their head has not quite made it down to the page. Not only, as you said, are they not that fragile, but the world they've created is not that fragile. You can poke at it endlessly, and you'll just get really good answers and really good solutions. When you bring something up, you never find that you will unravel the whole sleeve. I've never had that happen. Where it's like, "Oooooh, we'd better hope that nobody notices that."

How do you guys measure your success as an editor?
NASH: Survival.

Tell me more.
NASH: For me, for a long time, there was a very direct correspondence between the success of my books and my ability to eat pizza. Now, in the last year, it has become less direct, since I don't have to make payroll, least of all my own, anymore. Because in the past, in order to make payroll, I would do it by not making my own payroll.

But what about in a deeper sense?
NASH: I suppose I was answering as a publisher, which is what I was and in a sense what I am anterior to being an editor.

I think I just mean more internally, in a more internal way.
NASH: When the book becomes what you imagined it was going to be based on the fact that it was almost already there. And you helped it get there.
CHINSKI: But we all want more than that, too, don't we?

That's what I'm trying to get at.
CHINSKI: We all want our books to have an impact. Beyond sales in any kind of simple sense. You want people to talk about them. You want people to find each other because of them. I worked with a writer who very elegantly described a book as a table that everybody can sit around and start a conversation around. And I think, not to sound terribly cheesy about it, that's what we all want. We want our books to have an impact in the world. And that's really rare. Sometimes it has nothing to do with sales. So I think it's more than just feeling like you did your job on the page. It's feeling like you did your job in the world.
GARGAGLIANO: That it went beyond you.
CHINSKI: Yeah. Books should transcend themselves in some way, and I think that's what we all really want.
NASH: The reason I got excited about publishing, compared to theater, was that the theater I was doing had no fucking impact on the world whatsoever.
GARGAGLIANO: Do you feel like it's better in publishing?
NASH: It's immensely better. Now, it may be that the joy I get from publishing is relative to how hard it was in downtown, experimental, Richard Foreman-acolyte theater. I set the bar so low for myself! [Laughter.] But in publishing, even indie publishing, thousands of people who I will never meet, who don't want to act for me, will actually buy one of my books.
CHINSKI: That reminds me of another great quote that I'll probably get slightly wrong. I remember when Philip Roth came to sales conference at Houghton Mifflin. I think it was for The Human Stain. He gave a presentation to the sales force and basically talked about the death of the novel as a force in our culture. "That'll be a good way to get the sales reps really excited!" [Laughter.] But then he said the most extraordinary thing, which has always stayed with me and which I've said to a lot of writers. He said that if his books were to sell ten thousand copies, which doesn't sound like a whole lot, but if he were to sit in a room, and each one of those people were to walk by him, and he could see them face to face, it would break his heart. I can't believe I forgot that earlier. That's probably the best description of why we do what we do. Whether it's three thousand people buying a novel, or five hundred people buying a book of poetry, it does kind of break your heart if you actually imagine each of those individuals reading the book.
NASH: That's why it was not a value judgment when I said the audience for a book might only be 150 people, in this world of more books. It's about the intensity with which that connection might occur.
CHINSKI: Do you guys all remember one moment where you felt really content? Whether it was something specific that happened or just a moment in your career? Where you felt like, "Okay, this is it. Now I'm kind of happy. This is all I could ever want." Where you actually slept well for one night?

I like the question.
GARGAGLIANO: That is a good question. [Laughter]
CHINSKI: I mean, I'm just wondering, was it when a book hit the best-seller list? Was it when a book got a great review? I'm curious what those different feelings are.
BOUDREAUX: I'm trying to come up with something that won't sound like complete dorkiness. I mean, yeah, the best-seller list feels amazing. It feels amazing because of all the great books we watch not get read. When you see one that's actually getting read? Boy is that an amazing feeling. But that little moment of satisfaction? I was trying to think, "What was the first time as an editor that I really felt that way?" Maybe being promoted to editor was my greatest moment. You know, Ann Godoff was doing the benediction and it was kind of like, "You are now an editor. On your tombstone they can say you were an editor." I had this little glimmering moment of, "Yeah! I came here, I didn't even know what publishing was, barely, and now..." Thank God for the Radcliffe Publishing Course. I wouldn't have had any idea of how anybody moves to New York or gets a job had I not ended up doing that. I had been working at Longstreet Press in Atlanta, where we published Jeff Foxworthy's You Might Be a Redneck If... That's actually my proudest moment—what was I doing forgetting that? But seriously, I did that course because I didn't know anything about anything and I thought I'd go back to Longstreet and work there. But then I thought, "Well, gosh, maybe I'll try New York for one year. I'm sure I'll end up back down in Atlanta before long, hoping that somebody at Algonquin would die so that somebody from the South could get a job at a slightly bigger publisher whose books you actually occasionally heard about." You know, I think actually getting promoted to editor was sort of like, "Wow, here I am. This is really a job that I'm really going to get to do." I still sort of feel amazed at that.
GARGAGLIANO: Getting a good review is also amazing. It's so gratifying when you have loved this thing for so long and somebody in the public says that they love it too. It's a thrill.
BOUDREAUX: Getting a review in a place that's always been hard to crack. I'd bring up Ron Rash again. He was a regional author who had never been reviewed in the Times, never been reviewed in the Washington Post. He had this Southern fan base. The booksellers loved him. The San Francisco and L.A. papers had been good to him in the past. But everybody else ignored him. Getting him a daily review in the Times was such a bursting-buttons proud moment for him. I've never been happier about the work I've seen my company do on a book. Because we knew what he had felt like he'd been missing. And there it was, lining up—the New York Times, the Washington Post, the New Yorker—when everybody had been ignoring him.
NASH: For me it was the summer of 2002, when there were two things that persuaded me that I should stay in the business. One was the first book I ever acquired, by a woman named Jenny Davidson, who I'd gone to college with. I was not even sure what one did at a publisher, and I thought, "I should acquire something." We had to find books because there was nothing in the pipeline. So I asked around and my old college friend had a novel that no one wanted to publish. I didn't know what galleys were at that point. But at one point our distributor asked us for some galleys, so we printed out manuscripts and tape-bound them and sent them some places. And the book ended up getting a full-page review in the Times. It ended up being pretty much the only review it got. It didn't get any prepubs because I probably didn't send it to the prepubs on time. But for whatever reason, some editor at the Times Book Review decided to review it. So I had this sense of not having fucked up—this absence of failure in a world where you're up against it.

The second thing that happened had to do with the second book I acquired, Get Your War On. I'd look at my distributor's website and see the sales and the backorders. And one order came in—I think it was the second order that the book got—and it was Harvard Bookstore, which ordered forty copies. That was more convincing than the Times Book Review. It was the first time a bookseller had ever trusted me, the first time a bookseller had ever said, "You're not an idiot." I don't think in either of those situations did I realize how hard it was. It was only later, when I tried to get the secondTimes review and the second forty-copy-order from an indie bookstore, that I realized how good it was.

But the second thing was bigger than the first thing because ultimately it's about survival. I wasn't being glib when I was talking about survival. There was a very direct, one-to-one translation between my ability to sell books and my ability to stay in business and pay everyone. There is a British publisher call Souvenir Press, apparently they've been around for a long time, and I got a catalog of theirs one time. It included a letter from the publisher, and in the letter he quoted some other august independent publisher, saying something to the effect of, "A publisher's first duty to his authors is to remain solvent." Which was instructive because if you don't, it's not some glorious failure. All of your authors go out of print. And one of the reasons I ended up selling the company—one of the reasons was that I fucking had to because PGW had gone tits up and there was just no way to avoid that—but there was also a sense that if I fucked up too badly, the whole thing would go kaput, and I had an accountability to the authors to not let it all go kaput because it was not going to be some cute little failure where everybody would be like, "All right, peace, Soft Skull. It was very nice but now we'll all move on." It was like, "Oh, there are a number of authors whose careers actually depend on this."

Let's talk about agents. Tell me about the difference between a good one and a bad one.
GARGAGLIANO: A good agent knows what to send you. They're playing matchmaker, and they do it well. Those are the happiest relationships—those authors are happiest with their agents and they're happiest with their editors.
CHINSKI: A good agent also understands the process inside the publishing house and the kinds of issues and questions that an editor has to deal with on a daily basis. But I think, most importantly, they know what they're sending and who they're sending it to.
BOUDREAUX: A good agent can be very helpful when you get to those sticky wickets, whether it's the cover, or an ending that still doesn't work, or something else. An agent who can honestly appraise the work along with you and add their voice to the chorus of why, for example, the author needs to change that title. You want it to be about the book and you want it to be about the author, but every now and then the sales force knows what the hell they're talking about with a "This is going to get lost because it is black and it has no title on the cover. It's not going to degrade the integrity of the book if you change it." An agent can either be helpful in that conversation or they can sit there and be a roadblock and let you be the bad cop. An agent who's willing to be the bad cop with you can save an author from impulses—and help them understand why it's the right thing to do in a world where two hundred thousand books get published every year.
GARGAGLIANO: The same thing is true on the publicity front, when you have an author who wants something and you have an agent who's able to make the additional phone call and work on the team with the publicist and the editor. It's much better than getting a phone call from an agent who's just yelling at you.
CHINSKI: Just to step back a little bit, obviously the agent's job is to be the advocate for the author. But, along the lines of what you were both saying, that doesn't always mean agreeing with everything the author says. I think sometimes the agent forgets that. That, actually, they can be most constructive for the author—not just for that book, but their career—by explaining some difficult things to their client.
GARGAGLIANO: And encouraging their author not to be difficult, which doesn't win any fans in the house. If the agent is able to step in and say something in a constructive fashion, that is often helpful.
CHINSKI: It's human nature. We don't like to admit it, but people like to work for somebody who's appreciative. That doesn't mean, in a saccharine way, just affirming everything that the editor and publisher are doing. Obviously, we all make mistakes. But the conversation has to be constructive. We've all seen it over and over and over again. If an author, even if they don't agree with you, is appreciative and trying to work constructively with the house, and so is the agent, it just changes the energy of the way people respond to that project—from the publicist to the designer to whoever. It goes back to what we were saying before: We all want the same thing, and if everybody can keep that in mind, it just makes everybody want to work all the harder on behalf of the book.
NASH: The squeaky wheel theory is bullshit in our business. It's just complete bullshit. It doesn't work.
CHINSKI: I have a sense that authors sometimes get that as concrete advice—to be a squeaky wheel—and for everyone out there, there's a way to express your convictions without being...
GARGAGLIANO: And that ties into being proactive for yourself. If you're out there doing a lot of work for yourself, that energy is—
NASH: So inspirational. When you have an author who shows up at a bookstore and then a week later the sales rep shows up at the store and the rep emails me and says, "Guess what? So-and-so just came by Third Place last week. The buyer was so excited to meet him." Then the rep emails everyone else on the sales force and says, "Look how hard this author is working." It's amazing how effective an engaged author is. But if the author is like, "Why aren't my books in Third Place?" it accomplishes nothing.

We all know that there are less than great agents out there. How are writers supposed to avoid ending up with one of them? Put yourself in their shoes.
CHINSKI: I think they need to do a lot of research, for one thing, even before they get an agent. It amazes me how many times we get query letters from agents who clearly haven't looked at our catalog. I think they need to ask a lot of questions of whatever agent they're thinking about signing up with and make sure the agent knows who they're submitting to and why and so on.

But what if the author doesn't know any of that stuff?
GARGAGLIANO: The author should know. It's their business.
CHINSKI: So much information is available online. There's no excuse now to not know what a house is doing and even what individual editors are doing.
GARGAGLIANO: Every time you read a book, the editor's name is in the acknowledgments. It's very simple.
NASH: The fact that agents don't charge money to read is so widely an established fact online that it's mind-boggling that you still get submissions from agents who are obviously functioning that way. The agenting equivalent of chop-shops.

I mean more the difference between a B+ agent and an A+ agent.
GARGAGLIANO: I think that goes back to what we were talking about with the author's relationship to their editor. It's a personal connection. You want someone who understands your work and is articulate about it and has the same vision for it and can talk to you about your whole career and not just the thing that's in front of them. And then that conversation extends to the editor and the editor's conversation extends to the house.
NASH: With regard to the so-called "A+" and "B+" agents, when I've seen authors switch agents to get somebody more high-powered it pretty much has always failed. So if that's what meant by the difference between a B+ agent and an A+ agent, there is no difference. If they met the criteria that Alexis just articulated, then the odds are that they're the right agent for you. I mean, there's not a whole lot of variance in the advances I pay—there's not a lot of variance in what I can accomplish and not accomplish. Maybe there is with you guys. I've always had this theory—I could be wrong—that who the agent is might make a 20 percent difference in the advance an editor is going to offer. But it's not going to make an order-of-magnitude difference. Probably. It's not going to be the difference between ten thousand and a hundred thousand, let's say.
GARGAGLIANO: I think that's true 90 percent of the time. I think there are a very select group of agents who people just pay attention to before they even know what the book is. And that sets expectations.

We may as well name them.
NASH: Nicole Aragi, presumably.
GARGAGLIANO: Tina Bennett. Lynn Nesbit. Jennifer Rudolph Walsh. Suzanne Gluck.
CHINSKI: Eric Simonoff. I mean, I know from friends at other houses that when a manuscript comes in from certain agents, they start circulating it before they even read it because they presume it's going to go really quickly and for a lot of money. And that's not true with other agents. It just changes the game entirely. I think an author has to understand what they want. They have to do some soul searching, for lack of a better phrase, and figure out if it's just the money they need or if they need something else. And it's hard to hold that against someone. I know that editors always bitch about having to pay too much, and obviously it can have big consequences in a house—if a book doesn't earn out and so on—but you can't really hold that against the author. We never know exactly what their circumstances are. Maybe they have five children who they need to send to college. But they need to figure out what their priorities are. I do think we've often stumbled up against this thing where, in the same way that people think advertising equals love, they think that the advance equals love. And that's just not always true. But people assume that the more you pay, the more you love a book—that if you offer fifty thousand dollars more than another house, then you love it more and will be more devoted to it—and that's not necessarily the case. I think a good agent will explain to the author what all the different variables are, and specifically within the context of what the author needs, whether it's financial or their career more generally, and that is the ideal way to make the decision.

How do you guys feel about auctions?
CHINSKI: We try to avoid them if we can.
BOUDREAUX: I don't mind an auction as much as I hate a best-bids [auction]. And I don't mind a best-bids as much as I hate a best-bids and then the top three get to do it again. What the hell? Everybody does that now. It's insane to me. And the other thing is, does everybody have to talk to the author now, or meet the author, before you get to make an offer? What happened to the arranged marriage? "Eric likes me, Eric likes you, how 'bout we do a book together." I mean—
CHINSKI: Have you gotten the one where you don't get to talk to the author unless you promise to make an offer in advance?
GARGAGLIANO: Oh, that's horrible.
BOUDREAUX: That happened recently. You weren't allowed to talk to the author unless you'd ponied up however many six figures.
CHINSKI: There's an admission price to even talk to the author. That drives me crazy. At FSG, we try to avoid auctions. We decide what we think a book is worth, make the offer, and the author either decides to come or not come, and we bow out if it doesn't happen.
NASH: I mean, any economist will tell you that the winner of an auction has overpaid. In a lot of worlds, outside the publishing one, certain auctions get structured so that the second highest bidder wins. Because the presumption is that the overbidder has overpaid in such a way that it could imperil the business.
BOUDREAUX: I love that! Second place wins—let's hear it for all the B-students!
CHINSKI: All you A-students are crazy.

I hear what you're saying, Richard, but what about with books like Everything Is Illuminated or Edgar Sawtelle? You're not the loser if you won those auctions.
NASH: But I mean in aggregate. Any of these things are statistical, so there are always outliers.
CHINSKI: Actually, I came in second on Everything Is Illuminated.
BOUDREAUX: Were you the underbidder?
CHINSKI: I was, actually.

Apparently I was wrong.
GARGAGLIANO: To be fair, there is a benefit to an auction, which is that, at least in my position, the whole house has to pay attention to the book. You end up getting more people reading it and talking about it, and that creates a certain excitement that isn't to be negated entirely. As long as you don't overpay too much, within that excitement, I think it can benefit the book.
CHINSKI: But what about the problem—this is rare, but we've all seen it happen—where the money becomes the story behind the book. That gives me a queasy feeling. Even if it doesn't happen in a negative way, which we've obviously seen happen. But if that's the driving momentum that gets a book attention? I guess, on one level, great. We'll take what we can get. But on another level it just makes me queasy.
GARGAGLIANO: There's a huge difference between an auction that ends at two hundred thousand and an auction that ends at a million. There's a huge spectrum there. But if you're in an auction with five different houses, your publishers are going to pay attention. Because everybody else is paying attention.

 

Do you guys think you feel the money you're spending in the same way that maybe Richard does?
BOUDREAUX: I don't know if you sweat the difference between 150 [$150,000] and 175 [$175,000]. But you definitely...One [$100,000] and five [$500,000] are different. And five [$500,000] and three million are different. I'll tell you what's easier: three million. Because then everybody did have to get on board. You are not out there on your own saying, "I believe!" But those middle, lot-of-money numbers when maybe nobody else read the whole thing and somebody is letting you do it? You do feel responsible for that in a "Boy do I need to make sure I don't make a single misstep the whole time. The manuscript has to be ready early. I've got to have blurbs early. We've got to get the cover right. I've got to write those hand-written notes to people." You feel the need to justify it. But at the same time, you don't have to lose sleep every night because you won the auction by going up ten or fifteen thousand dollars. I think auctions can be not horrible when you agree on the number beforehand. What I hate is feeling like the ego contest has begun and somebody thinks so-and-so across town has it and you're trying to guess who it is—or somebody inside the house, when there's a house bid situation. The bullshit competition drives me up the wall. Being in an auction and saying we think it's worth three hundred or we think it's worth eight hundred—I don't sweat that if we're making a decision beforehand. It's when you get into the middle of it and suddenly the book that you thought was a great two hundred thousand dollar book...You're paying four [$400,000]? Just because there are still four people in it? I mean, when an agent calls and says they have interest, that's fine and dandy. But it's not going to change my mind about whether I liked the book or not, and I don't want the publisher deciding because three other houses are in and "We should get in on that, too." So if you can make these decisions before the craziness starts, it's fine. It's when the craziness begins—
CHINSKI: The feeding frenzy.

But it seems like that's how it works now. You're getting that email from the agent right away.
GARGAGLIANO: Noooo.
CHINSKI: But don't you feel like you get that more and more?
GARGAGLIANO: I don't feel like it changes my mind, though.
CHINSKI: No, I just mean more as a strategy to get people to pay attention.
BOUDREAUX: I feel like, when you get a submission, you know that it's so easy to send that everybody on earth has it already. And it's twenty a day and there they are on your Sony Reader and the attention paid to things has diminished just by the ease with which everything gets slotted in and slotted out. And then the agent's like, "I've got interest! I've got interest!" Well, "I've got a ‘No!'" I can email fast, too! [Laughter.] Unfortunately, that's how it ends up working sometimes. "You've got to get back to me quickly!""Okay, well I guess I won't be deliberating over this very long. I've read ten pages and we can be done, then." If everybody just wants to speed it up that much.
CHINSKI: But I've heard so many agents say that it's becoming more and more difficult to sell a literary first novel that it almost seems like this is compensation for that. There's so much resistance now—everybody's trying to find a reason why they shouldn't buy something because it is so difficult. It seems like we get more emails now that say "There's a lot of interest" just to kind of built up that intensity from their side.
NASH: What I get to do in those situations is say, "Congratulations. I'm thrilled for the author. Next time." I just can't play at that level. That makes my life a lot easier. It's a much less complicated thing than what you guys have to go through in terms of evaluating the difference between two hundred [$200,000] and four hundred [$400,000]. That's one thing I don't ever have to worry about. But I really learned a lot from what you were saying about how when the money gets really big, you aren't accountable anymore. Not that you aren't accountable—but there's a lot of shared responsibility and the buck isn't stopping entirely with you. Whereas there's an in-between spot where it's large enough that you're exposed but not so large that anybody else is going to be wearing the flak jacket with you.
BOUDREAUX: The first book I ever preempted, I hadn't finished reading it. It had come in to another editor who gave it to me. So I was starting it late and I hadn't finished it and I went in to tell the publisher, "We've heard that somebody else is going to preempt." The publisher said, "Okay, go offer" several hundred thousand dollars. "Okay!" So I did, and we got it—what do you know?—and the next day the publisher asked, "So what happens at the end?" I still hadn't finished it! I was like, "They all...leave...and go home." I didn't know what happened! [Laughter.] That was kind of scary, and I did feel like "This one is all on me"—because not only had nobody else read the thing, but I wasn't even certain it would hold up. As I was editing it I was like, "I hope that's what happens at the end...." Otherwise the author's going to be like, "Really? Why would you suggest that at the end?" I'd have to be like, "I just think it's important that everything works out that way."

When you look at the industry, what are the biggest problems we face right now?
CHINSKI: I think they're all so obvious. Returns. Blogs.
GARGAGLIANO: And just finding readers.
CHINSKI: The end of cultural authority. That's something we talk about a lot at FSG. Reviews don't have the same impact that they used to. The one thing that really horrifies me and that seems to have happened within the last few years is that you can get a first novel on the cover of the New York Times Book Review, a long review in The New Yorker, a big profile somewhere, and it still doesn't translate into sales. Whereas six years ago, or some mythical time not that long ago, that was the battle—to get all that attention—and if you got it, you didn't necessarily have a best-seller, but you knew that you would cross a certain threshold. Whereas now you can get all of that and still not see the sales. I think that phenomenon is about the loss of cultural authority. There's just so much information out there now that people don't know who to listen to, except their friends, to figure out what to read. And that's the question we wrestle with the most. I think publishers have to communicate more directly with readers—that's the big barrier we're all trying to figure out. How much to use our websites to sell directly and talk to our readers directly?

So what are you doing to try to do that? What are you experimenting with?
CHINSKI: I can think of one thing. I mean, it's a small thing, but we recently started the FSG Reading Series uptown at the Russian Samovar. It's amazing. It's actually turned into a kind of scene. The New York Observer and the New Yorker have written about it. And I mean "scene" in a good way. In all the ways that we were talking about before, what makes us most happy is when a book forges a community around itself. It's a small thing, but now if we can somehow bring that online, or expand it in some way, it will be a way for FSG as a name to mean something, which will mean that we have another way to bring our writers to readers. The names of publishers, notoriously, are not like "Sony" or other companies where the name means a whole lot to readers. It may mean something to reviewers or booksellers, but I think we all need to figure out ways to make our names mean something. That's another way to establish authority so that people become interested in the individual books. That's a big challenge, and there's no easy solution to it.

What else are you guys trying to do, beyond the hand-written notes and the bigmouth mailings? What are you lying awake at night thinking about doing for this novel you're publishing that doesn't seem to be going anywhere?
BOUDREAUX: I pray that the people in our new media department who are supposed to be figuring out this problem are staying up late at night. That's what I think about as I roll around at night. And they are always coming up with things that I hope will work.
CHINSKI: And now we have this amplification system, supposedly—the Internet—which is supposed to amplify our ability to create word-of-mouth. But I don't think anybody's quite figured out exactly how to do that—or at least how to make it translate directly into sales. We all can see, in certain cases, our books being talked about a lot online. But what does that mean in terms of sales?
NASH: In our case, we've never really relied much on cultural authority, although we've certainly used it here and there. But for the most part, to the extent that we've been successful, it's been through the things that you're asking about. I check our Web metrics several times a week, whether it's Quantcast, Alexa, or Compete. These are places for measuring traffic. I try to figure out what the traffic is and what the demographics are. So I'm doing a lot of stuff that would probably make you want to shoot yourself.
BOUDREAUX: I'm glad you're doing it, though, so I can read about it in this article. Then I can call somebody and say, "You should do that! That's brilliant!"
NASH: One of your new media people, Amy Baker, was briefly involved with Soft Skull back in the day. She played on our street hockey team that was known as the Soft Skull Sandernistas, which was named after my predecessor. [Laughter.] But seriously, as Eric says, the Internet is amplified word-of-mouth. The things that are happening online are amplifying a process that's already in place. I mean, the genius of Oprah has never been her ratings. Her ratings aren't that spectacular compared to a lot of other shows. It's that Oprah connects to her audience in an intimate way, as if she were one of eight women who have lunch together every Tuesday. And that intensity of relationship—plus the fact that it is able to occur on a reasonably broad scale—is her genius. So what you do is go looking around the world for people with a certain level of trust. Authority, in a certain sense, has been partially replaced by trust. Part of what you can call "trust" today is the remnants of authority. People "trust" the New York Times.
CHINSKI: And people trust their friends.
NASH: Exactly. People trust Liesl Schillinger. People trust Ed Champion. Or they hate them. And you're just trying to get your stuff to people who are trusted. In my case that involves doing it myself, in a lot of cases.
GARGAGLIANO: This is one of the things that I get most frustrated by, partly because I didn't care about book reviews when I wasn't in publishing. I would never read the New York Times Book Review. I just wanted to walk into a bookstore and find something. But people don't do that anymore. People aren't interested in the community of books. So it's finding the niche markets. I just published a book called The Wettest County in the World. It's a novel about the author's grandfather and granduncles, who ran a bootlegging ring during Prohibition. It's amazing. And we've gotten IndieBound, we've gotten lots of things for it, and it's gotten amazing reviews. But the sales aren't going to happen on that alone. So I've been mailing it to bloggers who have beer blogs and whiskey blogs, and bourbon drinkers, and distilleries. I'm trying to find the niche market. I think that's the way things are going. I think that kind of thinking is much more exciting—you're more likely to find the readers who are interested—but publishers aren't set up to find niche markets for every single book.
BOUDREAUX: That's the thing. Do you do the whiskey mailing and then the beer mailing and this mailing and that mailing? It seems like there aren't enough hours in the day and there isn't enough staff—the Amy Bakers of the world—to do that.
NASH: That's where the writer needs to come into it. And interns. That's one of the ways in which interns can be so valuable. That's great work for them to do—a Technorati blog search on whatever. It's not hugely difficult, and it's kind of interesting.
GARGAGLIANO: It can also be useful for books down the line.
CHINSKI: That raises an interesting thing for writers to consider. I mean, how many times have we all heard that a certain book is going to appeal to this audience, that audience, and everybody else in the world? You just know that it's not true. But if you can go really deep into one community, you might sell ten thousand copies of a first novel, which most first novels never sell—at least the ones that are supposedly going to appeal to everyone. I don't think novelists should spend too much time worrying about who their audience is, but it's something to consider. I just think that line—"This book is going to appeal to everybody because it's about love or family or whatever"—doesn't work. I think the author and the publisher need to think more specifically. If you could sell one book to everybody on two city blocks in New York, you'd probably be selling more copies of that book than we do of the ones we just send out into the world and hope are going to sell magically. But how do you reach everybody on those two city blocks in New York and get them to buy the book? That's the task, metaphorically, that so many of us are facing: how to get to them and make them believe us. Because at the end of the day we're companies, and all of those people online who are talking to each other aren't necessarily going to believe that we have their best interests at heart. They'll think we're advertising to them through other means. So we have to establish a certain amount of trust with readers, not just as companies but as people who also love books in the same way they do. Again, it's a small thing, but the idea behind the Samovar reading series—not that it's a totally new idea—is that the editors at FSG love books, and you guys love books, so let's get together. And it's not just about trying to sell our books to you.
NASH: One of the things that that accomplishes that may not be obvious from the get-go is transparency. You're putting yourself out in the world and exposing yourself in a way—making yourself vulnerable. I have never understood why the staffs of publishing houses are invisible to readers, who are ultimately the people who pay our salaries. I mean, my wife is a corporate lawyer, and her photo and bio are on her firm's website. Book publishers just refuse to allow their staff visibility to the world. If Paul, Weiss, Rifkind, Wharton and Whatever are willing to allow all the partners' and associates' photographs and bios to be seen by the world, what about publishing is so important that we can't be allowed to be seen? I know that part of it is that we don't want authors bugging us too much. But I think that's part of what the Samovar reading series accomplishes: a certain willingness to participate.

Just in the space of your careers so far, what has been the most destructive new thing that's come about in the industry?
NASH: It's technology. It's been both constructive and destructive at the same time.
CHINSKI: So do you think e-books have been both?
NASH: E-books are one of the last ways in which technology is playing itself out. One of the first ways was desktop publishing. Another way that's been more incremental is the ability of digital printing to be commensurate with offset printing and for various machines to flatten the economies of scale. But, yeah, the ability to satisfactorily download a book digitally is turning out to be one of the last things that technology is accomplishing. I guess the other thing is just the capacity of e-mail and the Web—the social Web, in particular—to flatten communication. And it's all simultaneously destructive and constructive. It's destroying cultural authority but it's enhancing one's ability to cost-effectively reach individuals who might have other kinds of cultural authority. It's lowering barriers to entry, which is constructive because new presses can come along. BookScan is based on technology and has constructive and destructive components. The kind of supply-chain inventory management that Baker & Taylor and Ingram are doing, where they can now say to us, "We only need two months' worth of inventory; we don't need four months of inventory," is destructive because my working capital needs go up by 20 percent on that one phenomenon alone, but it's good in that I can actually see Ingram's demand building and respond to it. If I see big Ingram demand in the month before I publish something, I can say to myself, "I'm going to print advance orders plus two thousand as opposed to advance orders plus five hundred." So it's fucking me and helping me at the same time.
CHINSKI: I agree with Richard. Obviously a lot of things are changing right now, and some of them make things a lot more difficult, but they also—and I don't mean to sound like a Pollyanna—offer some opportunities. I'm always really wary of the sky-is-falling thing, this idea that we're at the end right now.
GARGAGLIANO: We're just at a place where we have to reinvent ourselves, and we haven't figured out how to do that yet. People have started reading in this other way that I don't understand because I don't read that way. But it's our job to figure out how they're reading, and then to figure out how to deliver something they want to read.
CHINSKI: Are you reading on a Sony Reader?
GARGAGLIANO: Yes, and I love it. It's the best thing ever.
CHINSKI: I'm still adjusting to it. We just got them in the last few weeks. On one hand it's great. On the other hand, I still want to write in the margins and it's hard to go back and forth and figure out where you are in a manuscript. I actually physically find myself reaching to turn the page.
GARGAGLIANO: I do that all the time. It's really disturbing!
CHINSKI: Your brain gets tricked into thinking you're actually reading a page. But on the other hand, as I was saying, it's great, and we're seeing sales of books.... I mean, I saw something recently about the Kindle. People who have a Kindle are actually buying more books. So on one hand, it scares the shit out of me that people are reading on Kindles and Sony Readers. But on the other hand—
GARGAGLIANO: Why?
CHINSKI: For no reason other than that it's different.
GARGAGLIANO: I think it's so exciting.
CHINSKI: That's what I mean. It's also really exciting. It will bring a lot more people into reading. And this younger generation is so used to reading online that it doesn't really matter. It doesn't mean the death of literature.
BOUDREAUX: I was amazed at how quickly we all got used to the Sony Reader. It's still a little different from an actual book. But when I first got into publishing I remember reading a manuscript, instead of a finished book, and feeling like it seemed to lack a certain presentational authority. It took me a minute to take a manuscript seriously. It will be the same way with the Sony Reader. But, my God, we've all adapted in a period of months? Imagine the twenty-year-olds who are reading everything online all the time and switching back and forth among seven screens that are open all the time. The notion of not reading that way must seem odd to them.
GARGAGLIANO: I think that in several years the book object is going to be more beautiful and more precious.
BOUDREAUX: It's going to be like vinyl records.
GARGAGLIANO: Exactly.

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I feel the same waythat these changes are going to happen. But the thing I don't understand is why hardcover books still exist.
GARGAGLIANO: I don't understand it.
NASH: It's because of the library market.
GARGAGLIANO: I published a book this fall that we crashed into the schedule because it was shortlisted for the Booker. We did a hardcover just for the libraries and a trade paperback for everybody else.
NASH: I mean, you're right. I was being semi-glib but not entirely glib. The question is, "Why will the print book survive?"

No, I'm literally talking about the hardcover book. Right now, at this moment, why does it exist? I'm looking at a hardcover and a paperback side by side and asking what the consumer is getting for almost twice as much money. Two pieces of cardboard?
CHINSKI: Well, we get two shots to publish the book.

But do we really, with the way the accounts are ordering, or do we just say that?
CHINSKI: But there's still that idea. Also, there's still the hangover of thinking that critics won't pay attention to a paperback in the same way. I know that's not as true as it used to be, but—
NASH: The existence of the hardcover has to do with history. It has to do with certain structures that are in place that haven't been replaced—structures varying from the library market to perceptions about reviewers to perceptions about quality in the mind of the customer. It also has to do with customers wanting certain books at whatever price. They don't care whether it's fifteen dollars or twenty-five dollars—they just want it because of who it's written by. But that's not going to last.
CHINSKI: But here's an interesting case: Bolaño's 2666. We did the hardcover and a three-volume paperback edition in a slipcase. They're priced the same. Which do you think would be selling more? I guess because they're priced the same it's not quite a fair question, but people do seem to be gravitation toward the hardcover just because it's the more conventional format. The paperback is selling well too, but the hardcover seems to have some kind of recognition factor. So I don't think it's just publishers sticking their heads in the sand. It's also readers still thinking that that's the way they discover new books.

Even when they cost ten dollars more for no apparent value?
GARGAGLIANO: I wonder that too. We don't really do very much—
NASH: Value is created in the mind. A classic thing that happens in American retail capitalism is that people will buy the more expensive thing. It's been proven over and over again. If you're at Barneys and there's an eighty-dollar lampshade and a fifty-dollar lampshade, you buy the eighty-dollar lampshade because you think it's worth more. That is endemic in American retail capitalism. But I think the distressing thing in publishing is that we're not making more beautiful objects. I think that one of the things that electronic publishing will allow us to do is free the print object of its need to have a given exact unit cost that is our mass-market way of delivering the product at a given price. The download will allow us to generate volume, and then we can create this gorgeous, elaborate fetish object for which we can charge gloriously outrageous sums of money.

But who's going to be selling them if that happens? Look at what happened to the music business.
NASH: Precisely. Look at the Radiohead model. Radiohead has already done it. Eighty bucks for the limited edition but only ninety-nine cents for the download. That's the model. It's just a question of "How do we get there in a way that doesn't involve complete chaos?" But it seems like that's where we're going. And I think it will be customer-driven—we'll go there as fast as the customers will be willing to go there.

What are you guys seeing in the industry that you find encouraging?
NASH: Fan fiction.

Which is?
NASH: People so in love with a given story and set of characters, or a given world, that they are doing their own version of it. I just think that's spectacular. Not necessarily as writing, but as a cultural phenomenon.

Anybody else? Come on, there's got to be something that's encouraging.
GARGAGLIANO: This is not a good time to ask that question. [Laughter.]
CHINSKI: It's like what Richard was saying—some of these things that are scary are also encouraging. The Kindle and the Sony Reader are bringing people to books who might not have come to them otherwise. I mean, that's something.
NASH: Look at the thing Eric said about people who own a Kindle buying more books than they did before they had a Kindle.
CHINSKI: That's pretty encouraging.
BOUDREAUX: And beyond that, I had it in my head that Kindles and Sony Readers would exist in the way audio books did—that it wouldn't be exactly the same. There would be certain kinds of books that really lent themselves to that format in the same way it was for audio books where you had businessmen driving on business trips. You couldn't get a novel published by your own audio publisher—they weren't interested—but a certain kind of practical nonfiction flew off the shelves. But Edgar Sawtelle has been a huge seller on the Kindle, which is not at all the kind of book I would have thought would be selling well in that format. It's six hundred pages long—there's a good reason to put it on a Sony Reader instead of reading a hardcover—but I just wasn't expecting the number of downloads to be such a close ratio to what's selling in a bookstore. I thought we'd have to figure out what categories worked, and once again fiction would be the category that would be left out as everybody read self-help books or Freakonomics on their Kindle. And I find it encouraging that people are downloading this big fat debut novel.

Anything else?
NASH: The use of social media to talk about books: Goodreads, LibraryThing, Shelfari. Reading books is a solitary activity, but books are also the richest kind of social glue, and the profusion of ways to be social with one another will be tremendously advantageous to books. The commonality that having read the same book introduces between two people is so much richer and more dynamic than the commonality of having watched the same TV show, for example.

It seems like agents lament the consolidation of the industry because it gives them less options. How do you guys feel about it?
BOUDREAUX: It doesn't seem to lessen their options when they submit to every single imprint in the house and then you're on the hot-button contest to see who reads it first.
NASH: I think it's kind of pointless to think about it. As individuals, there's sweet fuck-all we can do about it. With everything else we've talked about, human beings at our level can affect things. We can affect the outcome of a given book. We just cannot affect the outcome of a corporate merger.
BOUDREAUX: And for a group of people who've only been doing this for a decade, in which this has always been the case and it was already the death knell of publishing back when we were first getting into it and everybody lamented consolidation—
CHINSKI: When I saw The Last Days of Disco, it was heartbreaking. [Laughter.] That's when I realized what we've lost. As you were saying, it's hard to know because it's the world we live in. It seems like even within the force of consolidation, there are so many imprints blossoming within these places. I don't quite understand what the corporate thinking is behind that. But that's just because I'm not making the decisions, I'm sure.
BOUDREAUX: You've also got a group of people here who have ended up at certain kinds of imprints within those places. So we've all clearly struggled, those of us who are in the corporate world, to find a place that's least like a corporate structure. I mean, that's the great thing about Ecco. When Dan Halpern sold it to HarperCollins he had an agreement with Jane Friedman that basically said, "But we will never have to act like we are a part of corporate publishing. We will keep doing it exactly how we've been doing it." So you get to pretend you're this little thing attached to this big thing, which is how I imagine it being at Scribner and FSG. You get to have the benefits of the deep pockets, and somebody's figuring out the new media thing and revamping this site and that site, and you have the economies of scale of getting your shipping done or whatever, and you still get to sit there and work on your books. So we've also self-selected for a certain kind of publishing within corporate publishing.

And you really did, because you left Random House without having new a job lined up.
BOUDREAUX: I did. I thought I'd go see if anybody wanted me to come do fiction. Thank God Dan Halpern was out there. God bless him. Because it's true: Who doesn't want to do the small list inside the big house, which is just a different kind of experience? I mean, it seems the best way to make that deal with the devil. As you say, Richard, the conglomeration isn't going to go away.
CHINSKI: It doesn't actually mean that writers have less choice, I don't think. There are so many imprints within these companies. It's become an easy straw man to point the finger at. "Oh, these big corporate publishers that don't understand what books are." There are still a lot of editors working at imprints within these big corporations who care about books in the same way that somebody working at Scribner when it was independent cared about books. I think it's really easy, because there are so many frustrations that we all have as writers and editors and agents, to just blame it on some Corporate culture with a capital C. As Richard said, there are a lot of things that we can't control but there are also a lot of things that we can try to control, at least at a certain level. And that probably hasn't changed that much from fifty years ago.
BOUDREAUX: And certainly, the competition in-house is every bit as fierce as the competition out of house, when you and so-and-so from Simon & Schuster both have the book and there's a house bid.
GARGAGLIANO: The agent gets the same benefit of the imprints within the house riling each other up and competing against one another to put on the best show for the author, and the author gets the benefit of choosing between all of these different imprints. I don't think, for the author, it's a major difference. But I wasn't around when it wasn't like that.
NASH: I suspect that to the extent that consolidation has created problems in the industry, the problems are farther downstream than acquisitions. Retail consolidation is the real issue.

Speak to that. How do you feel about so much power being concentrated on Fifth Avenue and in Ann Arbor and Seattle?
NASH: It was all going to happen anyway. The book business was just later to the party, quite frankly, than the clothing business or the cereal business. The real estate was all the same. One of the reasons why we've become really dependent on social media is that it's a kind of hand-selling at a time when the 1,000 people who used to be able to hand-sell are now down to 150. And the capacity of the corporate retailers to hand-sell is either purchased or anecdotal. When I say anecdotal I mean it hasn't completely vanished. I can tell that the B&N in Union Square is putting Soft Skull books on the countertop that weren't paid to be put there. So there is anecdotal hand-selling going on. But you have a situation where the capacity of the retailer to sell a given book to a given, recognized individual has virtually disappeared—down to percentage points. It will work with a few titles—I'm sure you guys have all published books that have been made by independent retailers. But their ability to be a part of the social network of the community of books is gone and we have to find some other means of generating that word-of-mouth. Retailers just exist to shelve the books and make them visible in a given community. They're not selling them to the community.
CHINSKI: But don't you think they understand the crisis they're in, to a certain degree, too? That's why Barnes & Noble has B&N Recommends now, and Starbucks is getting involved, and everybody's trying to—
NASH: Yeah, you're right. I think they realize what they have wrought. Well, they do but they don't. Half the time they're trying to sell on price—they're doing inventory churn—and then the other half of the time they're trying to go intimate. I think they're kind of schizophrenic about it. I think that's part of the problem. I mean, a lot of the independents that went out of business deserved to go out of business. They weren't actually trying very hard to hand-sell. They were just taking the finite number of books that publishers could then publish and saying, "Okay, you pick from these five hundred books." But the great ones are the ones that we have with us right now—St. Mark's and Prairie Lights and the rest. They're doing a great job of being retailers. But you're exactly right about the chains. At times they are definitely trying to find that community-oriented approach.
CHINSKI: The way they'll host book clubs in the stores, for example. In the same way that people like to blame the corporate publishers, it's really easy to point your finger at the chains. I'm not saying they don't present a certain set of problems. But it's interesting that, in a way, they're wrestling with the same kind of issues that we're wrestling with in trying to find a way to interact more directly with their customers. It's a kind of funny crisis all around.

At the end of the day, what makes it all worthwhile?
CHINSKI: Pizza.
NASH: This roundtable.
BOUDREAUX: The glamour of this!
CHINSKI: Going home and editing for four hours.

That's funny. That was actually going to be my next question, but I was going to do it in the anonymous section at the end so you wouldn't have to lie about it. Seriously, though, what makes it worthwhile for you?
BOUDREAUX: Books mean enormous things to people. They are things that save people's lives, at times.
NASH: Even the lives of children!
BOUDREAUX: That's right! The lives of children! I don't think any children have ever lost their lives because of something an editor did, but children have most definitely had their lives improved by something that a writer, and an editor, put out there.
CHINSKI: We're doing it for the kids!
BOUDREAUX: Why don't we make that, "We're doing it for our children, and our children's children."

EDITORS ANONYMOUS
Later, after the pizza was gone and even the most constitutionally strong among us were getting a little punchy—and understandably so—the panel agreed to speak anonymously on a range of topics that would be awkward to discuss for attribution. As usual, a number of verbal tics have been altered in order to preserve anonymity.

Does it bother you that so much of your work has to be done on nights and weekends?
Sure, every once in a while it catches up with you. But you can't concentrate in the office so it's just the way it is. But I'd be lying if I didn't say that sometimes you don't feel resentful. I always have that in the summer because I find that authors all deliver at the beginning of the summer because they want to go on their summer vacations.

Yeah, it's always just before Christmas, just before New Year's, just before the Fourth of July. The book's might be three years late but they go and deliver it on July 3rd.

Publishers have to let you have some time out of the office. And I feel like that is increasingly looked on as this sort of three-martini-lunch thing—that the editor needs the occasional Tuesday to edit at home. You can power through an awful lot, but at a certain point there are too many manuscripts stacked up, and it's been going on for so many years, that you've got to be given some time to do it that isn't just every Saturday of your life.

Such a big part of the job is to pay attention to what the rest of the world is doing and what's being written everywhere else and what other people are interested in and what you yourself are interested in—because you take all of those obsessions and you find the books that you're passionate about on all of those topics—but I don't really have time to do that.

That's my biggest frustration: not having enough time to read published books.

And it's a great disservice to your own job not to ever be able to read anything for pleasure—and not to ever be able to read the other books your company is publishing—because you've got x number of submissions to read and your own new authors' backlists to read and what your house is doing that's working because you just need to understand what that thing is that so-and-so just published. About eight rungs down you get to read something just because it sounds good—something that you're not reading to learn something about your job.

What do agents do that drives you crazy?
Ask for ads.

Submit the next book when you haven't even published the first book and you don't even know how many you're printing.

Assume that just because one book did really well you have to pay for your previous success.

And with fiction, more and more, the success of one novel does not mean that the next novel is going to sell at the same level. And I don't think that a lot of agents have caught up with that fact.

"Have you read it yet? Have you read it yet?" I want to be like, "Have you prepared for your launch meeting yet? Have you written your tip sheets yet?" They don't realize that you may have something from the four other big agents. I'm being flip about it, but they do tend to forget that. Two days later it's "Have you read it?""No, I'm actually editing your author who's under contract."

There's also a tendency to misinterpret an early read for actual depth of publishing program behind that early read. Sure, being the first editor to get back to them on a novel may well mean a particular enthusiasm and a good match, but it also may not. So to require that everybody be in on day two, set up meetings on day three, and be ready to do the auction on day four? Is that all the thought that you want us to put into it?

And using the weekends and holidays as a tactic. I hate the Friday e-mail saying, "Just in time for you to enjoy this weekend..." Or over Labor Day weekend! It's like the new destination wedding. You know, in the same way that you hate your friends who picked the three-day weekend to get married on so you can all go to Hawaii. I'm like, "Really? You had to save this for Labor Day weekend? I had all summer when I didn't have shit to read."

What are the biggest mistakes that writers can make in dealing with their editor or agent?
I think the bigger problem is dealing with their publicist. You have to be very nice to your publicist. You should send them flowers.

I had an author who used to leave messages at four in the morning saying that she didn't want us to publish her book anymore. She wanted us to take them off the shelves! That was fun.

Despite the fact that there is a real personal connection, authors should realize that we're not their therapists, we're not their best friends in the world, etcetera. I can fix your book but I can't fix your whole life.

What about when an author calls because there aren't enough hangers in his hotel closet? [Laughter.] That's happened!

Tell me about a few up-and-coming agents who you feel are great for fiction or memoir.
I think Jim Rutman at Sterling Lord is really smart. He's both a no bullshit guy and a genuinely nice guy. That may sound naïve, but it really does matter.

I think Maria Massie is fabulous. If I could publish the writers of only one agent, it would be Maria.

Julie Barer. I did a book with her and she went about getting blurbs like nobody I've ever seen. She brought them to me, every day, like a cat bringing me a bird. Eight in a row. I've never had an agent who went to bat that much and called in that many favors. It was amazing.

There's also Anna Stein, who's wonderful. She's got a very cosmopolitan worldview and she's also got a taste for a certain kind of political nonfiction that is quite interesting. The first book I got from her was a left-wing case for free trade, which you don't necessarily expect from Ira Silverberg's former foreign rights person.

You know who else is good? Robert Guinsler. He's really smart and really enthusiastic about his books. He has a lot of smart projects.

What kind of information will you withhold from your authors?
I never tell them when my bosses don't love their book. Or when it's been a battle to get them attention on the list.

I will hold back particularly bad feedback. If it's a novel, not everybody is going to agree on it. I've never had such a tsunami of bad feedback that I thought they really needed to hear it.

Do you send them all of their bad reviews?

I leave that up to the author.

I've started telling debut authors, "A lot of writers who have been through this don't want to see the bad reviews. Will you give me permission to not send you the bad reviews?"

When it comes to sales figures, I give them the information. I mean, I don't go out of my way to do it if the news is not good. If it's great news and I can say, "We did this and we did that and we did this," I give it to them all the time. But I don't go out of my way to say, "You're holding steady. Nothing's happening."

What other editors or houses are you impressed with lately?
I think Penguin Press is doing a great job. You look at their list and there's a consistency to it that is really amazing. I don't know how the finances look. But just as books, they're incredibly consistent.

I think Bob Miller and Jon Karp are doing a great job.

I've been impressed with a house called Two Dollar Radio. The reason I'm impressed is their own tagline: "They make more noise than a two-dollar radio."

Jofie Ferrari-Adler is an editor at Grove/Atlantic.

Agents and Editors: A Q&A With Four Young Editors

by
Jofie Ferrari-Adler
3.1.09

If the economic Tilt-A-Whirl of the past few months has proven anything, it's that this carnival life of ours—writing, publishing, trying to find readers—isn't getting any easier. Booksellers and publishers are in turmoil, with scores of staffers having already lost their jobs to "restructuring,""integration," and all the other corporate euphemisms that are dreamed up to soften the harsh reality: It isn't pretty out there.

While it goes without saying that our problems are nothing compared with those of many industries, one's heart can't help but ache for the literary magazines and publishing houses that won't be around in a year; the unemployed editors, publicists, and marketing people with mortgages to pay; the authors whose first books are being published now, or a month from now, or anytime soon.

But difficult times don't have to be joyless times. As I listened to these four accomplished young book editors talk about what they do, I was reminded of a simple and enduring truth, trite as it may sound: We are all—writers, agents, publishers, booksellers, librarians, and readers—in this together. And there are concrete things we can do to connect with one another more effectively. These editors are full of insight about how to do just that.

It seems appropriate, at such a humbling moment, that we met over pizza and bottled water (okay, maybe not exclusively water) in the glamorously unglamorous offices of Open City, the independent press and literary magazine based in downtown Manhattan. Over the years its editors, Thomas Beller and Joanna Yas, have introduced readers to some of the most distinctive voices of our time, from Meghan Daum to Sam Lipsyte. Here are short biographies of the participants:

LEE BOUDREAUX was an editor at Random House for almost ten years before leaving to become the editorial director of Ecco in 2005. She has worked with Arthur Phillips, Dalia Sofer, and David Wroblewski.

ERIC CHINSKI worked at Oxford University Press and Houghton Mifflin before moving to Farrar, Straus and Giroux, where he is vice president and editor in chief. He has edited Chris Adrian, Rivka Galchen, and Alex Ross.

ALEXIS GARGAGLIANO worked at Simon & Schuster and Knopf before moving to Scribner, where she is an editor, in 2002. Her authors include Matt Bondurant, Adam Gollner, and Joanna Smith Rakoff.

RICHARD NASH worked as a performance artist and theater director before taking over Soft Skull Press, now an imprint of Counterpoint, in 2001. His authors include Lydia Millet, Matthew Sharpe, and Lynne Tillman. [UPDATE: Richard Nash has resigned as editorial director of Soft Skull Press and executive editor of Counterpoint, effective March 10, 2009.]

Every reader understands the feeling of falling in love with a book. You guys do that for a living. I'm curious if you've given any thought to the specific things that can trigger that experience.
GARGAGLIANO: I don't know if there's a specific thing, but you know it immediately. The minute I start it I know that it's the book I want to fall in love with. And that's the one I keep reading. I will read a hundred pages of something else, but I won't fall in love with it. You have this immediate sense of texture and place, and you're just inside it from the first sentence. I think the thing that everybody says about first sentences is true. Everyone should try to get that first sentence perfect. I make my authors do that all the time.
NASH: But if you make them do it, they didn't quite do it the first time, did they?
GARGAGLIANO: Well, it might be that you've had them totally rewrite the opening.
CHINSKI: Do you feel like it's different for fiction and nonfiction?
GARGAGLIANO: I do. I always hate that with nonfiction, when you read a proposal, you don't get the writing first. You get the pitch first. I always look to the writing.
CHINSKI: For me, with fiction, there's that funny moment when you feel like you actually want to meet the author. You want to know who the man or woman who's writing it is because there's a real sensibility in the writing. It's not just that the writing is good—there's a kind of intensity of imagination to it. You wonder, "Who is this person who's able to telescope all of these ideas into something that feels accessible?" I think that's one similarity between nonfiction and fiction, even though obviously they're different in many ways: It takes the ordinary and makes it extraordinary. You sort of recognize something but it allows you access to it in a totally different way. But I can't tell you how many times, thirty pages into a novel, I actually want to write the agent and say, "Who is this person?" You just wonder, "Who's coming up with this?"
BOUDREAUX: I think there's always a moment of surprise and delight. It comes in the form of a word. You get to the end of a sentence and go, "Wow, I didn't see that coming. That was perfect." The language just goes click and the whole thing has gone up a notch and you know at that point that you're committed to...a hundred pages? Two hundred? Or you're going the distance with it. The gears just click into place and you realize you're reading something that is an order of magnitude different than the seventy-five other things that have crossed your desk lately, many of which were perfectly good and perfectly competent.
CHINSKI: And doesn't it feel like it's not even just talent? It's the sensibility of the writer. I think about a writer whom I don't work with but whom I admire, Aleksandar Hemon. He does that funny thing where he doesn't use words in an ordinary way, and yet they work and they suggest a whole worldview. Or look at Chris Adrian, whom I do work with and adore. I mean, his writing is really difficult. It's about dying and suffering children—you can't imagine a more difficult subject. But again, there's a kind of intensity of imagination and a way of articulating things that goes beyond good writing. There is a force and energy to the writing. I think that's the hardest thing to find in fiction, at least for me, and that's what I find myself responding to again and again.
NASH: For me it's also when a work of fiction has the force of society behind it on some level. Which is not necessarily to say that it has to be political—I do far less political fiction than people think—but I do want to feel that the writer has access to something larger than himself. To me, the energy you're talking about is something that possesses social force and a concatenation of relationships and responses to the world lived in a certain kind of way. I try to forbid myself from using the word authenticity because I don't actually know what the hell it is, but that's one way of talking about it.
CHINSKI: I have a related question. What do you all think of the word voice? It's one of those words that we all overuse, but do we actually know what it is? I always find myself reaching for it when I want to describe why I like something and why I don't like other things that are perfectly well written. But when I really try to figure out exactly what I mean by it, I come back to what I was saying before. Is sensibility the same thing as a writer having a voice?
GARGAGLIANO: If it comes alive for you, and you can hear it in your head, and it sort of lives inside you, that's when I feel like a writer has a voice. That's when I'll keep going back to something again and again. One of my favorite writers when I was falling in love with literature was Jeanette Winterson. It was just about her voice. I kept loving her books even when the stories themselves started to fall apart. I just wanted to hear that voice in my head. For me, with her, it stopped being about the storytelling, which is unusual. I love story. I want plots in my books.
CHINSKI: And you can think about writers who don't actually tell stories. The Europeans, for example. We always have one: Thomas Bernhard; Sebald; now Bolaño. It feels like there's always one of these writers who isn't writing plot-driven fiction. The voice is so strong that that's what people are responding to. With Bolaño, I find it kind of amazing that you have this nine-hundred-page novel by a dead Spanish-language writer...I mean, I can't honestly believe that everybody who's buying it is reading the whole thing. But it goes back to what you were saying, Richard, about the voice having the force of history and almost being haunted by these bigger issues.
NASH: Haunted is totally the word. Beckett had it too, obviously.
CHINSKI: Or look at Philip Roth. Even in his lesser novels, you can always recognize that kind of force in his writing.
NASH: What you just said reminds me of an artist named Bruce Nauman. I went to see a retrospective of his before I was in publishing. There was this sense, as you went from room to room, that the guy just had access to something that he wasn't going to lose access to. You know what I mean? There was a certain frequency of the world to which he was tuned in. It could express itself in different ways, but he wasn't going to lose his capacity to listen to it, as a result of which the work was always going to be operating on a certain level. He might vary between, I don't know, brilliant and mind-blowing, but he wasn't going to fuck up. Those voices, and those Europeans you were mentioning, are probably at the very upper level.
CHINSKI: That's right. They always seem to have a certain set of questions that they're asking. Even if they're writing very different novels from book to book, they're haunted by one or two or three questions, and no matter what they write, they seem to circle around them. That may have something to do with the voice they bring to a book. I mean, even Sasha Hemon, who's only written three books—you can tell what his obsessions are. That's another thing: I like writers who are obsessed. Chris Adrian is obsessed too. That's what's exciting about reading certain fiction writers.

Aside from what's on the page, and somebody's skill as a writer or voice or obsessions, what other things influence your thinking and decision-making?
GARGAGLIANO: One of the things can be when a book taps into something that's happening in the moment. I'm editing a book right now that's set after World War II in a psychiatric hospital, and it's really a book about what happens to soldiers when they come back from war. I find myself obsessed with the news and weeping when I watch Channel Thirteen because I've been inside of this story for so long and I understand the psychology of these men coming back. I'm hoping that there will be a resonance when we publish it. You're always trying to process things in the world, and when you read a really good piece of fiction, it helps you process things.
CHINSKI: The word necessary always comes to mind for me. Beyond a good story, beyond good writing, does the novel feel necessary? A lot of good books are written, and I'm not saying that they shouldn't be published, but as an editor you can't work on everything, and the ones I tend to be drawn to are the ones that either feel personally necessary or globally necessary in some vague way that's hard to define. And that should be at the sentence level, too. People who can write really well sometimes get carried away by their own writing and forget what's actually necessary on the page. I would also raise the question of believability. A book can be surreal and fantastical and all that, so it's not believable in any straight sense, but it has to be believable in the sense that the author believes in what he or she is doing. Sometimes you feel like an author is just writing for the sake of writing, and that is a big turnoff. It's got to feel necessary at every level.
BOUDREAUX: As an editor, you know how difficult the in-house process is going to be—the process of getting a book out there. The necessary quotient comes up when you ask yourself, "Is this something that really fires me up? What's going to happen when I give it to these two reps to read? Are they going to have the same reaction to some pretty significant extent and feel the need to convey their enthusiasm down the line?" Because I think word of mouth remains the best thing we can ever do for a book. So is there that necessary thing? Is there that urgency? Is it in some significant way different from any number of other novels that purport to talk about the same topic? It's almost like an electrical pulse traveling down a wire. It starts with the author, then the agent, then the editor, and then there are a lot of telephone poles it's got to go through from there. If it's lacking in any way, you know that the electricity is going to peter out. Sometimes you can almost see it happen. You can watch it happen between one sales rep and another sales rep. You're like, "Oh, that just petered out between those two telephone poles." And the book is only going to do so much.

When a lot of us were starting out I think we may have felt like, "Oh, it's a little book, but it's my job to make it work, and I'm going to." I feel less like that now. Because you can't work on everything, and you can't do everything for every book. Even when you do do everything you can think of, so many good books get ignored. So many good books go by the wayside. You've got to be able to figure out if each one is necessary enough that you can really do something with it. Because it's not that rewarding as the editor, or as the author, to just have a book sit there—when it dies a quiet death and nobody even hears it sink. "We tried! We'll do better with the paperback!" The number of times you hear that! You know you're lying and they know you're lying and everyone's just going to pretend it will be totally different a year from now.

It's got to have enough juice in it to go somewhere. I feel like that juice can take any number of forms. It's an ineffable quality, but you kind of know it when you've got it in front of you. Everyone is not going to agree on fiction, either. I do pretty much all fiction. When I want to buy something, in most cases nobody else is going to read the whole thing. They're going to believe me when I say it's good all the way to the end. They just like the voice and then we run with it. You're never going to get a whole roomful of people to agree on fiction the way you sometimes can with nonfiction: "Is this the right book at the right time by the right person with the right platform to write the book on whatever?" With fiction it's all sort of amorphous, and you've just got to feel like you're picking the ones that are potent enough to go the distance.
NASH: We're all just proxies for the reader. But we're going to have different ideas about who the reader is and how we connect to that reader. Do we have commonality with this imaginary reader? But I certainly find that I am powerfully animated by the sense of having a duty to connect the writer with the reader. Is this a book that's going to get one person to tell another person that they've got to read it? Which is the closest thing, I think, at least in the land of fiction, that's going to pass for figuring out what the hell is meant by the word commercial. As you said, your own energy can always get one other person to read the book. But is that one other person going to get the next person to read the book?

Are there any other things, besides what's on the page, that you're looking at when a book is submitted?
GARGAGLIANO: This was one of the hardest lessons for me. Unlike what Eric was saying earlier, when I used to read fiction before I was in publishing, I never wanted to know who the author was. I didn't want to look at their pictures. I just wanted to exist in the worlds that they had created. That was it. When I got into the industry, I quickly learned that that was not acceptable. The first thing I get asked at our editorial meeting is, "Where have they published?" You want to know that somebody has been publishing their short stories, even if a total of a hundred people have read them. It's always the first question.
CHINSKI: One thing I'm looking for is experience in the world. I keep coming back to Chris Adrian, not for any particular reason. But he's somebody who has an MFA, he's a practicing doctor specializing in pediatric oncology, he's in divinity school, and you can feel all of that in his writing. There's an urgency, a sense of questioning, and an obsession. You can tell that all of that experience is getting distilled into his writing. He wants to understand something about loss and our relationship to transcendence. I feel like with the best writers, you recognize that in their work. It's exciting to me to feel like it's being drawn not just out of the desire to write an interesting story and find readers. It's a different form of necessity that they feel they need to wrestle with because of their own life experience.
BOUDREAUX: I've never been able to say what my books have in common. I'll make an argument for escapism. I want to be transported. I don't care where you take me, but I want to have that moment that we all had when we were reading as kids, when the real world ceases to exist and your mother tells you to come have dinner and it's like resurfacing from the bottom of a swimming pool. "Where am I? What am I doing?" That's what I want. I'm not looking for any particular kind of book, I'm just looking for the intensity of that experience. It doesn't matter what agent it comes from. It doesn't matter if it's long or short. It doesn't matter if it's a young voice or something that's more mature. I just feel like you sit there as a proxy for the reader, open to having a new experience. And if they can give it to you, great. I don't even need it to happen in the first sentence. I'll give it three or four pages sometimes. [Laughter.] I'm seven months pregnant so I'm feeling patient and maternal toward the world—I'll give them four or five pages to say something that I find interesting.

On the flip side of that, give me some things that you find beginning writers doing wrong.
NASH: Not listening. Not listening to the world around them.
GARGAGLIANO: Trying to sell stories that aren't really a book. They're not a cohesive whole. There's no vision to the whole thing that makes me feel like this person has a reason for writing a story collection other than that they had twelve stories.
NASH: Assuming that having an attitude equals...anything.
CHINSKI: Or assuming that good writing is enough. I'm sure we all see a lot of stuff where the writing is really good. It's well crafted and you can tell that the writer has talent. But, again, you don't really feel like the writer necessarily believes in his or her ability to open it up into a novel. I know the old adage "write what you know." I'd kind of rather somebody write what they don't know. And figure out, beyond their own personal experience, why what they're doing should matter to the reader.
BOUDREAUX: I've always wanted to give people that advice too. "Do you have to write what you know? If you know it, I might know it. Which means I've already read it. Which means that your book is the nineteenth novel about a mother-daughter relationship. And I. Don't. Care." The crudest way to put it is the "Who cares?" factor. Why, why, why do I need to read four hundred pages about this? The necessary thing, and the authentic thing, and the voice thing are all much better ways of saying it than the "Who cares?" factor, but it's basically the same thing. "What is the necessity of reading this? What are you doing that is different?"
CHINSKI: I'd rather somebody be ambitious and fail a little bit than read a perfectly crafted, tame novel.
NASH: I have published novels, especially first novels, that I knew failed on some level because of what they were trying to do. I felt that that was okay.
CHINSKI: That's more exciting.
NASH: But what would be the version of that that actually answered your question?
CHINSKI: "Have courage"?
NASH: Don't try to be perfect. Don't be boring.
CHINSKI: That's really what it is 99.9 percent of the time—good writing, but boring. And it's the hardest thing to turn down because you think, "This is good. But it doesn't do anything for me."
BOUDREAUX: That's the thing. You're like, "There's nothing wrong with this. I've got nothing to tell you to do to fix it. It's just...there."
CHINSKI: And that's a hard rejection letter to write, too. Because it's not like you can point to this, that, and the other thing that are wrong with it. It just doesn't move you in any way. It doesn't feel necessary.

Do you think it's too hard to get published today?
GARGAGLIANO: I think it's hard but not too hard. I don't know how many more books we could have out there.
BOUDREAUX: I think we all kind of know that too many books get published. You can listen to your own imprint's launch meeting, you can listen to all the other imprints' launch meetings, and multiply that by every other house, and you know that every book did not feel necessary to every editor. When you think about it that way, it doesn't seem all that hard to get published.
CHINSKI: But there are also a lot of people who can't get published.
NASH: There was a great little moment in an article in Wired about a year ago. It was an article about the million-dollar prize that Netflix is giving for anyone who can improve their algorithm—"If you liked this, you'll like that"—by 10 percent. One of the people in the article was quoted as saying that the twentieth century was a problem of supply, and the twenty-first century is a problem of demand. I think that describes a lot about the book publishing business right now. For a long time, racism, classism, and sexism prevented a whole array of talent from having access to a level of educational privilege that would allow them to write full-length books. That hasn't been completely solved, but it's been radically improved since the 1950s. Far more persons of color, women, and people below the upper class have access now. An entire agent community has arisen to represent them. But finding the audience is the big problem. I guess I'm imposing my own question on the question you asked—"Is it too hard to get published?"—and I think we all may have heard a slightly different version of that question. The version of it that I heard was, "Are there too many books?" I personally don't feel that way. And I get a lot of submissions at Soft Skull. I get about 150 a week. And it's hell having so much supply. But we didn't exist before 1993, and you guys all existed before that, so you are feeding off a different supply and we're enabling this new supply. I love the fact that Two Dollar Radio exists, and all the other new indie presses that have erupted. I think that's healthy. I don't think a solution to the problems we face as an industry is to say we're going to reduce consumer choice by publishing fewer books. Now, at the level of the individual publisher, I totally understand it as a rational decision that a given executive committee would make at a large company. My comment that there are not too many books published has to do with culture rather than a given economic enterprise. I think we could publish more books. You just have to recognize that they may be read by five hundred people. And that's perfectly legitimate. Blogs can be read by fifty people. You just have to think, "What's the economically and environmentally rational thing to do with this thing that has an audience—but that audience is just 150 or 250 people?" It may not be to print the book. It may be to publish it through a labor-of-love operation that is completely committed to a given set of aesthetic principles and will print it in a way that is environmentally sensitive—chapbook publishing, let's say. The poetry model could have a lot to say to fiction and nonfiction publishing.

I think about the midlist writer a lot and I feel like it's harder and harder to build a career the old-fashioned wayslowly, over several books that might not be perfect but allow you to develop as a writer. Part of that has to do with the electronic sales track. Put yourself in the shoes of a beginning writer and speak to that.
BOUDREAUX: When we published Serena by Ron Rash it was such a proud moment of doing that thing—of almost reinventing a writer. So I feel like it can still happen. The model of building somebody hasn't gone completely out the window. It gets hard with the "This is what we sold of the last book, this is all we're ordering this time." And you're stuck with it. But a lot of editors and a lot of publishers stick with people.
GARGAGLIANO: I feel like Scribner is really good about that. We can't do it with everyone, but there is definitely a stable of authors. I have writers for whom I haven't had to fight that hard to buy their second or third books. It's because everyone recognizes their talent.
NASH: It can be because the reps love selling them. The reps love reading that galley, even if they're going to get [orders of] ones and twos. But it makes them so happy to read that galley that they're not going to fight you when you present it to them.
CHINSKI: You have to think about the identity of the list as a whole, too. Sometimes it means paying an author less than what they've received before, but it doesn't mean we're giving up on those authors. I think, speaking for FSG, it's important to us to try to build writers. Roger Straus apparently said, and Jonathan always says, "We publish authors, not books." That's more difficult today, given the way of the world, but it's still the guiding principle. Think about Jonathan Franzen, who published two novels that got great reviews but didn't sell particularly well. Then The Corrections came along. There are tons of examples like that.

But aren't you guys and FSG the exception to that in a lot of ways?
CHINSKI: I wonder if it's really that new. Obviously the mechanics have changed, but there's always been a huge midlist. We remember the really important writers. We probably don't even remember the best-selling writers from twenty years ago. You remember the important ones—or the ones that have been canonized as important. The economics have changed and obviously the chain bookstores are a different part of the equation than they were fifty years ago, but I suspect there's always been a vast midlist.
GARGAGLIANO: I also don't think it's very constructive for authors to think about that too much. You're sort of fortunate if you get published at all. You're fortunate to find an editor who you have a great relationship with and a house that believes in you in which everybody works as hard as they can for you. There's only so much you can do.
NASH: If you're going to stress about something, be worrying about your reader. Don't stare at your Amazon ranking and don't stare at the number of galleys your publisher is printing. Get out into the world. And if you don't have the personality to get out into the world, then you have to ask yourself, "Why does everybody else have to have the personality to get out into the world, but I don't? What makes me so special that everybody else has to go out and bang the drum for me, but I don't?" I have a fairly limited tolerance for people who assume that it is everybody else's job to sell their books while they get to be pure and pristine. They don't have to get the book-publishing equivalent of dirt under their fingernails. Which involves whoring, to use a sexist term, but one that I use to describe myself. [Laughter.] Go out and find a reader. It's not about selling a reader a $14.95 book. If you have ten more books under your thumb, then that reader could be worth $150 to you, and it might actually be worth three minutes of your time to respond to their e-mail or chat with them for an extra two minutes after that reading at which it seemed like no one showed up. Those eight people might have some influence out in the world. None of us is in this for the money. It's sort of mind-boggling how many people think that we're sitting there behind our cushy desks. There's just no one in publishing who couldn't have made more money doing something else. At a certain point, yes, we may have become unemployable in any other industry. But there was a period of time in everyone's career when he or she could have gone in a different direction and made more money, and chose not to.
GARGAGLIANO: Can I add one more thing? We keep talking about self-promotion, and I think there's a stigma that it's a negative thing. It's really an extension of that deep involvement we were talking about earlier. It's about being really passionate about your book. It's a way to figure out how to make the world of your book bigger, and to give other people access to it. I think it's helpful if authors can wrap their heads around looking at it from a different perspective. I have a lot of authors who are afraid to go out there. They think it's about them. It's actually about the book. It's about the writing. It's not about you personally.
NASH: It's about being part of the world around you. One of the freelance publicists I know—I've never been able to afford to use her, but I'm friendly with her—does something that I think is brilliant in terms of dealing with a new author. Rather than trying to make an author blog, which is always hell, she says, "Here are twenty blogs that you should read." And by doing that, they get into it. They start commenting. All of the sudden they start getting that this act of communication is no different than a conversation between two people. It gets the author to start realizing that they're in a community, and that participating in that community is what we're talking about when we say "self-promotion." It isn't this tawdry, icky activity that will demean them. It will help make them feel more connected to the world, and happier.
GARGAGLIANO: I'll give you an example. I published this book about fruit—talk about obsessive people—called The Fruit Hunters. The author is this guy who was writing food stories for magazines and became obsessed with fruit and went on to discover this whole obsessive world of fruit lovers. The book came out and got a lot of attention, and the sales were okay, but it has fostered this whole community of people who are also obsessed. The other day they had an event in a community garden in the East Village. They call themselves the Fruit Hunters, after the book, and they're going to take trips together and everything. There are already a hundred of them. It's this amazing little story of obsession. It's exciting. The author is very involved online. He's happy to engage with anyone who wants to talk to him. He's just really present, and that makes all the difference.

I'm interested in how you guys view your jobs. It seems to me that things have changed quite a bit over time and I'm curious how you see what you do.
CHINSKI: Things have changed a lot. But in terms of the actual editing and acquiring, I don't feel like I'm thinking very differently about what I'm signing up, and in terms of the editing, I still have the same basic ideas of what my role is, which is to make the book more of what it already is—rather than coming in with some foreign idea and imposing it on the book. I try to understand what the writer is trying to do with the book and edit it along those lines. But when I first started in publishing, I had no idea that the role of the editor was to communicate to the marketing and sales departments. I had this very dark-and-stormy-night vision of the editor sitting in a room poring over manuscripts. But you very quickly realize that a natural part of being excited about a book is wanting to tell other people about it, in the same way we do as readers. That's what our job is in-house. And obviously it probably is different now, in terms of the chain stores and all these other things. But I think an editor's job is basically to fall in love with a book and then to help it be more of what it already is.
GARGAGLIANO: I feel very similarly. I'm the first reader, and I'm there to make the book what it wants to be, and then I'm its best advocate. I'm its advocate to people in the company because often they're not going to read it—they're only going to get my take on it—and then I'm its advocate to the rest of the world. I write handwritten notes to booksellers. I write to magazine people. I'm constantly promoting my authors. I feel like I'm the one who was responsible for getting them into the company, and I'm the one who's responsible for getting them into the world. I have to take care of them.
BOUDREAUX: The most fun part of being an editor is getting to actually edit—getting to sit and play puzzle with the book. God, that is so much fun! That's what we like to do. We need to do all of these other things...but sitting there with the paper, which you only get to do on the weekends? That's when you get excited. Like, "I'm a real editor!" But this myth that nobody edits anymore compared with a hundred years ago? I've never worked with an editor who doesn't edit all weekend long, every single night. That's the fun part.
CHINSKI: I think that's important to emphasize. I think we all hear that editors don't edit anymore.
BOUDREAUX: I just don't know who they're talking about. Having worked at two different houses, I literally do not know who they are talking about. Who just acquires and doesn't edit? I feel like everybody I've ever worked with sweats blood over manuscripts. And you reap the rewards of doing that.
NASH: I suspect that agents are doing more editorial work on books before they submit them in order to polish the apple. To some extent the process of acquisition has become more collegial, and it's helpful if a book is not a dog's dinner when you're showing it to people before you can start working on it yourself. That can create the perception that not much happened after it was acquired. And when you have the goal of helping to make a book as much like itself as it can be, that can involve a level of editing that doesn't look very intense on the surface but actually can be quite important. It doesn't have to involve a whole lot of red ink. But the right red ink in the right places, especially when it's subtractive rather than additive, can really make a book fluoresce.

Why did you all become editors instead of agents? And why do you stay editors when by all accounts you could make a lot more money being an agent?
CHINSKI: Has anybody here ever worked at an agency? My first job, for three months, was at an agency. That's why I'm an editor. But sometimes I do think that agents get a more global view of things. Dealing with film and foreign rights and so on.

But in other ways they get a more limited view because they don't have to do all the things to make a book work.
CHINSKI: I think that's true. Wouldn't that be more fun? [Laughter.] But seriously, when I was working there I didn't leave because I didn't like working at an agency. It just wasn't working as a job. I have a really hard time imagining myself as an agent. It's partly just the obvious stuff of doing the deal and so on. I think you have to have a certain personality to get really excited about that. I'd rather go home and really devote myself to doing the editing. I know that some agents do that. But it's not, kind of nominally, what they are there for.
BOUDREAUX: I literally didn't know there was such a thing as a literary agent. I didn't know anything. I was like, "I guess those people who get to work with books would be editors." I just didn't know any better. And I love to play with the words, which they also get to do, but they're not the final word on it. I also don't do enough nonfiction, which I feel like any editor who's got any sense learns to do. But I just don't have the antenna for it. As an agent it would be even scarier to have a list that is 95 percent fiction. You probably need a balanced portfolio in a way that an editor can still get away with being more fiction-heavy.

What are the hardest decisions you have to make as editors?
CHINSKI: Jackets. I find that the most harrowing part of the whole process. As an editor, you're in this funny position of both being an advocate for the house to the author and agent but also being an advocate for the author to everybody in-house. The editor is kind of betwixt and between. And for a lot of books, especially fiction, the jacket is the only marketing tool you have. It's really difficult. I also find that I know what I don't like, but I don't have the visual vocabulary to describe what I think might work.
BOUDREAUX: And the cover is so important. Even if it's not the only thing that's being done for a book, it's still got to be one of the most important things. You've got reviews and word-of-mouth, and then you've just got the effect it has when somebody walks into the store and sees it. I think it's so important to work somewhere where your art people will read the book and come up with something that you never would have come up with yourself. The idea of a jacket meeting where you have twelve people around a table and you bring it down to the lowest common denominator of "It's a book about this set there. We need a crab pot at sunset with a..." People do that! They think it's a marketing-savvy way to go about it. "We need a young person on the cover. But you shouldn't be able to see the person's face. It has to be from behind!"
GARGAGLIANO: The same thing happens when the author tries to deconstruct the cover.
CHINSKI: Exactly. That's one thing that's changed a lot. When I first started, we would send the author hard copies of the [proposed] jacket. Now we email it to them and they send it to everybody in their family. You can predict exactly what's going to happen.

What are the other hard decisions you have to make?
GARGAGLIANO: I have two, and they're related. One of them is when I love a book but I don't actually think that we're going to do the best job of publishing it. I anguish about that because I want the book for myself, but that doesn't necessarily mean it's the right thing for the author. The step beyond that is when you've already been publishing someone, and it's the question of what's best for their career. You offer a certain amount of money, and the agent wants to take the author somewhere else, and you have to ask yourself whether or not you go to bat for that person and get more money because you want to keep working with them despite whether the house might really support them. That's a hard thing to figure out.

I think part of what makes it hard is that editors serve different mastersthe authors, the agents, the house. How do you guys navigate those allegiances and responsibilities?
NASH: I will confess that I came into this business not motivated to become an editor. I was a theater director and happened upon Soft Skull because the guy who founded it was a playwright whose plays I directed. The whole thing was going belly up in the middle of my friendship with this dude. He basically did a runner, and there were these two twenty-two-year-olds at the company, and no one else, and there were all these authors, and the whole thing was fucked. I had a messiah complex and came in and tried to be Mr. Messiah for six months. And in the middle of my messiah complex, I fell in love with the process of publishing. So in a weird way, I did not come in with the idea of working with writers. I came in as a problem solver, and that's all I've ever been in a certain sense. The problem I try to solve is, "How do you connect writers and readers?" Those are the two masters for me. Recently I've been trying to think, believe it or not, of the publishing business as a service industry in which we provide two services simultaneously, to the author and to the reader. We may pretend to offer a service to the agent, and we may pretend to offer a service to the company. But only to the extent that we fulfill those other two services—to the writer and to the reader—are we truly serving the agent or the company. And we have to use our own instincts on a minute-to-minute psychological basis. Obviously you're accountable to the bottom line and P&Ls etcetera, but you're being asked to use your own instincts, and that's what you have to use in order to bring writers and readers together.
GARGAGLIANO: There are moments when it's sticky. When you're dealing with a jacket, for example. But on the whole, everybody wants the same thing, and that makes it easy. The thing that I always have to remind myself is that the people who are on the sales end also love books, and they also love to read, and they could be making more money in some other industry too. When you remember that, it makes your job much easier.
CHINSKI: I agree that we do all want the same thing, but don't you find that sometimes people don't behave that way?
GARGAGLIANO: Sometimes. But sometimes they do.
CHINSKI: It just amazes me how combative the relationship can become. I mean, it doesn't happen that often, but it does become combative sometimes. When we were talking before about authors saying that editors don't edit...there's just this assumption that the publisher isn't doing enough. Sometimes agents don't quite understand how things actually work in the publishing house. I'm not saying that across the board. But it does happen. I find those situations really difficult, where you feel like you're being accused of somehow not caring enough about the author when we all know how many hurdles there are. I mean, we wouldn't be doing this if we didn't care.
GARGAGLIANO: I've been very lucky with my authors. I haven't had many bad ones. The relationship is all about trust, and once you start that relationship and you start that dialogue, they trust that you're taking care of them. But there is a point when it's out of the editor's hands. And if they've trusted you that far, most of the time they'll accept whatever happens, in my experience. Usually the call I get will be from the agent.
BOUDREAUX: It's like you can almost have two different conversations. In one of them the agent gets what's going on and is just being helpful and trying to get everyone on the same page. And in the other one somebody is making demands or accusations that aren't going to actually help anything. It's more just for show. You know, "Emboss this part of the jacket" for no good reason. You do get the feeling sometimes that they are fulfilling their service to the author in a way that actually doesn't have that much to do with the book.
GARGAGLIANO: But that's the agent. I'm more worried about my author's happiness.
CHINSKI: I agree with that. A combative relationship with an author is pretty rare. Obviously it happens sometimes, but I'm thinking more about the agent. I don't want to overstate it, but sometimes it does feel like we should all understand more that we do all actually want the same thing. No publisher or editor signs up a book in order to sink it. Who would do that? We're not getting paid enough to be in this business for any reason other than we actually love the books we're working on.

What do you wish writers knew about you that they sometimes don't?
GARGAGLIANO: I think most writers don't realize that every editor goes home and reads and edits for four hours—that they're not doing that in the office. That in the office they're advocating for all of the authors they already have.
NASH: I don't even get to read when I go home. When I go home, I'm continuing to advocate. I haven't been able to read at all recently. I've really just become a pure pimp.
CHINSKI: I thought you were a whore.
NASH: I'm both at once! It depends on the street I'm walking down.

What else?
GARGAGLIANO: I think it's important for writers to remember that we're not their enemy. We love books and we're looking for books that we love.
CHINSKI: And ads are not love.
GARGAGLIANO: And ads do not equal sales.
BOUDREAUX: If those two things appear in print—that we're working nights and weekends and ads don't sell books—we have all done a fine job here. We are martyrs to the cause and ads are ridiculous. But I think editors like ads too. It's like having your business card published in the New York Times.

Have you guys ever gotten any great advice about your jobs from a colleague or a mentor?
CHINSKI: I can quote somebody, Pat Strachan, who is one of the most elegant, serious, and lovely people in the business. She said to me, "Just remember, when you're all stressed out, that the lives of young children are not at stake." And I do think that's worth remembering. We all love what we do and we take it really seriously, but you have to keep things in perspective. I also have one from David Rosenthal. He used to say, "If you're going to overpay for a book, you should at least be able to imagine the things that have to happen for it to work at that level, even if it may not actually work at that level."
BOUDREAUX: It should be in the realm of possibility.
CHINSKI: Yeah, and you should be able to picture, very concretely, what would have to happen and how you might go about making those things happen. You don't want to just buy something blindly.

What have your authors taught you about how to do your job?
GARGAGLIANO: To be honest with them. I often have the impulse to protect my authors and treat them as if they are more fragile than they actually are. It's better if I can have an open conversation with them. If I start that early on, the better our relationship is going to be going forward, and the easier it will be to talk about tough things. That took me a while to figure out.
BOUDREAUX: They teach you over and over and over—and this is soobvious—but they will always have a better solution to an editing problem than anything you could come up with. If you just raise the question, they will solve it. The universe of their book is more real to them than it could ever be to anyone else. You trust them with the internal logic of what's going on. You just show them where the web is a little weak—where everything that was so fully imagined in their head has not quite made it down to the page. Not only, as you said, are they not that fragile, but the world they've created is not that fragile. You can poke at it endlessly, and you'll just get really good answers and really good solutions. When you bring something up, you never find that you will unravel the whole sleeve. I've never had that happen. Where it's like, "Oooooh, we'd better hope that nobody notices that."

How do you guys measure your success as an editor?
NASH: Survival.

Tell me more.
NASH: For me, for a long time, there was a very direct correspondence between the success of my books and my ability to eat pizza. Now, in the last year, it has become less direct, since I don't have to make payroll, least of all my own, anymore. Because in the past, in order to make payroll, I would do it by not making my own payroll.

But what about in a deeper sense?
NASH: I suppose I was answering as a publisher, which is what I was and in a sense what I am anterior to being an editor.

I think I just mean more internally, in a more internal way.
NASH: When the book becomes what you imagined it was going to be based on the fact that it was almost already there. And you helped it get there.
CHINSKI: But we all want more than that, too, don't we?

That's what I'm trying to get at.
CHINSKI: We all want our books to have an impact. Beyond sales in any kind of simple sense. You want people to talk about them. You want people to find each other because of them. I worked with a writer who very elegantly described a book as a table that everybody can sit around and start a conversation around. And I think, not to sound terribly cheesy about it, that's what we all want. We want our books to have an impact in the world. And that's really rare. Sometimes it has nothing to do with sales. So I think it's more than just feeling like you did your job on the page. It's feeling like you did your job in the world.
GARGAGLIANO: That it went beyond you.
CHINSKI: Yeah. Books should transcend themselves in some way, and I think that's what we all really want.
NASH: The reason I got excited about publishing, compared to theater, was that the theater I was doing had no fucking impact on the world whatsoever.
GARGAGLIANO: Do you feel like it's better in publishing?
NASH: It's immensely better. Now, it may be that the joy I get from publishing is relative to how hard it was in downtown, experimental, Richard Foreman-acolyte theater. I set the bar so low for myself! [Laughter.] But in publishing, even indie publishing, thousands of people who I will never meet, who don't want to act for me, will actually buy one of my books.
CHINSKI: That reminds me of another great quote that I'll probably get slightly wrong. I remember when Philip Roth came to sales conference at Houghton Mifflin. I think it was for The Human Stain. He gave a presentation to the sales force and basically talked about the death of the novel as a force in our culture. "That'll be a good way to get the sales reps really excited!" [Laughter.] But then he said the most extraordinary thing, which has always stayed with me and which I've said to a lot of writers. He said that if his books were to sell ten thousand copies, which doesn't sound like a whole lot, but if he were to sit in a room, and each one of those people were to walk by him, and he could see them face to face, it would break his heart. I can't believe I forgot that earlier. That's probably the best description of why we do what we do. Whether it's three thousand people buying a novel, or five hundred people buying a book of poetry, it does kind of break your heart if you actually imagine each of those individuals reading the book.
NASH: That's why it was not a value judgment when I said the audience for a book might only be 150 people, in this world of more books. It's about the intensity with which that connection might occur.
CHINSKI: Do you guys all remember one moment where you felt really content? Whether it was something specific that happened or just a moment in your career? Where you felt like, "Okay, this is it. Now I'm kind of happy. This is all I could ever want." Where you actually slept well for one night?

I like the question.
GARGAGLIANO: That is a good question. [Laughter]
CHINSKI: I mean, I'm just wondering, was it when a book hit the best-seller list? Was it when a book got a great review? I'm curious what those different feelings are.
BOUDREAUX: I'm trying to come up with something that won't sound like complete dorkiness. I mean, yeah, the best-seller list feels amazing. It feels amazing because of all the great books we watch not get read. When you see one that's actually getting read? Boy is that an amazing feeling. But that little moment of satisfaction? I was trying to think, "What was the first time as an editor that I really felt that way?" Maybe being promoted to editor was my greatest moment. You know, Ann Godoff was doing the benediction and it was kind of like, "You are now an editor. On your tombstone they can say you were an editor." I had this little glimmering moment of, "Yeah! I came here, I didn't even know what publishing was, barely, and now..." Thank God for the Radcliffe Publishing Course. I wouldn't have had any idea of how anybody moves to New York or gets a job had I not ended up doing that. I had been working at Longstreet Press in Atlanta, where we published Jeff Foxworthy's You Might Be a Redneck If... That's actually my proudest moment—what was I doing forgetting that? But seriously, I did that course because I didn't know anything about anything and I thought I'd go back to Longstreet and work there. But then I thought, "Well, gosh, maybe I'll try New York for one year. I'm sure I'll end up back down in Atlanta before long, hoping that somebody at Algonquin would die so that somebody from the South could get a job at a slightly bigger publisher whose books you actually occasionally heard about." You know, I think actually getting promoted to editor was sort of like, "Wow, here I am. This is really a job that I'm really going to get to do." I still sort of feel amazed at that.
GARGAGLIANO: Getting a good review is also amazing. It's so gratifying when you have loved this thing for so long and somebody in the public says that they love it too. It's a thrill.
BOUDREAUX: Getting a review in a place that's always been hard to crack. I'd bring up Ron Rash again. He was a regional author who had never been reviewed in the Times, never been reviewed in the Washington Post. He had this Southern fan base. The booksellers loved him. The San Francisco and L.A. papers had been good to him in the past. But everybody else ignored him. Getting him a daily review in the Times was such a bursting-buttons proud moment for him. I've never been happier about the work I've seen my company do on a book. Because we knew what he had felt like he'd been missing. And there it was, lining up—the New York Times, the Washington Post, the New Yorker—when everybody had been ignoring him.
NASH: For me it was the summer of 2002, when there were two things that persuaded me that I should stay in the business. One was the first book I ever acquired, by a woman named Jenny Davidson, who I'd gone to college with. I was not even sure what one did at a publisher, and I thought, "I should acquire something." We had to find books because there was nothing in the pipeline. So I asked around and my old college friend had a novel that no one wanted to publish. I didn't know what galleys were at that point. But at one point our distributor asked us for some galleys, so we printed out manuscripts and tape-bound them and sent them some places. And the book ended up getting a full-page review in the Times. It ended up being pretty much the only review it got. It didn't get any prepubs because I probably didn't send it to the prepubs on time. But for whatever reason, some editor at the Times Book Review decided to review it. So I had this sense of not having fucked up—this absence of failure in a world where you're up against it.

The second thing that happened had to do with the second book I acquired, Get Your War On. I'd look at my distributor's website and see the sales and the backorders. And one order came in—I think it was the second order that the book got—and it was Harvard Bookstore, which ordered forty copies. That was more convincing than the Times Book Review. It was the first time a bookseller had ever trusted me, the first time a bookseller had ever said, "You're not an idiot." I don't think in either of those situations did I realize how hard it was. It was only later, when I tried to get the secondTimes review and the second forty-copy-order from an indie bookstore, that I realized how good it was.

But the second thing was bigger than the first thing because ultimately it's about survival. I wasn't being glib when I was talking about survival. There was a very direct, one-to-one translation between my ability to sell books and my ability to stay in business and pay everyone. There is a British publisher call Souvenir Press, apparently they've been around for a long time, and I got a catalog of theirs one time. It included a letter from the publisher, and in the letter he quoted some other august independent publisher, saying something to the effect of, "A publisher's first duty to his authors is to remain solvent." Which was instructive because if you don't, it's not some glorious failure. All of your authors go out of print. And one of the reasons I ended up selling the company—one of the reasons was that I fucking had to because PGW had gone tits up and there was just no way to avoid that—but there was also a sense that if I fucked up too badly, the whole thing would go kaput, and I had an accountability to the authors to not let it all go kaput because it was not going to be some cute little failure where everybody would be like, "All right, peace, Soft Skull. It was very nice but now we'll all move on." It was like, "Oh, there are a number of authors whose careers actually depend on this."

Let's talk about agents. Tell me about the difference between a good one and a bad one.
GARGAGLIANO: A good agent knows what to send you. They're playing matchmaker, and they do it well. Those are the happiest relationships—those authors are happiest with their agents and they're happiest with their editors.
CHINSKI: A good agent also understands the process inside the publishing house and the kinds of issues and questions that an editor has to deal with on a daily basis. But I think, most importantly, they know what they're sending and who they're sending it to.
BOUDREAUX: A good agent can be very helpful when you get to those sticky wickets, whether it's the cover, or an ending that still doesn't work, or something else. An agent who can honestly appraise the work along with you and add their voice to the chorus of why, for example, the author needs to change that title. You want it to be about the book and you want it to be about the author, but every now and then the sales force knows what the hell they're talking about with a "This is going to get lost because it is black and it has no title on the cover. It's not going to degrade the integrity of the book if you change it." An agent can either be helpful in that conversation or they can sit there and be a roadblock and let you be the bad cop. An agent who's willing to be the bad cop with you can save an author from impulses—and help them understand why it's the right thing to do in a world where two hundred thousand books get published every year.
GARGAGLIANO: The same thing is true on the publicity front, when you have an author who wants something and you have an agent who's able to make the additional phone call and work on the team with the publicist and the editor. It's much better than getting a phone call from an agent who's just yelling at you.
CHINSKI: Just to step back a little bit, obviously the agent's job is to be the advocate for the author. But, along the lines of what you were both saying, that doesn't always mean agreeing with everything the author says. I think sometimes the agent forgets that. That, actually, they can be most constructive for the author—not just for that book, but their career—by explaining some difficult things to their client.
GARGAGLIANO: And encouraging their author not to be difficult, which doesn't win any fans in the house. If the agent is able to step in and say something in a constructive fashion, that is often helpful.
CHINSKI: It's human nature. We don't like to admit it, but people like to work for somebody who's appreciative. That doesn't mean, in a saccharine way, just affirming everything that the editor and publisher are doing. Obviously, we all make mistakes. But the conversation has to be constructive. We've all seen it over and over and over again. If an author, even if they don't agree with you, is appreciative and trying to work constructively with the house, and so is the agent, it just changes the energy of the way people respond to that project—from the publicist to the designer to whoever. It goes back to what we were saying before: We all want the same thing, and if everybody can keep that in mind, it just makes everybody want to work all the harder on behalf of the book.
NASH: The squeaky wheel theory is bullshit in our business. It's just complete bullshit. It doesn't work.
CHINSKI: I have a sense that authors sometimes get that as concrete advice—to be a squeaky wheel—and for everyone out there, there's a way to express your convictions without being...
GARGAGLIANO: And that ties into being proactive for yourself. If you're out there doing a lot of work for yourself, that energy is—
NASH: So inspirational. When you have an author who shows up at a bookstore and then a week later the sales rep shows up at the store and the rep emails me and says, "Guess what? So-and-so just came by Third Place last week. The buyer was so excited to meet him." Then the rep emails everyone else on the sales force and says, "Look how hard this author is working." It's amazing how effective an engaged author is. But if the author is like, "Why aren't my books in Third Place?" it accomplishes nothing.

We all know that there are less than great agents out there. How are writers supposed to avoid ending up with one of them? Put yourself in their shoes.
CHINSKI: I think they need to do a lot of research, for one thing, even before they get an agent. It amazes me how many times we get query letters from agents who clearly haven't looked at our catalog. I think they need to ask a lot of questions of whatever agent they're thinking about signing up with and make sure the agent knows who they're submitting to and why and so on.

But what if the author doesn't know any of that stuff?
GARGAGLIANO: The author should know. It's their business.
CHINSKI: So much information is available online. There's no excuse now to not know what a house is doing and even what individual editors are doing.
GARGAGLIANO: Every time you read a book, the editor's name is in the acknowledgments. It's very simple.
NASH: The fact that agents don't charge money to read is so widely an established fact online that it's mind-boggling that you still get submissions from agents who are obviously functioning that way. The agenting equivalent of chop-shops.

I mean more the difference between a B+ agent and an A+ agent.
GARGAGLIANO: I think that goes back to what we were talking about with the author's relationship to their editor. It's a personal connection. You want someone who understands your work and is articulate about it and has the same vision for it and can talk to you about your whole career and not just the thing that's in front of them. And then that conversation extends to the editor and the editor's conversation extends to the house.
NASH: With regard to the so-called "A+" and "B+" agents, when I've seen authors switch agents to get somebody more high-powered it pretty much has always failed. So if that's what meant by the difference between a B+ agent and an A+ agent, there is no difference. If they met the criteria that Alexis just articulated, then the odds are that they're the right agent for you. I mean, there's not a whole lot of variance in the advances I pay—there's not a lot of variance in what I can accomplish and not accomplish. Maybe there is with you guys. I've always had this theory—I could be wrong—that who the agent is might make a 20 percent difference in the advance an editor is going to offer. But it's not going to make an order-of-magnitude difference. Probably. It's not going to be the difference between ten thousand and a hundred thousand, let's say.
GARGAGLIANO: I think that's true 90 percent of the time. I think there are a very select group of agents who people just pay attention to before they even know what the book is. And that sets expectations.

We may as well name them.
NASH: Nicole Aragi, presumably.
GARGAGLIANO: Tina Bennett. Lynn Nesbit. Jennifer Rudolph Walsh. Suzanne Gluck.
CHINSKI: Eric Simonoff. I mean, I know from friends at other houses that when a manuscript comes in from certain agents, they start circulating it before they even read it because they presume it's going to go really quickly and for a lot of money. And that's not true with other agents. It just changes the game entirely. I think an author has to understand what they want. They have to do some soul searching, for lack of a better phrase, and figure out if it's just the money they need or if they need something else. And it's hard to hold that against someone. I know that editors always bitch about having to pay too much, and obviously it can have big consequences in a house—if a book doesn't earn out and so on—but you can't really hold that against the author. We never know exactly what their circumstances are. Maybe they have five children who they need to send to college. But they need to figure out what their priorities are. I do think we've often stumbled up against this thing where, in the same way that people think advertising equals love, they think that the advance equals love. And that's just not always true. But people assume that the more you pay, the more you love a book—that if you offer fifty thousand dollars more than another house, then you love it more and will be more devoted to it—and that's not necessarily the case. I think a good agent will explain to the author what all the different variables are, and specifically within the context of what the author needs, whether it's financial or their career more generally, and that is the ideal way to make the decision.

How do you guys feel about auctions?
CHINSKI: We try to avoid them if we can.
BOUDREAUX: I don't mind an auction as much as I hate a best-bids [auction]. And I don't mind a best-bids as much as I hate a best-bids and then the top three get to do it again. What the hell? Everybody does that now. It's insane to me. And the other thing is, does everybody have to talk to the author now, or meet the author, before you get to make an offer? What happened to the arranged marriage? "Eric likes me, Eric likes you, how 'bout we do a book together." I mean—
CHINSKI: Have you gotten the one where you don't get to talk to the author unless you promise to make an offer in advance?
GARGAGLIANO: Oh, that's horrible.
BOUDREAUX: That happened recently. You weren't allowed to talk to the author unless you'd ponied up however many six figures.
CHINSKI: There's an admission price to even talk to the author. That drives me crazy. At FSG, we try to avoid auctions. We decide what we think a book is worth, make the offer, and the author either decides to come or not come, and we bow out if it doesn't happen.
NASH: I mean, any economist will tell you that the winner of an auction has overpaid. In a lot of worlds, outside the publishing one, certain auctions get structured so that the second highest bidder wins. Because the presumption is that the overbidder has overpaid in such a way that it could imperil the business.
BOUDREAUX: I love that! Second place wins—let's hear it for all the B-students!
CHINSKI: All you A-students are crazy.

I hear what you're saying, Richard, but what about with books like Everything Is Illuminated or Edgar Sawtelle? You're not the loser if you won those auctions.
NASH: But I mean in aggregate. Any of these things are statistical, so there are always outliers.
CHINSKI: Actually, I came in second on Everything Is Illuminated.
BOUDREAUX: Were you the underbidder?
CHINSKI: I was, actually.

Apparently I was wrong.
GARGAGLIANO: To be fair, there is a benefit to an auction, which is that, at least in my position, the whole house has to pay attention to the book. You end up getting more people reading it and talking about it, and that creates a certain excitement that isn't to be negated entirely. As long as you don't overpay too much, within that excitement, I think it can benefit the book.
CHINSKI: But what about the problem—this is rare, but we've all seen it happen—where the money becomes the story behind the book. That gives me a queasy feeling. Even if it doesn't happen in a negative way, which we've obviously seen happen. But if that's the driving momentum that gets a book attention? I guess, on one level, great. We'll take what we can get. But on another level it just makes me queasy.
GARGAGLIANO: There's a huge difference between an auction that ends at two hundred thousand and an auction that ends at a million. There's a huge spectrum there. But if you're in an auction with five different houses, your publishers are going to pay attention. Because everybody else is paying attention.

 

Do you guys think you feel the money you're spending in the same way that maybe Richard does?
BOUDREAUX: I don't know if you sweat the difference between 150 [$150,000] and 175 [$175,000]. But you definitely...One [$100,000] and five [$500,000] are different. And five [$500,000] and three million are different. I'll tell you what's easier: three million. Because then everybody did have to get on board. You are not out there on your own saying, "I believe!" But those middle, lot-of-money numbers when maybe nobody else read the whole thing and somebody is letting you do it? You do feel responsible for that in a "Boy do I need to make sure I don't make a single misstep the whole time. The manuscript has to be ready early. I've got to have blurbs early. We've got to get the cover right. I've got to write those hand-written notes to people." You feel the need to justify it. But at the same time, you don't have to lose sleep every night because you won the auction by going up ten or fifteen thousand dollars. I think auctions can be not horrible when you agree on the number beforehand. What I hate is feeling like the ego contest has begun and somebody thinks so-and-so across town has it and you're trying to guess who it is—or somebody inside the house, when there's a house bid situation. The bullshit competition drives me up the wall. Being in an auction and saying we think it's worth three hundred or we think it's worth eight hundred—I don't sweat that if we're making a decision beforehand. It's when you get into the middle of it and suddenly the book that you thought was a great two hundred thousand dollar book...You're paying four [$400,000]? Just because there are still four people in it? I mean, when an agent calls and says they have interest, that's fine and dandy. But it's not going to change my mind about whether I liked the book or not, and I don't want the publisher deciding because three other houses are in and "We should get in on that, too." So if you can make these decisions before the craziness starts, it's fine. It's when the craziness begins—
CHINSKI: The feeding frenzy.

But it seems like that's how it works now. You're getting that email from the agent right away.
GARGAGLIANO: Noooo.
CHINSKI: But don't you feel like you get that more and more?
GARGAGLIANO: I don't feel like it changes my mind, though.
CHINSKI: No, I just mean more as a strategy to get people to pay attention.
BOUDREAUX: I feel like, when you get a submission, you know that it's so easy to send that everybody on earth has it already. And it's twenty a day and there they are on your Sony Reader and the attention paid to things has diminished just by the ease with which everything gets slotted in and slotted out. And then the agent's like, "I've got interest! I've got interest!" Well, "I've got a ‘No!'" I can email fast, too! [Laughter.] Unfortunately, that's how it ends up working sometimes. "You've got to get back to me quickly!""Okay, well I guess I won't be deliberating over this very long. I've read ten pages and we can be done, then." If everybody just wants to speed it up that much.
CHINSKI: But I've heard so many agents say that it's becoming more and more difficult to sell a literary first novel that it almost seems like this is compensation for that. There's so much resistance now—everybody's trying to find a reason why they shouldn't buy something because it is so difficult. It seems like we get more emails now that say "There's a lot of interest" just to kind of built up that intensity from their side.
NASH: What I get to do in those situations is say, "Congratulations. I'm thrilled for the author. Next time." I just can't play at that level. That makes my life a lot easier. It's a much less complicated thing than what you guys have to go through in terms of evaluating the difference between two hundred [$200,000] and four hundred [$400,000]. That's one thing I don't ever have to worry about. But I really learned a lot from what you were saying about how when the money gets really big, you aren't accountable anymore. Not that you aren't accountable—but there's a lot of shared responsibility and the buck isn't stopping entirely with you. Whereas there's an in-between spot where it's large enough that you're exposed but not so large that anybody else is going to be wearing the flak jacket with you.
BOUDREAUX: The first book I ever preempted, I hadn't finished reading it. It had come in to another editor who gave it to me. So I was starting it late and I hadn't finished it and I went in to tell the publisher, "We've heard that somebody else is going to preempt." The publisher said, "Okay, go offer" several hundred thousand dollars. "Okay!" So I did, and we got it—what do you know?—and the next day the publisher asked, "So what happens at the end?" I still hadn't finished it! I was like, "They all...leave...and go home." I didn't know what happened! [Laughter.] That was kind of scary, and I did feel like "This one is all on me"—because not only had nobody else read the thing, but I wasn't even certain it would hold up. As I was editing it I was like, "I hope that's what happens at the end...." Otherwise the author's going to be like, "Really? Why would you suggest that at the end?" I'd have to be like, "I just think it's important that everything works out that way."

When you look at the industry, what are the biggest problems we face right now?
CHINSKI: I think they're all so obvious. Returns. Blogs.
GARGAGLIANO: And just finding readers.
CHINSKI: The end of cultural authority. That's something we talk about a lot at FSG. Reviews don't have the same impact that they used to. The one thing that really horrifies me and that seems to have happened within the last few years is that you can get a first novel on the cover of the New York Times Book Review, a long review in The New Yorker, a big profile somewhere, and it still doesn't translate into sales. Whereas six years ago, or some mythical time not that long ago, that was the battle—to get all that attention—and if you got it, you didn't necessarily have a best-seller, but you knew that you would cross a certain threshold. Whereas now you can get all of that and still not see the sales. I think that phenomenon is about the loss of cultural authority. There's just so much information out there now that people don't know who to listen to, except their friends, to figure out what to read. And that's the question we wrestle with the most. I think publishers have to communicate more directly with readers—that's the big barrier we're all trying to figure out. How much to use our websites to sell directly and talk to our readers directly?

So what are you doing to try to do that? What are you experimenting with?
CHINSKI: I can think of one thing. I mean, it's a small thing, but we recently started the FSG Reading Series uptown at the Russian Samovar. It's amazing. It's actually turned into a kind of scene. The New York Observer and the New Yorker have written about it. And I mean "scene" in a good way. In all the ways that we were talking about before, what makes us most happy is when a book forges a community around itself. It's a small thing, but now if we can somehow bring that online, or expand it in some way, it will be a way for FSG as a name to mean something, which will mean that we have another way to bring our writers to readers. The names of publishers, notoriously, are not like "Sony" or other companies where the name means a whole lot to readers. It may mean something to reviewers or booksellers, but I think we all need to figure out ways to make our names mean something. That's another way to establish authority so that people become interested in the individual books. That's a big challenge, and there's no easy solution to it.

What else are you guys trying to do, beyond the hand-written notes and the bigmouth mailings? What are you lying awake at night thinking about doing for this novel you're publishing that doesn't seem to be going anywhere?
BOUDREAUX: I pray that the people in our new media department who are supposed to be figuring out this problem are staying up late at night. That's what I think about as I roll around at night. And they are always coming up with things that I hope will work.
CHINSKI: And now we have this amplification system, supposedly—the Internet—which is supposed to amplify our ability to create word-of-mouth. But I don't think anybody's quite figured out exactly how to do that—or at least how to make it translate directly into sales. We all can see, in certain cases, our books being talked about a lot online. But what does that mean in terms of sales?
NASH: In our case, we've never really relied much on cultural authority, although we've certainly used it here and there. But for the most part, to the extent that we've been successful, it's been through the things that you're asking about. I check our Web metrics several times a week, whether it's Quantcast, Alexa, or Compete. These are places for measuring traffic. I try to figure out what the traffic is and what the demographics are. So I'm doing a lot of stuff that would probably make you want to shoot yourself.
BOUDREAUX: I'm glad you're doing it, though, so I can read about it in this article. Then I can call somebody and say, "You should do that! That's brilliant!"
NASH: One of your new media people, Amy Baker, was briefly involved with Soft Skull back in the day. She played on our street hockey team that was known as the Soft Skull Sandernistas, which was named after my predecessor. [Laughter.] But seriously, as Eric says, the Internet is amplified word-of-mouth. The things that are happening online are amplifying a process that's already in place. I mean, the genius of Oprah has never been her ratings. Her ratings aren't that spectacular compared to a lot of other shows. It's that Oprah connects to her audience in an intimate way, as if she were one of eight women who have lunch together every Tuesday. And that intensity of relationship—plus the fact that it is able to occur on a reasonably broad scale—is her genius. So what you do is go looking around the world for people with a certain level of trust. Authority, in a certain sense, has been partially replaced by trust. Part of what you can call "trust" today is the remnants of authority. People "trust" the New York Times.
CHINSKI: And people trust their friends.
NASH: Exactly. People trust Liesl Schillinger. People trust Ed Champion. Or they hate them. And you're just trying to get your stuff to people who are trusted. In my case that involves doing it myself, in a lot of cases.
GARGAGLIANO: This is one of the things that I get most frustrated by, partly because I didn't care about book reviews when I wasn't in publishing. I would never read the New York Times Book Review. I just wanted to walk into a bookstore and find something. But people don't do that anymore. People aren't interested in the community of books. So it's finding the niche markets. I just published a book called The Wettest County in the World. It's a novel about the author's grandfather and granduncles, who ran a bootlegging ring during Prohibition. It's amazing. And we've gotten IndieBound, we've gotten lots of things for it, and it's gotten amazing reviews. But the sales aren't going to happen on that alone. So I've been mailing it to bloggers who have beer blogs and whiskey blogs, and bourbon drinkers, and distilleries. I'm trying to find the niche market. I think that's the way things are going. I think that kind of thinking is much more exciting—you're more likely to find the readers who are interested—but publishers aren't set up to find niche markets for every single book.
BOUDREAUX: That's the thing. Do you do the whiskey mailing and then the beer mailing and this mailing and that mailing? It seems like there aren't enough hours in the day and there isn't enough staff—the Amy Bakers of the world—to do that.
NASH: That's where the writer needs to come into it. And interns. That's one of the ways in which interns can be so valuable. That's great work for them to do—a Technorati blog search on whatever. It's not hugely difficult, and it's kind of interesting.
GARGAGLIANO: It can also be useful for books down the line.
CHINSKI: That raises an interesting thing for writers to consider. I mean, how many times have we all heard that a certain book is going to appeal to this audience, that audience, and everybody else in the world? You just know that it's not true. But if you can go really deep into one community, you might sell ten thousand copies of a first novel, which most first novels never sell—at least the ones that are supposedly going to appeal to everyone. I don't think novelists should spend too much time worrying about who their audience is, but it's something to consider. I just think that line—"This book is going to appeal to everybody because it's about love or family or whatever"—doesn't work. I think the author and the publisher need to think more specifically. If you could sell one book to everybody on two city blocks in New York, you'd probably be selling more copies of that book than we do of the ones we just send out into the world and hope are going to sell magically. But how do you reach everybody on those two city blocks in New York and get them to buy the book? That's the task, metaphorically, that so many of us are facing: how to get to them and make them believe us. Because at the end of the day we're companies, and all of those people online who are talking to each other aren't necessarily going to believe that we have their best interests at heart. They'll think we're advertising to them through other means. So we have to establish a certain amount of trust with readers, not just as companies but as people who also love books in the same way they do. Again, it's a small thing, but the idea behind the Samovar reading series—not that it's a totally new idea—is that the editors at FSG love books, and you guys love books, so let's get together. And it's not just about trying to sell our books to you.
NASH: One of the things that that accomplishes that may not be obvious from the get-go is transparency. You're putting yourself out in the world and exposing yourself in a way—making yourself vulnerable. I have never understood why the staffs of publishing houses are invisible to readers, who are ultimately the people who pay our salaries. I mean, my wife is a corporate lawyer, and her photo and bio are on her firm's website. Book publishers just refuse to allow their staff visibility to the world. If Paul, Weiss, Rifkind, Wharton and Whatever are willing to allow all the partners' and associates' photographs and bios to be seen by the world, what about publishing is so important that we can't be allowed to be seen? I know that part of it is that we don't want authors bugging us too much. But I think that's part of what the Samovar reading series accomplishes: a certain willingness to participate.

Just in the space of your careers so far, what has been the most destructive new thing that's come about in the industry?
NASH: It's technology. It's been both constructive and destructive at the same time.
CHINSKI: So do you think e-books have been both?
NASH: E-books are one of the last ways in which technology is playing itself out. One of the first ways was desktop publishing. Another way that's been more incremental is the ability of digital printing to be commensurate with offset printing and for various machines to flatten the economies of scale. But, yeah, the ability to satisfactorily download a book digitally is turning out to be one of the last things that technology is accomplishing. I guess the other thing is just the capacity of e-mail and the Web—the social Web, in particular—to flatten communication. And it's all simultaneously destructive and constructive. It's destroying cultural authority but it's enhancing one's ability to cost-effectively reach individuals who might have other kinds of cultural authority. It's lowering barriers to entry, which is constructive because new presses can come along. BookScan is based on technology and has constructive and destructive components. The kind of supply-chain inventory management that Baker & Taylor and Ingram are doing, where they can now say to us, "We only need two months' worth of inventory; we don't need four months of inventory," is destructive because my working capital needs go up by 20 percent on that one phenomenon alone, but it's good in that I can actually see Ingram's demand building and respond to it. If I see big Ingram demand in the month before I publish something, I can say to myself, "I'm going to print advance orders plus two thousand as opposed to advance orders plus five hundred." So it's fucking me and helping me at the same time.
CHINSKI: I agree with Richard. Obviously a lot of things are changing right now, and some of them make things a lot more difficult, but they also—and I don't mean to sound like a Pollyanna—offer some opportunities. I'm always really wary of the sky-is-falling thing, this idea that we're at the end right now.
GARGAGLIANO: We're just at a place where we have to reinvent ourselves, and we haven't figured out how to do that yet. People have started reading in this other way that I don't understand because I don't read that way. But it's our job to figure out how they're reading, and then to figure out how to deliver something they want to read.
CHINSKI: Are you reading on a Sony Reader?
GARGAGLIANO: Yes, and I love it. It's the best thing ever.
CHINSKI: I'm still adjusting to it. We just got them in the last few weeks. On one hand it's great. On the other hand, I still want to write in the margins and it's hard to go back and forth and figure out where you are in a manuscript. I actually physically find myself reaching to turn the page.
GARGAGLIANO: I do that all the time. It's really disturbing!
CHINSKI: Your brain gets tricked into thinking you're actually reading a page. But on the other hand, as I was saying, it's great, and we're seeing sales of books.... I mean, I saw something recently about the Kindle. People who have a Kindle are actually buying more books. So on one hand, it scares the shit out of me that people are reading on Kindles and Sony Readers. But on the other hand—
GARGAGLIANO: Why?
CHINSKI: For no reason other than that it's different.
GARGAGLIANO: I think it's so exciting.
CHINSKI: That's what I mean. It's also really exciting. It will bring a lot more people into reading. And this younger generation is so used to reading online that it doesn't really matter. It doesn't mean the death of literature.
BOUDREAUX: I was amazed at how quickly we all got used to the Sony Reader. It's still a little different from an actual book. But when I first got into publishing I remember reading a manuscript, instead of a finished book, and feeling like it seemed to lack a certain presentational authority. It took me a minute to take a manuscript seriously. It will be the same way with the Sony Reader. But, my God, we've all adapted in a period of months? Imagine the twenty-year-olds who are reading everything online all the time and switching back and forth among seven screens that are open all the time. The notion of not reading that way must seem odd to them.
GARGAGLIANO: I think that in several years the book object is going to be more beautiful and more precious.
BOUDREAUX: It's going to be like vinyl records.
GARGAGLIANO: Exactly.

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I feel the same waythat these changes are going to happen. But the thing I don't understand is why hardcover books still exist.
GARGAGLIANO: I don't understand it.
NASH: It's because of the library market.
GARGAGLIANO: I published a book this fall that we crashed into the schedule because it was shortlisted for the Booker. We did a hardcover just for the libraries and a trade paperback for everybody else.
NASH: I mean, you're right. I was being semi-glib but not entirely glib. The question is, "Why will the print book survive?"

No, I'm literally talking about the hardcover book. Right now, at this moment, why does it exist? I'm looking at a hardcover and a paperback side by side and asking what the consumer is getting for almost twice as much money. Two pieces of cardboard?
CHINSKI: Well, we get two shots to publish the book.

But do we really, with the way the accounts are ordering, or do we just say that?
CHINSKI: But there's still that idea. Also, there's still the hangover of thinking that critics won't pay attention to a paperback in the same way. I know that's not as true as it used to be, but—
NASH: The existence of the hardcover has to do with history. It has to do with certain structures that are in place that haven't been replaced—structures varying from the library market to perceptions about reviewers to perceptions about quality in the mind of the customer. It also has to do with customers wanting certain books at whatever price. They don't care whether it's fifteen dollars or twenty-five dollars—they just want it because of who it's written by. But that's not going to last.
CHINSKI: But here's an interesting case: Bolaño's 2666. We did the hardcover and a three-volume paperback edition in a slipcase. They're priced the same. Which do you think would be selling more? I guess because they're priced the same it's not quite a fair question, but people do seem to be gravitation toward the hardcover just because it's the more conventional format. The paperback is selling well too, but the hardcover seems to have some kind of recognition factor. So I don't think it's just publishers sticking their heads in the sand. It's also readers still thinking that that's the way they discover new books.

Even when they cost ten dollars more for no apparent value?
GARGAGLIANO: I wonder that too. We don't really do very much—
NASH: Value is created in the mind. A classic thing that happens in American retail capitalism is that people will buy the more expensive thing. It's been proven over and over again. If you're at Barneys and there's an eighty-dollar lampshade and a fifty-dollar lampshade, you buy the eighty-dollar lampshade because you think it's worth more. That is endemic in American retail capitalism. But I think the distressing thing in publishing is that we're not making more beautiful objects. I think that one of the things that electronic publishing will allow us to do is free the print object of its need to have a given exact unit cost that is our mass-market way of delivering the product at a given price. The download will allow us to generate volume, and then we can create this gorgeous, elaborate fetish object for which we can charge gloriously outrageous sums of money.

But who's going to be selling them if that happens? Look at what happened to the music business.
NASH: Precisely. Look at the Radiohead model. Radiohead has already done it. Eighty bucks for the limited edition but only ninety-nine cents for the download. That's the model. It's just a question of "How do we get there in a way that doesn't involve complete chaos?" But it seems like that's where we're going. And I think it will be customer-driven—we'll go there as fast as the customers will be willing to go there.

What are you guys seeing in the industry that you find encouraging?
NASH: Fan fiction.

Which is?
NASH: People so in love with a given story and set of characters, or a given world, that they are doing their own version of it. I just think that's spectacular. Not necessarily as writing, but as a cultural phenomenon.

Anybody else? Come on, there's got to be something that's encouraging.
GARGAGLIANO: This is not a good time to ask that question. [Laughter.]
CHINSKI: It's like what Richard was saying—some of these things that are scary are also encouraging. The Kindle and the Sony Reader are bringing people to books who might not have come to them otherwise. I mean, that's something.
NASH: Look at the thing Eric said about people who own a Kindle buying more books than they did before they had a Kindle.
CHINSKI: That's pretty encouraging.
BOUDREAUX: And beyond that, I had it in my head that Kindles and Sony Readers would exist in the way audio books did—that it wouldn't be exactly the same. There would be certain kinds of books that really lent themselves to that format in the same way it was for audio books where you had businessmen driving on business trips. You couldn't get a novel published by your own audio publisher—they weren't interested—but a certain kind of practical nonfiction flew off the shelves. But Edgar Sawtelle has been a huge seller on the Kindle, which is not at all the kind of book I would have thought would be selling well in that format. It's six hundred pages long—there's a good reason to put it on a Sony Reader instead of reading a hardcover—but I just wasn't expecting the number of downloads to be such a close ratio to what's selling in a bookstore. I thought we'd have to figure out what categories worked, and once again fiction would be the category that would be left out as everybody read self-help books or Freakonomics on their Kindle. And I find it encouraging that people are downloading this big fat debut novel.

Anything else?
NASH: The use of social media to talk about books: Goodreads, LibraryThing, Shelfari. Reading books is a solitary activity, but books are also the richest kind of social glue, and the profusion of ways to be social with one another will be tremendously advantageous to books. The commonality that having read the same book introduces between two people is so much richer and more dynamic than the commonality of having watched the same TV show, for example.

It seems like agents lament the consolidation of the industry because it gives them less options. How do you guys feel about it?
BOUDREAUX: It doesn't seem to lessen their options when they submit to every single imprint in the house and then you're on the hot-button contest to see who reads it first.
NASH: I think it's kind of pointless to think about it. As individuals, there's sweet fuck-all we can do about it. With everything else we've talked about, human beings at our level can affect things. We can affect the outcome of a given book. We just cannot affect the outcome of a corporate merger.
BOUDREAUX: And for a group of people who've only been doing this for a decade, in which this has always been the case and it was already the death knell of publishing back when we were first getting into it and everybody lamented consolidation—
CHINSKI: When I saw The Last Days of Disco, it was heartbreaking. [Laughter.] That's when I realized what we've lost. As you were saying, it's hard to know because it's the world we live in. It seems like even within the force of consolidation, there are so many imprints blossoming within these places. I don't quite understand what the corporate thinking is behind that. But that's just because I'm not making the decisions, I'm sure.
BOUDREAUX: You've also got a group of people here who have ended up at certain kinds of imprints within those places. So we've all clearly struggled, those of us who are in the corporate world, to find a place that's least like a corporate structure. I mean, that's the great thing about Ecco. When Dan Halpern sold it to HarperCollins he had an agreement with Jane Friedman that basically said, "But we will never have to act like we are a part of corporate publishing. We will keep doing it exactly how we've been doing it." So you get to pretend you're this little thing attached to this big thing, which is how I imagine it being at Scribner and FSG. You get to have the benefits of the deep pockets, and somebody's figuring out the new media thing and revamping this site and that site, and you have the economies of scale of getting your shipping done or whatever, and you still get to sit there and work on your books. So we've also self-selected for a certain kind of publishing within corporate publishing.

And you really did, because you left Random House without having new a job lined up.
BOUDREAUX: I did. I thought I'd go see if anybody wanted me to come do fiction. Thank God Dan Halpern was out there. God bless him. Because it's true: Who doesn't want to do the small list inside the big house, which is just a different kind of experience? I mean, it seems the best way to make that deal with the devil. As you say, Richard, the conglomeration isn't going to go away.
CHINSKI: It doesn't actually mean that writers have less choice, I don't think. There are so many imprints within these companies. It's become an easy straw man to point the finger at. "Oh, these big corporate publishers that don't understand what books are." There are still a lot of editors working at imprints within these big corporations who care about books in the same way that somebody working at Scribner when it was independent cared about books. I think it's really easy, because there are so many frustrations that we all have as writers and editors and agents, to just blame it on some Corporate culture with a capital C. As Richard said, there are a lot of things that we can't control but there are also a lot of things that we can try to control, at least at a certain level. And that probably hasn't changed that much from fifty years ago.
BOUDREAUX: And certainly, the competition in-house is every bit as fierce as the competition out of house, when you and so-and-so from Simon & Schuster both have the book and there's a house bid.
GARGAGLIANO: The agent gets the same benefit of the imprints within the house riling each other up and competing against one another to put on the best show for the author, and the author gets the benefit of choosing between all of these different imprints. I don't think, for the author, it's a major difference. But I wasn't around when it wasn't like that.
NASH: I suspect that to the extent that consolidation has created problems in the industry, the problems are farther downstream than acquisitions. Retail consolidation is the real issue.

Speak to that. How do you feel about so much power being concentrated on Fifth Avenue and in Ann Arbor and Seattle?
NASH: It was all going to happen anyway. The book business was just later to the party, quite frankly, than the clothing business or the cereal business. The real estate was all the same. One of the reasons why we've become really dependent on social media is that it's a kind of hand-selling at a time when the 1,000 people who used to be able to hand-sell are now down to 150. And the capacity of the corporate retailers to hand-sell is either purchased or anecdotal. When I say anecdotal I mean it hasn't completely vanished. I can tell that the B&N in Union Square is putting Soft Skull books on the countertop that weren't paid to be put there. So there is anecdotal hand-selling going on. But you have a situation where the capacity of the retailer to sell a given book to a given, recognized individual has virtually disappeared—down to percentage points. It will work with a few titles—I'm sure you guys have all published books that have been made by independent retailers. But their ability to be a part of the social network of the community of books is gone and we have to find some other means of generating that word-of-mouth. Retailers just exist to shelve the books and make them visible in a given community. They're not selling them to the community.
CHINSKI: But don't you think they understand the crisis they're in, to a certain degree, too? That's why Barnes & Noble has B&N Recommends now, and Starbucks is getting involved, and everybody's trying to—
NASH: Yeah, you're right. I think they realize what they have wrought. Well, they do but they don't. Half the time they're trying to sell on price—they're doing inventory churn—and then the other half of the time they're trying to go intimate. I think they're kind of schizophrenic about it. I think that's part of the problem. I mean, a lot of the independents that went out of business deserved to go out of business. They weren't actually trying very hard to hand-sell. They were just taking the finite number of books that publishers could then publish and saying, "Okay, you pick from these five hundred books." But the great ones are the ones that we have with us right now—St. Mark's and Prairie Lights and the rest. They're doing a great job of being retailers. But you're exactly right about the chains. At times they are definitely trying to find that community-oriented approach.
CHINSKI: The way they'll host book clubs in the stores, for example. In the same way that people like to blame the corporate publishers, it's really easy to point your finger at the chains. I'm not saying they don't present a certain set of problems. But it's interesting that, in a way, they're wrestling with the same kind of issues that we're wrestling with in trying to find a way to interact more directly with their customers. It's a kind of funny crisis all around.

At the end of the day, what makes it all worthwhile?
CHINSKI: Pizza.
NASH: This roundtable.
BOUDREAUX: The glamour of this!
CHINSKI: Going home and editing for four hours.

That's funny. That was actually going to be my next question, but I was going to do it in the anonymous section at the end so you wouldn't have to lie about it. Seriously, though, what makes it worthwhile for you?
BOUDREAUX: Books mean enormous things to people. They are things that save people's lives, at times.
NASH: Even the lives of children!
BOUDREAUX: That's right! The lives of children! I don't think any children have ever lost their lives because of something an editor did, but children have most definitely had their lives improved by something that a writer, and an editor, put out there.
CHINSKI: We're doing it for the kids!
BOUDREAUX: Why don't we make that, "We're doing it for our children, and our children's children."

EDITORS ANONYMOUS
Later, after the pizza was gone and even the most constitutionally strong among us were getting a little punchy—and understandably so—the panel agreed to speak anonymously on a range of topics that would be awkward to discuss for attribution. As usual, a number of verbal tics have been altered in order to preserve anonymity.

Does it bother you that so much of your work has to be done on nights and weekends?
Sure, every once in a while it catches up with you. But you can't concentrate in the office so it's just the way it is. But I'd be lying if I didn't say that sometimes you don't feel resentful. I always have that in the summer because I find that authors all deliver at the beginning of the summer because they want to go on their summer vacations.

Yeah, it's always just before Christmas, just before New Year's, just before the Fourth of July. The book's might be three years late but they go and deliver it on July 3rd.

Publishers have to let you have some time out of the office. And I feel like that is increasingly looked on as this sort of three-martini-lunch thing—that the editor needs the occasional Tuesday to edit at home. You can power through an awful lot, but at a certain point there are too many manuscripts stacked up, and it's been going on for so many years, that you've got to be given some time to do it that isn't just every Saturday of your life.

Such a big part of the job is to pay attention to what the rest of the world is doing and what's being written everywhere else and what other people are interested in and what you yourself are interested in—because you take all of those obsessions and you find the books that you're passionate about on all of those topics—but I don't really have time to do that.

That's my biggest frustration: not having enough time to read published books.

And it's a great disservice to your own job not to ever be able to read anything for pleasure—and not to ever be able to read the other books your company is publishing—because you've got x number of submissions to read and your own new authors' backlists to read and what your house is doing that's working because you just need to understand what that thing is that so-and-so just published. About eight rungs down you get to read something just because it sounds good—something that you're not reading to learn something about your job.

What do agents do that drives you crazy?
Ask for ads.

Submit the next book when you haven't even published the first book and you don't even know how many you're printing.

Assume that just because one book did really well you have to pay for your previous success.

And with fiction, more and more, the success of one novel does not mean that the next novel is going to sell at the same level. And I don't think that a lot of agents have caught up with that fact.

"Have you read it yet? Have you read it yet?" I want to be like, "Have you prepared for your launch meeting yet? Have you written your tip sheets yet?" They don't realize that you may have something from the four other big agents. I'm being flip about it, but they do tend to forget that. Two days later it's "Have you read it?""No, I'm actually editing your author who's under contract."

There's also a tendency to misinterpret an early read for actual depth of publishing program behind that early read. Sure, being the first editor to get back to them on a novel may well mean a particular enthusiasm and a good match, but it also may not. So to require that everybody be in on day two, set up meetings on day three, and be ready to do the auction on day four? Is that all the thought that you want us to put into it?

And using the weekends and holidays as a tactic. I hate the Friday e-mail saying, "Just in time for you to enjoy this weekend..." Or over Labor Day weekend! It's like the new destination wedding. You know, in the same way that you hate your friends who picked the three-day weekend to get married on so you can all go to Hawaii. I'm like, "Really? You had to save this for Labor Day weekend? I had all summer when I didn't have shit to read."

What are the biggest mistakes that writers can make in dealing with their editor or agent?
I think the bigger problem is dealing with their publicist. You have to be very nice to your publicist. You should send them flowers.

I had an author who used to leave messages at four in the morning saying that she didn't want us to publish her book anymore. She wanted us to take them off the shelves! That was fun.

Despite the fact that there is a real personal connection, authors should realize that we're not their therapists, we're not their best friends in the world, etcetera. I can fix your book but I can't fix your whole life.

What about when an author calls because there aren't enough hangers in his hotel closet? [Laughter.] That's happened!

Tell me about a few up-and-coming agents who you feel are great for fiction or memoir.
I think Jim Rutman at Sterling Lord is really smart. He's both a no bullshit guy and a genuinely nice guy. That may sound naïve, but it really does matter.

I think Maria Massie is fabulous. If I could publish the writers of only one agent, it would be Maria.

Julie Barer. I did a book with her and she went about getting blurbs like nobody I've ever seen. She brought them to me, every day, like a cat bringing me a bird. Eight in a row. I've never had an agent who went to bat that much and called in that many favors. It was amazing.

There's also Anna Stein, who's wonderful. She's got a very cosmopolitan worldview and she's also got a taste for a certain kind of political nonfiction that is quite interesting. The first book I got from her was a left-wing case for free trade, which you don't necessarily expect from Ira Silverberg's former foreign rights person.

You know who else is good? Robert Guinsler. He's really smart and really enthusiastic about his books. He has a lot of smart projects.

What kind of information will you withhold from your authors?
I never tell them when my bosses don't love their book. Or when it's been a battle to get them attention on the list.

I will hold back particularly bad feedback. If it's a novel, not everybody is going to agree on it. I've never had such a tsunami of bad feedback that I thought they really needed to hear it.

Do you send them all of their bad reviews?

I leave that up to the author.

I've started telling debut authors, "A lot of writers who have been through this don't want to see the bad reviews. Will you give me permission to not send you the bad reviews?"

When it comes to sales figures, I give them the information. I mean, I don't go out of my way to do it if the news is not good. If it's great news and I can say, "We did this and we did that and we did this," I give it to them all the time. But I don't go out of my way to say, "You're holding steady. Nothing's happening."

What other editors or houses are you impressed with lately?
I think Penguin Press is doing a great job. You look at their list and there's a consistency to it that is really amazing. I don't know how the finances look. But just as books, they're incredibly consistent.

I think Bob Miller and Jon Karp are doing a great job.

I've been impressed with a house called Two Dollar Radio. The reason I'm impressed is their own tagline: "They make more noise than a two-dollar radio."

Jofie Ferrari-Adler is an editor at Grove/Atlantic.

Agents and Editors: A Q&A With Four Literary Agents

by
Jofie Ferrari-Adler
5.1.09

In "Goodbye to All That," her 1967 essay about the years she spent in New York City as a young writer, Joan Didion recalls trying to coax a world-weary friend into attending a party by promising him "new faces." Her friend "laughed literally until he choked" before explaining that "the last time he had gone to a party where he'd been promised ‘new faces,' there had been fifteen people in the room, and he had already slept with five of the women and owed money to all but two of the men."

Several decades later, the details may be different—casual sex? what's that?—but the literary world is every bit as small as it was in Didion's heyday. The agents who congregated at the offices of the Council of Literary Magazines and Presses for this conversation (and who were chosen, it should be noted, by the editors ofthis magazine) are not new faces—to one another or to me. During our talk, one of them said that she hopes to "grow old together" with her clients. The same might be said of us publishing people, who, unlike Didion's friend and especially in these tough times, are likely to view our shared history as a comfort rather than a curse. Some particulars:

 

MARIA MASSIE worked as an agent for twelve years before joining Lippincott Massie McQuilkin as a partner in 2004. A few years ago Maria broke hearts all over town (mine included) when she sold Nigerian priest Uwem Akpan's Say You're One of Them to Little, Brown for an ungodly advance. Her other clients include Peter Ho Davies and Tom Perrotta.

JIM RUTMAN, an agent at Sterling Lord Literistic for the past ten years, is mild mannered until he steps onto a basketball court—we play on a publishing team called the Jackals—at which point he turns into a ferociously competitive shooting guard who sometimes scores half our points. His clients include Charles Bock, J. Robert Lennon, and Peter Rock.

 

ANNA STEIN worked at three other agencies before joining the Irene Skolnick Literary Agency in 2006. Once, after a writers conference in New Orleans, Anna took me and my wife to a second-line celebration (imagine a loud, roving bacchanal) in the Ninth Ward. We made our plane, but barely. Her clients include Chloe Aridjis, Yoko Ogawa, and Anya Ulinich.

 

PETER STEINBERG spent twelve years at other agencies before founding the Steinberg Agency in 2007. Peter is a kind of throwback to the golden age of publishing, when men did things like hold doors open for women and send handwritten thank-you notes—not to embarrass him or anything. His clients include Alicia Erian, Keith Donohue, and John Matteson.

Let us inside your heads a little and talk about what you're looking at and thinking about when you're evaluating a piece of fiction.
STEIN: It's really hard to talk about why a piece of writing is good, and moving—even if it's funny—and what makes us keep thinking about something after we've read it. And it's incredibly subjective. That's why it's hard for agents who represent fiction, especially literary fiction, to find it. It's so rare. We can all talk about the things we don't like. When I see clichés, for example, on the first page or in the first chapter of a book, that kind of kills it for me immediately. The romance and the chemistry is just over. That's just one example of the negative side of that question, and I'm sure you guys have a million others. If I knew how to describe in language what makes me fall in love with something, then I would be a writer. All I can say is that if I read the first few pages of a novel and think, "Jesus Christ! Who the fuck is this person? Why are they letting me read this?" then that person is onto something. And we don't have that feeling very often. But when we do see it, it's so exciting.

MASSIE: Anna's right. It's like you have this moment of clarity and you recognize something that you're so absorbed with. I read a lot of things that are beautifully written where I say to myself, "Oh, this is good," but I'm not bowled over or sucked right in. It's so subjective. I can read something and pass on it and I hear, two days later, that there was a bidding war and it sold for a ton of money, but it just wasn't the thing that I was going to fall in love with.

STEINBERG: And you're okay with that.

MASSIE: You have to be okay with it because it's so subjective. I'm not necessarily going to see what somebody else sees, or read a book the way somebody else reads it. That's one thing that writers who are looking for an agent should always remember: All agents are different. Everyone has different tastes. What I like to read might be different than Anna or Peter or Jim. That's a great thing about what we do—there's so much to choose from. And what you fall in love with is a very personal choice.

RUTMAN: And the reactions are necessarily self-contained. It's impossible to articulate what you hope to find as an agent. How could you explain to somebody what moves you? Because hopefully you're capable of being moved by things that you didn't anticipate being moved by. So you sit down with something, and all the preamble is basically pointless until the moment that you actually start searching around and rummaging for your feelings and response. It might happen on word four, or it might happen on sentence seven, but if it hasn't happened by page two, will it happen on page two hundred and fifty? I wish it did. But I don't know that it does.

Are there any specific things that can make you fall in love with a piece of writing?
STEIN: I would say that being able to make me think, especially in dialogue, "Oh, shit. This person has got me. This person has just seen into what we all feel every day but don't say. This person has looked into our souls, especially the worst sides of us, and sort of ripped them open and put them on the page." Psychology, to me, is one of the most exciting things to see work well in fiction—when it comes alive on the page and is totally devastating.

STEINBERG: When you read something and think, "I can't believe they just said what I've thought in my deepest thoughts but never articulated," that is always an eye-opener for me. And it's also about reading something that doesn't seem familiar. Writers should realize that agents have a ton of material to read, and when things seem familiar, it's an easy reason to pass. If it's something that's new, it really makes a huge difference. And I'm not talking about something being so wildly creative that it's ridiculous—not a talking plant falling in love with a turtle or something like that. I'm talking about, in a real sense, something that is genuinely new and also deeply felt. That's what we're all looking for. But at the same time, I do get things and think, "How is this like something else that has sold well?" It's a difficult balance. You have to have one foot in literature and one foot in what's going on in the marketplace.

RUTMAN: Writers probably shouldn't trouble themselves too much over that consideration. If they're aiming to hit some spot that's been working—trying to write toward the books that have made an impression—that just seems like a pretty pointless chase. You know, "I hear that circus animals are wildly appealing and I've had some thoughts about circus animals...." That doesn't seem like a very good way to go about it.

STEINBERG: A writer was just asking me about that and I said it's the agent's job to spin a book for the marketplace—to talk about it being a little like this book and a little like that book or whatever. Writers should put those kinds of thoughts out of their heads and just write.

RUTMAN: I don't know who to blame for trends. If a run of books comes 
out that are all set in a particular 
country—which happens all the time—to whom do we attribute that? To writers who are looking at things and saying, "Hmmm, I notice that fourteen years ago India was interesting to people. I think that's where I'm going to set my book"? You can't blame writers for asking what subjects are interesting these days, even when we're talking about fiction, and I wish I had a useful answer for them, but I just don't think it works that way.

STEINBERG: I would basically go with your passion. The subject matter can be very wide ranging, but if you go with your passion, even if it doesn't work, at least it's heartfelt.

STEIN: On some level, what else are you going to do? Are you going to write a novel because it's "commercially viable"? I mean, I guess people do that. But we're not going to represent them.

Because you hate money?
STEIN: We. Hate. Money. [Laughter.]

But seriously, I sometimes think that people in the business read in different ways than normal readers. Are there things that you're looking atcontextual things, like who the author isbeyond what's on the page?
STEINBERG: Those things very much take the backseat for me. It really is just what's on the page. All of that other stuff comes later. Maybe once I get a third of the way through a novel and I'm loving it, then I will look back and see who the author is and all that stuff. I think it's important to stress that the synopsis and the cover letter and all of those things are not really important. It's the work, the work, the work. You have to focus on the work. I think sometimes writers get lost in getting the cover letter and the synopsis and those kinds of professional things right because they're afraid of focusing on the work.

STEIN: I don't even read synopses. Do you guys?

STEINBERG: I skip right over them. I go to the first page.

STEIN: I hate synopses. They're terrible.

RUTMAN: It's hard to write a synopsis well. And when we're talking about literary fiction, it will probably not make or break an agent's interest going into page one. You're not like, "Oh, there's going to be an unexpected plot twist two-thirds of the way through. I'm going to hang in there long enough to find out how that goes."

STEIN: I'm still surprised when I call an editor to pitch a book and he says, "So what's the novel about?" I'm like, "You actually want me to tell you what happens in the plot? Are you serious? I mean, we can do that if you want." But that's not really the point. I don't want anyone to tell me the plot of a novel. It's so boring.

But are there any other things you're looking at beyond what's on the page? Things that maybe you can sense after years of experience.
MASSIE: Sometimes it's when you're reading a manuscript and you can see that the person is a really talented writer with a beautiful voice but the story is not quite there. But you see the potential. Sometimes you sign those people on because you think, "Okay, maybe this isn't going to be the big book, or maybe it won't even sell, but this person has a quality—they have the writing, they have the voice—and the potential is there. This writer is going to go far. And maybe the next book will be the one." I've taken people on under those circumstances.

RUTMAN: I mean, reading "professionally," if that's what we do, is a compromised process because you are reading a book with an eye toward asking somebody for money. You are reading in a different way than you are when that's not a consideration. So I think it's filtered into the experience from the beginning. You are reading to be moved, hopefully, if that's the kind of novel you work on, but at the same time it probably would be disingenuous to suggest that you're not taking in some superficial considerations. They are all distantly secondary to the work itself. Because if an agent is reading with an eye toward various recent trends that have worked, he's probably not going to succeed all that well either. The same thing is true of the reverse. Any categorical dismissal of some kind of novel feels bogus because there's got to be a counterexample for every single example. So if somebody comes along and has this long list of accolades and prizes, it doesn't damage your regard for them. And if somebody comes to you on novel fourteen, with twelve of them having done exceptionally well, and the last one maybe less well, you think about that, too. You're thinking about how difficult it could be given certain practical considerations. But it's still all pretty far receded from the work itself.

STEIN: There is the question, now more than ever, of whether or not a book is publishable. By publishable I don't mean, "Is there a great plot and is the writing amazing etcetera?" I mean that if we were in your shoes, as a publisher, how would we publish the book? What kind of jacket would we give it? How would we position it? I mean, we're talking about literary fiction? You can't publish literary fiction today. How do you do that? [Laughter.]

RUTMAN: Legally, you can, but...

STEIN: So, given that it's basically impossible, it's our responsibility as the first guard to begin to think about, "Is it possible?" And if we're so bowled over and we're so in love that we think somebody should publish it, how would we do it? This is something I really struggle with because I'm not very creative. I don't have the mind for it. I admire publishers all the more today because the ideas they come up with just amaze me. And I'm not trying to flatter them, at all, because I love to talk trash. But it really does amaze me. I'm thinking about a book right now, for example, that I want to sell. I think the author is fantastic and well positioned and that the novel is perfect—there's nothing wrong with it. But in a way it would be a funny book to publish. In a way, I don't exactly see how it fits and how it could break out. So I see the problem there, which maybe we didn't have five years ago as agents. And I see it becoming more and more of a problem as the market contracts. So I'm reading a little differently because of that. I might not be altering my habits about what I take on, but maybe I am.

STEINBERG: I think you're sort of unconsciously changing and adapting to the marketplace. I find myself doing that. I think when an agent says, "I was following my gut instinct," what that really means is accumulated wisdom and taking a lot of different variables into account. You spend your day reading Publishers Weekly and Publishers Lunch and you take these things into consideration. You're having lunch with editors who are saying, "Such-and-such is so hard" and you're processing all of this information. And when you open a manuscript, you're reading it with that eye. It's hard for us to say exactly how we're looking at material but I think we are taking a lot of different things into account.

Is the economy affecting how you're reading?
MASSIE: It's starting to.

STEINBERG: I would say yes too. It feels like things are tough.

MASSIE: Right before Black Wednesday I had a novel out that I was really excited about. I was getting great reads from a bunch of people who were all calling to say, "This is great. This is wonderful." And one by one they slowly disappeared on me, except for one editor, who actually ended up being the perfect editor. But I did see everything diminish. I had an idea of what the novel was going to sell for and it didn't quite get there. It was actually shocking, because it's a wonderful novel and the responses were amazing and I really did see people pull back. Her first novel had done okay but not great and all people could say was, "Her numbers are just not good enough." Her numbers were not bad for a literary novel. So that was my first moment of a little bit of fear. I haven't quite gotten to the point where I'm conscious that the economy is affecting my thinking, but I'm sure I will at some point.

RUTMAN: Especially with fiction, you're largely at the mercy of what comes in. Certainly you solicit your share, but when you're relying on the kindness of your acquaintances, or referrals, wherever they happen to come from, you can only adjust so much. But it's certainly nice to glimpse something behind the page whenever you can, whatever it may be. If a novel happens to have a nice, portable summation—if it's pitchable—that doesn't upset me.

MASSIE: If there's a hook.

STEIN: Or when the author has a platform.

MASSIE: When they've been published in the New Yorker or something.

RUTMAN: When you're reading something, one of the things you're trying to glimpse is whether you can imagine more than a few people warming up to it. But things that work in various ways...I mean, not to be indirectly nepotistic here, but on what planet should 2666 have worked commercially?

STEIN: I wasn't going to bring it up.

RUTMAN: That's why I did.

STEIN: Well, let's start with The Savage Detectives. I mean, why should anybody have finished that book, let alone have it be successful? [Laughter.] Now I'm going to say something nice about the publisher, but it really was a beautiful piece of publishing.

RUTMAN: It was exquisite. How did that work? Why did that work? I want somebody to explain it to me. Gut instincts are referred to retrospectively when they have worked—people don't really make much reference to their gut instincts when they're looking back regretfully. It's not like, "Ugh, my gut instincts. Son of a bitch." Gut instincts are wrong just as much as they're right. But there is such a thing as publishing something well, and resourcefully.

STEIN: And I find that inspiring—the fact that Lorin Stein is my brother aside—because we are in the position now where we're selling books for lowly five figures that we might have sold for six figures very recently. And I don't want to alter what I take on because of that.

RUTMAN: Do you think you would know how to alter it?

STEIN: I don't think I would.

RUTMAN: If I could see clearly enough and far enough to think, "If I just adjust my taste this much, I think I'll be a very successful person," I would think about trying it. [Laughter.] I just don't presume to know how that would work.

STEIN: But here's how I might alter. I might say, "Look, I can't take on an Icelandic writer right now." Or, "I can't afford to invest my time in editing the sample translation of this Icelandic writer right now. It's just not the time for that. Maybe when things are sunnier."

STEINBERG: I feel like I can adjust when there are natural inclinations a certain way. For instance, I was reading that young adult books are selling better than adult books. I have kids and I'm starting to read what they're reading, and I thought, "Oh, I'm sort of interested in this. Maybe I should do a little more young adult." So that's something that I've consciously done in terms of categories. I think I'll still look for the same type of material within the young adult category, but I'm definitely thinking about the category a little bit more because of the marketplace.

Where are you finding writers, aside from referrals? Are you reading literary magazines? Are you reading blogs?
MASSIE: No blogs.

RUTMAN: Not for fiction.

STEIN: Hell no.

RUTMAN: Referrals are about 75 percent of how I find writers.

MASSIE: A lot of my clients teach in MFA programs, so I get referrals from them. I get referrals from editors. I get referrals from other agents.

RUTMAN: There's a big range of where referrals come from.

STEIN: But every now and then there will be something in the slush—and I bet this is true for you guys, too—that's not just well written but is also well researched and shows that the person knows your list and is really appropriate for your list and also has published well.

MASSIE: And sometimes when I read a short story that I like I'll send an e-mail. "Are you represented?" Once in a blue moon someone's not represented.

RUTMAN: There are too many of us.

MASSIE: There are a lot of us.

STEIN: There are way too many of us.

STEINBERG: A lot of times, when people are in literary magazines, it's too late.

MASSIE: Exactly. Agents are submitting those short stories.

RUTMAN: And MFA students are going about things in an entirely different way.

STEINBERG: They're savvy.

MASSIE: They're so savvy.

STEIN: That's what they pay for.

MASSIE: I was amazed by going to MFA programs and talking to students. The first thing they want to know is, "Okay, what do I need for my query letter? What do I need for this thing or that thing?" It wasn't questions about the work. Their questions were really about the business side.

 

Do you think that's healthy?
MASSIE: No. I don't.

RUTMAN: Ultimately, no. If that is more of a priority than the work, it can't be all good. I mean, it's fine that they have a sort of professional track and that they're exposed to whatever realities they are ultimately going to encounter. But when they take a sort of sporting interest in it...

STEINBERG: It's a good way to eliminate potential people, for me at least. When they ask me, "What's the query letter consist of?" I usually think, "Well, that's probably not a potential client."

RUTMAN: It's true.

What do you wish beginning writers would do better?
MASSIE: Take chances. Don't worry about writing a perfect novel. Sometimes it's nice to have something that's a little bit raw and has a little bit of an edge to it. Something that's just perfect all the way through is sometimes a little boring.

STEIN: I wish they would get their friends, who may be writers or may not be writers, to read their work and tell them, "Don't say anything nice to me. I don't want to hear anything nice. I want to hear everything not nice that you have to say."

STEINBERG: And be smart about picking those people. Find your two or three friends who hate everything.

STEIN: Exactly. And have those people—those hateful friends—give you feedback before you even think about sending out your work.

STEINBERG: I would also say, once you think the work is done, work on it for another year.

STEIN: And never trust your spouse if your spouse says it's good. Your spouse has no idea. Neither do your mother or your father.

RUTMAN: Check your eagerness to share. A lot of professors may even encourage you, as a way to hasten the process along. You know, "I think it's time for the world to tell you what they think of this." It may well not be time for the world to pass judgment just yet. Hold on until you are absolutely certain that it's ready for broad, indiscriminate exposure. Don't hurry that.

STEIN: And this is a cliché for us but it seems worth saying that most writers' first novels aren't really their first novels. If you have to scrap your first novel, you'll live. Your first novel probably won't be the first novel you publish. Maybe your second one will be. But you'll live. And you'll be a better writer because of it.

What are some of the common mistakes you see in the submission process?
STEINBERG: Don't say, "If you don't like this novel, I have many other I could show you." Don't say, "This will make a great movie, too." Don't do that fake thing where you pretend you know all about the stuff I've agented. It's funny because I think that's a piece of advice that writers always gets—research the agent and talk about the other work they've sold. But it always comes off as very false to me unless you've really read something I've sold. And I don't want you to waste your time reading something of mine just to write a query letter.

STEIN: I would say to go the other way around. Write to agents whose books you're actually in love with.

STEINBERG: But what if those agents pass and you still want an agent?

STEIN: Then you should read more books. [Laughter.]

What else?
STEINBERG: Don't talk about a character sweating on the first page or two.

RUTMAN: Sweating?

STEINBERG: Yeah. It happens all the time. The writer's like, "He was sweating profusely...." It's supposed to denote tension, I think.

RUTMAN: Also don't write the phrase "sweating profusely."

STEINBERG: I have a joke in my office where if a character is sweating in the first two pages, I go, "Sweating!" [Laughter.] Also, people are always "clutching" steering wheels in the first few pages.

STEIN: That's the cliché thing.

STEINBERG: And don't wake up from a dream on the first page. No dreams on the first page.

STEIN: It's best to avoid dreams if possible.

But this is all craft stuff. Let's go back to the submission process.
STEIN: Don't write "Because of your interest in international fiction..." or whatever you think the agent's interest is. That means you've been trolling some Web site, and that freaks me out. Don't let me see that you've been trolling some Web site that says I like a certain kind of genre. If you know who I am, you should know who I am because you've done some kind of research that has to do with the specific books I represent. That should only be because you've fallen in love with one or two of those books. And that's pretty unlikely because those books haven't sold very many copies. So you probably shouldn't be writing to me to begin with. [Laughter.]

RUTMAN: "Just avoid me altogether. I haven't helped any of these people, really, and I'm not going to help you."

STEIN: Exactly. There shouldn't really be anybody writing to me at all.

STEINBERG: That's off the record, right? Can I say "Off the record" on your behalf?

STEIN: What can I say? I'm funny.

STEINBERG: And of course with the e-mail submissions, don't cc a hundred agents and say, "Dear Agent...."

STEIN: I got an e-mail query addressed to "Elizabeth" today.

MASSIE: I get those. Those are an instant delete.

STEIN: They are.

RUTMAN: Don't try to write eye-catching cover letters. It just isn't really going to enhance my anticipation going into the manuscript.

On the flip side of that, what do you want them to do? I think it can seem really hard to get an agent's attention when you live in a small town somewhere and you don't know anybody.
STEINBERG: Well, know somebody. [Laughter.] I'm serious. We're in the age of e-mail and the Internet. If you e-mail twenty of your friends and say, "Do you know anyone in publishing?" someone has to know somebody. Or somebody who knows somebody. You know what I mean? Find how you know somebody.

STEIN: But you know what? I've actually taken on several clients who didn't know anybody in publishing. I'll give you an example: Anya Ulinich, who's done pretty well for somebody who didn't know anybody. She did some research and asked herself, "Okay, I'm Russian, and my novel has something to do with Russia, so who represents Russian novels?" She did some research and targeted those agents and wrote a query letter that was just really straightforward. It was like, "Here's my deal. Here's why I'm writing to you." It was completely unpretentious and completely straightforward and well written, and because of all that and because there was nothing in it that made me think, "Oh, she's read some book that tells you how to write query letters"—it was just very natural—I asked to see pages. I don't think you have to know somebody.

STEINBERG: But it is one way of getting an agent's attention. I have a lot of clients who didn't know anyone either. But it is a good way to do it. Because when I get a query from a friend of a friend, it definitely goes in a different pile. I would also say to follow what the agent's Web site says. If it says, "Send the first twenty-five pages," do that. And don't send the thirty-third chapter of your novel. Send the first chapter.

MASSIE: And don't try too hard. Sometimes I get these queries that describe the book as a cross between this best-seller and that best-seller and ten different other things. I always find that really distracting and unhelpful.

STEIN: And don't compare the book only to movies.

RUTMAN: I feel like people have generally read something that tells them how to write, at the very least, an unobjectionable cover letter. I like it when they are fairly matter-of-fact. To me that suggests, whether it's well placed or not, a certain confidence that you're going to appreciate the pages rather than the letter. I don't have any sort of pointed advice about what people ought to do in a cover letter. It just doesn't matter that much. It's going to get read.

By your assistant. Just to play devil's advocate.
RUTMAN: Some of it, yes. But she has excellent taste. And if you're working with someone whose taste you really value and trust, they bring you the things you probably would have plucked out yourself.

MASSIE: And she's looking for certain things. Has the writer been published before? What are their credits?

RUTMAN: I think if anybody reads a certain number of cover letters they start to sense what is nice to have in a cover letter. But people generally seem to know. And if you've already published things, it suggests that you've been willing to subject yourself to some of the cruelties of the process and that you realize it's probably part of the deal.

STEIN: That's the thing. It's possible to get published in some good literary magazines without an agent. Very possible. In fact, in some places it's easier. And if you're writing fiction, and especially if you have the misfortune of being a short story writer, then you should spend a lot of time and energy getting published in those places before you start looking for an agent. Because it'll make everybody's job so much easier.

Does anybody have a success story about finding a writer in a literary magazine?
STEINBERG: I read a great short story in the Southern Review a few years ago and called the writer and eventually sold the novel-in-stories to Ann Patty at Harcourt, who's great and who unfortunately is no longer at Harcourt. It was called The Circus in Winter by Cathy Day. It's funny because I originally looked at the story because I liked the author's last name. I don't know if that means I'm superficial, but at the time I was interested in writers whose last names were words, and her last name was Day, so—

RUTMAN: This was a phase you went through?

STEINBERG: It was! I also went through a phase of looking for names with alliteration.

STEIN: Note to readers.

STEINBERG: For example, I represent a guy named Brad Barkley.

STEIN: What's your phase right now? What are you into?

STEINBERG: Now I'm in the supporting-my-three-children phase.

How's that going?
STEINBERG: It's going okay. [Laughter.]

How do you guys feel about short stories?
STEIN: If they're awesome, they're awesome. Even if we can't sell them, they're still awesome.

MASSIE: I'm with Anna. I love short stories.

And can you sell them?
MASSIE: On occasion. It's hard. It always helps if there's a novel coming. But if you've got a great short story collection, it will stand out. I represent a writer who was referred to me by an editor at a literary magazine. I read it and it blew me away. I sold it, it was published, it got great reviews, but it did not sell very many copies. But then the writer, Robin Romm, went on to write an amazing memoir that was just reviewed on the cover of the New York Times Book Review. She's a fantastic writer and you never know where a short story writer is going to go or what stories they have left to tell. So, you know, she wasn't making a lot of money in the beginning, but she's going to have an amazing career.

STEIN: And here's another thing. A short story writer might end up just being a short story writer, which might be our nightmare, but what if he ends up being one of those—

MASSIE: Alice Munro or somebody.

RUTMAN: We don't really have much choice but to represent talent in whatever form it happens to come. And if it happens to come first in short story collection form, that does not make things easier, practically speaking, but it's not in itself a reason not to do it. The climate hardly encourages it, and it's not fun to call an editor and say, "What I have for you now—brace yourself—is a collection of short stories." I mean, that's like a meta-joke, I suppose, at this point. But you shouldn't just abandon it. You know it's going to be hard so you ask yourself, "How fired up am I about trying this?" With a story collection, that question is a good test of how intrinsically great you find it.

STEIN: It had better be super-duper-duper-duper good.

RUTMAN: Right. One of my colleagues gave me a collection not that long ago. It was sort of short, and the author had not really tried to publish any of them, and I took it home, sort of unhappily, and I ended up being like, "Oh. Okay. So this is a person who can do this." If you feel that way as an agent, what are you going to do, say no? It just doesn't really feel like a smart option.

STEIN: But novels are beginning to feel that way too. I mean, really—it's like the novel is the new short story.

RUTMAN: The short story is the new poem...

STEIN: Yeah, the short story is the new poem, novels are the new short story.... It's hard out there.

RUTMAN: If you're talking to a certain audience, say an MFA audience, you hear the sentiment of, "Ugh, if only I could get past the short story collection and get on to the novel, easy street can't be far behind."

STEIN: There is no easy street.

RUTMAN: Exactly. It doesn't exist. But there is this unhelpful assumption that you just need to get to a novel, at which point your publishing fortunes will brighten.

STEINBERG: There are probably only a hundred people in the United States who make a living off novel writing.

STEIN: Did you make that number up?

STEINBERG: Yeah, I just made it up.

STEIN: I think that's a really great point and that number sounds about right to me.

STEINBERG: I think all of my clients have day jobs. Writing is just not going to be a way to stop doing what you're doing for a living, probably. And I wouldn't advise it. I have clients who sometimes sell their books for a decent amount of money and are like, "Ooh, should I quit my job?" And I panic and say, "No!" It also affects your work because you start writing for the marketplace too much.

STEIN: And the money is never what the money looks like.

STEINBERG: Exactly. The money has to be gravy and not a base salary.

MASSIE: And you never know what the second book will do, versus the first one, and what the advance for the next book is going to look like.

You are all deep inside this world, but so many writers aren't. If you were a beginning writer who lived out in Wisconsin or somewhere and didn't know anybody and you were looking for an agent, how would you do it?
STEINBERG: I would not worry about looking for an agent. I would work on my writing for a long time. And then when I was finally ready, I would ask everyone I know what they thought I should do.

MASSIE: I agree with that. I would concentrate on getting published in well-regarded literary magazines and, chances are, agents will come to you.

RUTMAN: I wouldn't relish the prospect of looking for an agent if I had not come through a program, where a professor can often steer you in some helpful direction. I guess you'd start at the bookstore.

MASSIE: You pick up your favorite books and look at the acknowledgments and see who represented them and write those people a letter.

STEIN: I'm with Peter. I wouldn't worry so much about finding an agent. The thing is, there aren't that many great writers. Right? And there seem to be a lot of people trying to write novels and find agents. If you're looking for an agent, it means you want to sell your book. But if there are only a hundred people making money as writers—and I think that number sounds about right—and you're trying to sell your book to make money, then that doesn't really make sense. It's like playing the lottery. If I thought I'd written something brilliant, I would hope that, like Peter said, I would be continuing to work on my writing.

RUTMAN: But don't you think most people who are working on their writing feel kind of persuaded that they are brilliant and have something really unique and wonderful to say?

STEIN: I also think they feel this pressure to get published. With all the MFA programs, and with all the writing conferences and programs that they pay money for, there's this encouragement to get published.

RUTMAN: Sure. It's the stated goal.

STEIN: Right. That's the goal. But for 99 percent of people writing fiction, that shouldn't necessarily be the goal. Maybe writing should be the thing they work on for many years and then maybe they should think about getting published.

RUTMAN: I think being published has come to feel, for reasons I can't explain, too achievable. To take a step back, I think the idea of writing a book has come to seem too achievable. I don't know what to attribute that to. It may be the fact that famous people have access to people who can write a tolerable book for them, which might create the impression that most of us should be thinking about writing a book. I think it used to feel rightfully daunting to write a book. People should be daunted by the prospect of writing a book—and more than they may be at the moment. I'm not saying that writing can't be a hobby. But professionalizing it? That's a whole other step, and you then expose yourself to a whole other set of challenges and disappointments that you have to take into consideration. But at some point I feel like there was some kind of fundamental shift that made writing a book—and finishing it and publishing it—seem like not that big a deal. Or not a big enough deal.

STEINBERG: One thing we should convey is how rare it is that a great piece of fiction crosses our desks from someone new.

ALL: Yes.

STEINBERG: It happens maybe, what, once a year? Twice a year? That's it. It's so rare. So for people in Wisconsin who might be reading this and trying to figure out how to get published, they should keep that in mind. That's why stressing the work is so important—because it's so rare that something extraordinary crosses our desks. I like to think that all of our instincts are good enough, and we're well trained enough, and we've done this long enough, to recognize it when it arrives. But that aspect of it can't be stressed enough, which is why I say to work on it for a long time. You also only get one shot with an agent. There are no do-overs. When we get letters that say, "I know you passed on this six months ago but I've rewritten it," it's difficult to look at it again. You really do only get one shot.

Do you guys feel competitive with other agents?
RUTMAN: I'm not sure I feel that competitive. I'm definitely envious of other agents. [Laughter.] But that's not the same thing.

STEIN: I know Jim's not competitive because we were competing for a client once and both of us are so uncompetitive that he was like, "No, no, Anna's so great," and I was like, "No, no, Jim's so great."

Who won?
STEIN: Jim.

RUTMAN: Competitive just feels like the wrong word. I can apply competitiveness to all kinds of other arenas but I have trouble, for some reason, doing it here. Because even competing for a client feels...I mean, maybe if I was a huge rock star I would just sit back and point at my shelf and say, "That's why you should be represented by me." When that's not really an option it becomes a charm expedition. You're trying to persuade somebody that you care enough, or that you see enough in what they've done, to suggest to them that you would be the right person for the job.

Tell me a little about how you view your jobs. How do you think about your obligations and responsibilities to your clients?
RUTMAN: The responsibilities are so amorphous and encompassing that it's hard to sum up. I've never done it very successfully. I guess the boundaries are fairly few. You're trying to find books that you believe in and feel like you'd be doing the author and yourself a favor by involving yourself with, and then you're advising them about its readiness to be exposed to these calculating strangers, and then you choose the strangers you're going to share it with, and then, if you're lucky enough to have options among those strangers, you're telling them which one is best. And then the book gets published and the landscape changes to a whole new level of abstraction about what constitutes a good publication experience and what doesn't. And how many people wind up being published without feeling aggrieved or getting less than what they could have from the experience? A lot of people are disappointed by it. It's a pretty boundary-less relationship. It extends into all kinds of areas that are personal, that involve editorial work, that involve.... The editorial part's nice because at least it's a place to stop. It's also, for my money, the most interesting part of the process. You're talking about something that, presumably, has moved you enough to want to think and discuss.

STEIN: It sounds so cheesy to say, and everyone will agree with it, but the job is about finding books that you feel should exist in the world, and should for a long time. I mean, this summer I read Anna Karenina, and it made it impossible for me to even think about taking on a book for months. It's really important for us to read published books that we don't represent while we're reading our own clients' books. It's important for us to stay current, but also to read classics. And it reminded me of why I really do what I do. It's because I want the books I represent to be important, and for a long time. I don't want to sell a book just to sell a book. I want each one to matter. I mean, that's a little heavy, and none of your books is ever going to be Anna KareninaAnna Karenina is Anna Karenina, let's not touch it—but that's the idea.

RUTMAN: That's why the job is interesting. There is always the chance, no matter how remote, that that could happen. It won't necessarily be Anna Karenina, but you can find something that you didn't expect, and you can glimpse stuff in it that you couldn't anticipate, and the writer can change the way you think about something. That is, in a job, a pretty interesting thing, even if it remains largely in the realm of possibility. It's still a nice possibility to encounter on a daily basis. I mean, that's better than most jobs I've been able to conceive of as possibilities for myself.

MASSIE: It's terrific. It means that you learn something every day. You pick something up and you don't know what world it's going to take you to or what it will teach you, and that's an incredible thing. I think that's one of the wonderful things about what we do. If you find something that you're blown away by, you actually can help get it to a larger audience. It's amazing when people will say to you, "I read that book you represented. God, that was amazing. It really affected me." That's a great feeling.

How about your responsibilities?
MASSIE: I sometimes feel like a cross between a mother, a shrink, an accountant, a lawyer.... You wear so many different hats on a daily basis. You're juggling so many things, and the clients are so different. They all have different personalities and one person needs handholding or reassurance after every rejection letter and others just want to hear from you when there's news. It's different with everybody. I haven't ever seen myself as doing one thing. I mean, with one client you're going over royalty statements and with another you're hearing about her marriage or some trauma she's going through. It's a pretty intimate relationship.

STEINBERG: It's a friendship.

MASSIE: It's a relationship. You have your ups and downs, and the good and the bad, and it's the mark of a really great relationship with an author that you can weather the storms and get through the good publications and the bad publications, the good reviews and the bad reviews.

RUTMAN: We're like disappointment brokers.

STEIN: That's why trust is so important.

MASSIE: Trust is key.

STEIN: That's why, from the very beginning of the relationship, the more up-front you are, the better. The way you approach an agent says so much about your personality and your character. So if you're very straightforward in your query letter and cover letter, that shows us something. And if we're going to have a long-term and trusting relationship, that's important. Let's say you have several agents interested in you. Let's say you go with one agent and you don't tell the other agents, or you're somehow a little dishonest about the process. Things might not work out with that agent—that agent might move to Wisconsin for some reason and decide to leave publishing—and you're going to have to face those other agents. It's just really important to have integrity and to be honest and to be gracious from the very beginning.

STEINBERG: I think we've all done this long enough that we can sort of suss out when someone's being false or fake or dishonest. So you really shouldn't even try.

RUTMAN: Because if you start to get the sense, early enough in the process, that someone seems like trouble, those suspicions are rarely misleading or without some kind of foundation. One time I was in the rare position of dealing with a writer who was wildly and indisputably talented but came with some warning signs. Actually they weren't warning signs so much as actual warnings from people who knew the writer and said, "I'll be up-front with you. This writer is remarkable in the most important ways and a challenge in a great many other ways."

STEIN: "Totally insane" is what they probably said.

RUTMAN: Yeah, that's what they meant. So what do you do? Is it a measure of how heroic an agent you are if you take them on? Is it a good idea? I'm not so sure that it is.

STEIN: I tried that once. I took on somebody who was insanely talented but also insane. And I tried to be heroic. I tried my very, very best. And it ended, not only in tears, but in legal fees. I made a New Year's resolution: No more. No more crazy ones, ever again.

STEINBERG: It's not worth it. Life's too short.

MASSIE: There are also the clients who are blamers. They're always looking for somebody to blame. They're like, "That person didn't do this" or "You didn't do that."

STEIN: Those are agent-jumpers.

MASSIE: Exactly.

STEINBERG: That's another reason why writers should make sure it's the right match. You don't want to switch agents unless you have to. If you have to tell an agent, "Oh, I've had two agents and it hasn't worked out," the new agent will perceive that as a warning sign. Unless it's legitimate. Sometimes things don't work out or the personalities just aren't right.

STEIN: But in general, everybody wants the relationship to work. I mean, we're all pretty young and we're not naïve, but we are a little bit romantic or otherwise we wouldn't be in this industry—obviously there's no money in it. We go into the relationship thinking, "We want to grow old together." It's a real relationship. It's like a marriage. We want to grow old together. So if it doesn't work out it's usually for pretty serious reasons.

STEINBERG: My clients and I talk about growing old together. We sort of joke about it. "When we're old we'll do this or that."

MASSIE: Right. It always worries me when you're talking to a writer about representing them and they ask, "So, do you work on a book-by-book basis?" I'm like, "No. I do not work on a book-by-book basis." I'm not interested in working on a book-by-book basis. For me it's a long-term relationship.

STEINBERG: That's one of the reasons why you take on short story writers. You see the relationship in a long-term way—you're trying to see the forty-year arc. And when you work with storytelling so much, one thing you learn is that there's a story arc to the client-agent relationship, too. You have an arc of a story in the way that your relationship develops.

What are the hardest decisions you have to make as an agent?
STEINBERG: A lot of times it's books that you know you could sell for a lot of money but you still say no.

STEIN: Or you take the preempt because you know it's the right house, or you take the lower offer because you know it's the right house. And you hope that you're right.

MASSIE: Another hard one is telling an author that his newest book is not there, or not the one, or you're not happy with it, or you just don't see it or know what to do with it. That's a really hard conversation to have, especially with someone you've worked with for a long time. For me, at least, that's the hardest conversation I ever have.

STEIN: Firing a client.

STEINBERG: Or not being able to sell her work. That's one of the hardest things about the business. You take things on because you inherently love them. That's why you do it. You think you'll sell them, and you think everyone will be happy, and then you come to that end of the road where you've done your second round of submissions and wracked your brain for the last three unlikely suspects and they all pass. That's a very difficult conversation.

STEIN: And that's the novel that haunts you for years. That's the novel you think is, in some ways, the best novel you've ever taken on.

But that's not a decision you have to make.
RUTMAN: We're just eager to get to the "What are the worst features of the job?" question. Can we skip right to that? [Laughter.] Seriously, though, deciding what to take on is probably the hardest decision. I find myself sitting on fences a lot more often than I would like. Sometimes I feel like I just run out of critical faculties. My discernment just isn't guiding me very authoritatively and I can't decide whether I ought to be working with a book or not. Because you see its virtues, or your hesitations kind of nullify each other enough to make it hard to decide.

When you guys find yourselves in that situation, how do you decide?
STEIN: If it's something brand new—if the author is not a client—sometimes it's about the writer. If I have an editorial conversation with the writer, and I'm sort of feeling out the situation, that will sometimes do it for me. Because if they're with me, and I feel like we'll have a good editorial relationship—we need to have a good editorial relationship, probably for a long time, before we send out the book—that will become clear. If we have those initial conversations, and I feel like we won't work well together, for any number of reasons, then the decision becomes much easier.

MASSIE: If I'm on the fence for too long it's not a good sign. My feeling is that usually, when I love something, I'm jumping all over it. So if I'm on the fence it's probably not good for the writer and it's not good for me. If I can't imagine myself getting on the phone and calling ten editors and saying, "I love this. You should read this right now," then it's probably not right for me. It also wouldn't be fair to the author for me to take it on.

RUTMAN: You're right. It's not fair to the author. But I also have the misfortune of having my enthusiasms located on some difficult-to-access frequency. Sometimes I'm just not sure what I think, and I'll react differently to a book on different days. I've certainly had the experience where I return to a manuscript and think, "I was wavering about this? This is obviously exceptional and I should take it on." And, less happily, the reverse. It's nice to have access, or confident access, to your feelings.

STEINBERG: It's also nice to know when you're not ready to make a decision. "I'll wait till tomorrow because I'm in a bad mood or tired or whatever it is." And I also use the phone call as a sort of determining factor. But, like Maria, I'm not really on the fence that often. I think that's a good thing.

MASSIE: I just know from experience that if I take something on that I've been on the fence about, it won't necessarily take priority. If I take on something with guns blazing, and I totally love it, that's at the top of my list all the time. If I've been on the fence about something and I decide to take it on thinking, "Okay, I'm on the good side of the fence now," I've been there and I can sense that it won't take priority and I'm not going to give it as much as I should. It's just not fair to the author. It's not fair to me, either, because I have only so many hours in the day.

STEINBERG: I think editors can sense it too.

MASSIE: Editors totally know. They absolutely know.

STEINBERG: Just as we're good at sensing things, they're good at knowing when the agent isn't enthusiastic enough.

STEIN: And you will see all the doubts you had about the book in the rejection letters. You can often gauge your true reaction to a book by the rejections. If it's something where you're really guns blazing—if you really love it—when you see the rejection letters you think, "You. Are. Out. Of. Your. Mind. You're out of your mind!" And that's how you should feel all the time.

MASSIE: Exactly. You see the rejections and you think, "No. I don't agree at all. You don't know what you're talking about!"

RUTMAN: When you strenuously disagree with a rejection, that's a really reliable gauge. Because a fair number of times I think, "Oh, well, yeah. I half anticipated that and I suppose I can see your point." When you sharply disagree, you were right to take it on.

STEINBERG: I think it's also the art of the agent to anticipate the rejections from the editors and try to fix the material before you get the rejections. One thing that I'm cursed with is that when I read the material I sort of see the rejections go across my eyes. I can see how people will reject it, and you work on the material in light of that. Invariably, whenever I don't listen to my own instincts and fix that thing that was nagging at the back of my mind, I will get a rejection that says the very thing that I should have fixed. It's like, "Damn. Listen to your instincts." That's a big part of the job these days, especially because editors are looking to pass. They have a billion things on their desks and they think, "Oh, I figured it out. This is how I'm going to pass on this book." You can't give them that. You can't let them find their entry point to pass.

STEIN: Which is why we'll have that extra paragraph in our pitch letters in a year that will basically say, "This is how you can publish this book. I've already thought it through and this is how you can publish it."

STEINBERG: It'll be like a marketing section for fiction, just like nonfiction proposals.

MASSIE: Exactly. That's got to be the next thing, right?

STEINBERG: That's depressing.

Tell me a little about how you spend your days.
STEIN: The morning is all e-mail.

MASSIE: E-mail, phone, contracts.

RUTMAN: Not reading.

MASSIE: I never read in the office.

STEIN: Manuscripts are for travel. Trains. Planes.

MASSIE: Thank God for the Sony Reader.

STEIN: I can't get mine to work. I can't get it to charge.

Sony's not going to be happy to hear that.
STEIN: Sony can send me some swag to make it up to me. [Laughter.]

MASSIE: I don't know about you guys, but I feel like I sit in front of my computer doing e-mail all day.

RUTMAN: Sometimes I feel like a typist.

MASSIE: You're just dealing with whatever's in front of you. Answering questions. Sending things out.

RUTMAN: How many stray issues are floating in front of you at any given moment? How many small but unignorable questions are hovering at any given moment?

STEIN: By the afternoon I can start returning phone calls and dealing with shit on my desk, whereas the morning is just an e-mail suck.

STEINBERG: It's reactive.

STEIN: Exactly. It's e-mail suck reactive. But sometime after lunch you can start—and when I say "after lunch" I don't necessarily mean going to lunch, because we don't necessarily go to lunch anymore—but in the afternoon you can start to look at the contracts and return the phone calls and whatever else. Unless you're submitting a book, in which case it takes up the whole day.

What about after the afternoon?
STEIN: Drinks.

MASSIE: Home to the kids.

RUTMAN: Roundtables, mostly. [Laughter.]

STEIN: If I'm not going out, I work until nine. Not that I do that often, but that's what I do. And I'm not reading manuscripts. It's more of the same stuff.

So when do you read?
STEINBERG: If I have to read, I don't go into the office. I've tried that before and thought, "Okay, I'll do some work and then I'll read for a few hours." But it just doesn't work. You get sucked into your e-mail and the other issues of the day. Sometimes in the morning, when my brain feels fresh and I can really concentrate, I'll go straight to Starbucks or somewhere that's not my office and read or work on some material. I try to read late at night but I always fall asleep. My wife finds me on the couch with the manuscript pages fallen off onto the floor.

STEIN: I won't take a manuscript into my bedroom.

MASSIE: I don't either.

STEIN: Only books.

MASSIE: Me too. I have to read at least ten pages of a book that I have nothing to do with.

STEIN: For me it's twenty-five. Not that I actually make it to twenty-five, but I try to set that as my goal. I say twenty-five so that I make it to maybe eight.

MASSIE: I have to do that to clean my head. I try to read for at least an hour after my kids go to bed every night.

STEINBERG: I love to read on airplanes. I get so excited. I'm like, "I'm going to read this whole thing!" That's a great feeling.

STEIN: As long as there aren't really good movies on the plane.

STEINBERG: I have a rule that I won't buy the headphones.

STEIN: I don't have a TV at home, so I get very excited when I'm in front of one. [Laughter.]

STEINBERG: I also have a rule that if I'm on a train or something, I'm not allowed to buy the newspaper. Because I have to do work. But I'm allowed to look at other people's newspapers.

You mentioned before that editors are looking for excuses to pass on projects. I'm curious what else you see as changing about your jobs. Or what's getting harder?
STEINBERG: One thing that's changing is that everyone is reading on Kindles or Sony Readers. I've made an adjustment in my head and when I envision an editor reading the material, they're sitting somewhere and reading on the Kindle or the Sony Reader. I don't know how that affects what I submit yet, but it's certainly something I'm thinking about.

STEIN: With nonfiction I think about trends all the time because it follows trends in a much more obvious way than fiction does. With fiction, none of us follows trends—we fall in love. We also fall in love with nonfiction, but there's a measure of practicality that goes with it, which also has to do with our own interests. I'm particularly interested in politics but I haven't wanted to take on a political nonfiction book in several years. And I don't envision wanting to anytime soon. Well, aside from Cory Booker. Do you hear me, Cory Booker?

What about Jon Favreau? Wouldn't he be the biggest get right now?
MASSIE: Everyone must want him. Or Reggie Love.

STEIN: But if I'm interested in something and I need to help shape it—because often nonfiction will come in as an idea rather than a real proposal—I definitely try to think about whether there's a market for it considering where we are now, and where we are in our times. That's not something that's different from ten years ago or five years ago. But I think that considering the shrinking market will become all the more important. There just isn't room for books that are kind of interesting to some people anymore.

MASSIE: I think about the lack of book reviews. All of these places are getting rid of their book review sections. I think about that in terms of "How is a book going to get out there? How are people going to find out about it? What can I do and what should the author be doing beyond what the publisher is doing?" When you think about how overworked publicists are and how small publicity departments are and how many books they're working on, it will sometimes keep you up at night, especially if one of your clients has a book coming out. I think, "Oh, God. What should we be doing? What should we be thinking about? How do we get the word out?" Because there's no such thing as a review-driven book anymore.

So what should writers be doing? What are your authors teaching you about that?
MASSIE: To think outside the box. To think about other ways of getting the word out. It used to be that you'd have a meeting with the publicist, or a phone call, and there would be almost a checklist you'd go down. "We're going to send it to the newspapers and the magazines and this, this, this, and this." That doesn't exist anymore. It's a whole new world. There are so many other distractions out there. You really have to think, "Well, how do people find out about books? Where do they hear about them?"

And what are you learning about that from experiencing it on a daily basis?
MASSIE: I think a lot of it is word of mouth. It seems like there's a critical mass that a book has to achieve in order to work. You have to get all the big reviews, and if you don't, how do you get that critical mass? Is it the independent booksellers hand-selling a book? Is it having great placement in the front of Barnes & Noble? I mean, I don't know. I'm still trying to figure out what you have to do.

STEIN: I do think, with literary fiction, it's about getting it in the hands of the bloggers, who we don't read. When I say that I'm joking, but I'm also not joking. I should say the bloggers who a whole new generation of readers are reading. And the social networking. Everyone should have a Facebook page. Part of it is personality. Some authors are incredibly magnetic and funny, and that's not something you can tell your author to be. You can't tell your author, "When you do your readings, make the audience fall in love with you."

RUTMAN: "Be more charismatic." [Laughter.]

STEIN: That's something that just happens, and that sells books. There are certain authors who are very funny at their readings and draw crowds, who maybe at a different time wouldn't have sold as well as they do now. But they're just the right thing for the blogging atmosphere and just the right thing for buzz. There's something underground about them because they give almost stand-up comedy routines when they read. I think it's going to be different for every author in a way that it wasn't before, and that's why we have to think about how to publish each book individually in a way that we didn't have to before.

What else are they teaching you?
STEINBERG: I have a client named Keith Donohue who wrote a book called The Stolen Child, and Amazon optioned it for film. I think it might have been the only time they ever did that. So they had a vested interest in making the book work. And they made it work.

But that sounds like an exception to me.
STEINBERG: That's my point. We have to do exceptions. With fiction, these days, you have to work under the exception rule because fiction does not have a platform. Publicists are stumped. That's why I think nonfiction has come to the fore a little more. Publicists are sort of like, "Well, no, we don't know what to do. We're not really sure." They used to be able to rely on reviews and now even that's gone. One thing I ask myself, even though I said that writers shouldn't put "I think this could be a great movie" in their query letter, is, "Could this novel become a movie?" I used to work at the agency that represented Chuck Palahniuk, and before the movie version of Fight Club came out, that hardcover had sold about five thousand copies. And after the movie came out I think the tie-in edition sold something like a hundred thousand copies in the first few months. So that's something I think about. I'm like, "Wow, I need to re-create that for my clients." If a book is made into a movie, no matter how small, it helps the writer forever.

STEIN: This is kind of an abstract thing to say, and I don't know exactly what I mean because it hasn't happened yet, but I think the agent's relationship with publishers has to change a little bit. I think that it has to become a little bit less adversarial and a little bit more open and cooperative. Which means that the publisher has to do their part so we don't have to be adversarial. But there can be a way for everybody.... Look, we're all in a sinking ship. So all fucking hands on deck. I think there's a little bit of editors not wanting to tell agents what's really going on and agents feeling like they have to sort of choose their shots with regard to when they call editors and ask for numbers, ask what's going on with publicity, ask about the marketing plan, all of that stuff. And we shouldn't have to do that. We're partners in this thing, and we're all trying to do the same thing. We shouldn't have to feel that way, and the editors shouldn't have to feel like they have to keep secrets. I mean, if there's a secret, or if there's something to feel ashamed about, we should figure out what to do about it.

RUTMAN: Preemptive sharing is really great. When editors keep you overly appraised—there's no such thing, really—and just give you information without having to be asked, it is deeply appreciated. I find that when a book works, it's almost always in that situation. You feel like all of the parts of the house are working in tandem and the editor is inclined to update you because they're pleased with the way everything is coming together. If you have to excavate the information—

STEINBERG: It feels like pulling teeth.

RUTMAN: Or there's just nothing planned.

STEIN: But Jim, let's say you do have to excavate. Or the editor is in a position where they feel like maybe something at the publishing house has fallen short. In that situation it's best that the editor is up-front with the agent so that they, with the author—because it's the author's job too—can all save the day as much as possible. It's just got to be all fucking hands on deck. You can't be all hands on deck if everybody doesn't know what's going on.

MASSIE: There's no transparency. You ask, "What's in the budget? What's in the marketing plan?" You're constantly asking and you think, "Why can't you just know what's in the budget for this book? Why can't you know what's being allocated for this book?" They're like, "We'll see, we'll see, we'll see." No.

RUTMAN: I think there's an assumption that you will find it lacking, and will want—

MASSIE: But it's so much better to know. It allows you to manage expectations. It allows you to think about what else you can do. It's so frustrating to constantly.... Managing an author, especially a first-time author, is difficult enough. Just trying to find out what you have to work with is so frustrating.

STEIN: They aren't used to this new wave of reasonable agents. [Laughter.]

STEINBERG: It's also this frustrating catch-22 where they don't throw money at a book until it does well.

MASSIE: Which means it's not going to do well. That kills me.

STEINBERG: That is incredibly frustrating to agents because a book isn't going to do well unless you're actively doing something for it. You can't just wait and see if it does well and then try to make it do even better.

I hope you know that that's frustrating to editors, too. We aren't the ones making those budgeting decisions.
STEIN: That's my point. If nobody else at the house is doing anything for a book, the editor and the agent and the author, every now and then, can have a flash of brilliance and come up with something that might work.

STEINBERG: It's hard. Sometimes you get to that conversation and you're like, "Let's think of those out-of-the-box things that no one usually does, and let's do them," and there's sort of silence on the phone.

MASSIE: Total silence. They're like, "Um..."

STEINBERG: You can hear the crickets. They're like, "Well, anyway, I've gotta go..."

MASSIE: "I'll think about that and get back to you!"

STEINBERG: "I'm going to brainstorm tonight and I'll get back to you tomorrow."

But what are the out-of-the-box things that are working?
MASSIE: I think it depends on the book. But I also think about, "Does John Grisham really need a full-page ad in the New York Times every time he has a new book. Really? Does he? Is he not going to sell those books?"

STEINBERG: His agent would say yes.

MASSIE: Fine. But do the authors who are so well established really need the biggest piece of the marketing budget? Their audience is there. They know when their books are coming out. They're there and waiting. Why not use that money for establishing an author?

STEIN: Think about when a really big band goes on tour. They always have a couple of opening bands, and those opening bands get exposure. So why isn't Grisham giving some exposure to a young writer or two? Why isn't he doing the same thing? Why isn't he going on tour and saying, "This is my opening act and I'm supporting them"?

MASSIE: That's a great idea.

STEINBERG: I think somebody like Stephen King has thought of that and is doing it in Entertainment Weekly.

MASSIE: Stephen King definitely does that.

STEIN: Absolutely.

RUTMAN: A book campaign gets interesting when it starts to look like another industry's campaign. I was lucky enough to work on a book where we did really cool tour posters, for example. And one day the author suggested, "Hey, it would be really nice if you guys would print up some guitar picks. I would throw them out to people at readings." The publicist said, "That's a great idea. Let's print up some guitar picks." That doesn't take a huge effort, and I don't know that it made the difference for the book, but swag is always appreciated. I'm not saying that that's a uniformly good approach, but thinking about a book as a potentially cool object—something you could covet in a way that you might covet some other cultural product—is, I suppose, the way it's going. Publishers probably don't need to be encouraged to treat books more like products, but at the same time, something basic is changing, isn't it? I mean, if book review outlets are as fleeting as they are.

STEINBERG: I think we're in an in-between time period. Reviews are going away but there's nothing there to take their place. It will be the Internet in some form, but nobody knows how, exactly.

STEIN: If those short-form book reviews that are just like, "This is the book, here is the plot, thumb up, thumb down, or thumb in-between," are the ones going away, so be it. If what's left behind are the book reviews that actually say something about books, great. Let's do something exciting with what used to be the space for those, frankly, boring synopses of books.

STEINBERG: I think we can also take a lesson from something I saw in a bookstore in Salt Lake City once. I was there for a writers conference. I went into the YA section and all of these teenage girls were talking about books as if they were cool. I was like, "That's what we have to do. We have to make books cool again." How do we do that? I don't know.

RUTMAN: Was there a time when books were cool? I guess there was.

STEINBERG: I don't know. But the vibe in that YA section? Those girls were all like, "Oooh, what did you read?" They were trying to one-up each other with what they'd read. It was amazing.

RUTMAN: Kids talk about books differently than adults do, and that's why a handful of YA books are such spectacular successes. There's this unself-conscious discussion and inclination to share. I don't know how we appropriate that and make it a possibility for adults. When we're considering a manuscript, one of the things that we're trying to glimpse is whether or not it might be adopted by book clubs. How often do you get something that you feel could become the subject of conversation among people who, you know, maybe their first inclination is not to evaluate the merits of a book. And the books that tend to get that far probably don't do it because of an especially successful campaign. The frustrating possibility we're always forced to consider is that it's not really within anyone's control, even if a publisher makes a really concerted effort. Part of our job, and certainly part of our responsibility, is to see that the publisher carries out its duty as fully and faithfully as possible. But they certainly do that and books still fail to reach more than a few souls. I don't know what makes people like books. There's a basic mystery.

STEIN: But I just saw Revolutionary Road this weekend and walked out of the movie and could hear everyone saying, "Have you read the book? Have you read the book?" I thought, "Thank God. Thank God people are saying that." And that book is on the best-seller list now.

I find that amazing. It's one of the bleakest books of all time and it's been on the best-seller list for fifteen weeks.
STEIN: It's totally bleak, and it's brilliant, and it's so much better than the movie, not because the actors didn't give it their best shot but because Sam Mendes was a terrible director.

STEIN: But that's the thing. People want to read that book. That's exciting. It's cool and it's hot and it's depressing all at the same time. And maybe after they read Revolutionary Road they'll want to read another depressing novel. It's cool to read depressing novels.

RUTMAN: There's little that I find cooler.

You guys work on commission. How does that affect the decisions you make when it comes to selling a book where maybe you have multiple offers?
STEINBERG: It's always a combination of the money and the right place. What that combination is varies, but you have to take both into account. I've taken less money a lot of times to have the right publisher—probably not a lot less money—but a little less money to be published in the right place.

MASSIE: The right place for a little less money, over time, could be more money. It can't just be about the money. There are so many different factors.

STEINBERG: An advance is an advance against royalties, and royalties are an aspect of it.

MASSIE: Right. And if you don't earn out that advance, your next one may not be as big.

STEIN: And to clarify, when we say "the right place" we mean the place we think will be just as enthusiastic, or even grow more enthusiastic, from the moment they buy the book until it's published, and make it a best-seller if possible. And the place where the book won't disappear if, you know, Alan Greenspan or Hillary Clinton or Obama happens to pop up on their list.

STEINBERG: Stability is also important these days. I was selling a book recently and there were a few publishers that I'd heard weren't doing so well. I definitely took that into account. Because it can take a year or two for a book to be published after you sell it. Will that place be around in two years? Will the editor be around? Stability is so important to writers, which is why this time period is even tougher than you may think.

RUTMAN: What we do is really hard, readers. We just need you to know that.

STEIN: We have to think a lot. [Laughter.]

You're joking but my wife is an agent and I know that it is really hard. Especially when you're less established than some people. How do you compete with people who are more established?
STEIN: I thought you were going to ask, "How do you pay your rent?" [Laughter.]

STEINBERG: If you want to talk about what's at the forefront of our minds....

But seriously, how do you compete with people who are more established?
STEIN: I don't. I don't think that I compete with people who are more established. I think they throw me a bone every now and then, if they're too busy. People who are really established? If they want a writer? I don't think I'm going to compete with somebody who's been in the business for twenty-five years. I think that's unreasonable. Why would I compete with somebody who's been in the business for twenty-five years? Unless it's a perfect match, for some reason. I just can't see a competitive situation unless, for example, a writer is recommended to an agent who's been in the business for a long time and some younger agents and there's very good chemistry and a good match. I think that experience in this industry is really invaluable, and I respect experience a lot. So if I were in the shoes of a writer who was choosing between good chemistry with somebody with a lot of experience and good chemistry with somebody who was young, I would probably go with the person with a lot of experience.

RUTMAN: The only thing at your disposal in that situation—if you're at an experience and success quotient disadvantage—is the quality of the attention that you can offer the writer.

STEIN: That's true.

RUTMAN: And that's what you're presenting to them. It's like, "Look, I will talk to you more often."

MASSIE: "And I won't pass you off to my assistant."

RUTMAN: And we're probably going to be more engaged in things that they want to be engaged in. You know, talking about what's wrong with the material in a closer way than somebody else. What else can you really offer? And that's something.

STEIN: "I'll edit your book."

RUTMAN: All you can really do is try to work up superior chemistry to the chemistry you think they may be working up with somebody who just doesn't have the time or inclination for them in the way that you might. I also don't like to know—I don't need or want to know—who I'm competing with.

MASSIE: I don't either. I never want to know.

And they should never tell you, either.
MASSIE: Some people do, though.

But they shouldn't.
MASSIE: You're right.

RUTMAN: They shouldn't. You want to say, "Really? Oh, she's really good. She likes this? Congratulations!"

STEIN: But how do you guys feel about this. If there's an agent who you really respect—who's been in the industry for a long time and who you may even think of as a mentor—and if you were a writer, wouldn't you go with somebody like that, even if you knew they were busy, over you? Or would you go with you?

RUTMAN: I'm supposed to be me in this scenario?

STEIN: You would give them more attention and more of your time, and that person might have them dealing with their assistant more often, but that person is a mentor to you for a reason. They have so much experience and knowledge that you couldn't even begin to have.

STEINBERG: In my experience it's so rare that you compete with other agents. I don't really think about it too often. It's not like being an editor, where one agent submits to twelve editors and you know you're competing with other editors. As an agent, usually it's a single submission, just to you, because you know the person somehow. Or you get to the material so much faster than everyone else because you're immediately drawn to it off the slush pile and you know that other agents aren't involved. In my experience it's very rare.

RUTMAN: You don't find that with referrals? Where maybe some thoughtful referree has given the writer three or four names?

MASSIE: Of course. I always assume that.

STEIN: I assume that too.

RUTMAN: And then you think, "Oh, crap. This is really good. Agent so-and-so is probably going to see this too." And then they do.

So what do you do? That's what I want to know.
MASSIE: You fight as hard as you can and you argue why you're the best person for that project and that author and you hope that they agree.

RUTMAN: Or why Anna is, depending on the situation. [Laughter.]

STEIN: Exactly. I try not to get clients as much as possible. Can you tell?

STEINBERG: Speed is a great help in those situations. You can be like, "I'm going to read this tonight and call you tomorrow."

MASSIE: That is so hard, though. I have two small children so I just can't do speed.

STEIN: I don't like to tell writers that they need to make a decision right away if the book is still out with other agents. I think it's important for them to have a choice, in the same way that we want a choice between editors. We like to be able, if we can, to shop an offer. We like to be able to make a decision between editors. I think authors are entitled to that decision between agents, too.

RUTMAN: You also don't want them to go with you if they have doubts in their mind. Because that will affect the relationship down the line. There have been instances when I've been like, "Oh, go with the other person," because I could just tell that they wanted to. That's fine. Sometimes the other agent is a friend and I'm happy for them. Until it hits the best-seller list. [Laughter.]

Talk to me about what editors do that makes you the most frustrated.
STEINBERG: The bandwagon mentality. When I submit a book to them and they call and say, "What's going on?" They're not supposed to say, "What's going on?" They're supposed to either say "I hate this" or "I love this" or "It's okay" or whatever. It's their job to tell me what's going on at that point. I've done the work, I've submitted to you, and you're supposed to tell me what's going on. If you're calling me and saying "What's going on?" then you're just wondering what you might miss out on because other editors might be interested and you're not going with your passion.

RUTMAN: Or perhaps don't call and ask what's going on without having some intention of your own to offer.

STEINBERG: That's very frustrating.

MASSIE: Or flip-floppers. Someone who disappears on you. Somebody who sends you an e-mail like, "Don't do anything without me. I'm loving this and getting other reads," and you never hear from them again. You're like, "What happened?"

STEIN: And we all know what happened.

MASSIE: But call and tell me. We need closure. The author's like, "What did they say? What's going on?"

STEIN: Show your confidence in your taste. And if you lose in the house...

MASSIE: Just say so. It's so much easier. And then you trust that editor. They loved it and for whatever reason the other readers didn't. But be transparent about it. It's so much easier to know what they're thinking than to wonder.

STEIN: And you'll go back to them because you understand their taste.

MASSIE: Yes. And if they don't tell you, you won't go back to them. There are editors who I won't go back to. And I'm sure all of you have your list of those editors.

RUTMAN: Explaining yourself is really helpful. I want to know on what grounds you are saying no, or on what grounds you couldn't get something through. It's all useful because it rounds out your sense of who you're offering a book to.

MASSIE: And it's so important to an author to hear about how people are responding to their work. When people don't get back to you, or they disappear, it's so frustrating because you're the person stuck in the middle trying to manage your author's fears and hopes and expectations. If it's a no, it's a no. It's easy.

STEINBERG: I also don't like when the editor has his assistant write the pass letter. I'm not submitting to the assistant—I'm submitting to you. I didn't have my assistant work up this submission for you. Because you can tell when the assistant's doing the form rejection. Agents should not get form rejections. You just don't do that.

STEIN: It's also frustrating when editors disappear after they've acquired a book. If, for some reason, things aren't going as well in-house as they'd like, they sometimes hide. Or if they're just really busy. Look, everybody's busy. Just say, "I'm busy." The disappearing act is just unattractive behavior.

Do you resent how collaborative the acquisitions process has become?
STEINBERG: I try to submit to places that aren't like that. I go out of my way to try to find the few remaining places where people can make decisions because they want to.

RUTMAN: Is that a matter of place or editor selection? Finding an editor whose opinion doesn't need—

STEINBERG: I guess it's the person.

STEIN: But I also see it—buying by committee—as something that has become pretty necessary. If an editor is really passionate, and everybody else isn't so passionate, it's going to be pretty hard to publish that book. I see it as something that's more and more necessary these days. If you sell a book to an editor who doesn't need all of that back-up, it's kind of tricky. Let's say you end up with sales and marketing people who just aren't that psyched about it. That's not so great for the book. I don't have so much of a problem with the committee as I do with the taste that the committee is coming up with. Which has just been really mediocre over the past few years.

RUTMAN: Good distinction.

STEIN: I don't think that the individuals have bad taste. I think it's just been a taste of fear over the past few years, and I hope that the committees will somehow—and this is just hope—become more courageous over the next few years. That somehow, with the market contracting, instead of thinking, "We need to be more mediocre," they will be thinking, "If we're actually going to be publishing literary fiction, it has to be really fucking good." And that means that some people in the house will kind of hate a book, but see what's amazing about it, and other people in the house will really, really love it. There wouldn't have to be consensus within the committee for the committee to get behind it. It would be a little different kind of committee, if that makes sense.

RUTMAN: And I guess this applies more to nonfiction than fiction, but please acknowledge comp titles as the limited and specious resource that they are, at least as the basis for making your decision.

But in the publisher's defense, it seems like sometimes that's how the accounts are making their decisions. At least to some extent.
RUTMAN: True. But I feel like a house has to have enough consequence, built in, to persuade a buyer. It's not like the house can't anticipate the reluctance that the buyer may ultimately express, and there's got to be a way to overwhelm that reluctance with the fact that they give a shit.

STEIN: But I think that also comes back to us, and to what we advise our authors to do in our nonfiction proposals now. The comp titles shouldn't necessarily be limited to the subject they're writing about. We have to broaden the spectrum to the kinds of books that could possibly work. We have to think about the moment when the sales reps have to face those guys. We have to think, "Jesus, what kind of comp titles could possibly relate to this in a way that could work?" I mean, it's so boring to have to think about that. But we can't rely on them to do that job for us anymore, unfortunately. That's another way that our jobs have changed.

RUTMAN: The anticipation of just about every possible objection. I mean, there are always a lot of possible objections. The list is long. And you try to speak to them as much as possible, even in the introductory conversation. I think we all appreciate how many rounds of approval the editor is responsible for securing, and that they have to create some kind of consensus with a really disparate group of tastes and responsibilities. When you think about all of those different barriers, it's kind of a wonder that as many books get bought as they do. How do you get this much approval from that many people this often? So it's kind of amazing when you hear how many books a certain group within Random House or something is going to publish. You guys are going to publish twelve hundred books this year? This one group found enough to agree on twelve hundred times?

Do you guys think the industry is healthy? Just give me a yes or no around the table.
STEINBERG: No.

MASSIE: No.

RUTMAN: I don't think so.

STEIN: No.

RUTMAN: But I do wonder if there's ever been a point when you could get four people to say yes.

STEIN: But here's the silver lining: It's unhealthy enough that it's an exciting time. It's broken enough that publishers and agents and everyone has to change. Everyone has to rethink what they're doing. So we have a group responsibility, and an opportunity, in a way that the industry has probably never seen before.

RUTMAN: Part of me craves that. If we're near a precipice, we might as well actually be on it. Let's get to the moment when some basic model really gives way to whatever other model that really smart people are going to help conceive of. Is this what Jason Epstein's been talking about for a long time? Maybe. Is the big company going to acknowledge, "Is this business for us, ultimately? We tried this. We kind of gave it a look. Eh, it's okay. Synergy's overrated. It's a stupid word. We're going to abandon that." Is it going to become a business for the fewer? Is it going to return to the financial interest of a select few wealthy people who are prepared to collect a really modest profit, if any? And does that make for more interesting publishing? Possibly. Maybe.

STEINBERG: Or will it go the other way, like you were saying before? Will we start making concert posters and guitar picks for publicity and using other industries' models to promote books? It could go that way and become more like the movie business.

RUTMAN: And those industries are claiming a state of serious unhealthiness as well. So if every single culture industry is ill at the same time, what do we have to look to?

STEINBERG: And maybe we also shouldn't feel so bad.

MASSIE: It's an interesting time, if you think about it. Look at how the music industry got hit so hard by iTunes and iPods. They had no time to react. But the book publishing industry actually has a little time to think about things and explore possibilities and try to figure out what the next thing is going to be without being hit so hard.

What are the big problems in your opinions, and who are you looking toJim said Jason Epsteinfor the solutions? Is it Bob Miller? Is it Jon Karp? Who is it?
STEIN: Those are the first two people I would have mentioned. The big problems are too many books, inflated advances for—

RUTMAN: The few.

MASSIE: Marketing budgets going to big, established authors.

STEINBERG: No one ever hearing about great books that are published.

STEIN: Returns.

RUTMAN: Trend-hunting.

STEINBERG: Barnes & Noble making many decisions for publishers.

STEIN: Inflexible models across the board. For example, it's time for us to be reasonable as agents. We shouldn't ask for unreasonable advances. But in exchange, shouldn't we be able to ask for paperback escalators? Publishers will say, "It's our company policy not to give paperback escalators." But we're going to give a little bit, so publishers should give a little bit.

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So who are you looking to?
MASSIE: I don't know who to look to yet.

STEIN: Nobody's really stepped up yet except for Bob Miller. He's really the only one. Jon Karp had a great idea ahead of everybody else but he hasn't done anything that's quite like what Bob Miller is doing.

I feel like paperback originals might be one place to look in the short term. What if some established publisher said, "Hardcover books are the eight-track of the publishing industry. They don't make sense anymorein this culture, in this economyand we just aren't going to do them anymore"? Would you all continue to sell them books?
ALL: Yes.

RUTMAN: Because every house with a serious line of original trade paperbacks is usually publishing some really interesting books. Think about a handful of years ago when Vintage was making a concerted effort and publishing what I guess they were designating as more "difficult" books. One of the most beautiful trade paperbacks they did—it had French flaps—was Notable American Women by Ben Marcus. That thing was just too cool. It was the perfect trade paperback. I thought, "Okay! Maybe this is a kind of turning point." Not because it was a book that was ever going to sell Jhumpa Lahiri numbers. But that turned out to be a small little experiment that seems all but discontinued.

STEINBERG: I think it's always attractive to agents when publishers have a vision. If they said, "We're just going to do trade paperbacks, and we're going to make it work," that would be immediately attractive. Because they have a vision. It's not just like, "Oh, let's publish this and see what happens. Good luck to us all! Bye!" [Laughter.]

RUTMAN: But if you sell a book and it's acquired with the intention of making it a trade paperback, and three or four months later the publisher comes back to you and says, "We've reconsidered. We're going to make this a hardcover," it's not even implied—it's basically stated—that "we thought we were acquiring nothing, and we've actually had a change of heart. We think we have something. Congratulations to us all." If you were ever under the delusion that there was no hierarchical relationship between the two, it's dismissed pretty thoroughly. And what's going to change that? The Great Depression II might go some way.

STEIN: It used to be about reviews. There was this idea that you couldn't get reviews for trade paperbacks. But there aren't reviews anymore so we don't have to worry about that.

STEINBERG: Silver lining.

MASSIE: Grove's had a couple of original trade paperbacks on the cover of the New York Times Book Review. So that's not the story anymore.

STEIN: Grove does wonderful trade paperbacks.

Stop it, you're going to make Morgan blush. But seriously, I wish the whole economics of advances would change so that we could do more.
RUTMAN: And if e-books are costing about what trade paperbacks cost, maybe we can have a more uniform price for books. So you wouldn't have this disparity.

STEINBERG: But one of the goals of agents is to get a good advance, and the way that publishers get to higher numbers is by doing hardcovers.

STEIN: But that could change a little bit. If there wasn't the sort of hardcover-paperback hierarchy, and if we started doing a lot more trade paperbacks, the price of paperbacks could rise a little bit. And there's no reason we should have such low royalties for paperbacks.

STEINBERG: Someone in publishing told me that that's why publishing still exists—because publishers held agents off from having escalators on paperbacks. That's where the money is made.

STEIN: But we need a little of that money if we're not going to ask for high advances.

What are you most worried about with regard to the industry?
STEINBERG: I think if Barnes & Noble folds, or something like that, it might be so devastating that we can't get around it. If Barnes & Noble were to fold, what would happen to all of us? I mean, there's no way that publishing could really continue. We've put too many eggs in one basket.

STEIN: Publishing could continue.

STEINBERG: It could continue, but it would be at a much different scale.

STEIN: Agents would just sell the books to Amazon. It would be the publishers that would be out of business.

STEINBERG: Isn't Barnes & Noble like 50 percent of the market?

RUTMAN: But there is also a pretty astounding percentage of books that are sold in non-book-retailing locations. Which is problematic at least for the likes of most of us because we don't do so many of those books.

MASSIE: They tend to take a certain kind of book.

STEIN: Which is why, although we're very grateful to Amazon, we need to keep our bookstores in business. So if you're going to buy a book, buy it from an actual bookstore.

MASSIE: Look at Harry Schwartz.

It's really sad.
MASSIE: That was really devastating. And it's like a new one every day.

STEIN: If you buy a book from Amazon, you're killing us.

RUTMAN: There, she said it.

STEIN: And you're killing yourself. Thank you. [Laughter.]

What are the other things you're most worried about?
RUTMAN: That the balkanization of commercial publishing will be so complete that an even smaller number of books that claim all of the available resources will take up even more available resources and the ghetto for everyone else will end up being vast. That the midlist will come to encompass everything that isn't a couple of titles.

STEIN: That the midlist, and the kinds of books we do, really will become the new short stories or the new poetry.

RUTMAN: The assumption is that you can still anticipate something that will work commercially. Which I guess sometimes you can, but not often enough to justify that as a prevailing strategy. I mean, can we stop paying senators and politicians—sorry, Flip [Brophy, a colleague at Sterling Lord]—and various other famous people tons of money for stories that are—and I apologize, readers everywhere—insubstantial in the extreme?

With one exception, right?
RUTMAN: Obama. [Laughter.]

He's a great writer.
RUTMAN: Exactly. If they write their own books and they write them well, then we have a crucial exception. But generally speaking, this thing of giving somebody, on the basis solely of name recognition, disproportionate resources that could be so much better spent elsewhere? Why do we do that?

STEIN: Imagine a world where books would have to be submitted without the author's name. Obviously there would be no platform. So if the proposal was really shitty, and the writing was really shitty, there would be no sale.

Anna wants a meritocracy in publishing.
RUTMAN: Aw, that's sweet. [Laughter.]

But that raises an interesting point. Why do you all focus on serious literary work when it's so obvious that the real money is elsewhere?
MASSIE: It's what I like to read.

STEINBERG: I like going to work every day and the feeling of liking what I do. I think if someone said to me, "You can do only fiction, and no nonfiction, forever. Will you do that?" I would say, "I don't think I'll like that very much, because I still like nonfiction, but I'll do it." But if somebody said to me, "You can do only nonfiction. No fiction," I'd be like, "I'm just going to quit." There wouldn't be any point.

RUTMAN: I just don't feel equipped to make judgments about anything other than what I like. I feel like my capacity to gauge commercial prospects is kind of restricted. The only thing I can really respond to is what I think works in some way that means something to me.

STEIN: I'm a hopeless optimist, and I think somehow, someday...well, look, Revolutionary Road is on the best-seller list right now. I'm an optimist, and because it can happen, I think it will happen, and I want to be on the front lines when it does.

Are you encouraged by anything you're seeing on the front lines?
STEIN: Our president is a writer. We have a president who loves books and who's all about promoting the arts. That's amazing.

STEINBERG: I like the Kindle and the Sony Reader. I think they're a step forward and sort of address the cool factor. I think it's cool that with the Kindle you can think of a book you want and have it at your fingertips a minute later.

RUTMAN: It's also nice because it means that books are eligible to be included in the world of new technology.

STEINBERG: When you're on the subway, people are intrigued by it. They're like, "What's that?" And that intrigue factor is important.

STEIN: Except they can't see what you're reading.

MASSIE: It also feels like the YA world has really taken off in the last few years and kids are really excited about reading. It feels like there's a whole new generation of readers out there, doesn't it? And it's not just Harry Potter. There are all these authors, people like Cornelia Funke, and all of my nieces and nephews have their favorites. They've all discovered their own different authors who they're so excited about. It's great. I feel like there was a generation that sort of skipped that.

RUTMAN: I'm also encouraged by the things that succeed, for the most part. Look at something like A Series of Unfortunate Events. You have this very self-conscious, writerly line of books that kind of flatter kids' ability to appreciate a certain context in which the books have been written. And kids seem to live in a text-filled world in a way that even we didn't. I don't know if it's the right kind of text, but it might function as the basis for some broader appreciation of written communication.

MASSIE: And look at the YA books that are doing well—they're doorstops. Look at The Invention of Hugo Cabret, that Brian Selznick book. It's huge.

STEINBERG: My daughter loves that book.

MASSIE: My son loved it too.

STEIN: Is it good? Have you guys read it?

MASSIE: It's great. I loved it.

RUTMAN: I think the girth of a fat children's book is a factor in its success. Kids must feel like they're being entrusted with something enormous. It's like, "I don't care that you're only eight. You're going to read 960 pages of epic...." And now that they wheel their backpacks, it's okay. It's safe.

At the end of the day, what's the best part of your job?
MASSIE: Working with great authors. Discovering new voices. When an author's book arrives for the first time—when you get that messengered package and rip it open and there's the book. That's the best feeling. Getting the book in your hands is better than getting the deal.

RUTMAN: Having some part in the creation of a book that you feel strongly about. However incidental your role may be. I mean, I haven't written any books and it's really nice to have helped bring some of them about. That's more than I expected from a workday.

STEIN: I agree with all of those things and, for me, it's also just about making the author happy—making the author's hard work pay off in a way that you just know their endorphin rush is going to go on for a week. That's what makes your endorphin rush happen. It's not the deal. It's their scream.

STEINBERG: I love dealing with creative people on a daily basis and just seeing how their minds work. It just makes me so happy. I think that's probably why I do what I do. I just love what they come up with. Great twists in plot. Things that are unexpected but extraordinary. That's always the best part. I'm really sad when I'm not reading some great piece of fiction for work.

RUTMAN: Constant access to people who are smarter than you is a really nice part of the job.

STEIN: Smarter. More creative.

STEINBERG: More disciplined.

RUTMAN: Better. Just better.

AGENTS ANONYMOUS
In the third hour of our conversation, with a few bottles of wine sloshing around in their brains, the agents agreed to speak anonymously on a variety of topics that would be difficult to discuss for attribution. Any number of verbal tics have been altered in order to disguise the identities of the speakers.

 

What would you say to writers if you could be anonymous?
Work harder. Be gracious.

Don't be so needy. Don't need constant affirmation.

Once you make a decision to go with an agent, trust that agent.

When authors leave their agent to go to a "better" agent, it is almost always the author's fault. I don't blame agents for poaching. I blame authors for allowing themselves to be poached.

And nine times out of ten it's the wrong decision.

Tell me about some overrated publishers, in your opinion.
Little Random. I think the reputation they built in the era before we came into the industry has gone out the window in the past five years. I can't think of one book of theirs that I've read in the past five years that I've admired. They have no vision. There used to be some good literary editors there—Dan Menaker, Ann Godoff—who had some vision. I think the house publishes schlock now, for the most part.

Spiegel & Grau. They just care about the celebrity-type books. Even if the writer is not an actual celebrity, they only want to buy big books by the sort of literary celebrities. They pretend they're in it for the art but in my view they're not.

Scribner. It's kind of strange because they have this great literary reputation, and I've always thought of them as a great literary house, but I just can't think of anything of theirs that I've admired in a long time. Maybe a little bit of their nonfiction, but not much of it. I can't figure out why that is because, you know, it's Nan Graham and that shouldn't be the case.

Riverhead, these days—after Cindy [Spiegel] and Julie [Grau] left—has not found its footing yet. I mean, the books that have done well for Riverhead lately were under contract already. Junot Díaz. Khaled Hosseini. Aleksandar Hemon, but Sean [McDonald, his editor] was there before the new regime. We'll see what Becky [Saletan] does.

What about on the flip side of that? Which houses do you think are underrated?
Algonquin. They do a great job and they have integrity. They know the right amount to pay but they don't overpay. And they do great publicity.

I wish more houses were like Norton. They have a pretty big list but they also acquire carefully, for the most part, and there's a nice range of serious editors. Their acquisition process is rigorous and they don't often go nuts to overpay for something. They're an employee-owned company and everybody is invested in what goes on. Their offices are really crappy, which is kind of reassuring. And they take chances on books that are ultra-literary while doing unapologetically commercial stuff too.

I feel like Algonquin uses them almost as a model. They're similar in a lot of ways.

They're the last of a dying breed. How many independent houses of that size exist anymore? And there's a reason we haven't heard about any cutbacks or financial issues at Norton. They operate responsibly.

Tell me about some editors you really like to work with.
I'm working with an editor I've never worked with before, Tom Mayer at Norton. He's tireless and will do anything for this book. The author wasn't happy with the cover, and Tom went and got them to hire somebody else. I mean, that never happens. Usually editors are trying to say, "We all love this and the author should too." I've never seen such an advocate for a book.

I would say Kathy Pories at Algonquin. She has amazing taste and she's also a fantastic editor. She makes novels the 25-percent better that they need to be. She's such a straight shooter, she's fun to talk to on the phone... [Laughter.] That can't be discounted! It's a joy to call her. And it lets me be a straight shooter myself and not need to spin anything. That's a nice feeling.

It's only been one instance, but if somebody's had a better experience with an editor than I was lucky enough to have with David Ebershoff, I would wish it on all of you. The level of attentiveness and awareness of the whole process from beginning to end was just incredibly heartening, from securing a publicist to being honest about certain potential impediments. His advocacy was inexhaustible.

Molly Barton is the same way. She will not let a book die. She's still there after publication. She's still there after paperback publication. She just keeps a book alive and does absolutely everything possible. She does things for her books that I didn't even know were possible. She came up in a slightly different way and has a sort of big-picture publishing knowledge that a lot of editors don't have.

Anybody have any horror stories from lunch?
I once had lunch with an editor at HarperCollins, and this was so long ago that I don't even remember his name or if he's still there, but he talked the whole time—very excitably, kind of spitting his food—about television shows and action movies. It's kind of a cliché to talk about going to the bathroom and seeing if you can figure out a way to slip out. But I actually went to the bathroom and thought, "I can't go back. I can't get through this lunch. This has got to be Candid Camera. I can't do it." But I went back and finished the lunch. I thought the whole thing had to be some sort of joke. But it wasn't. It was real and he was real.

I had one lunch where the editor called me by the wrong name the entire lunch. He didn't even know my name! And I didn't correct him because I was so angry. After lunch I went back to the office and wrote him an e-mail so he'd see my name and know.

Of all the people and places who write about the industrynewspapers, Web sites, blogswho are the smartest and who are the dumbest?
I feel like Publishers Weekly has really gone downhill. I know it's a trade magazine so it's supposed to be boring, but I think it's really boring. I also don't trust the reviews. I kind of liked Sara Nelson's column, though. Just as a barometer of things.

I always feel like when I'm reading Michael Cader he might say something intelligent. Publishers Lunch is one of the better ones.

I thought Boris [Kachka] got a little too much shit for his New York magazine piece. I don't think it was a dumb article. I felt more sympathetic to what he was trying to do than I think most people did.

I think that guy Leon [Neyfakh] at the Observer is really good at digging in and getting scoops. He really keeps going.

It's his first job.

And he knows how to become friends with you and get stuff out of you. He's very good in that way. And he treats publishing like it's something to care about, which is nice. It's like he's always looking for some secret that will be amazing. The things he finds are usually kind of silly, but at least he's trying.

Which is different than Motoko [Rich, of the New York Times], who approaches it like it's a business. A business that doesn't make any money.

Don't you always feel a little surprised that the Times will cover a publishing development as prominently as they sometimes do? They're like, "Layoffs at Doubleday!" and you're like, "That warrants coverage in the New York Times? Really?"

Anything else that you want to get off your chests?
I think book jackets are incredibly important but they're one of the weakest parts of the business. We need to pay jacket designers more money. We need to attract better people. It's one thing that we can control.

We should steal all of the indie-rock designers and bring them into books. Because that shit is great. Walk through any record store. They are so consistently good, and they get paid nothing.

I emphatically second that idea. And I think raiding another industry could be the way to do it.

There are so few things you can control, and the jacket is so important. It's what people look at. Women's legs are not inherently interesting as cover subjects.

Or shoes.

Or the face of an adolescent girl who is blowing bubbles.

Oh, I disagree with you there. I'd love to support you, but I can't. [Laughter.]

 

Jofie Ferrari-Adler is an editor at Grove/Atlantic.

Agents and Editors: A Q&A With Four Young Editors

by
Jofie Ferrari-Adler
3.1.09

If the economic Tilt-A-Whirl of the past few months has proven anything, it's that this carnival life of ours—writing, publishing, trying to find readers—isn't getting any easier. Booksellers and publishers are in turmoil, with scores of staffers having already lost their jobs to "restructuring,""integration," and all the other corporate euphemisms that are dreamed up to soften the harsh reality: It isn't pretty out there.

While it goes without saying that our problems are nothing compared with those of many industries, one's heart can't help but ache for the literary magazines and publishing houses that won't be around in a year; the unemployed editors, publicists, and marketing people with mortgages to pay; the authors whose first books are being published now, or a month from now, or anytime soon.

But difficult times don't have to be joyless times. As I listened to these four accomplished young book editors talk about what they do, I was reminded of a simple and enduring truth, trite as it may sound: We are all—writers, agents, publishers, booksellers, librarians, and readers—in this together. And there are concrete things we can do to connect with one another more effectively. These editors are full of insight about how to do just that.

It seems appropriate, at such a humbling moment, that we met over pizza and bottled water (okay, maybe not exclusively water) in the glamorously unglamorous offices of Open City, the independent press and literary magazine based in downtown Manhattan. Over the years its editors, Thomas Beller and Joanna Yas, have introduced readers to some of the most distinctive voices of our time, from Meghan Daum to Sam Lipsyte. Here are short biographies of the participants:

LEE BOUDREAUX was an editor at Random House for almost ten years before leaving to become the editorial director of Ecco in 2005. She has worked with Arthur Phillips, Dalia Sofer, and David Wroblewski.

ERIC CHINSKI worked at Oxford University Press and Houghton Mifflin before moving to Farrar, Straus and Giroux, where he is vice president and editor in chief. He has edited Chris Adrian, Rivka Galchen, and Alex Ross.

ALEXIS GARGAGLIANO worked at Simon & Schuster and Knopf before moving to Scribner, where she is an editor, in 2002. Her authors include Matt Bondurant, Adam Gollner, and Joanna Smith Rakoff.

RICHARD NASH worked as a performance artist and theater director before taking over Soft Skull Press, now an imprint of Counterpoint, in 2001. His authors include Lydia Millet, Matthew Sharpe, and Lynne Tillman. [UPDATE: Richard Nash has resigned as editorial director of Soft Skull Press and executive editor of Counterpoint, effective March 10, 2009.]

Every reader understands the feeling of falling in love with a book. You guys do that for a living. I'm curious if you've given any thought to the specific things that can trigger that experience.
GARGAGLIANO: I don't know if there's a specific thing, but you know it immediately. The minute I start it I know that it's the book I want to fall in love with. And that's the one I keep reading. I will read a hundred pages of something else, but I won't fall in love with it. You have this immediate sense of texture and place, and you're just inside it from the first sentence. I think the thing that everybody says about first sentences is true. Everyone should try to get that first sentence perfect. I make my authors do that all the time.
NASH: But if you make them do it, they didn't quite do it the first time, did they?
GARGAGLIANO: Well, it might be that you've had them totally rewrite the opening.
CHINSKI: Do you feel like it's different for fiction and nonfiction?
GARGAGLIANO: I do. I always hate that with nonfiction, when you read a proposal, you don't get the writing first. You get the pitch first. I always look to the writing.
CHINSKI: For me, with fiction, there's that funny moment when you feel like you actually want to meet the author. You want to know who the man or woman who's writing it is because there's a real sensibility in the writing. It's not just that the writing is good—there's a kind of intensity of imagination to it. You wonder, "Who is this person who's able to telescope all of these ideas into something that feels accessible?" I think that's one similarity between nonfiction and fiction, even though obviously they're different in many ways: It takes the ordinary and makes it extraordinary. You sort of recognize something but it allows you access to it in a totally different way. But I can't tell you how many times, thirty pages into a novel, I actually want to write the agent and say, "Who is this person?" You just wonder, "Who's coming up with this?"
BOUDREAUX: I think there's always a moment of surprise and delight. It comes in the form of a word. You get to the end of a sentence and go, "Wow, I didn't see that coming. That was perfect." The language just goes click and the whole thing has gone up a notch and you know at that point that you're committed to...a hundred pages? Two hundred? Or you're going the distance with it. The gears just click into place and you realize you're reading something that is an order of magnitude different than the seventy-five other things that have crossed your desk lately, many of which were perfectly good and perfectly competent.
CHINSKI: And doesn't it feel like it's not even just talent? It's the sensibility of the writer. I think about a writer whom I don't work with but whom I admire, Aleksandar Hemon. He does that funny thing where he doesn't use words in an ordinary way, and yet they work and they suggest a whole worldview. Or look at Chris Adrian, whom I do work with and adore. I mean, his writing is really difficult. It's about dying and suffering children—you can't imagine a more difficult subject. But again, there's a kind of intensity of imagination and a way of articulating things that goes beyond good writing. There is a force and energy to the writing. I think that's the hardest thing to find in fiction, at least for me, and that's what I find myself responding to again and again.
NASH: For me it's also when a work of fiction has the force of society behind it on some level. Which is not necessarily to say that it has to be political—I do far less political fiction than people think—but I do want to feel that the writer has access to something larger than himself. To me, the energy you're talking about is something that possesses social force and a concatenation of relationships and responses to the world lived in a certain kind of way. I try to forbid myself from using the word authenticity because I don't actually know what the hell it is, but that's one way of talking about it.
CHINSKI: I have a related question. What do you all think of the word voice? It's one of those words that we all overuse, but do we actually know what it is? I always find myself reaching for it when I want to describe why I like something and why I don't like other things that are perfectly well written. But when I really try to figure out exactly what I mean by it, I come back to what I was saying before. Is sensibility the same thing as a writer having a voice?
GARGAGLIANO: If it comes alive for you, and you can hear it in your head, and it sort of lives inside you, that's when I feel like a writer has a voice. That's when I'll keep going back to something again and again. One of my favorite writers when I was falling in love with literature was Jeanette Winterson. It was just about her voice. I kept loving her books even when the stories themselves started to fall apart. I just wanted to hear that voice in my head. For me, with her, it stopped being about the storytelling, which is unusual. I love story. I want plots in my books.
CHINSKI: And you can think about writers who don't actually tell stories. The Europeans, for example. We always have one: Thomas Bernhard; Sebald; now Bolaño. It feels like there's always one of these writers who isn't writing plot-driven fiction. The voice is so strong that that's what people are responding to. With Bolaño, I find it kind of amazing that you have this nine-hundred-page novel by a dead Spanish-language writer...I mean, I can't honestly believe that everybody who's buying it is reading the whole thing. But it goes back to what you were saying, Richard, about the voice having the force of history and almost being haunted by these bigger issues.
NASH: Haunted is totally the word. Beckett had it too, obviously.
CHINSKI: Or look at Philip Roth. Even in his lesser novels, you can always recognize that kind of force in his writing.
NASH: What you just said reminds me of an artist named Bruce Nauman. I went to see a retrospective of his before I was in publishing. There was this sense, as you went from room to room, that the guy just had access to something that he wasn't going to lose access to. You know what I mean? There was a certain frequency of the world to which he was tuned in. It could express itself in different ways, but he wasn't going to lose his capacity to listen to it, as a result of which the work was always going to be operating on a certain level. He might vary between, I don't know, brilliant and mind-blowing, but he wasn't going to fuck up. Those voices, and those Europeans you were mentioning, are probably at the very upper level.
CHINSKI: That's right. They always seem to have a certain set of questions that they're asking. Even if they're writing very different novels from book to book, they're haunted by one or two or three questions, and no matter what they write, they seem to circle around them. That may have something to do with the voice they bring to a book. I mean, even Sasha Hemon, who's only written three books—you can tell what his obsessions are. That's another thing: I like writers who are obsessed. Chris Adrian is obsessed too. That's what's exciting about reading certain fiction writers.

Aside from what's on the page, and somebody's skill as a writer or voice or obsessions, what other things influence your thinking and decision-making?
GARGAGLIANO: One of the things can be when a book taps into something that's happening in the moment. I'm editing a book right now that's set after World War II in a psychiatric hospital, and it's really a book about what happens to soldiers when they come back from war. I find myself obsessed with the news and weeping when I watch Channel Thirteen because I've been inside of this story for so long and I understand the psychology of these men coming back. I'm hoping that there will be a resonance when we publish it. You're always trying to process things in the world, and when you read a really good piece of fiction, it helps you process things.
CHINSKI: The word necessary always comes to mind for me. Beyond a good story, beyond good writing, does the novel feel necessary? A lot of good books are written, and I'm not saying that they shouldn't be published, but as an editor you can't work on everything, and the ones I tend to be drawn to are the ones that either feel personally necessary or globally necessary in some vague way that's hard to define. And that should be at the sentence level, too. People who can write really well sometimes get carried away by their own writing and forget what's actually necessary on the page. I would also raise the question of believability. A book can be surreal and fantastical and all that, so it's not believable in any straight sense, but it has to be believable in the sense that the author believes in what he or she is doing. Sometimes you feel like an author is just writing for the sake of writing, and that is a big turnoff. It's got to feel necessary at every level.
BOUDREAUX: As an editor, you know how difficult the in-house process is going to be—the process of getting a book out there. The necessary quotient comes up when you ask yourself, "Is this something that really fires me up? What's going to happen when I give it to these two reps to read? Are they going to have the same reaction to some pretty significant extent and feel the need to convey their enthusiasm down the line?" Because I think word of mouth remains the best thing we can ever do for a book. So is there that necessary thing? Is there that urgency? Is it in some significant way different from any number of other novels that purport to talk about the same topic? It's almost like an electrical pulse traveling down a wire. It starts with the author, then the agent, then the editor, and then there are a lot of telephone poles it's got to go through from there. If it's lacking in any way, you know that the electricity is going to peter out. Sometimes you can almost see it happen. You can watch it happen between one sales rep and another sales rep. You're like, "Oh, that just petered out between those two telephone poles." And the book is only going to do so much.

When a lot of us were starting out I think we may have felt like, "Oh, it's a little book, but it's my job to make it work, and I'm going to." I feel less like that now. Because you can't work on everything, and you can't do everything for every book. Even when you do do everything you can think of, so many good books get ignored. So many good books go by the wayside. You've got to be able to figure out if each one is necessary enough that you can really do something with it. Because it's not that rewarding as the editor, or as the author, to just have a book sit there—when it dies a quiet death and nobody even hears it sink. "We tried! We'll do better with the paperback!" The number of times you hear that! You know you're lying and they know you're lying and everyone's just going to pretend it will be totally different a year from now.

It's got to have enough juice in it to go somewhere. I feel like that juice can take any number of forms. It's an ineffable quality, but you kind of know it when you've got it in front of you. Everyone is not going to agree on fiction, either. I do pretty much all fiction. When I want to buy something, in most cases nobody else is going to read the whole thing. They're going to believe me when I say it's good all the way to the end. They just like the voice and then we run with it. You're never going to get a whole roomful of people to agree on fiction the way you sometimes can with nonfiction: "Is this the right book at the right time by the right person with the right platform to write the book on whatever?" With fiction it's all sort of amorphous, and you've just got to feel like you're picking the ones that are potent enough to go the distance.
NASH: We're all just proxies for the reader. But we're going to have different ideas about who the reader is and how we connect to that reader. Do we have commonality with this imaginary reader? But I certainly find that I am powerfully animated by the sense of having a duty to connect the writer with the reader. Is this a book that's going to get one person to tell another person that they've got to read it? Which is the closest thing, I think, at least in the land of fiction, that's going to pass for figuring out what the hell is meant by the word commercial. As you said, your own energy can always get one other person to read the book. But is that one other person going to get the next person to read the book?

Are there any other things, besides what's on the page, that you're looking at when a book is submitted?
GARGAGLIANO: This was one of the hardest lessons for me. Unlike what Eric was saying earlier, when I used to read fiction before I was in publishing, I never wanted to know who the author was. I didn't want to look at their pictures. I just wanted to exist in the worlds that they had created. That was it. When I got into the industry, I quickly learned that that was not acceptable. The first thing I get asked at our editorial meeting is, "Where have they published?" You want to know that somebody has been publishing their short stories, even if a total of a hundred people have read them. It's always the first question.
CHINSKI: One thing I'm looking for is experience in the world. I keep coming back to Chris Adrian, not for any particular reason. But he's somebody who has an MFA, he's a practicing doctor specializing in pediatric oncology, he's in divinity school, and you can feel all of that in his writing. There's an urgency, a sense of questioning, and an obsession. You can tell that all of that experience is getting distilled into his writing. He wants to understand something about loss and our relationship to transcendence. I feel like with the best writers, you recognize that in their work. It's exciting to me to feel like it's being drawn not just out of the desire to write an interesting story and find readers. It's a different form of necessity that they feel they need to wrestle with because of their own life experience.
BOUDREAUX: I've never been able to say what my books have in common. I'll make an argument for escapism. I want to be transported. I don't care where you take me, but I want to have that moment that we all had when we were reading as kids, when the real world ceases to exist and your mother tells you to come have dinner and it's like resurfacing from the bottom of a swimming pool. "Where am I? What am I doing?" That's what I want. I'm not looking for any particular kind of book, I'm just looking for the intensity of that experience. It doesn't matter what agent it comes from. It doesn't matter if it's long or short. It doesn't matter if it's a young voice or something that's more mature. I just feel like you sit there as a proxy for the reader, open to having a new experience. And if they can give it to you, great. I don't even need it to happen in the first sentence. I'll give it three or four pages sometimes. [Laughter.] I'm seven months pregnant so I'm feeling patient and maternal toward the world—I'll give them four or five pages to say something that I find interesting.

On the flip side of that, give me some things that you find beginning writers doing wrong.
NASH: Not listening. Not listening to the world around them.
GARGAGLIANO: Trying to sell stories that aren't really a book. They're not a cohesive whole. There's no vision to the whole thing that makes me feel like this person has a reason for writing a story collection other than that they had twelve stories.
NASH: Assuming that having an attitude equals...anything.
CHINSKI: Or assuming that good writing is enough. I'm sure we all see a lot of stuff where the writing is really good. It's well crafted and you can tell that the writer has talent. But, again, you don't really feel like the writer necessarily believes in his or her ability to open it up into a novel. I know the old adage "write what you know." I'd kind of rather somebody write what they don't know. And figure out, beyond their own personal experience, why what they're doing should matter to the reader.
BOUDREAUX: I've always wanted to give people that advice too. "Do you have to write what you know? If you know it, I might know it. Which means I've already read it. Which means that your book is the nineteenth novel about a mother-daughter relationship. And I. Don't. Care." The crudest way to put it is the "Who cares?" factor. Why, why, why do I need to read four hundred pages about this? The necessary thing, and the authentic thing, and the voice thing are all much better ways of saying it than the "Who cares?" factor, but it's basically the same thing. "What is the necessity of reading this? What are you doing that is different?"
CHINSKI: I'd rather somebody be ambitious and fail a little bit than read a perfectly crafted, tame novel.
NASH: I have published novels, especially first novels, that I knew failed on some level because of what they were trying to do. I felt that that was okay.
CHINSKI: That's more exciting.
NASH: But what would be the version of that that actually answered your question?
CHINSKI: "Have courage"?
NASH: Don't try to be perfect. Don't be boring.
CHINSKI: That's really what it is 99.9 percent of the time—good writing, but boring. And it's the hardest thing to turn down because you think, "This is good. But it doesn't do anything for me."
BOUDREAUX: That's the thing. You're like, "There's nothing wrong with this. I've got nothing to tell you to do to fix it. It's just...there."
CHINSKI: And that's a hard rejection letter to write, too. Because it's not like you can point to this, that, and the other thing that are wrong with it. It just doesn't move you in any way. It doesn't feel necessary.

Do you think it's too hard to get published today?
GARGAGLIANO: I think it's hard but not too hard. I don't know how many more books we could have out there.
BOUDREAUX: I think we all kind of know that too many books get published. You can listen to your own imprint's launch meeting, you can listen to all the other imprints' launch meetings, and multiply that by every other house, and you know that every book did not feel necessary to every editor. When you think about it that way, it doesn't seem all that hard to get published.
CHINSKI: But there are also a lot of people who can't get published.
NASH: There was a great little moment in an article in Wired about a year ago. It was an article about the million-dollar prize that Netflix is giving for anyone who can improve their algorithm—"If you liked this, you'll like that"—by 10 percent. One of the people in the article was quoted as saying that the twentieth century was a problem of supply, and the twenty-first century is a problem of demand. I think that describes a lot about the book publishing business right now. For a long time, racism, classism, and sexism prevented a whole array of talent from having access to a level of educational privilege that would allow them to write full-length books. That hasn't been completely solved, but it's been radically improved since the 1950s. Far more persons of color, women, and people below the upper class have access now. An entire agent community has arisen to represent them. But finding the audience is the big problem. I guess I'm imposing my own question on the question you asked—"Is it too hard to get published?"—and I think we all may have heard a slightly different version of that question. The version of it that I heard was, "Are there too many books?" I personally don't feel that way. And I get a lot of submissions at Soft Skull. I get about 150 a week. And it's hell having so much supply. But we didn't exist before 1993, and you guys all existed before that, so you are feeding off a different supply and we're enabling this new supply. I love the fact that Two Dollar Radio exists, and all the other new indie presses that have erupted. I think that's healthy. I don't think a solution to the problems we face as an industry is to say we're going to reduce consumer choice by publishing fewer books. Now, at the level of the individual publisher, I totally understand it as a rational decision that a given executive committee would make at a large company. My comment that there are not too many books published has to do with culture rather than a given economic enterprise. I think we could publish more books. You just have to recognize that they may be read by five hundred people. And that's perfectly legitimate. Blogs can be read by fifty people. You just have to think, "What's the economically and environmentally rational thing to do with this thing that has an audience—but that audience is just 150 or 250 people?" It may not be to print the book. It may be to publish it through a labor-of-love operation that is completely committed to a given set of aesthetic principles and will print it in a way that is environmentally sensitive—chapbook publishing, let's say. The poetry model could have a lot to say to fiction and nonfiction publishing.

I think about the midlist writer a lot and I feel like it's harder and harder to build a career the old-fashioned wayslowly, over several books that might not be perfect but allow you to develop as a writer. Part of that has to do with the electronic sales track. Put yourself in the shoes of a beginning writer and speak to that.
BOUDREAUX: When we published Serena by Ron Rash it was such a proud moment of doing that thing—of almost reinventing a writer. So I feel like it can still happen. The model of building somebody hasn't gone completely out the window. It gets hard with the "This is what we sold of the last book, this is all we're ordering this time." And you're stuck with it. But a lot of editors and a lot of publishers stick with people.
GARGAGLIANO: I feel like Scribner is really good about that. We can't do it with everyone, but there is definitely a stable of authors. I have writers for whom I haven't had to fight that hard to buy their second or third books. It's because everyone recognizes their talent.
NASH: It can be because the reps love selling them. The reps love reading that galley, even if they're going to get [orders of] ones and twos. But it makes them so happy to read that galley that they're not going to fight you when you present it to them.
CHINSKI: You have to think about the identity of the list as a whole, too. Sometimes it means paying an author less than what they've received before, but it doesn't mean we're giving up on those authors. I think, speaking for FSG, it's important to us to try to build writers. Roger Straus apparently said, and Jonathan always says, "We publish authors, not books." That's more difficult today, given the way of the world, but it's still the guiding principle. Think about Jonathan Franzen, who published two novels that got great reviews but didn't sell particularly well. Then The Corrections came along. There are tons of examples like that.

But aren't you guys and FSG the exception to that in a lot of ways?
CHINSKI: I wonder if it's really that new. Obviously the mechanics have changed, but there's always been a huge midlist. We remember the really important writers. We probably don't even remember the best-selling writers from twenty years ago. You remember the important ones—or the ones that have been canonized as important. The economics have changed and obviously the chain bookstores are a different part of the equation than they were fifty years ago, but I suspect there's always been a vast midlist.
GARGAGLIANO: I also don't think it's very constructive for authors to think about that too much. You're sort of fortunate if you get published at all. You're fortunate to find an editor who you have a great relationship with and a house that believes in you in which everybody works as hard as they can for you. There's only so much you can do.
NASH: If you're going to stress about something, be worrying about your reader. Don't stare at your Amazon ranking and don't stare at the number of galleys your publisher is printing. Get out into the world. And if you don't have the personality to get out into the world, then you have to ask yourself, "Why does everybody else have to have the personality to get out into the world, but I don't? What makes me so special that everybody else has to go out and bang the drum for me, but I don't?" I have a fairly limited tolerance for people who assume that it is everybody else's job to sell their books while they get to be pure and pristine. They don't have to get the book-publishing equivalent of dirt under their fingernails. Which involves whoring, to use a sexist term, but one that I use to describe myself. [Laughter.] Go out and find a reader. It's not about selling a reader a $14.95 book. If you have ten more books under your thumb, then that reader could be worth $150 to you, and it might actually be worth three minutes of your time to respond to their e-mail or chat with them for an extra two minutes after that reading at which it seemed like no one showed up. Those eight people might have some influence out in the world. None of us is in this for the money. It's sort of mind-boggling how many people think that we're sitting there behind our cushy desks. There's just no one in publishing who couldn't have made more money doing something else. At a certain point, yes, we may have become unemployable in any other industry. But there was a period of time in everyone's career when he or she could have gone in a different direction and made more money, and chose not to.
GARGAGLIANO: Can I add one more thing? We keep talking about self-promotion, and I think there's a stigma that it's a negative thing. It's really an extension of that deep involvement we were talking about earlier. It's about being really passionate about your book. It's a way to figure out how to make the world of your book bigger, and to give other people access to it. I think it's helpful if authors can wrap their heads around looking at it from a different perspective. I have a lot of authors who are afraid to go out there. They think it's about them. It's actually about the book. It's about the writing. It's not about you personally.
NASH: It's about being part of the world around you. One of the freelance publicists I know—I've never been able to afford to use her, but I'm friendly with her—does something that I think is brilliant in terms of dealing with a new author. Rather than trying to make an author blog, which is always hell, she says, "Here are twenty blogs that you should read." And by doing that, they get into it. They start commenting. All of the sudden they start getting that this act of communication is no different than a conversation between two people. It gets the author to start realizing that they're in a community, and that participating in that community is what we're talking about when we say "self-promotion." It isn't this tawdry, icky activity that will demean them. It will help make them feel more connected to the world, and happier.
GARGAGLIANO: I'll give you an example. I published this book about fruit—talk about obsessive people—called The Fruit Hunters. The author is this guy who was writing food stories for magazines and became obsessed with fruit and went on to discover this whole obsessive world of fruit lovers. The book came out and got a lot of attention, and the sales were okay, but it has fostered this whole community of people who are also obsessed. The other day they had an event in a community garden in the East Village. They call themselves the Fruit Hunters, after the book, and they're going to take trips together and everything. There are already a hundred of them. It's this amazing little story of obsession. It's exciting. The author is very involved online. He's happy to engage with anyone who wants to talk to him. He's just really present, and that makes all the difference.

I'm interested in how you guys view your jobs. It seems to me that things have changed quite a bit over time and I'm curious how you see what you do.
CHINSKI: Things have changed a lot. But in terms of the actual editing and acquiring, I don't feel like I'm thinking very differently about what I'm signing up, and in terms of the editing, I still have the same basic ideas of what my role is, which is to make the book more of what it already is—rather than coming in with some foreign idea and imposing it on the book. I try to understand what the writer is trying to do with the book and edit it along those lines. But when I first started in publishing, I had no idea that the role of the editor was to communicate to the marketing and sales departments. I had this very dark-and-stormy-night vision of the editor sitting in a room poring over manuscripts. But you very quickly realize that a natural part of being excited about a book is wanting to tell other people about it, in the same way we do as readers. That's what our job is in-house. And obviously it probably is different now, in terms of the chain stores and all these other things. But I think an editor's job is basically to fall in love with a book and then to help it be more of what it already is.
GARGAGLIANO: I feel very similarly. I'm the first reader, and I'm there to make the book what it wants to be, and then I'm its best advocate. I'm its advocate to people in the company because often they're not going to read it—they're only going to get my take on it—and then I'm its advocate to the rest of the world. I write handwritten notes to booksellers. I write to magazine people. I'm constantly promoting my authors. I feel like I'm the one who was responsible for getting them into the company, and I'm the one who's responsible for getting them into the world. I have to take care of them.
BOUDREAUX: The most fun part of being an editor is getting to actually edit—getting to sit and play puzzle with the book. God, that is so much fun! That's what we like to do. We need to do all of these other things...but sitting there with the paper, which you only get to do on the weekends? That's when you get excited. Like, "I'm a real editor!" But this myth that nobody edits anymore compared with a hundred years ago? I've never worked with an editor who doesn't edit all weekend long, every single night. That's the fun part.
CHINSKI: I think that's important to emphasize. I think we all hear that editors don't edit anymore.
BOUDREAUX: I just don't know who they're talking about. Having worked at two different houses, I literally do not know who they are talking about. Who just acquires and doesn't edit? I feel like everybody I've ever worked with sweats blood over manuscripts. And you reap the rewards of doing that.
NASH: I suspect that agents are doing more editorial work on books before they submit them in order to polish the apple. To some extent the process of acquisition has become more collegial, and it's helpful if a book is not a dog's dinner when you're showing it to people before you can start working on it yourself. That can create the perception that not much happened after it was acquired. And when you have the goal of helping to make a book as much like itself as it can be, that can involve a level of editing that doesn't look very intense on the surface but actually can be quite important. It doesn't have to involve a whole lot of red ink. But the right red ink in the right places, especially when it's subtractive rather than additive, can really make a book fluoresce.

Why did you all become editors instead of agents? And why do you stay editors when by all accounts you could make a lot more money being an agent?
CHINSKI: Has anybody here ever worked at an agency? My first job, for three months, was at an agency. That's why I'm an editor. But sometimes I do think that agents get a more global view of things. Dealing with film and foreign rights and so on.

But in other ways they get a more limited view because they don't have to do all the things to make a book work.
CHINSKI: I think that's true. Wouldn't that be more fun? [Laughter.] But seriously, when I was working there I didn't leave because I didn't like working at an agency. It just wasn't working as a job. I have a really hard time imagining myself as an agent. It's partly just the obvious stuff of doing the deal and so on. I think you have to have a certain personality to get really excited about that. I'd rather go home and really devote myself to doing the editing. I know that some agents do that. But it's not, kind of nominally, what they are there for.
BOUDREAUX: I literally didn't know there was such a thing as a literary agent. I didn't know anything. I was like, "I guess those people who get to work with books would be editors." I just didn't know any better. And I love to play with the words, which they also get to do, but they're not the final word on it. I also don't do enough nonfiction, which I feel like any editor who's got any sense learns to do. But I just don't have the antenna for it. As an agent it would be even scarier to have a list that is 95 percent fiction. You probably need a balanced portfolio in a way that an editor can still get away with being more fiction-heavy.

What are the hardest decisions you have to make as editors?
CHINSKI: Jackets. I find that the most harrowing part of the whole process. As an editor, you're in this funny position of both being an advocate for the house to the author and agent but also being an advocate for the author to everybody in-house. The editor is kind of betwixt and between. And for a lot of books, especially fiction, the jacket is the only marketing tool you have. It's really difficult. I also find that I know what I don't like, but I don't have the visual vocabulary to describe what I think might work.
BOUDREAUX: And the cover is so important. Even if it's not the only thing that's being done for a book, it's still got to be one of the most important things. You've got reviews and word-of-mouth, and then you've just got the effect it has when somebody walks into the store and sees it. I think it's so important to work somewhere where your art people will read the book and come up with something that you never would have come up with yourself. The idea of a jacket meeting where you have twelve people around a table and you bring it down to the lowest common denominator of "It's a book about this set there. We need a crab pot at sunset with a..." People do that! They think it's a marketing-savvy way to go about it. "We need a young person on the cover. But you shouldn't be able to see the person's face. It has to be from behind!"
GARGAGLIANO: The same thing happens when the author tries to deconstruct the cover.
CHINSKI: Exactly. That's one thing that's changed a lot. When I first started, we would send the author hard copies of the [proposed] jacket. Now we email it to them and they send it to everybody in their family. You can predict exactly what's going to happen.

What are the other hard decisions you have to make?
GARGAGLIANO: I have two, and they're related. One of them is when I love a book but I don't actually think that we're going to do the best job of publishing it. I anguish about that because I want the book for myself, but that doesn't necessarily mean it's the right thing for the author. The step beyond that is when you've already been publishing someone, and it's the question of what's best for their career. You offer a certain amount of money, and the agent wants to take the author somewhere else, and you have to ask yourself whether or not you go to bat for that person and get more money because you want to keep working with them despite whether the house might really support them. That's a hard thing to figure out.

I think part of what makes it hard is that editors serve different mastersthe authors, the agents, the house. How do you guys navigate those allegiances and responsibilities?
NASH: I will confess that I came into this business not motivated to become an editor. I was a theater director and happened upon Soft Skull because the guy who founded it was a playwright whose plays I directed. The whole thing was going belly up in the middle of my friendship with this dude. He basically did a runner, and there were these two twenty-two-year-olds at the company, and no one else, and there were all these authors, and the whole thing was fucked. I had a messiah complex and came in and tried to be Mr. Messiah for six months. And in the middle of my messiah complex, I fell in love with the process of publishing. So in a weird way, I did not come in with the idea of working with writers. I came in as a problem solver, and that's all I've ever been in a certain sense. The problem I try to solve is, "How do you connect writers and readers?" Those are the two masters for me. Recently I've been trying to think, believe it or not, of the publishing business as a service industry in which we provide two services simultaneously, to the author and to the reader. We may pretend to offer a service to the agent, and we may pretend to offer a service to the company. But only to the extent that we fulfill those other two services—to the writer and to the reader—are we truly serving the agent or the company. And we have to use our own instincts on a minute-to-minute psychological basis. Obviously you're accountable to the bottom line and P&Ls etcetera, but you're being asked to use your own instincts, and that's what you have to use in order to bring writers and readers together.
GARGAGLIANO: There are moments when it's sticky. When you're dealing with a jacket, for example. But on the whole, everybody wants the same thing, and that makes it easy. The thing that I always have to remind myself is that the people who are on the sales end also love books, and they also love to read, and they could be making more money in some other industry too. When you remember that, it makes your job much easier.
CHINSKI: I agree that we do all want the same thing, but don't you find that sometimes people don't behave that way?
GARGAGLIANO: Sometimes. But sometimes they do.
CHINSKI: It just amazes me how combative the relationship can become. I mean, it doesn't happen that often, but it does become combative sometimes. When we were talking before about authors saying that editors don't edit...there's just this assumption that the publisher isn't doing enough. Sometimes agents don't quite understand how things actually work in the publishing house. I'm not saying that across the board. But it does happen. I find those situations really difficult, where you feel like you're being accused of somehow not caring enough about the author when we all know how many hurdles there are. I mean, we wouldn't be doing this if we didn't care.
GARGAGLIANO: I've been very lucky with my authors. I haven't had many bad ones. The relationship is all about trust, and once you start that relationship and you start that dialogue, they trust that you're taking care of them. But there is a point when it's out of the editor's hands. And if they've trusted you that far, most of the time they'll accept whatever happens, in my experience. Usually the call I get will be from the agent.
BOUDREAUX: It's like you can almost have two different conversations. In one of them the agent gets what's going on and is just being helpful and trying to get everyone on the same page. And in the other one somebody is making demands or accusations that aren't going to actually help anything. It's more just for show. You know, "Emboss this part of the jacket" for no good reason. You do get the feeling sometimes that they are fulfilling their service to the author in a way that actually doesn't have that much to do with the book.
GARGAGLIANO: But that's the agent. I'm more worried about my author's happiness.
CHINSKI: I agree with that. A combative relationship with an author is pretty rare. Obviously it happens sometimes, but I'm thinking more about the agent. I don't want to overstate it, but sometimes it does feel like we should all understand more that we do all actually want the same thing. No publisher or editor signs up a book in order to sink it. Who would do that? We're not getting paid enough to be in this business for any reason other than we actually love the books we're working on.

What do you wish writers knew about you that they sometimes don't?
GARGAGLIANO: I think most writers don't realize that every editor goes home and reads and edits for four hours—that they're not doing that in the office. That in the office they're advocating for all of the authors they already have.
NASH: I don't even get to read when I go home. When I go home, I'm continuing to advocate. I haven't been able to read at all recently. I've really just become a pure pimp.
CHINSKI: I thought you were a whore.
NASH: I'm both at once! It depends on the street I'm walking down.

What else?
GARGAGLIANO: I think it's important for writers to remember that we're not their enemy. We love books and we're looking for books that we love.
CHINSKI: And ads are not love.
GARGAGLIANO: And ads do not equal sales.
BOUDREAUX: If those two things appear in print—that we're working nights and weekends and ads don't sell books—we have all done a fine job here. We are martyrs to the cause and ads are ridiculous. But I think editors like ads too. It's like having your business card published in the New York Times.

Have you guys ever gotten any great advice about your jobs from a colleague or a mentor?
CHINSKI: I can quote somebody, Pat Strachan, who is one of the most elegant, serious, and lovely people in the business. She said to me, "Just remember, when you're all stressed out, that the lives of young children are not at stake." And I do think that's worth remembering. We all love what we do and we take it really seriously, but you have to keep things in perspective. I also have one from David Rosenthal. He used to say, "If you're going to overpay for a book, you should at least be able to imagine the things that have to happen for it to work at that level, even if it may not actually work at that level."
BOUDREAUX: It should be in the realm of possibility.
CHINSKI: Yeah, and you should be able to picture, very concretely, what would have to happen and how you might go about making those things happen. You don't want to just buy something blindly.

What have your authors taught you about how to do your job?
GARGAGLIANO: To be honest with them. I often have the impulse to protect my authors and treat them as if they are more fragile than they actually are. It's better if I can have an open conversation with them. If I start that early on, the better our relationship is going to be going forward, and the easier it will be to talk about tough things. That took me a while to figure out.
BOUDREAUX: They teach you over and over and over—and this is soobvious—but they will always have a better solution to an editing problem than anything you could come up with. If you just raise the question, they will solve it. The universe of their book is more real to them than it could ever be to anyone else. You trust them with the internal logic of what's going on. You just show them where the web is a little weak—where everything that was so fully imagined in their head has not quite made it down to the page. Not only, as you said, are they not that fragile, but the world they've created is not that fragile. You can poke at it endlessly, and you'll just get really good answers and really good solutions. When you bring something up, you never find that you will unravel the whole sleeve. I've never had that happen. Where it's like, "Oooooh, we'd better hope that nobody notices that."

How do you guys measure your success as an editor?
NASH: Survival.

Tell me more.
NASH: For me, for a long time, there was a very direct correspondence between the success of my books and my ability to eat pizza. Now, in the last year, it has become less direct, since I don't have to make payroll, least of all my own, anymore. Because in the past, in order to make payroll, I would do it by not making my own payroll.

But what about in a deeper sense?
NASH: I suppose I was answering as a publisher, which is what I was and in a sense what I am anterior to being an editor.

I think I just mean more internally, in a more internal way.
NASH: When the book becomes what you imagined it was going to be based on the fact that it was almost already there. And you helped it get there.
CHINSKI: But we all want more than that, too, don't we?

That's what I'm trying to get at.
CHINSKI: We all want our books to have an impact. Beyond sales in any kind of simple sense. You want people to talk about them. You want people to find each other because of them. I worked with a writer who very elegantly described a book as a table that everybody can sit around and start a conversation around. And I think, not to sound terribly cheesy about it, that's what we all want. We want our books to have an impact in the world. And that's really rare. Sometimes it has nothing to do with sales. So I think it's more than just feeling like you did your job on the page. It's feeling like you did your job in the world.
GARGAGLIANO: That it went beyond you.
CHINSKI: Yeah. Books should transcend themselves in some way, and I think that's what we all really want.
NASH: The reason I got excited about publishing, compared to theater, was that the theater I was doing had no fucking impact on the world whatsoever.
GARGAGLIANO: Do you feel like it's better in publishing?
NASH: It's immensely better. Now, it may be that the joy I get from publishing is relative to how hard it was in downtown, experimental, Richard Foreman-acolyte theater. I set the bar so low for myself! [Laughter.] But in publishing, even indie publishing, thousands of people who I will never meet, who don't want to act for me, will actually buy one of my books.
CHINSKI: That reminds me of another great quote that I'll probably get slightly wrong. I remember when Philip Roth came to sales conference at Houghton Mifflin. I think it was for The Human Stain. He gave a presentation to the sales force and basically talked about the death of the novel as a force in our culture. "That'll be a good way to get the sales reps really excited!" [Laughter.] But then he said the most extraordinary thing, which has always stayed with me and which I've said to a lot of writers. He said that if his books were to sell ten thousand copies, which doesn't sound like a whole lot, but if he were to sit in a room, and each one of those people were to walk by him, and he could see them face to face, it would break his heart. I can't believe I forgot that earlier. That's probably the best description of why we do what we do. Whether it's three thousand people buying a novel, or five hundred people buying a book of poetry, it does kind of break your heart if you actually imagine each of those individuals reading the book.
NASH: That's why it was not a value judgment when I said the audience for a book might only be 150 people, in this world of more books. It's about the intensity with which that connection might occur.
CHINSKI: Do you guys all remember one moment where you felt really content? Whether it was something specific that happened or just a moment in your career? Where you felt like, "Okay, this is it. Now I'm kind of happy. This is all I could ever want." Where you actually slept well for one night?

I like the question.
GARGAGLIANO: That is a good question. [Laughter]
CHINSKI: I mean, I'm just wondering, was it when a book hit the best-seller list? Was it when a book got a great review? I'm curious what those different feelings are.
BOUDREAUX: I'm trying to come up with something that won't sound like complete dorkiness. I mean, yeah, the best-seller list feels amazing. It feels amazing because of all the great books we watch not get read. When you see one that's actually getting read? Boy is that an amazing feeling. But that little moment of satisfaction? I was trying to think, "What was the first time as an editor that I really felt that way?" Maybe being promoted to editor was my greatest moment. You know, Ann Godoff was doing the benediction and it was kind of like, "You are now an editor. On your tombstone they can say you were an editor." I had this little glimmering moment of, "Yeah! I came here, I didn't even know what publishing was, barely, and now..." Thank God for the Radcliffe Publishing Course. I wouldn't have had any idea of how anybody moves to New York or gets a job had I not ended up doing that. I had been working at Longstreet Press in Atlanta, where we published Jeff Foxworthy's You Might Be a Redneck If... That's actually my proudest moment—what was I doing forgetting that? But seriously, I did that course because I didn't know anything about anything and I thought I'd go back to Longstreet and work there. But then I thought, "Well, gosh, maybe I'll try New York for one year. I'm sure I'll end up back down in Atlanta before long, hoping that somebody at Algonquin would die so that somebody from the South could get a job at a slightly bigger publisher whose books you actually occasionally heard about." You know, I think actually getting promoted to editor was sort of like, "Wow, here I am. This is really a job that I'm really going to get to do." I still sort of feel amazed at that.
GARGAGLIANO: Getting a good review is also amazing. It's so gratifying when you have loved this thing for so long and somebody in the public says that they love it too. It's a thrill.
BOUDREAUX: Getting a review in a place that's always been hard to crack. I'd bring up Ron Rash again. He was a regional author who had never been reviewed in the Times, never been reviewed in the Washington Post. He had this Southern fan base. The booksellers loved him. The San Francisco and L.A. papers had been good to him in the past. But everybody else ignored him. Getting him a daily review in the Times was such a bursting-buttons proud moment for him. I've never been happier about the work I've seen my company do on a book. Because we knew what he had felt like he'd been missing. And there it was, lining up—the New York Times, the Washington Post, the New Yorker—when everybody had been ignoring him.
NASH: For me it was the summer of 2002, when there were two things that persuaded me that I should stay in the business. One was the first book I ever acquired, by a woman named Jenny Davidson, who I'd gone to college with. I was not even sure what one did at a publisher, and I thought, "I should acquire something." We had to find books because there was nothing in the pipeline. So I asked around and my old college friend had a novel that no one wanted to publish. I didn't know what galleys were at that point. But at one point our distributor asked us for some galleys, so we printed out manuscripts and tape-bound them and sent them some places. And the book ended up getting a full-page review in the Times. It ended up being pretty much the only review it got. It didn't get any prepubs because I probably didn't send it to the prepubs on time. But for whatever reason, some editor at the Times Book Review decided to review it. So I had this sense of not having fucked up—this absence of failure in a world where you're up against it.

The second thing that happened had to do with the second book I acquired, Get Your War On. I'd look at my distributor's website and see the sales and the backorders. And one order came in—I think it was the second order that the book got—and it was Harvard Bookstore, which ordered forty copies. That was more convincing than the Times Book Review. It was the first time a bookseller had ever trusted me, the first time a bookseller had ever said, "You're not an idiot." I don't think in either of those situations did I realize how hard it was. It was only later, when I tried to get the secondTimes review and the second forty-copy-order from an indie bookstore, that I realized how good it was.

But the second thing was bigger than the first thing because ultimately it's about survival. I wasn't being glib when I was talking about survival. There was a very direct, one-to-one translation between my ability to sell books and my ability to stay in business and pay everyone. There is a British publisher call Souvenir Press, apparently they've been around for a long time, and I got a catalog of theirs one time. It included a letter from the publisher, and in the letter he quoted some other august independent publisher, saying something to the effect of, "A publisher's first duty to his authors is to remain solvent." Which was instructive because if you don't, it's not some glorious failure. All of your authors go out of print. And one of the reasons I ended up selling the company—one of the reasons was that I fucking had to because PGW had gone tits up and there was just no way to avoid that—but there was also a sense that if I fucked up too badly, the whole thing would go kaput, and I had an accountability to the authors to not let it all go kaput because it was not going to be some cute little failure where everybody would be like, "All right, peace, Soft Skull. It was very nice but now we'll all move on." It was like, "Oh, there are a number of authors whose careers actually depend on this."

Let's talk about agents. Tell me about the difference between a good one and a bad one.
GARGAGLIANO: A good agent knows what to send you. They're playing matchmaker, and they do it well. Those are the happiest relationships—those authors are happiest with their agents and they're happiest with their editors.
CHINSKI: A good agent also understands the process inside the publishing house and the kinds of issues and questions that an editor has to deal with on a daily basis. But I think, most importantly, they know what they're sending and who they're sending it to.
BOUDREAUX: A good agent can be very helpful when you get to those sticky wickets, whether it's the cover, or an ending that still doesn't work, or something else. An agent who can honestly appraise the work along with you and add their voice to the chorus of why, for example, the author needs to change that title. You want it to be about the book and you want it to be about the author, but every now and then the sales force knows what the hell they're talking about with a "This is going to get lost because it is black and it has no title on the cover. It's not going to degrade the integrity of the book if you change it." An agent can either be helpful in that conversation or they can sit there and be a roadblock and let you be the bad cop. An agent who's willing to be the bad cop with you can save an author from impulses—and help them understand why it's the right thing to do in a world where two hundred thousand books get published every year.
GARGAGLIANO: The same thing is true on the publicity front, when you have an author who wants something and you have an agent who's able to make the additional phone call and work on the team with the publicist and the editor. It's much better than getting a phone call from an agent who's just yelling at you.
CHINSKI: Just to step back a little bit, obviously the agent's job is to be the advocate for the author. But, along the lines of what you were both saying, that doesn't always mean agreeing with everything the author says. I think sometimes the agent forgets that. That, actually, they can be most constructive for the author—not just for that book, but their career—by explaining some difficult things to their client.
GARGAGLIANO: And encouraging their author not to be difficult, which doesn't win any fans in the house. If the agent is able to step in and say something in a constructive fashion, that is often helpful.
CHINSKI: It's human nature. We don't like to admit it, but people like to work for somebody who's appreciative. That doesn't mean, in a saccharine way, just affirming everything that the editor and publisher are doing. Obviously, we all make mistakes. But the conversation has to be constructive. We've all seen it over and over and over again. If an author, even if they don't agree with you, is appreciative and trying to work constructively with the house, and so is the agent, it just changes the energy of the way people respond to that project—from the publicist to the designer to whoever. It goes back to what we were saying before: We all want the same thing, and if everybody can keep that in mind, it just makes everybody want to work all the harder on behalf of the book.
NASH: The squeaky wheel theory is bullshit in our business. It's just complete bullshit. It doesn't work.
CHINSKI: I have a sense that authors sometimes get that as concrete advice—to be a squeaky wheel—and for everyone out there, there's a way to express your convictions without being...
GARGAGLIANO: And that ties into being proactive for yourself. If you're out there doing a lot of work for yourself, that energy is—
NASH: So inspirational. When you have an author who shows up at a bookstore and then a week later the sales rep shows up at the store and the rep emails me and says, "Guess what? So-and-so just came by Third Place last week. The buyer was so excited to meet him." Then the rep emails everyone else on the sales force and says, "Look how hard this author is working." It's amazing how effective an engaged author is. But if the author is like, "Why aren't my books in Third Place?" it accomplishes nothing.

We all know that there are less than great agents out there. How are writers supposed to avoid ending up with one of them? Put yourself in their shoes.
CHINSKI: I think they need to do a lot of research, for one thing, even before they get an agent. It amazes me how many times we get query letters from agents who clearly haven't looked at our catalog. I think they need to ask a lot of questions of whatever agent they're thinking about signing up with and make sure the agent knows who they're submitting to and why and so on.

But what if the author doesn't know any of that stuff?
GARGAGLIANO: The author should know. It's their business.
CHINSKI: So much information is available online. There's no excuse now to not know what a house is doing and even what individual editors are doing.
GARGAGLIANO: Every time you read a book, the editor's name is in the acknowledgments. It's very simple.
NASH: The fact that agents don't charge money to read is so widely an established fact online that it's mind-boggling that you still get submissions from agents who are obviously functioning that way. The agenting equivalent of chop-shops.

I mean more the difference between a B+ agent and an A+ agent.
GARGAGLIANO: I think that goes back to what we were talking about with the author's relationship to their editor. It's a personal connection. You want someone who understands your work and is articulate about it and has the same vision for it and can talk to you about your whole career and not just the thing that's in front of them. And then that conversation extends to the editor and the editor's conversation extends to the house.
NASH: With regard to the so-called "A+" and "B+" agents, when I've seen authors switch agents to get somebody more high-powered it pretty much has always failed. So if that's what meant by the difference between a B+ agent and an A+ agent, there is no difference. If they met the criteria that Alexis just articulated, then the odds are that they're the right agent for you. I mean, there's not a whole lot of variance in the advances I pay—there's not a lot of variance in what I can accomplish and not accomplish. Maybe there is with you guys. I've always had this theory—I could be wrong—that who the agent is might make a 20 percent difference in the advance an editor is going to offer. But it's not going to make an order-of-magnitude difference. Probably. It's not going to be the difference between ten thousand and a hundred thousand, let's say.
GARGAGLIANO: I think that's true 90 percent of the time. I think there are a very select group of agents who people just pay attention to before they even know what the book is. And that sets expectations.

We may as well name them.
NASH: Nicole Aragi, presumably.
GARGAGLIANO: Tina Bennett. Lynn Nesbit. Jennifer Rudolph Walsh. Suzanne Gluck.
CHINSKI: Eric Simonoff. I mean, I know from friends at other houses that when a manuscript comes in from certain agents, they start circulating it before they even read it because they presume it's going to go really quickly and for a lot of money. And that's not true with other agents. It just changes the game entirely. I think an author has to understand what they want. They have to do some soul searching, for lack of a better phrase, and figure out if it's just the money they need or if they need something else. And it's hard to hold that against someone. I know that editors always bitch about having to pay too much, and obviously it can have big consequences in a house—if a book doesn't earn out and so on—but you can't really hold that against the author. We never know exactly what their circumstances are. Maybe they have five children who they need to send to college. But they need to figure out what their priorities are. I do think we've often stumbled up against this thing where, in the same way that people think advertising equals love, they think that the advance equals love. And that's just not always true. But people assume that the more you pay, the more you love a book—that if you offer fifty thousand dollars more than another house, then you love it more and will be more devoted to it—and that's not necessarily the case. I think a good agent will explain to the author what all the different variables are, and specifically within the context of what the author needs, whether it's financial or their career more generally, and that is the ideal way to make the decision.

How do you guys feel about auctions?
CHINSKI: We try to avoid them if we can.
BOUDREAUX: I don't mind an auction as much as I hate a best-bids [auction]. And I don't mind a best-bids as much as I hate a best-bids and then the top three get to do it again. What the hell? Everybody does that now. It's insane to me. And the other thing is, does everybody have to talk to the author now, or meet the author, before you get to make an offer? What happened to the arranged marriage? "Eric likes me, Eric likes you, how 'bout we do a book together." I mean—
CHINSKI: Have you gotten the one where you don't get to talk to the author unless you promise to make an offer in advance?
GARGAGLIANO: Oh, that's horrible.
BOUDREAUX: That happened recently. You weren't allowed to talk to the author unless you'd ponied up however many six figures.
CHINSKI: There's an admission price to even talk to the author. That drives me crazy. At FSG, we try to avoid auctions. We decide what we think a book is worth, make the offer, and the author either decides to come or not come, and we bow out if it doesn't happen.
NASH: I mean, any economist will tell you that the winner of an auction has overpaid. In a lot of worlds, outside the publishing one, certain auctions get structured so that the second highest bidder wins. Because the presumption is that the overbidder has overpaid in such a way that it could imperil the business.
BOUDREAUX: I love that! Second place wins—let's hear it for all the B-students!
CHINSKI: All you A-students are crazy.

I hear what you're saying, Richard, but what about with books like Everything Is Illuminated or Edgar Sawtelle? You're not the loser if you won those auctions.
NASH: But I mean in aggregate. Any of these things are statistical, so there are always outliers.
CHINSKI: Actually, I came in second on Everything Is Illuminated.
BOUDREAUX: Were you the underbidder?
CHINSKI: I was, actually.

Apparently I was wrong.
GARGAGLIANO: To be fair, there is a benefit to an auction, which is that, at least in my position, the whole house has to pay attention to the book. You end up getting more people reading it and talking about it, and that creates a certain excitement that isn't to be negated entirely. As long as you don't overpay too much, within that excitement, I think it can benefit the book.
CHINSKI: But what about the problem—this is rare, but we've all seen it happen—where the money becomes the story behind the book. That gives me a queasy feeling. Even if it doesn't happen in a negative way, which we've obviously seen happen. But if that's the driving momentum that gets a book attention? I guess, on one level, great. We'll take what we can get. But on another level it just makes me queasy.
GARGAGLIANO: There's a huge difference between an auction that ends at two hundred thousand and an auction that ends at a million. There's a huge spectrum there. But if you're in an auction with five different houses, your publishers are going to pay attention. Because everybody else is paying attention.

 

Do you guys think you feel the money you're spending in the same way that maybe Richard does?
BOUDREAUX: I don't know if you sweat the difference between 150 [$150,000] and 175 [$175,000]. But you definitely...One [$100,000] and five [$500,000] are different. And five [$500,000] and three million are different. I'll tell you what's easier: three million. Because then everybody did have to get on board. You are not out there on your own saying, "I believe!" But those middle, lot-of-money numbers when maybe nobody else read the whole thing and somebody is letting you do it? You do feel responsible for that in a "Boy do I need to make sure I don't make a single misstep the whole time. The manuscript has to be ready early. I've got to have blurbs early. We've got to get the cover right. I've got to write those hand-written notes to people." You feel the need to justify it. But at the same time, you don't have to lose sleep every night because you won the auction by going up ten or fifteen thousand dollars. I think auctions can be not horrible when you agree on the number beforehand. What I hate is feeling like the ego contest has begun and somebody thinks so-and-so across town has it and you're trying to guess who it is—or somebody inside the house, when there's a house bid situation. The bullshit competition drives me up the wall. Being in an auction and saying we think it's worth three hundred or we think it's worth eight hundred—I don't sweat that if we're making a decision beforehand. It's when you get into the middle of it and suddenly the book that you thought was a great two hundred thousand dollar book...You're paying four [$400,000]? Just because there are still four people in it? I mean, when an agent calls and says they have interest, that's fine and dandy. But it's not going to change my mind about whether I liked the book or not, and I don't want the publisher deciding because three other houses are in and "We should get in on that, too." So if you can make these decisions before the craziness starts, it's fine. It's when the craziness begins—
CHINSKI: The feeding frenzy.

But it seems like that's how it works now. You're getting that email from the agent right away.
GARGAGLIANO: Noooo.
CHINSKI: But don't you feel like you get that more and more?
GARGAGLIANO: I don't feel like it changes my mind, though.
CHINSKI: No, I just mean more as a strategy to get people to pay attention.
BOUDREAUX: I feel like, when you get a submission, you know that it's so easy to send that everybody on earth has it already. And it's twenty a day and there they are on your Sony Reader and the attention paid to things has diminished just by the ease with which everything gets slotted in and slotted out. And then the agent's like, "I've got interest! I've got interest!" Well, "I've got a ‘No!'" I can email fast, too! [Laughter.] Unfortunately, that's how it ends up working sometimes. "You've got to get back to me quickly!""Okay, well I guess I won't be deliberating over this very long. I've read ten pages and we can be done, then." If everybody just wants to speed it up that much.
CHINSKI: But I've heard so many agents say that it's becoming more and more difficult to sell a literary first novel that it almost seems like this is compensation for that. There's so much resistance now—everybody's trying to find a reason why they shouldn't buy something because it is so difficult. It seems like we get more emails now that say "There's a lot of interest" just to kind of built up that intensity from their side.
NASH: What I get to do in those situations is say, "Congratulations. I'm thrilled for the author. Next time." I just can't play at that level. That makes my life a lot easier. It's a much less complicated thing than what you guys have to go through in terms of evaluating the difference between two hundred [$200,000] and four hundred [$400,000]. That's one thing I don't ever have to worry about. But I really learned a lot from what you were saying about how when the money gets really big, you aren't accountable anymore. Not that you aren't accountable—but there's a lot of shared responsibility and the buck isn't stopping entirely with you. Whereas there's an in-between spot where it's large enough that you're exposed but not so large that anybody else is going to be wearing the flak jacket with you.
BOUDREAUX: The first book I ever preempted, I hadn't finished reading it. It had come in to another editor who gave it to me. So I was starting it late and I hadn't finished it and I went in to tell the publisher, "We've heard that somebody else is going to preempt." The publisher said, "Okay, go offer" several hundred thousand dollars. "Okay!" So I did, and we got it—what do you know?—and the next day the publisher asked, "So what happens at the end?" I still hadn't finished it! I was like, "They all...leave...and go home." I didn't know what happened! [Laughter.] That was kind of scary, and I did feel like "This one is all on me"—because not only had nobody else read the thing, but I wasn't even certain it would hold up. As I was editing it I was like, "I hope that's what happens at the end...." Otherwise the author's going to be like, "Really? Why would you suggest that at the end?" I'd have to be like, "I just think it's important that everything works out that way."

When you look at the industry, what are the biggest problems we face right now?
CHINSKI: I think they're all so obvious. Returns. Blogs.
GARGAGLIANO: And just finding readers.
CHINSKI: The end of cultural authority. That's something we talk about a lot at FSG. Reviews don't have the same impact that they used to. The one thing that really horrifies me and that seems to have happened within the last few years is that you can get a first novel on the cover of the New York Times Book Review, a long review in The New Yorker, a big profile somewhere, and it still doesn't translate into sales. Whereas six years ago, or some mythical time not that long ago, that was the battle—to get all that attention—and if you got it, you didn't necessarily have a best-seller, but you knew that you would cross a certain threshold. Whereas now you can get all of that and still not see the sales. I think that phenomenon is about the loss of cultural authority. There's just so much information out there now that people don't know who to listen to, except their friends, to figure out what to read. And that's the question we wrestle with the most. I think publishers have to communicate more directly with readers—that's the big barrier we're all trying to figure out. How much to use our websites to sell directly and talk to our readers directly?

So what are you doing to try to do that? What are you experimenting with?
CHINSKI: I can think of one thing. I mean, it's a small thing, but we recently started the FSG Reading Series uptown at the Russian Samovar. It's amazing. It's actually turned into a kind of scene. The New York Observer and the New Yorker have written about it. And I mean "scene" in a good way. In all the ways that we were talking about before, what makes us most happy is when a book forges a community around itself. It's a small thing, but now if we can somehow bring that online, or expand it in some way, it will be a way for FSG as a name to mean something, which will mean that we have another way to bring our writers to readers. The names of publishers, notoriously, are not like "Sony" or other companies where the name means a whole lot to readers. It may mean something to reviewers or booksellers, but I think we all need to figure out ways to make our names mean something. That's another way to establish authority so that people become interested in the individual books. That's a big challenge, and there's no easy solution to it.

What else are you guys trying to do, beyond the hand-written notes and the bigmouth mailings? What are you lying awake at night thinking about doing for this novel you're publishing that doesn't seem to be going anywhere?
BOUDREAUX: I pray that the people in our new media department who are supposed to be figuring out this problem are staying up late at night. That's what I think about as I roll around at night. And they are always coming up with things that I hope will work.
CHINSKI: And now we have this amplification system, supposedly—the Internet—which is supposed to amplify our ability to create word-of-mouth. But I don't think anybody's quite figured out exactly how to do that—or at least how to make it translate directly into sales. We all can see, in certain cases, our books being talked about a lot online. But what does that mean in terms of sales?
NASH: In our case, we've never really relied much on cultural authority, although we've certainly used it here and there. But for the most part, to the extent that we've been successful, it's been through the things that you're asking about. I check our Web metrics several times a week, whether it's Quantcast, Alexa, or Compete. These are places for measuring traffic. I try to figure out what the traffic is and what the demographics are. So I'm doing a lot of stuff that would probably make you want to shoot yourself.
BOUDREAUX: I'm glad you're doing it, though, so I can read about it in this article. Then I can call somebody and say, "You should do that! That's brilliant!"
NASH: One of your new media people, Amy Baker, was briefly involved with Soft Skull back in the day. She played on our street hockey team that was known as the Soft Skull Sandernistas, which was named after my predecessor. [Laughter.] But seriously, as Eric says, the Internet is amplified word-of-mouth. The things that are happening online are amplifying a process that's already in place. I mean, the genius of Oprah has never been her ratings. Her ratings aren't that spectacular compared to a lot of other shows. It's that Oprah connects to her audience in an intimate way, as if she were one of eight women who have lunch together every Tuesday. And that intensity of relationship—plus the fact that it is able to occur on a reasonably broad scale—is her genius. So what you do is go looking around the world for people with a certain level of trust. Authority, in a certain sense, has been partially replaced by trust. Part of what you can call "trust" today is the remnants of authority. People "trust" the New York Times.
CHINSKI: And people trust their friends.
NASH: Exactly. People trust Liesl Schillinger. People trust Ed Champion. Or they hate them. And you're just trying to get your stuff to people who are trusted. In my case that involves doing it myself, in a lot of cases.
GARGAGLIANO: This is one of the things that I get most frustrated by, partly because I didn't care about book reviews when I wasn't in publishing. I would never read the New York Times Book Review. I just wanted to walk into a bookstore and find something. But people don't do that anymore. People aren't interested in the community of books. So it's finding the niche markets. I just published a book called The Wettest County in the World. It's a novel about the author's grandfather and granduncles, who ran a bootlegging ring during Prohibition. It's amazing. And we've gotten IndieBound, we've gotten lots of things for it, and it's gotten amazing reviews. But the sales aren't going to happen on that alone. So I've been mailing it to bloggers who have beer blogs and whiskey blogs, and bourbon drinkers, and distilleries. I'm trying to find the niche market. I think that's the way things are going. I think that kind of thinking is much more exciting—you're more likely to find the readers who are interested—but publishers aren't set up to find niche markets for every single book.
BOUDREAUX: That's the thing. Do you do the whiskey mailing and then the beer mailing and this mailing and that mailing? It seems like there aren't enough hours in the day and there isn't enough staff—the Amy Bakers of the world—to do that.
NASH: That's where the writer needs to come into it. And interns. That's one of the ways in which interns can be so valuable. That's great work for them to do—a Technorati blog search on whatever. It's not hugely difficult, and it's kind of interesting.
GARGAGLIANO: It can also be useful for books down the line.
CHINSKI: That raises an interesting thing for writers to consider. I mean, how many times have we all heard that a certain book is going to appeal to this audience, that audience, and everybody else in the world? You just know that it's not true. But if you can go really deep into one community, you might sell ten thousand copies of a first novel, which most first novels never sell—at least the ones that are supposedly going to appeal to everyone. I don't think novelists should spend too much time worrying about who their audience is, but it's something to consider. I just think that line—"This book is going to appeal to everybody because it's about love or family or whatever"—doesn't work. I think the author and the publisher need to think more specifically. If you could sell one book to everybody on two city blocks in New York, you'd probably be selling more copies of that book than we do of the ones we just send out into the world and hope are going to sell magically. But how do you reach everybody on those two city blocks in New York and get them to buy the book? That's the task, metaphorically, that so many of us are facing: how to get to them and make them believe us. Because at the end of the day we're companies, and all of those people online who are talking to each other aren't necessarily going to believe that we have their best interests at heart. They'll think we're advertising to them through other means. So we have to establish a certain amount of trust with readers, not just as companies but as people who also love books in the same way they do. Again, it's a small thing, but the idea behind the Samovar reading series—not that it's a totally new idea—is that the editors at FSG love books, and you guys love books, so let's get together. And it's not just about trying to sell our books to you.
NASH: One of the things that that accomplishes that may not be obvious from the get-go is transparency. You're putting yourself out in the world and exposing yourself in a way—making yourself vulnerable. I have never understood why the staffs of publishing houses are invisible to readers, who are ultimately the people who pay our salaries. I mean, my wife is a corporate lawyer, and her photo and bio are on her firm's website. Book publishers just refuse to allow their staff visibility to the world. If Paul, Weiss, Rifkind, Wharton and Whatever are willing to allow all the partners' and associates' photographs and bios to be seen by the world, what about publishing is so important that we can't be allowed to be seen? I know that part of it is that we don't want authors bugging us too much. But I think that's part of what the Samovar reading series accomplishes: a certain willingness to participate.

Just in the space of your careers so far, what has been the most destructive new thing that's come about in the industry?
NASH: It's technology. It's been both constructive and destructive at the same time.
CHINSKI: So do you think e-books have been both?
NASH: E-books are one of the last ways in which technology is playing itself out. One of the first ways was desktop publishing. Another way that's been more incremental is the ability of digital printing to be commensurate with offset printing and for various machines to flatten the economies of scale. But, yeah, the ability to satisfactorily download a book digitally is turning out to be one of the last things that technology is accomplishing. I guess the other thing is just the capacity of e-mail and the Web—the social Web, in particular—to flatten communication. And it's all simultaneously destructive and constructive. It's destroying cultural authority but it's enhancing one's ability to cost-effectively reach individuals who might have other kinds of cultural authority. It's lowering barriers to entry, which is constructive because new presses can come along. BookScan is based on technology and has constructive and destructive components. The kind of supply-chain inventory management that Baker & Taylor and Ingram are doing, where they can now say to us, "We only need two months' worth of inventory; we don't need four months of inventory," is destructive because my working capital needs go up by 20 percent on that one phenomenon alone, but it's good in that I can actually see Ingram's demand building and respond to it. If I see big Ingram demand in the month before I publish something, I can say to myself, "I'm going to print advance orders plus two thousand as opposed to advance orders plus five hundred." So it's fucking me and helping me at the same time.
CHINSKI: I agree with Richard. Obviously a lot of things are changing right now, and some of them make things a lot more difficult, but they also—and I don't mean to sound like a Pollyanna—offer some opportunities. I'm always really wary of the sky-is-falling thing, this idea that we're at the end right now.
GARGAGLIANO: We're just at a place where we have to reinvent ourselves, and we haven't figured out how to do that yet. People have started reading in this other way that I don't understand because I don't read that way. But it's our job to figure out how they're reading, and then to figure out how to deliver something they want to read.
CHINSKI: Are you reading on a Sony Reader?
GARGAGLIANO: Yes, and I love it. It's the best thing ever.
CHINSKI: I'm still adjusting to it. We just got them in the last few weeks. On one hand it's great. On the other hand, I still want to write in the margins and it's hard to go back and forth and figure out where you are in a manuscript. I actually physically find myself reaching to turn the page.
GARGAGLIANO: I do that all the time. It's really disturbing!
CHINSKI: Your brain gets tricked into thinking you're actually reading a page. But on the other hand, as I was saying, it's great, and we're seeing sales of books.... I mean, I saw something recently about the Kindle. People who have a Kindle are actually buying more books. So on one hand, it scares the shit out of me that people are reading on Kindles and Sony Readers. But on the other hand—
GARGAGLIANO: Why?
CHINSKI: For no reason other than that it's different.
GARGAGLIANO: I think it's so exciting.
CHINSKI: That's what I mean. It's also really exciting. It will bring a lot more people into reading. And this younger generation is so used to reading online that it doesn't really matter. It doesn't mean the death of literature.
BOUDREAUX: I was amazed at how quickly we all got used to the Sony Reader. It's still a little different from an actual book. But when I first got into publishing I remember reading a manuscript, instead of a finished book, and feeling like it seemed to lack a certain presentational authority. It took me a minute to take a manuscript seriously. It will be the same way with the Sony Reader. But, my God, we've all adapted in a period of months? Imagine the twenty-year-olds who are reading everything online all the time and switching back and forth among seven screens that are open all the time. The notion of not reading that way must seem odd to them.
GARGAGLIANO: I think that in several years the book object is going to be more beautiful and more precious.
BOUDREAUX: It's going to be like vinyl records.
GARGAGLIANO: Exactly.

page_5: 

I feel the same waythat these changes are going to happen. But the thing I don't understand is why hardcover books still exist.
GARGAGLIANO: I don't understand it.
NASH: It's because of the library market.
GARGAGLIANO: I published a book this fall that we crashed into the schedule because it was shortlisted for the Booker. We did a hardcover just for the libraries and a trade paperback for everybody else.
NASH: I mean, you're right. I was being semi-glib but not entirely glib. The question is, "Why will the print book survive?"

No, I'm literally talking about the hardcover book. Right now, at this moment, why does it exist? I'm looking at a hardcover and a paperback side by side and asking what the consumer is getting for almost twice as much money. Two pieces of cardboard?
CHINSKI: Well, we get two shots to publish the book.

But do we really, with the way the accounts are ordering, or do we just say that?
CHINSKI: But there's still that idea. Also, there's still the hangover of thinking that critics won't pay attention to a paperback in the same way. I know that's not as true as it used to be, but—
NASH: The existence of the hardcover has to do with history. It has to do with certain structures that are in place that haven't been replaced—structures varying from the library market to perceptions about reviewers to perceptions about quality in the mind of the customer. It also has to do with customers wanting certain books at whatever price. They don't care whether it's fifteen dollars or twenty-five dollars—they just want it because of who it's written by. But that's not going to last.
CHINSKI: But here's an interesting case: Bolaño's 2666. We did the hardcover and a three-volume paperback edition in a slipcase. They're priced the same. Which do you think would be selling more? I guess because they're priced the same it's not quite a fair question, but people do seem to be gravitation toward the hardcover just because it's the more conventional format. The paperback is selling well too, but the hardcover seems to have some kind of recognition factor. So I don't think it's just publishers sticking their heads in the sand. It's also readers still thinking that that's the way they discover new books.

Even when they cost ten dollars more for no apparent value?
GARGAGLIANO: I wonder that too. We don't really do very much—
NASH: Value is created in the mind. A classic thing that happens in American retail capitalism is that people will buy the more expensive thing. It's been proven over and over again. If you're at Barneys and there's an eighty-dollar lampshade and a fifty-dollar lampshade, you buy the eighty-dollar lampshade because you think it's worth more. That is endemic in American retail capitalism. But I think the distressing thing in publishing is that we're not making more beautiful objects. I think that one of the things that electronic publishing will allow us to do is free the print object of its need to have a given exact unit cost that is our mass-market way of delivering the product at a given price. The download will allow us to generate volume, and then we can create this gorgeous, elaborate fetish object for which we can charge gloriously outrageous sums of money.

But who's going to be selling them if that happens? Look at what happened to the music business.
NASH: Precisely. Look at the Radiohead model. Radiohead has already done it. Eighty bucks for the limited edition but only ninety-nine cents for the download. That's the model. It's just a question of "How do we get there in a way that doesn't involve complete chaos?" But it seems like that's where we're going. And I think it will be customer-driven—we'll go there as fast as the customers will be willing to go there.

What are you guys seeing in the industry that you find encouraging?
NASH: Fan fiction.

Which is?
NASH: People so in love with a given story and set of characters, or a given world, that they are doing their own version of it. I just think that's spectacular. Not necessarily as writing, but as a cultural phenomenon.

Anybody else? Come on, there's got to be something that's encouraging.
GARGAGLIANO: This is not a good time to ask that question. [Laughter.]
CHINSKI: It's like what Richard was saying—some of these things that are scary are also encouraging. The Kindle and the Sony Reader are bringing people to books who might not have come to them otherwise. I mean, that's something.
NASH: Look at the thing Eric said about people who own a Kindle buying more books than they did before they had a Kindle.
CHINSKI: That's pretty encouraging.
BOUDREAUX: And beyond that, I had it in my head that Kindles and Sony Readers would exist in the way audio books did—that it wouldn't be exactly the same. There would be certain kinds of books that really lent themselves to that format in the same way it was for audio books where you had businessmen driving on business trips. You couldn't get a novel published by your own audio publisher—they weren't interested—but a certain kind of practical nonfiction flew off the shelves. But Edgar Sawtelle has been a huge seller on the Kindle, which is not at all the kind of book I would have thought would be selling well in that format. It's six hundred pages long—there's a good reason to put it on a Sony Reader instead of reading a hardcover—but I just wasn't expecting the number of downloads to be such a close ratio to what's selling in a bookstore. I thought we'd have to figure out what categories worked, and once again fiction would be the category that would be left out as everybody read self-help books or Freakonomics on their Kindle. And I find it encouraging that people are downloading this big fat debut novel.

Anything else?
NASH: The use of social media to talk about books: Goodreads, LibraryThing, Shelfari. Reading books is a solitary activity, but books are also the richest kind of social glue, and the profusion of ways to be social with one another will be tremendously advantageous to books. The commonality that having read the same book introduces between two people is so much richer and more dynamic than the commonality of having watched the same TV show, for example.

It seems like agents lament the consolidation of the industry because it gives them less options. How do you guys feel about it?
BOUDREAUX: It doesn't seem to lessen their options when they submit to every single imprint in the house and then you're on the hot-button contest to see who reads it first.
NASH: I think it's kind of pointless to think about it. As individuals, there's sweet fuck-all we can do about it. With everything else we've talked about, human beings at our level can affect things. We can affect the outcome of a given book. We just cannot affect the outcome of a corporate merger.
BOUDREAUX: And for a group of people who've only been doing this for a decade, in which this has always been the case and it was already the death knell of publishing back when we were first getting into it and everybody lamented consolidation—
CHINSKI: When I saw The Last Days of Disco, it was heartbreaking. [Laughter.] That's when I realized what we've lost. As you were saying, it's hard to know because it's the world we live in. It seems like even within the force of consolidation, there are so many imprints blossoming within these places. I don't quite understand what the corporate thinking is behind that. But that's just because I'm not making the decisions, I'm sure.
BOUDREAUX: You've also got a group of people here who have ended up at certain kinds of imprints within those places. So we've all clearly struggled, those of us who are in the corporate world, to find a place that's least like a corporate structure. I mean, that's the great thing about Ecco. When Dan Halpern sold it to HarperCollins he had an agreement with Jane Friedman that basically said, "But we will never have to act like we are a part of corporate publishing. We will keep doing it exactly how we've been doing it." So you get to pretend you're this little thing attached to this big thing, which is how I imagine it being at Scribner and FSG. You get to have the benefits of the deep pockets, and somebody's figuring out the new media thing and revamping this site and that site, and you have the economies of scale of getting your shipping done or whatever, and you still get to sit there and work on your books. So we've also self-selected for a certain kind of publishing within corporate publishing.

And you really did, because you left Random House without having new a job lined up.
BOUDREAUX: I did. I thought I'd go see if anybody wanted me to come do fiction. Thank God Dan Halpern was out there. God bless him. Because it's true: Who doesn't want to do the small list inside the big house, which is just a different kind of experience? I mean, it seems the best way to make that deal with the devil. As you say, Richard, the conglomeration isn't going to go away.
CHINSKI: It doesn't actually mean that writers have less choice, I don't think. There are so many imprints within these companies. It's become an easy straw man to point the finger at. "Oh, these big corporate publishers that don't understand what books are." There are still a lot of editors working at imprints within these big corporations who care about books in the same way that somebody working at Scribner when it was independent cared about books. I think it's really easy, because there are so many frustrations that we all have as writers and editors and agents, to just blame it on some Corporate culture with a capital C. As Richard said, there are a lot of things that we can't control but there are also a lot of things that we can try to control, at least at a certain level. And that probably hasn't changed that much from fifty years ago.
BOUDREAUX: And certainly, the competition in-house is every bit as fierce as the competition out of house, when you and so-and-so from Simon & Schuster both have the book and there's a house bid.
GARGAGLIANO: The agent gets the same benefit of the imprints within the house riling each other up and competing against one another to put on the best show for the author, and the author gets the benefit of choosing between all of these different imprints. I don't think, for the author, it's a major difference. But I wasn't around when it wasn't like that.
NASH: I suspect that to the extent that consolidation has created problems in the industry, the problems are farther downstream than acquisitions. Retail consolidation is the real issue.

Speak to that. How do you feel about so much power being concentrated on Fifth Avenue and in Ann Arbor and Seattle?
NASH: It was all going to happen anyway. The book business was just later to the party, quite frankly, than the clothing business or the cereal business. The real estate was all the same. One of the reasons why we've become really dependent on social media is that it's a kind of hand-selling at a time when the 1,000 people who used to be able to hand-sell are now down to 150. And the capacity of the corporate retailers to hand-sell is either purchased or anecdotal. When I say anecdotal I mean it hasn't completely vanished. I can tell that the B&N in Union Square is putting Soft Skull books on the countertop that weren't paid to be put there. So there is anecdotal hand-selling going on. But you have a situation where the capacity of the retailer to sell a given book to a given, recognized individual has virtually disappeared—down to percentage points. It will work with a few titles—I'm sure you guys have all published books that have been made by independent retailers. But their ability to be a part of the social network of the community of books is gone and we have to find some other means of generating that word-of-mouth. Retailers just exist to shelve the books and make them visible in a given community. They're not selling them to the community.
CHINSKI: But don't you think they understand the crisis they're in, to a certain degree, too? That's why Barnes & Noble has B&N Recommends now, and Starbucks is getting involved, and everybody's trying to—
NASH: Yeah, you're right. I think they realize what they have wrought. Well, they do but they don't. Half the time they're trying to sell on price—they're doing inventory churn—and then the other half of the time they're trying to go intimate. I think they're kind of schizophrenic about it. I think that's part of the problem. I mean, a lot of the independents that went out of business deserved to go out of business. They weren't actually trying very hard to hand-sell. They were just taking the finite number of books that publishers could then publish and saying, "Okay, you pick from these five hundred books." But the great ones are the ones that we have with us right now—St. Mark's and Prairie Lights and the rest. They're doing a great job of being retailers. But you're exactly right about the chains. At times they are definitely trying to find that community-oriented approach.
CHINSKI: The way they'll host book clubs in the stores, for example. In the same way that people like to blame the corporate publishers, it's really easy to point your finger at the chains. I'm not saying they don't present a certain set of problems. But it's interesting that, in a way, they're wrestling with the same kind of issues that we're wrestling with in trying to find a way to interact more directly with their customers. It's a kind of funny crisis all around.

At the end of the day, what makes it all worthwhile?
CHINSKI: Pizza.
NASH: This roundtable.
BOUDREAUX: The glamour of this!
CHINSKI: Going home and editing for four hours.

That's funny. That was actually going to be my next question, but I was going to do it in the anonymous section at the end so you wouldn't have to lie about it. Seriously, though, what makes it worthwhile for you?
BOUDREAUX: Books mean enormous things to people. They are things that save people's lives, at times.
NASH: Even the lives of children!
BOUDREAUX: That's right! The lives of children! I don't think any children have ever lost their lives because of something an editor did, but children have most definitely had their lives improved by something that a writer, and an editor, put out there.
CHINSKI: We're doing it for the kids!
BOUDREAUX: Why don't we make that, "We're doing it for our children, and our children's children."

EDITORS ANONYMOUS
Later, after the pizza was gone and even the most constitutionally strong among us were getting a little punchy—and understandably so—the panel agreed to speak anonymously on a range of topics that would be awkward to discuss for attribution. As usual, a number of verbal tics have been altered in order to preserve anonymity.

Does it bother you that so much of your work has to be done on nights and weekends?
Sure, every once in a while it catches up with you. But you can't concentrate in the office so it's just the way it is. But I'd be lying if I didn't say that sometimes you don't feel resentful. I always have that in the summer because I find that authors all deliver at the beginning of the summer because they want to go on their summer vacations.

Yeah, it's always just before Christmas, just before New Year's, just before the Fourth of July. The book's might be three years late but they go and deliver it on July 3rd.

Publishers have to let you have some time out of the office. And I feel like that is increasingly looked on as this sort of three-martini-lunch thing—that the editor needs the occasional Tuesday to edit at home. You can power through an awful lot, but at a certain point there are too many manuscripts stacked up, and it's been going on for so many years, that you've got to be given some time to do it that isn't just every Saturday of your life.

Such a big part of the job is to pay attention to what the rest of the world is doing and what's being written everywhere else and what other people are interested in and what you yourself are interested in—because you take all of those obsessions and you find the books that you're passionate about on all of those topics—but I don't really have time to do that.

That's my biggest frustration: not having enough time to read published books.

And it's a great disservice to your own job not to ever be able to read anything for pleasure—and not to ever be able to read the other books your company is publishing—because you've got x number of submissions to read and your own new authors' backlists to read and what your house is doing that's working because you just need to understand what that thing is that so-and-so just published. About eight rungs down you get to read something just because it sounds good—something that you're not reading to learn something about your job.

What do agents do that drives you crazy?
Ask for ads.

Submit the next book when you haven't even published the first book and you don't even know how many you're printing.

Assume that just because one book did really well you have to pay for your previous success.

And with fiction, more and more, the success of one novel does not mean that the next novel is going to sell at the same level. And I don't think that a lot of agents have caught up with that fact.

"Have you read it yet? Have you read it yet?" I want to be like, "Have you prepared for your launch meeting yet? Have you written your tip sheets yet?" They don't realize that you may have something from the four other big agents. I'm being flip about it, but they do tend to forget that. Two days later it's "Have you read it?""No, I'm actually editing your author who's under contract."

There's also a tendency to misinterpret an early read for actual depth of publishing program behind that early read. Sure, being the first editor to get back to them on a novel may well mean a particular enthusiasm and a good match, but it also may not. So to require that everybody be in on day two, set up meetings on day three, and be ready to do the auction on day four? Is that all the thought that you want us to put into it?

And using the weekends and holidays as a tactic. I hate the Friday e-mail saying, "Just in time for you to enjoy this weekend..." Or over Labor Day weekend! It's like the new destination wedding. You know, in the same way that you hate your friends who picked the three-day weekend to get married on so you can all go to Hawaii. I'm like, "Really? You had to save this for Labor Day weekend? I had all summer when I didn't have shit to read."

What are the biggest mistakes that writers can make in dealing with their editor or agent?
I think the bigger problem is dealing with their publicist. You have to be very nice to your publicist. You should send them flowers.

I had an author who used to leave messages at four in the morning saying that she didn't want us to publish her book anymore. She wanted us to take them off the shelves! That was fun.

Despite the fact that there is a real personal connection, authors should realize that we're not their therapists, we're not their best friends in the world, etcetera. I can fix your book but I can't fix your whole life.

What about when an author calls because there aren't enough hangers in his hotel closet? [Laughter.] That's happened!

Tell me about a few up-and-coming agents who you feel are great for fiction or memoir.
I think Jim Rutman at Sterling Lord is really smart. He's both a no bullshit guy and a genuinely nice guy. That may sound naïve, but it really does matter.

I think Maria Massie is fabulous. If I could publish the writers of only one agent, it would be Maria.

Julie Barer. I did a book with her and she went about getting blurbs like nobody I've ever seen. She brought them to me, every day, like a cat bringing me a bird. Eight in a row. I've never had an agent who went to bat that much and called in that many favors. It was amazing.

There's also Anna Stein, who's wonderful. She's got a very cosmopolitan worldview and she's also got a taste for a certain kind of political nonfiction that is quite interesting. The first book I got from her was a left-wing case for free trade, which you don't necessarily expect from Ira Silverberg's former foreign rights person.

You know who else is good? Robert Guinsler. He's really smart and really enthusiastic about his books. He has a lot of smart projects.

What kind of information will you withhold from your authors?
I never tell them when my bosses don't love their book. Or when it's been a battle to get them attention on the list.

I will hold back particularly bad feedback. If it's a novel, not everybody is going to agree on it. I've never had such a tsunami of bad feedback that I thought they really needed to hear it.

Do you send them all of their bad reviews?

I leave that up to the author.

I've started telling debut authors, "A lot of writers who have been through this don't want to see the bad reviews. Will you give me permission to not send you the bad reviews?"

When it comes to sales figures, I give them the information. I mean, I don't go out of my way to do it if the news is not good. If it's great news and I can say, "We did this and we did that and we did this," I give it to them all the time. But I don't go out of my way to say, "You're holding steady. Nothing's happening."

What other editors or houses are you impressed with lately?
I think Penguin Press is doing a great job. You look at their list and there's a consistency to it that is really amazing. I don't know how the finances look. But just as books, they're incredibly consistent.

I think Bob Miller and Jon Karp are doing a great job.

I've been impressed with a house called Two Dollar Radio. The reason I'm impressed is their own tagline: "They make more noise than a two-dollar radio."

Jofie Ferrari-Adler is an editor at Grove/Atlantic.

Agents & Editors: A Q&A With Agent Lynn Nesbit

by
Jofie Ferrari-Adler
1.1.08

On a recent afternoon, I walked up Park Avenue from my office in downtown Manhattan to interview the literary agent Lynn Nesbit. The agency she founded almost twenty years ago, Janklow & Nesbit Associates, occupies an entire floor of a large office building on the corner of Fifty-seventh Street. In the elevator, I couldn't help but think of the celebrated authors who must have taken the same ride to visit Nesbit, and my mind wandered to some of their memorable opening lines: "We were somewhere around Barstow on the edge of the desert when the drugs began to take hold" (Hunter S. Thompson). "That's good thinking there, Cool Breeze" (Tom Wolfe). "It is easy to see the beginnings of things, and harder to see the ends" (Joan Didion).

For Nesbit, the beginnings of things were no less evocative. Raised in the small town of Dundee, Illinois, and educated at Northwestern, the Sorbonne, and in the Radcliffe Publishing Program, she came to New York in the fall of 1960 and took the first job she was offered. The position, as an editorial apprentice at Ladies' Home Journal, was unsatisfying. She badgered Sterling Lord—even then a legendary book agent—for a job as his assistant, but he had nothing permanent to offer. So, in her spare time, she read manuscripts for him in French. Eventually a position opened up, and Nesbit leapt at the opportunity, despite a salary cut of ten dollars a week.

She worked her way up to being an agent in Lord's office; her early clients included Donald Barthelme, Michael Crichton, Frederick Exley, Hunter S. Thompson, and Tom Wolfe. In 1965, she left Sterling Lord to start the agency that would become International Creative Management; in 1989 she joined forces with Mort Janklow to found another new agency, Janklow& Nesbit Associates, which remains one of the most successful in New York. Over the years she has guided the careers of luminaries such as John Cheever, Joan Didion, William H. Gass, Shirley Hazzard, and Gore Vidal; younger writers such as Ann Beattie, Stephen L. Carter, Jeffrey Eugenides, Jayne Anne Phillips, Richard Price, and Scott Spencer; commercial superstars such as Robin Cook, Richard Preston, and Anne Rice; and nonfiction heavyweights such as Robert Caro, Jimmy Carter, Jonathan Kozol, and Gay Talese.

In this, the first in a new series of interviews with veteran book editors, publishers, and agents, Nesbit talks about her life, her career, and her authors, reflecting on the past, present, and future of the book industry and what writers can do to thrive in today's publishing world.

Why don't you start by telling me a little about your background. Where did you grow up?
I grew up in Illinois, in a town thirty-five miles northwest of Chicago called Dundee.

And you went to Northwestern?
I went to Northwestern because I wanted to be a drama major. But then I quickly learned, once I was involved in it, that I didn't want to do it. It was such a serious professional school. So I switched my major from theater to oral interpretation of literature. You'd do chamber theater, for example. You'd take Don Quixote and present it as a chamber theater piece. I was in a production and I played all of the women roles. Of course they were all variations on Dulcinea or his fantasy. It was an extremely good way to learn about the construction of a narrative. Because when you're breaking it apart, often you will characterize or have an actor play the narrator's role, so you learn a lot about voice.

What brought you to New York?
I always wanted to come to New York. When I was a child I used to listen to Grand Central Station—"Crossroads of a million private lives"—and think, "What could be more exciting than New York?" I was wandering through the English department my senior year at Northwestern and saw something about the Radcliffe Publishing Program. I thought, "Hmmm, I want to come to New York, I love to read books, this sounds like it's for me."

How did you get started in the industry?
At the Radcliffe program, they told you to take the first job you were offered because there were no jobs in publishing. They've been saying that for forty, fifty years. Sterling Lord was the agent who came to speak to the students, and I thought—I don't know why, I've thought about this over the years—but I thought, "Agent, that's what I want to do." But Sterling said he had nothing to offer. So I took the first job I got, which was as an editorial apprentice at Ladies' Home Journal. And I hated it. It just wasn't for me. So I kept hounding Sterling. And I read French quite well then. He was representing a couple of people who wrote in French, Tereska Torres and Juan Goytisolo. So I would read the books and write readers reports on them. And I hounded him. After three months at Ladies' Home Journal he offered me a job, for which I took a ten-dollars-a-week salary cut. I became his receptionist, his typist, his file clerk, and I had to weigh the packages and stamp all the letters.

Was Sterling Lord your primary mentor in the industry?
Sterling wasn't very interested in fiction, which helped me. He was immediately turning some things over to me. After I'd been working as his assistant for a month or two, he went to the Staten Island Writers Conference and came back and just threw these stories down on my desk. He said to read them and write to any of the writers I liked. One of the stories was"The Big Broadcast of 1938" by Donald Barthelme. And I read it and thought, "This is extraordinary." So I wrote, Dear Mr. Barthelme, I'm an agent and I just read this story and I think it's extraordinary and blah blah blah and I'd love to represent you. And he wrote back and said, "Fine." Now I don't think that happens today. There would be thirty agents crawling all over that story today—there are more agents than writers. And there are more writers than readers. I'm convinced of that.

Was Donald Barthelme your first big client?
Donald was very important because I sold the first story of his that I represented to the New Yorker. And he went on and became such an important force in the short story. But my first really big client—big in every way—was Tom Wolfe.

How did you meet him?
I pestered Byron Dobell at Esquire. I told him I wanted to meet Tom Wolfe. This was probably 1963. He'd published "Kandy-Kolored Tangerine-Flake Streamline Baby," the piece, in Esquire, and every other agent was after him too. I still ask him, to this day, why he signed with me. He says it's because I'm the only one who suggested he do a book, which is hard for me to imagine, but that's what he says. He was older than I was, and already a big deal, and I was just this kid.

The other big writer that I got young was Michael Crichton. I left Sterling Lord in, I think, 1965, to start a literary department for Marvin Josephson. It was called Marvin Josephson Associates. The head of his television department was a man named Ralph Mann, and he had a friend who had been a television agent at the William Morris office, whose daughter was Michael's first wife. This man was determined to find Michael the biggest agent there was. Of course he knew everyone. So Michael was interviewing all these people and he interviewed me, too. He was in medical school then and he had published one of his paperback John Lange thrillers, and he only had one other contract. So he came back for a second meeting and said—and this I remember very well—he said, "Let's grow up in the business together." So that was great.

Who was Marvin Josephson?
He was a very mild-mannered, shy, rather diffident television agent. He went around and bought these other agencies. He bought CMA, Monica McCall, Ashley-Famous. And this became ICM, this big corporate behemoth. He was never really an agent; he was a deal-maker, a buying agency.

And when you went there, you were the head of the agency right away?
I started the literary department for them at age twenty-five. They didn't have one. I went there and I was this kid. I was really young. I got there because I was dating an agent who worked for Marvin who said,"You should hire Lynn Nesbit." That's how I got there.

Tell me about some of the big personalities from those days in the book world.
Well, there were a lot of them. Bob Gottlieb was a genius.

From your perspective as an agent, what is his genius?
In the first place, he, like Michael Korda, who is my client actually, could read an eight-hundred-page manuscript in a night and come back to you the next day and give you a perfect analysis. Also, Bob never let a manuscript lay around. You would never hear from him, "Oh, I have seven manuscripts on my desk, I can't get to yours until a month from now." Bob also has such an incredibly big personality. And I always said that Bob has a big ego, but he can lend it to his writers, so they can share it. Bob Caro is one of my clients, and it's written into his contract that he has to have Bob as his editor.

A lot of people lament how the publishing industry has changed over the years. Your career seems to very much bridge all that—from the small independent shops to the corporatization of it all.
I say to Bob Gottlieb, who's still a very close personal friend, "You couldn't stand to be in publishing today." And he says, "I know." It is very corporatized. We all began to think about that in those days. What was going to happen? These big conglomerates, synergy, all that. People began to worry about it.

The first novel is the easiest to sell. But if it doesn't do well, you're up a creek. You have to reposition the author...because the publisher doesn't want to take another bath.

Tell me about some more of the big characters.
We just don't have them anymore. Morgan [Entrekin] is as close as we have. And Sonny [Mehta]. There were so many: Henry Robbins, Ted Solotaroff, Joe Fox, Sam Lawrence, David Segal. Even Dick Synder is a lot more colorful than Jack Romanos, who is now gone. I mean, they had passion, they cared about literature. Even Dick, who's not an intellectual. He cared. He was a madman. I mean, we need a little bit more…. Who is a madman now in publishing? Peter Olson, but of a very strange type. I mean, Morgan's eccentric, Sonny's eccentric. Morgan's less eccentric than he used to be. He's getting very conventional now with the wife and the child. It was just different then.

So you miss the personalities
Yes. I miss the fun. I tell Tina [Bennett] and Eric [Simonoff], "You missed the good days." When I worked for Sterling Lord, I had a loft, a sort of duplex loft apartment on Barrow Street. And Michael Sissons, who's now the head of Fraser & Dunlop, and Peter Matson, who's also an agent, used to give these parties at my house. They would make these drinks of half brandy and half champagne, and people got so drunk. One night Rosalyn Drexler, the lady wrestler and the novelist, picked up Walter Minton and just threw him against the wall. I'll never forget that. There was just more of a sense of fun.

So why was that lost?
It's the corporate thing. People are too scared. It doesn't attract eccentrics anymore.

Where are the eccentrics going?
The movie business. [Laughs.]

When did you start to represent Joan Didion and John Gregory Dunne?
My daughter is thirty-seven and John told this story—it's still difficult for me to talk about John—he told this story himself. He said, "Remember what I said to you when we were talking about you representing me?" I said, "No, I have no memory." He said, "Don't you remember when I said, 'What if you were to have a child?' Nobody would dare ask that question of a woman today! You would be stigmatized!" So I've represented him since before my first child, and she's thirty-seven.

At that point were you already representing Joan?
No. I didn't represent Joan until the book After Henry, when I came here. It's been a long time now, about eighteen years. They were very good friends of mine. I knew Joan very well. She was represented by Lois Wallace. Well, first Helen Strauss at the William Morris Agency, and then she was inherited by Lois, and then she came to me. It's been a long time now, but not back into the dark ages like it was with John.

Were you surprised by the phenomenal commercial success of The Year of Magical Thinking?
Yes. So was the publisher. The first printing was supposedly thirty-five thousand copies, then the Times magazine piece came out and they upped it to fifty thousand, then if you look at later editions and the number of printings.… It obviously touched a chord in so many people—young, old, people who hadn't even had anyone die. I think the honesty of her voice, the way she directly addressed the reader, without any sentimentality, was so moving.

How did you meet Hunter S. Thompson?
I don't know how Hunter came to me. I can't remember the sequence. I don't know who would have suggested it. Hunter was such a larger-than-life character. I always said that he was the one writer who always tried to say, "Oh, that didn't really happen"—talking about his escapades—but unlike most writers, they probably did happen. With most writers it's the opposite. He liked to go to these very chic restaurants in New York. I can remember taking him to the Carlyle and he'd be snorting cocaine right off his watch. He'd order six bottles of beer, two margaritas, and some salad. But the funny thing is, often he wouldn't even touch the stuff. Lunch would go on for hour after hour and he really wouldn't be drinking all that much during that time.

I read somewhere that you represented Fred Exley—and you sold A Fan's Notes?
That was when I was a kid too. That was very early. I don't remember the date, but that was when I was still at Sterling Lord, I think.

Do you remember how you met him? Were you close?
Oh, yes. I had an incredible correspondence with him. Fred was a terrible alcoholic and a tortured soul. Even more with Fred than with Hunter, there was a very, very tender part of him. Very sweet. Fred showed it more than Hunter did. I think that they couldn't deal with their vulnerability, therefore they drank. Or in Hunter's case, he drank and did drugs and everything else. They just couldn't cope with it. A Fan's Notes got tons of rejections and finally I sold it to David Segal, who was great. David was an eccentric. We need more people like him. He started his career at New American Library, which was a rather commercial imprint. But David had such a passion for literature and good writing. For instance, he picked up Cynthia Ozick when no one else did. And Fred. And Bill Gass.

You represent so many of the original New Journalists. What was it like to be at the center of a movement like that?
When I first represented Tom Wolfe, I was younger than Tom. I was a kid. And when I went to sell Tom's first book, his editor, Clay Felker, was the most important magazine editor in New York. I sent Tom's book out for auction. Viking, with whom Clay had an arrangement as sort of editor at large, brought Tom in for a meeting with Tom Guinzburg. But on the auction day, Viking didn't bid. So I thought that was curious. But they didn't, and the book went to FSG.

A few days later I went to this big literary party at Rust Hills's. I will never forget walking in. It was jammed with every writer and editor in New York. Clay was then dating Gloria Steinem, and Clay walked right over to me—this is like two days after the Tom thing—and he said, "You fucking cunt." I thought, "Oh my God!" I saw Tim Seldes coming up, so I said, "Tim, do you know Clay Felker?" And I walked away.

So what happened—the reason Clay was so furious—was that he thought he could deliver Tom Wolfe to Tom Guinzburg without anyone else looking at it. So of course he got mad at me instead of Tom. He was furious! Tom Guinzburg was furious too.

Now I'm going to skip forward many, many years. It's the publication party for Barbara Goldsmith's book Little Gloria…Happy at Last. It's a dinner at Phyllis Wagner's house. There are fourteen people invited. When she tells me the names, one of them is Clay Felker. And I said, "You know, he and I haven't spoken in years." And she said, "I think he thinks it's time to make up." So I go to the party and he comes over to me for the first time and says, "I'm really sorry about that. It wasn't your fault. It was that fucking Tom Guinzburg!"

But Clay's hatred of me got me a lot of good clients. Because around New York magazine he would scream that I was the toughest, bitchiest agent in town.

And it helps to have a little edge to your reputation?
Of course it does.

Why did you eventually decide to leave ICM and start Janklow & Nesbit? Was the decision affected at all by how the publishers were doing that—combining forces and becoming conglomerates?
No. My decision to leave ICM was more because I wanted to become an equity partner. I didn't want to just work for a big organization as a salaried employee. That's pretty much what drove it. And I'd probably been there long enough, and it was getting very big. I like the way we can focus more here. I have much more time to focus on the clients here because we have such a strong back office. It frees me to do more representation, not to worry about things.

Looking back, what would you say were some of the crucial turning points in your career?
Going to Marvin Josephson was a big turning point—getting to start a literary division. And then I got Charlie Portis and True Grit. That was a big deal. I had him from the beginning too. Tom [Wolfe] was a big thing. He was a big deal before I signed him. Michael [Crichton] wasn't. Victor Navasky was my first client. He was very helpful in introducing me to people in New York. We used to have this thing at the Algonquin, the round table—Victor tried to resuscitate the Algonquin round table. Christopher Lehmann-Haupt and I used to go, Kurt Vonnegut, Bud Trillin, Marvin Kitman, Knox Burger. People would come and go. We'd have it like once a week. This was in 1961, when Victor was starting Monocle and signing a lot of good people on.

Donald Barthelme was a big turning point. Donald was the one who introduced me to William Gass. That's another book that was turned down everywhere and David Segal signed it, Omensetter's Luck. That was a huge literary event. David was crucial.

I never thought, "Oh, here's an obstacle." I didn't think about building a career. It just sort of evolved. James Mills became a client. He wrote Panic in Needle Park. That was a big book. That was when I was at ICM. And Joan and John wrote the screenplay. That might be how I met John, by representing Jim Mills.

When did you meet Jimmy Carter?
I met him when I was at ICM with Marvin Josephson. He was just leaving the White House and Marvin and I went to the oval office to meet with him. I said to him, "You know, I'm one of the few Protestants in New York publishing." And I think he liked that. So he signed with us and Marvin and I divided the selling of the presidential memoir. After that, he began to write more and I completely took him over, and then he came with me here.

How do you see your principal roles and responsibilities as an agent? Have they changed over time?
You are part of a writer's support system—a very important part. The role of the agent is more important today than it was when I was starting out. Because the publishing world is so corporate, and editors move around so much, you are increasingly the only fixed point for the writer. That's one way it's changed. Another thing that I notice here, with younger agents like Tina and Eric, is that they do a lot of editing, and we didn't do that when we were young. I think it's partly because of the editors. There is such pressure on editors to come in with something that's almost ready to go that the agents are assuming part of what the editors used to do.

When did you start to recognize that as a phenomenon?
Probably just in the last eighteen years, or ten years.

Did you ever edit?
Not to the extent that they do.

What is your editorial process like? Will you give notes?
Oh, yes. For example, Andy Greer is a young new client of mine. I've read the draft of his new novel, which is coming out next spring, five times. That doesn't often happen, but with Andy it did. It was fascinating because I kept seeing how he kept enhancing and changing it.

What kind of specific thoughts would you give?
Just sort of general thoughts. Is this character really working here, or what about this scene.

But what you see with younger agents is more getting in there with a pencil and editing?
Especially on proposals.

What are the implications of that?
I think the implications are that editors need to see something very polished because everyone is so nervous. Books are an endangered species, especially fiction. I do think that younger agents work more on the nonfiction proposals, with extensive notes, before they go out. But with fiction, everyone is so nervous about it.

What do you mean exactly by "nervous"?
Nervous that fiction is very difficult to sell. An editor wants to see something that's more near completion, that the idea or the thrust behind a novel is more fully realized. Twenty-five years ago an editor would say, "Oh, this has promise," and sign it up. Today, editors want to say no rather than yes. Unless they see it as a big book.

And this is because of corporate pressures? Profit pressures?
Profit pressures. You must know that fiction is very hard to sell. Today it's almost that fiction needs to seem like it's going to be an event. It almost has to open like a movie, on the commercial side, or else the editor has to be convinced its going to get such praise, such positive literary acclaim, that even if it doesn't sell a lot you're launching a real voice.

Everybody talks about how the model for a writer's career has changed. You just talked about a book opening like a movie. There's this blockbuster mentality, especially for debut novels, with astronomical advances and very high sales expectations. How do you feel about that in relation to writers and their careers over the long haul?
Well, if it works, it's fine.… If they spend a lot and the book works, then everyone's happy and your career is launched. If they spend a lot and the book doesn't work, then it's a problem. Because as you know, everyone can see the numbers today. There is no fudging. And that's because of the chains. There are two or three big outlets. It used to be that we couldn't sell as many copies per book. We could argue that this is very good, this new chain system, because you can sell more copies.

Tell me how you feel about these changes, the blockbuster mentality.
I think it's kind of unhealthy. Because a movie is a movie, but when you're building a writer's career…. As I said, if it works, it's great. If it doesn't, I think it's a huge black spot on that writer's career. Everybody knows what's gone on. In the old days, we could fudge it a bit better. But today everybody knows if a book's been a success or a failure. There's no fudging. The problem is not the first book. It's the second. At least nobody asks me that question anymore, "How hard is it to sell a first novel?" The first novel is the easiest to sell. But if it doesn't do well, you're up a creek. You have to reposition the author, probably move them to a new house, because the publisher doesn't want to take another bath. So you sell it to a new house and say X overpaid and maybe they didn't do as good of a job as they should have, and the author probably understands that he probably has to take less money.

If you were a first-time writer and you were offered a big advance, would you be wary of it?
I think I would probably take it. There are very few who could resist it. Sometimes an author—and it's happened here at the agency—they'll take a somewhat smaller advance because they prefer the editor or the house or whatever. But it's never that much less. It's not a hundred thousand dollars less. Maybe it's twenty thousand dollars less. But you never know what will happen. The Elizabeth Kostova book worked. I mean, I don't think that's literature. It's sort of what we call, you've heard this term, faux literature. But it sold. Can we think of a book that was a real bomb?

It can be devastating to an author's career.
Well, not devastating, but not hopeful. Let's put it that way.

In terms of the book industry itself, what would you say are the most troubling or frustrating changes today?
What worries me is that there aren't as many younger people who want to become editors as there used to be. Because at a certain point they get frustrated. There's not enough money to make the job palatable, and they don't have enough freedom. So they feel that they have this corporate bureaucracy imposed on them and yet they're not making a decent enough salary. What I see is this flow of young editors becoming agents. There are hundreds of agents. I can't believe how many there are. When I was starting out, there were agents, but not at the number there are now. Because today they can operate out of their apartments with a telephone. Or they think they can. I can't imagine that because in an agency you do need a big support staff of people who handle the foreign rights, the first serial, the permissions. We have two lawyers on staff who go over the contracts. So I can't imagine operating that way.

What other changes are you seeing?
I said this earlier as sort of a joke, but I'm beginning to think there are more writers than readers. I get these e-mails pouring in from people who want to write their life stories. It's because of the memoir. Everybody thinks they have a story. I also feel there are fewer and fewer civilians—I mean people outside of our business—who I meet who have time to read. They all say, "I'd love to read, but I'm just too busy." What worries me is that people are on blogs, Web sites—there is a lot of that going on—but they aren't reading books. That phenomenon, to me, is not a product of the industry, it's a product of how our culture is changing. People's attention spans are getting shorter and shorter. And everybody has their specialty. I don't ever look at blogs or Web sites because I would never get anything done. I'm tempted to because I hear about these great things.

What does that mean for the future of books and reading? A lot of people seem to think an iPod-like device will come along for books.…
Great. That would be terrific. I have no problem with that. The more forms in which people can read intellectual content, the better. I don't care if they read it in a real book or on an iPod. If they're more likely to read it on some device, great. I have no fear about that. I have no idea why people do. It's the content that matters, the intellectual content. As long as we can keep it copyrighted. I also look forward to books on demand. Jason Epstein has been working on this machine for years, and he tells me that other people have been trying to do it too. The modes of distribution are so antiquated.

Epstein also seems to think that publishers are getting too big and will eventually collapse from their own bigness and fracture into smaller shops.
Like what's happened in Hollywood. I think it will happen. I think it's happening now, with all these imprints. There are so many imprints. And once they get the distribution figured out…. If these machines really do become effective, and there are more efficient ways of distributing books, then I think there will be more and more independent producers. And independent producers use a distribution outlet. So the publishers will be more like distributors. I think it could happen. I don't know because this business is so primitive—the publishing business—so unsophisticated. It takes so many years to make a change here that I don't think it's ten years away.

I'm always thinking about this issue of distribution—and returns, which is this convention that came about in the Depression that allows bookstores to return unsold books for full credit. It's very complex, very fraught, and it's a huge problem. But nobody really talks about changing it because it would scare booksellers.
I think the only way to solve the problem is these machines, books on demand. Then we won't have to have returns. We'd have a storefront with a display of books, and you'd go in and print out the book you want.

But what would that mean for booksellers, and for the aesthetics of being a book lover?
I'm right next to Borders. To go in there is such a nightmare. I love to go in and browse up near my country house in Millerton, New York. We have quite a good bookstore, an old-fashioned one. But even with these machines, they'll still probably display books. There will probably be some stores where people can go in and browse. I think it's going to hurt the chains more than anyone. Or maybe it won't. Maybe Barnes & Noble will get this machine. If there were print on demand, maybe some independent stores would come back. I mean, people want to go in and physically pick up a book, and it's hard at a big chain store. It's so big and the sales clerks don't want to help you.

What effect has the decline of independent booksellers and independent publishers had on books in this country?
I'm not sure which is the chicken and which is the egg. Of course Barnes& Noble and Borders—the chains—helped kill the independent bookseller. But on the other hand, there are so many stores available to people—in shopping malls, in places that probably didn't have a decent independent bookstore. So, in a sense, we can say the chains have helped the book business. They certainly have been able sell a lot more copies. The blockbuster books sell commensurately much more than they did thirty years ago.

I don't think that many people have a real sense of what agents do all day. Obviously all days are different, but walk me through a typical day.
You spend most days divided between things. You're reading the final draft, talking to the editor and to the writer. I'm having dinner tonight with Jayne Anne Phillips, who just delivered the final draft of her new novel. I read about five drafts of this one, too. And I was talking to her editor, Ann Close, yesterday. Questions like, "When are we going to publish this?" The question of course this year is the election, which is not always the case. Ann is sort of pushing for fall of '08, and everyone is sort of nervous about it, but on the other hand, is the election really going to affect a novel? Maybe it's a good time to publish them, Jayne Anne's included. You have all these questions. Then you have the question of the cover. We often have to go through many sketches before we get a cover. We also have to send the books out for first serial, which is right at the time when we get the manuscript in. And then we start thinking about foreign rights, and we try to submit a manuscript to the U.K., because the U.K. edition should come out simultaneously. So we hope that the U.S. pub date isn't so close that we can't have our best shot at getting a U.K. deal. And then in some cases there's a question of movie rights. In most cases with literary fiction you want to wait until there's some buzz.

So you spend your day deeply involved...
Yes. Deeply involved in all the minutiae—it's important minutiae—of the print runs, the jackets, the timing of the pub date, first serial, foreign rights. And then, if you've represented an author for a number of years, you have their backlist. Someone wants to make a movie out of Ann Beattie's "The Burning House." So you're dealing with that.

Say you have a novel from a new writer. How do you typically go about selling it? Do you pick up the phone and call one person, or five people, or ten people?
If it's of literary quality but I don't think it's going to be a megabuck sale, I probably submit it to the key editors who I think would respond to it at maybe a half-dozen houses.

How do you make those decisions—about which editors you send it to?
It's part of my job to know editors, to know what they respond to and what they like. I just intuitively know that from working over the years.

Are you ever consciously trying to match dispositions or personalities between a new author and an editor?
That wouldn't be my primary concern, but I think of that as a secondary problem. Will this person really mesh with so-and-so?

What's your style when you have several publishers interested in a project?
I would want the author to meet the editors, and probably the publicists, and maybe the marketing people. Then we would make a decision together, or the author may have strong feelings about who he or she wants to be with. I think you have to get a feel for it.

Do you know how many new clients you take on in, say, a year?
I really don't, because sometimes I'll take on an odd project. I took on Sherry Lansing's book. I mean that's a one-off. Or perhaps she'll do another book. That can happen. Right now I have two new authors I'm ready to go out with pretty soon. I don't know how many I take on.

How are new clients finding their way to you at this point?
They come in recommended. A client of mine will recommend them to me. A lot of my writers teach, like Deborah Eisenberg, Ann Beattie, Roxana Robinson, André Aciman—a lot of them. So they'll recommend someone and often I'll give them to some younger agent here. I mean, Vikram [Chandra] came to me through Barthelme and I gave him to Eric. And Edward P. Jones came to me and I gave him to Eric.

Tell me about some of that, about some of the mentoring you're done over the years.
I hired Binky [Urban] and Esther [Newberg] and trained them.

But what does that amount to?
They weren't agents. They were working in other jobs. Esther had been in politics, Binky had been working at New York magazine. I hired them when I was at ICM, and they would tell you I trained them. I hired Suzanne Glück and trained her. John Sterling worked for me at one time at ICM as an agent.

What do you look for in an agent?
Enthusiasm, energy, commitment, and taste. Eric and Tina are probably the two stars. Do you know Tina? She was with my daughter in graduate school at Yale. Tina was a few years older. Priscilla called me and said "Mom, you've got to hire this woman." Mort and I looked at her resumé and said, "This is amazing." And Eric should be an editor! He was at Norton.

Now put yourself in an author's shoes, an author who finds herself in a situation where she's lucky enough to have her choice between a few different agents who want her. What are the factors you would use to make the decision?
I think a lot of it is chemistry between the two people. I would also want to know a lot about how the office works, how much of a support system there is. I don't want to just sing our own praises, but I think our agency offers that more than any other agency because we are completely book oriented. There is not another book agency in New York that has two lawyers and a paralegal devoted to our authors and their contracts. We have four people in foreign rights. I would want to know, "How does this agency work?"

What other factors?
I would obviously want to know the agent's reaction to my work. I think it's important to feel out the level of commitment they have. Unlike twenty or thirty years ago, the agents now—at least here—are not going to take you on unless they're going to go gung ho. Because they know how tough the market is. They're not going to speculate.

What about in the industry at large?
I don't know. I can't speak to that. But I have a feeling that some of these more independent agents who are just starting out will take more people because they need it more.

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What can a writer starting out today do to put himself in a position to find an agent?
They can send stories to the Paris Review, Conjunctions…there are so many places. If you're writing short fiction, once you have two or three short stories in those magazines, and you're working on a novel, then agents begin to wake up and say, "We'd like to see this." So they have an entrée right there from the quarterly world. And I think everyone is desperate to find a good novel. We are more desperate than ever.

Do you feel a sense of competition with other agents and agencies?
Well, yes. I think all agents feel some sense of competition. As publishers do. If we didn't, I think we'd be very lazy and lax in our jobs. I think everyone feels they have to be on their mark today. You can't ever get complacent. You can't ever say, "Well, I've got enough clients and they're all wonderful and they love me." They could march off the next day. One doesn't know. It's like a marriage. Friendships break up. It's personalities. And they're professional and personal. The thing about our business is it interweaves the professional and the personal life. That's the way in which it is incredibly different than other businesses.

What is the single biggest problem with the book world today?
Distribution. Especially for smaller books. Because the bookstores won't take a chance. And if a writer has a not-so-rosy track record, then they won't order more and it becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy. Then, if the book happens to get good reviews, you're caught out of print and have to reprint and maybe the books don't get to the stores fast enough. And distribution is a problem on the other end, too, with books that are overprinted, books that may get on the best-seller list. It may look good to the outside world, but the returns may negate the rosy picture.

One of your agents here, Eric Simonoff, has sold a novel by James Frey to HarperCollins. Tell me about that decision, the decision to represent him. Is that something you sign off on?
I don't know anything about it. I haven't read the book. Eric can do anything he wants. He's codirector of the agency. Tina and Eric are very important forces in this agency. I don't mind it anyway. Get over it; it's fiction.

But tell me how you feel about him, about Frey?
I have no feeling. I haven't read the novel. But Eric says it's brilliant. And he wasn't going to take him on until he read the novel. I didn't want to meet with him early on. It's very interesting because Nan [Talese] backed him so much and Gay was so opposed to him. But Gay is a consummate journalist, and this memoir thing is another thing. Memoir involves such an unreliable narrator. And of course James Frey got into problems because he kept defending himself. But do I think everything in A Fan's Notes happened? No.

Nor A Moveable Feast. Actually one of your clients, Nancy Milford, wrote a piece about this in the Washington Post during the Frey thing, which I thought nailed it. But tell me how you feel about this move toward nonfiction and memoir.
I think it's unfortunate. I think it's mirrored in every part of our culture. Look at the reality programming on television—people want to know the truth, they want to identify. This memoir craze has eaten away at fiction. A lot of people will read memoirs but they won't read a novel.

What do you read for pleasure?
I mix it up. I try to read books that are current that I don't represent. For example, I read Eat, Pray, Love. I read Larry Wright's book [The Looming Tower]. When I travel, I read books about where I'm going, or maybe a piece of fiction. I read Joseph Roth's Berlin diaries when I went to Berlin. But I have to read so many manuscripts that I have to squeeze them in.

Who are some of your favorite editors to work with today? Who is doing interesting things, who is effective in how they're publishing, who are you admiring?
I like a lot of people. They all bring different things to the table. I like Jonathan Galassi [at Farrar, Straus and Giroux] as long as Jeff Seroy's there. Jeff Seroy is an incredibly important part of the way they publish. Now Jeff is much more than just head of publicity, he's vice president. Jonathan is an old-fashioned editor, which is great, but when you run into problems you need somebody like Jeff, who's dogged, who will take them up. I do a lot of business with FSG. And I do have a lot of authors with Knopf. I work with various editors there. I represent Gita Mehta, Sonny's wife, and I know the Mehtas very well. Alice Mayhew is who I do Carter with, and I've know her for years. She's an eccentric. But she doesn't do fiction. I think Paul Slovak is a very committed publisher and editor. I think Molly Stern's kind of great. I moved Susan Choi to her. Molly's very energetic, she can really dig into the publishing process as well as be an editor, too. Frances Coady is a consummate editor. And Jonathan Galassi is a wonderful editor, there's no two ways about that. But in this current era we have to talk about people who also involve themselves in the publishing process, which is what Jeff does. Sarah Crichton has been a very good addition for them.

Can you pinpoint any mistakes you've made in your career?
Sure. I turned down Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil. And I read it in many drafts, which perhaps colored my opinion of it. I mistakenly read it as a true crime book, and there wasn't really a payoff for that. I didn't understand or respond enough to the atmospheric quality of the book, and the fact that it was a roman noir in its way. So we all make mistakes.

Do you have anything to share with younger editors and agents starting out today, maybe to help them avoid mistakes in their own careers?
I feel sorry for editors who want passionately to take on a project that the house makes them turn down, and it goes on to be a big best-seller.

That happens all the time.
I know. So that's a mistake. Not a mistake, but it's a problem.

What about younger agents?
I think they can take on too many clients. I think that can be a problem. You have to be selective. If you're not selective, you have too many people who perhaps you don't care enough about, and you don't give them good enough service, and their books don't sell, so they blame you.

But you do have to rely on your gut.
You do. And if you really feel passionate, okay. But you can't just sort of throw a fishing line out.

How do you know when a book has you. Is it a visceral feeling?
Yes. It's about the voice. You think, "Oh my God. This is an arresting voice." To me, voice matters almost more than narrative. Because it shows an originality. Many people can write good narrative—actually not many people; it's hard to write good narrative. But to have a style? Voice is what makes Joan Didion a great writer. Andy Greer and André Aciman have it. Have you read him?

No.
Oh, you should. Call Me by Your Name is a brilliant novel. And Out of Egypt is now considered a classic. It's wonderful. It's just so much fun to read. Tina Brown e-mailed me this week and said, "I'm so glad you told me to read André Aciman's book, it's brilliant." But it had a hard time breaking through because of the subject. It's not a gay novel. He gave this to me—he's under contract to FSG for a very long novel, it's about New York life, it's very layered—but he brought this novel Call Me by Your Name to me two summers ago. He said, "Look, I wrote this novel in a month, two months. Read it and tell me if you think I should publish it." I took it home that night. It was a hot summer night, I remember. And I wasn't going out. I read the thing straight through. Oh my god. I called him up the next day and said, "André, of course you have to publish this. Are you joking?" He said, "Well, let me see what Susan says." He hadn't told Susan, his wife, about it. He comes back and tells me that Susan said yes. So then I gave it to Jonathan [Galassi] and he said, "Of course we're going to publish it." It's unlike anything you've read.

People have such romantic notions about the publishing world. To you, what are the things that ultimately make it special?
It's given me a fantastic life. I have met so many interesting people. I have gone to so many interesting places. It just continually opens doors for me. I just came back from George Weidenfeld's eighty-eighth birthday party in Berlin with Springer-Verlag. Angela Merkel gave one of the toasts. It's a wonderful life because you're dealing in ideas, with literature, with interesting people.

Is there anything you'd still like to accomplish?
I'd love to find and represent a couple of new extraordinary young writers. It's exciting; it's fun.

Anything else?
I just want the business to keep going. I want it to flourish. I just hope people continue to read books and see them as a source of pleasure and not as some daunting task.

Is there a memoir in your future?
Definitely not. I don't think I would have the patience to sit down and write a book. I admire people who can. And I promised my mother I would never write a memoir. I'm joking, but I did promise my mother that.

Any final thoughts?
What makes me happy is seeing these agents I've trained doing so well. It's been great with Tina and Eric—seeing their careers flourish. I certainly know with Tina and Eric that they care deeply about the business, they're 100 percent committed to the writers, and that they're thoughtful, intelligent people. So that makes me happy.

Jofie Ferrari-Adler is an editor at Grove/Atlantic.

Agents & Editors: A Q&A With Agent Molly Friedrich

by
Jofie Ferrari-Adler
9.1.08

A few months ago, I was at lunch with a literary agent who shall remain nameless, and the conversation turned to the subject of our favorite movers and shakers in the industry. When Molly Friedrich's name came up, my lunch companion—no small dealmaker herself—lowered her voice and said something that surprised me. "If I were a writer, I don't see why you would sign with me or any other agent when Molly is out there. What else could you possibly want in an agent?"

It's a sentiment that's hard to dispute. The daughter of two children's book authors, Friedrich was born in London, raised in suburban Long Island, and graduated from Barnard in 1974. She began her career in publishing a few days later as an intern at Doubleday. Over the next two years she was promoted twice, first to assistant editor and then to director of publicity at the company's paperback imprint, Anchor Press. After a year in publicity she took another new job—and a risky step backward—as an assistant to the agent Phyllis Seidel. Soon she moved again, joining the Aaron Priest Literary Agency, where she remained for the next twenty-eight years. In 2006, she set out on her own and formed the Friedrich Agency.

I don't think I can adequately convey the whirlwind of charm, passion, and sheer personal magnetism that Friedrich has spent the last three decades unleashing on the publishing world in service of her clients. Like many of her authors—Melissa Bank, Sue Grafton, Frank McCourt, Terry McMillan, Esmeralda Santiago, Jane Smiley, and Elizabeth Strout among them—she is a force of nature. But behind the deep voice and the big laugh, there is also a Long Island girl who was forced to grow up fast under challenging circumstances; a young wife who left the corporate world because she didn't want to raise her kids by telephone; a brass-knuckle agent who admits she will go to the wall for any novel—flawed or not—that makes her cry three times; and a mother of four who wrote a children's book, You're Not My Real Mother! (Little, Brown, 2004), after her adopted daughter told her precisely that one day.

When I arrive at Friedrich's office in New York City for our conversation, I am ushered in by another of her daughters, Lucy, who just graduated from college and is working as her mother's assistant for the summer. Friedrich's office is bright, warm, and unpretentious. The walls are painted with wide yellow-and-white stripes that run vertically from floor to ceiling. But its most remarkable feature has to be a memento that hangs on a wall in the corner: a framed newspaper clipping from Christmas Day 2005, when two of her clients' books, Sue Grafton's S Is for Silence (G. P. Putnam's Sons) and Frank McCourt's Teacher Man (Scribner), sat side by side atop the New York Times best-seller lists for fiction and nonfiction. As my lunch companion might have observed: How the heck are you supposed to compete with that?

I always like to start with a little background. Where are you from?
I'm the daughter of two writers. I grew up in a family in which language was very important. The one who is known, my father, is the one who got published and didn't raise the children. My mother, Priscilla, is the one who raised us. The two of them collaborated on thirteen children's books. The best book they wrote is called The Easter Bunny That Overslept, and it's been in print since 1957. It has been illustrated not once but three times and was even made into a miserable television show for a while.

The first exotic thing about me is that I was born in London. My parents met in France and were married in Paris—they were both writing, my mother was painting—and they lived a kind of faux-glamorous expatriate life. They had three children in quick succession. The first was in Frankfurt, I was in London, and my brother was in Paris. Then they moved from Paris to Long Island, and they were penniless. They had no support from either set of parents. Those were the days when even if you were educated and had children, you were expected to suck it up and fend for yourself. The first place they lived was with William Gaddis's mother. She had a home in Massapequa and her house had an unrenovated barn. And that's where we lived—in the unrenovated barn. My one claim to literary fame is that apparently there is a scene in The Recognitions in which the main character is describing a naked two-year old on a summer lawn who's putting pennies into a Woolworth's plastic beaded purse. Apparently that is yours truly. When I learned about it I thought, "God, full circle! Even then I was counting money!" But I haven't gone back to see if it's true. It's a piece of family lore. I'm not going to egomaniacally go back through that very long book searching for a possible portrait of my two-year-old self.

I guess the point is that I grew up very comfortable around books, comfortable around writers who would come out to dinner parties and were always sort of around. My father started out at Newsweek and then was at the Saturday Evening Post for years. He started writing books then. He wrote a couple of honestly not-very-good novels and then he wrote many books as a cultural historian. But he never gave up his journalistic work. He needed to earn a steady, consistent living because by then there were five children, the third and fourth of whom were retarded. Today I am their guardian. The fifth child was born eight years after the fourth one, and he's the one who died in a plane crash. So it's a large and noisy family that's complicated in the way of all interesting families.

Where did you go to college?
I went to college at Barnard and graduated with a BA in Art History. My father would not allow me to major in English. He felt very strongly that if he was going to pay tuition, which he did, and that if I was going to be reading books all my life, then there was absolutely no reason for him to underwrite four years of studying Melville. So I tried to figure out the thing I could study that would be the one thing he didn't know about, and that was art history. I studied the early Italian renaissance. Then, of course, there was the question of "What do you do?" What do you do with a BA in Art History from Barnard, when you basically can't do anything but analyze the diagonal composition of a great painting? Not useful! My parents were very consistently clear that when we graduated there would be no support. We were not to have any kind of meltdown, we were not to reveal any learning disorders—if we had them we were to keep them to ourselves. We were to get on with it, and sort ourselves out, and always live within our own incomes.

How did you get started in publishing?
When I was still in Barnard I was renting a room from Connie and Tom Congdon, who was an editor in the apex of his fabulous commercial book editing life because he was the editor of Jaws. Tom said, "You should go into publishing." I called my father because he was the one who could be counted on for an honest response. He said, "Absolutely not. Publishing is what people go into when they don't know what else to do." I said, "But that applies to me!" Congdon said not to pay attention to my father. He said he'd get me an interview at Doubleday. And I do give good interview, as you will learn by the end of this evening. I was a great interview—very confident—and I had done all kinds of interesting things because I'd been working every summer from the age of thirteen on. I'd also gotten pretty poised about being around adults, kind of old beyond my years, I guess, especially with my brother and sister as they were.

But then I had to take the typing test. They knocked off ten points for every mistake, which gave me a score of negative thirty-five. They said, "We'd love to hire you, but..." and I went away. I decided to spend the second semester of my senior year typing the op-ed page of the Times every day. I went back for that typing test two more times, and I was finally hired at thirty-seven words per minute as an intern at Doubleday. I think I was hired really for tenacity alone. It was a great program that they have long since discontinued. You got to spend about two weeks working in every conceivable department: the different editorial departments of Doubleday, the copyediting department, rights and permission. You got to go out to Garden City and deal with the purchasing offices. You got to go on the road with a sales rep and watch books not get placed. Even back then, in 1974, books were skipped. It was really a devastating experience to observe secondhand.

At the end of four months you got to choose where you wanted to go, and naturally I said editorial because I have no imagination. I had the choice of working either in Doubleday trade or Anchor paperback, which back then was about eleven people. It was really big. I went to work as the assistant to Loretta Barrett, who was the editorial director. It should be noted that almost everybody who was at Anchor at the time—aside from Bill Strachan, who has no sense—has become an agent. Marie Brown, Elizabeth Knappman, Loretta Barrett herself, Liv Blumer. We are all agents.

Tell me what those early days were like for you.
Anchor's list was fairly academic back then. There were about 135 books published a year, of which 60 percent were reprints and 40 percent were trade paperback originals. The fact is, I had grown up in a family of extremes. My youngest brother, Tony, was brilliant, and so was my older sister, Liesel. I didn't test well. I didn't learn easily. And I didn't consider myself especially bright. But I was a huge overachiever. It wasn't until I went to college that I realized that if I simply worked harder than anybody else, I would do fine. I saw the same thing at Doubleday. It was great. People would give me work and I would do whatever I was told. I had all kinds of time because my husband was still a sophomore in college—I'd gotten married by then—and he had no time to talk to me anyway. In those days you also got paid overtime, which was essential because I was making six thousand dollars a year. We were really quite penniless, and overtime was what kept the wolf at the door. So I did whatever I was told. I wrote flap copy. I put books into production. I consulted the art department on jackets. I gave books their titles when no one else could think of one. I read whatever I was told to read and even what I was not asked to read.

Mostly, I taught myself how to do the job. When I started working for Loretta, I had inherited this adorable little office—it was really an outer office—with a huge window. But I had no view because the window was blocked by old filing that was stacked up and covering it. I decided that I was going to see my view by the end of six months. That was my goal. Very Prussian. So every night I would stay late and file. And I never filed anything without reading it. That's how I learned how things worked. I learned how people were presenting books, who was buying what books, what Sam Vaughan had decided to publish as opposed to what Lisa Drew was doing in trade, etcetera. I honestly had nothing better to do than to be ferociously ambitious. And there was nothing stopping me.

And you immediately knew that you enjoyed the work?
Oh, yeah. It was great because everybody was so grateful. People were so happy that I was there. Loretta would always thank me. The authors were grateful. But even then I think I had a sense of myself. I remember there was this one agent who called up for Loretta. I guess Loretta hadn't returned her call, and the agent just started screaming at me. I said, "Excuse me. You are not speaking to Loretta. You are speaking to Loretta's assistant. You may not talk to me like this. Would you like me to have her return your call? And if she doesn't, you can count on the fact that it is not because I didn't tell her. But do not scream at me." This woman immediately backed off. When I met her years later, I said, "You're the screamer!" She had no recollection of it at all. But I guess even then, if I think about twenty-two-year-olds and how easily frightened they are, I had one thing that was working to my advantage. I didn't realize it was an advantage until I was in the business a little longer: I had a really good voice. I had a voice that was low, and a voice that bespoke an authority I did not feel. I could use my voice to help me wing it. I would speak to authors who I had never met—they were all over the country—when I was impossibly young as though I knew what I was talking about. I would just try and get the job done, solve the problem at hand, give my boss as little as possible to get aggravated about. And the response from Loretta was enormous gratitude.

So I'd put books into production. I'd say, "Would you like me to edit this book?" She'd say, "Well, yeah." And why not? Who says that I couldn't edit? Why not learn by doing? What is editing, really, except an experienced eye learning how to respond to a manuscript? Learning when a passage in a manuscript simply falls apart. Obviously Loretta read all the editorial letters that I wrote at midnight and one in the morning, showing off for her. My job at Doubleday was to distinguish myself. And I did.

How did you work your way up?
Oh, fast. They had a sort of indentured servant system. You know, first you were an intern, then an assistant, then an assistant to the editor, then an editorial assistant, then an associate editor.... I mean, talk about hierarchical! You could die waiting. You could be thirty. I had no time for that. I'd been there for about two years. Everything was going very well. I was a fully contributing, noisy person. I went to all the editorial meetings. People were learning that they could count on me. If somebody gave me something to read, I would never let them down. I might let them down with my opinion, but I wouldn't let them down by making an excuse of my life. I made it clear that I was somebody who could be approached for almost any problem. I spent a lot of time socializing, going to the cantina, whatever. I'm very social.

So then the Anchor Press publicity director, Liv Blumer, left to become the director of publicity for Doubleday trade, and I was offered her old job as head of publicity for Anchor. That was a big jump. I wasn't sure that I wanted to be in publicity, but I recognized it for what it was, which was a big jump. It seemed like a really good thing to do—to learn how to run something, to hire people, to learn how to promote and publicize books. And I knew I'd be good at it. That job was very good training for me when I became a baby agent, a year later, because it taught me how to present books that no one really wanted to hear about.

Did you like doing publicity?
In my opinion, the two jobs that are the most exhausting in this business are the jobs of the foreign scout and the publicist. The reason is that there is never an end to the job. If you're a scout, there is always another book you can cover, another house you can do well by, another report you can write. If you're a publicist, for every eighty letters you write, and eighty ideas you try, there are seventy-nine that don't work. But the only ones that the author hears about—and the editor hears about and your boss hears about—are the ones that work. It is a thankless and really difficult job. But I did it.

Were you any good at it?
I had one fabulous moment. I'd started, and I was doing everything. I had hired a woman who had no experience in publicity. She had just finished getting her MA in Shakespeare's Apocrypha at NYU, which proved to be totally useless. So there were the two of us—clueless. Meanwhile, the big book on Doubleday's trade list that year was Alex Haley's Roots, so no one wanted to listen to a publicist for Anchor Press. Everyone was deliciously over-focused on Roots.

After six months at the new job, I decided I had earned a vacation. One of the books I had been publicizing was from the "Foxfire" series. It was a wonderful book by Eliot Wigginton called I Wish I Could Give My Son a Wild Raccoon. In my reading I had come across a newsletter that was written by a woman named Kay Sexton. It was a newsletter called the "B. Dalton Newsletter" that was put out by the bookstore chain. I read the newsletter and thought, "This woman really needs to know about the specialness of this book." So I wrote her one of my two-page letters introducing myself and telling her what the book was about and why she had to know about it and get behind it. "All the proceeds are going to Reading Is Fundamental.... Eliot Wigginton is wonderfulness himself...." I never heard a word from her. So I was going on this two-week vacation, and before I left I told my assistant that I was going to call at the end of the first week to check in. This was in the days before cell phones, obviously. So I called my assistant from a payphone in a bathing suit and said, "Anything going on?" She said, "Molly, you won't believe it. You've got three bouquets of flowers!" I said, "What?" She said,"It's so exciting—your entire letter is the subject of the ‘B. Dalton Newsletter.'" Kay had written something like, "In all my years of doing this newsletter, I've never heard from anybody at Doubleday until I finally received this extraordinary letter from one Molly Friedrich, who urged me to take a serious look at I Wish I Could Give My Son a Wild Raccoon. Her letter is so powerful that I print it here in full. Please adjust your orders accordingly." The reason I was getting flowers is that you could see a direct difference from before the newsletter came out and after. Usually, the marketing people, who pay the advertising people, are always taking credit. You never know whether you have actually, tangibly made a difference. Except this one time. So that was my terrific moment in the sun.

Why did you leave Doubleday to become an agent?
I did the publicity job for a year and then I got a phone call from an agent at the time, Phyllis Seidel. She worked out of her Upper East Side brownstone and she'd never had anyone work for her. She said that she was interested in turning her cottage industry into something a bit more fast-moving and professional, and she said she'd heard wonderful things about me from two people who were so different that she was intrigued. She asked if I would come up for an interview. By this point I had learned that it is incredibly important to never say, "No," and I'd been in the business long enough to see that agents were really essential to the industry. I had also been in the business long enough to see that, on the publishing side, there were a lot of meetings. There was a lot of time spent gathering your insecurities together and having them reflected in a group meeting where you got to shore yourselves up. You know:"Well, nineteen of us like the jacket, what do you think of it?" That kind of thing. There was a lot of inefficiency.

Plus, I was married by then and knew I wanted children. I didn't know if corporate America was that hospitable to having children, at least for somebody who really wanted to be around them and actively help them grow up. There weren't a whole lot of senior people at Doubleday at the time who had young children. I decided that I wanted to find an angle of this business that would allow me to continue working but to work around my life and my children. It was a really conscious decision. I also had been exposed to a lot of agents—some of them wonderful, some of them appallingly bad—a whole raft of agents from the sublime to the really questionably professional. But I had been around that angle of the business long enough to see that if you really worked hard to build up a stable of great writers, it might be a good way to earn a living.

So with that sort of young, unformed knowledge in mind, I took the subway up and interviewed with Phyllis. She offered me two things. First, she was willing to allow me take on writers of my own if it didn't intrude with the business. That was really important to me because, after all, I had been a boss already and this was already taking a step back and becoming an assistant again, apprenticing myself to her in order to learn the business. And second, she said she would give me 4 percent of anything I brought in, which was kind of the carrot before the donkey's nose. It wasn't going to cost her anything to give me 4 percent, and I don't think she even thought I would bring in anything interesting. So she did it. But it sure was useful later on, and it set a precedent that I used as part of my negotiation when I left a year later to join Aaron Priest. I took that 4 percent commission with me as part of my negotiation.

Tell me about some of your early clients.
The very first client I sold was Phyllis Theroux, who has a book right now that I'm trying to sell and will die trying. I began working with Aaron Priest in 1978, and six months into working for him—it was just Aaron and me, impossibly small—Aaron decided that he wanted to move to California to open an office in L.A. This was a huge job change. He had made it very clear when I started that he did not want me to take on clients. He wanted me to be his assistant. I said, "Fine. But can I work on finding clients as long as it's not at your inconvenience?" He said, "I don't care what you do, just don't inconvenience me." So I would work at night because my husband was busy with law school I was writing letters to short story writers at Redbook, all that stuff. When Aaron got in his car and was driving across the country with his wife and kids, he would call once a day. He'd say, "Hi. I'm in Iowa. Anything doing?" I'd say, "Nah." But by the time he got to California, five days later, I had sold three books. I had literally been waiting to be released. And the first book was Phyllis Theroux's, which I auctioned to Julie Houston at Morrow for twenty-five thousand dollars. It was called California and Other States of Grace. It was absolutely wonderful, and she went on to write others. But that was my first book, which makes me sentimental about selling all of her books.

Eventually it became clear to Aaron that I might be more valuable as a baby agent than as only his assistant. I said, "Come on, let me hire an assistant part-time. It's not going to cost that much." Then, when Aaron came back from California six months later, there was no question. I wasn't going to go backward. I got very lucky that way. I could have been his assistant for four or five years without ever having the opportunity to really step out. It was his decision to go to California that really gave me the breathing room I needed to show off. To show what I wanted to do. To show what I could do.

How did you build a list in those early years? Were you getting referrals, was it the letters you were writing, were you reading the slush?
Certainly I was reading slush, and nothing was coming out of the slush. Some of it was the letters I was writing. And I never said, "No." Let me give you an example of what I mean. There's a movie agent named Geoff Sanford. One day he came blowing through the Aaron Priest offices. When he walked in, Aaron wasn't around. Don't forget that I had this scary voice, the gift of gab, the ability to make someone feel at home, whatever you want to call it. I said, "Geoff! Come on in! How are you?" We talked for a while and he said, "Oh, you're going to be great." We didn't do any business, but about a year later he called me up and said there was this writer named Sue Grafton. He said he really liked her, she was a really good egg, and she had written a book called A Is for Alibi. Then he told me she was leaving her agent and asked if I might want to take a look. I said, "Are you kidding? I'm starving to death. Of course I'm interested." But I also said, "Why does she want to leave her agent?" And Sue had told him and I can tell you because Sue has always been very straightforward about it. Kathy Robbins was her agent at the time, and Kathy was in the process of taking her authors from a 10 percent commission to a 15 percent commission. Sue liked Kathy enormously, but she felt, like death and taxes, that no one should ever charge more than 10 percent. She just felt very strongly about it.

I love finding something and getting the whole world to read it. Changing somebody's life. Changing a writer's life.

What is the lesson there, beyond never saying "No"?
When you're an agent, you must be open to every single person. There is no one who doesn't have an opportunity to see me. I really mean that. There is no little person who will be turned away by me. I mean, why not? What on earth does it cost me? The business of being an agent is the business of forming relationships, and everything is a seedling. If you go to a writers conference, as faculty, you will probably not take on anybody at that writers conference. But within five years, if you have done your job and been open to the universe—not to sound too California—you will eventually have a terrific client approach you who knew somebody who was the brother of someone who was at the conference five years ago and scribbled down your name. This has happened over and over and over again.

I'll give you another example. Many years ago, an editor at the Atlantic suggested to me that there was a writer named Elisabeth Hyde who was working on a novel. He thought I should check it out. So I wrote to her immediately. You know, "I hear from so-and-so that you're working on a novel." It turned out that she had just signed on with an agent. The letter I wrote back was something like, "Oh, drat. I have a two-year-old so I'm not allowed to swear. Well, best of luck to you, be well, blah blah blah, and I'll look forward to reading your book between hard covers." Well, she held on to that letter. A couple of years ago—when my daughter who was then two was now twenty-five—Elisabeth Hyde wrote back to me. She sent me the letter I had written to her more than twenty years ago. She said her agent retired, and she inherited another agent who didn't much like her work, and then she went with another agent who didn't like her novel at all. She asked the agent if it was all right for her to try to sell the book on her own. This agent, apparently, said, "Yeah, sure. Fine." She said, "If I find a publisher, will you help me with the contract?" He said, "Yes." So she finds a publisher on her own, MacAdam/Cage, and the agent negotiated the contract for zero advance, a fifty-fifty world rights split, and took 15 percent. I mean, honestly! At that point it occurred to Elisabeth that maybe she should find an agent who really liked her stuff. So she went back to her file and that's when she found my letter.

See how important it is to be remembered in this business? When you interact with someone, you want to make the molecules in the air change a little. You want somebody to say, "God, she's good!" You want to be remembered. You want to make an imprint. As an agent, you have to be able to do that.

I just read this great novel you sold by James Collins calledBeginner's Greek. He came to writing late, and I'm curious how he came to you.
He came to me recommended by a magazine editor. I'm not going to tell you who it was because if I do, then all the hard-working agents, if they're really doing their jobs, will call this editor up and ask to buy him or her a meal. I have to keep some of my fabulous contacts to myself. But I was totally in love with this book and really, really wanted to get Jim Collins. I knew that he was seeing three or four other people, and I knew that he was well connected. I knew that my competition was going to be horrible. Hateful. You always want the competition to be someone who is really different from you, not just someone who is another version of you. So I didn't know what to do to distinguish myself. Jim decided to come to New York to meet with people. Of course I had read the book really carefully. I thought, "I'm going to take this guy to lunch. I've got to get this guy."

So I blow-dried my hair and put on a suit and put on Erase under my eyes. I'm taking him to Patroon—this very manly place, a guy place—and of course I get there early because I'm nervous, which is so typical of me. I don't know what he looks like. I'm waiting in these seats against the wall. There's a guy next to me who is also clearly waiting for somebody. We're both waiting. So I decide to balance my checkbook in order to stay calm while I wait. A guy walks in and I ask him if he's Jim, and he says no. He goes off and sits with this other guy. About five minutes later, another guy sits down. And I say, "Oh, I love your book." He says, "You do?" And I start to go on and on and on about how amazing his book is. He looks at me and says, "I can't tell you how sorry I am not to be the person you are expecting." I say, "You're not Jim Collins?" He says, "No. I'm the owner of the restaurant. You ate here once before, so you're in the computer, and I was coming to introduce myself and say hello." I couldn't believe it. I was like, "Now I've lost all my mojo! Get out of here!"

So finally Jim came in and I said, "Are you Jim? You had better be Jim Collins." I was so exhausted by then that it was just ridiculous. But it was him. He looked kind of formal, in a double-breasted suit, and very tall, and slightly nervous, but in a way that was deeply appealing. I was just as nervous as he was. And we just talked. I asked if I was his last meeting—I wanted to be his last meeting—and then I told him that I thought he should not be allowed to leave the table without saying yes to me. "Just say yes!"

You said that?
What did I have to lose? I think he was charmed, and he could see that I was serious. What does a writer want? A writer wants your passion. They want you to see the book in the same way that they've written it, and they want you to go to your death trying to sell it. They want to see that you are able to speak coherently and articulately about why you love the book. And I told him it was too long. I told him he needed to do this, that, and the other thing. I told him there were places where it was overly precious, where there was too much throat-clearing. I was very open with him. But he didn't disagree. So I did the best I could to win him over. He was one of those very intimidating people because he really listened. I hate it when people listen too well because then I tend to fill in the blanks and start talking too quickly and get really Latinate and formal and nervous. Anyway, it was a great meeting. I said, "You have to let me know. I really don't wait well. Please." And I told him something else. I told him there were other agents who could sell this book as well as I could, but nobody could sell it better. And then he called me up. Now it's in its fourth printing. It's doing very well, and it's gotten very widely reviewed, and we've sold it around the world. It's just been great.

You also represent Melissa Bank, who has gotten all tangled up in this issue of chick lit. Tell me what you think about that.
I don't consider her chick lit. I don't know what chick lit is. First of all, is there anybody out there who doesn't know that the easiest thing to sell is plot? But the thing that everybody wants is an original voice. And the thing that's kind of stuck in the middle is character. So here we have a collection of short stories—The Girls' Guide to Hunting and Fishing—that doesn't have a single plot because it's made up of loosely connected short stories with one story that isn't even part of the rest of it. But what everybody loved about that book is what is absolutely not genre. I mean, chick lit has become a category, right? But I didn't sell that book as part of chick lit. First of all I wasn't even sure that I knew what chick lit was. And the thing that everybody, to a person, loved about Melissa's book is that it had an original voice.

Now, what is an original voice? Well, think of it like this: Go to Bonfire of the Vanities and close your eyes and pick a page and have someone read you two paragraphs. If you can't identify those paragraphs as the rhythms and cadences that belong to Tom Wolfe, you're finished. I'm convinced that eight times out of ten, with Melissa Bank, you could do the same thing. Now that is saying something. So I don't know. What is chick lit? Does it mean fiction that primarily attracts the interest of women readers? Well, that would include Jane Austen. Is Jane Austen chick lit? Absolutely not. Has Jane Austen ever written about anything other than marriage proposals, linens, china, and who has a good dowry? No. I adore her. I read her every year. But that is what her books are about. So is she the queen of chick lit? I don't know. It seems kind of silly to me, to be honest. If I read a short story by Melissa Bank, I can always identify it as Melissa because of the voice, and my view of the world is altered for having read her work. That's a lot for a short story to have succeeded in doing, and that's what her stories do. So I don't know, and I don't care, whether Melissa Bank is considered part of the chick-lit world. What I do know is: One, that I love her; and two, that I respect her. And there are many writers who I love and many writers who I respect. But there are very few whom I both love and respect, and Melissa is in that small group.

Tell me how Terry McMillan came to your attention.
Terry was recommended to me by a young editor at Houghton Mifflin named Larry Kessenich. She had sold her first book to Houghton Mifflin, and she didn't like the contract and she didn't like the agent. Right in the middle of the deal, she decided that she didn't want anything to do with the agent, and it just fell apart. She wasn't under contract yet, and it just fell apart. Larry put my name out there as an agent she should talk to. I always tell editors, "You don't have to recommend me exclusively. I know that's a terrible burdensome thing for you if things don't work out. But just put me on a short list. Or put me on a long list. Just put me on a list. I promise you I will read this quickly. I will not embarrass you. I will read this well. And if it's really wonderful, I won't necessarily send it to you exclusively, but I won't fuck you over, either." I was always good to my word, so it was easy for me to be recommended.

With Terry, I was on a short list of maybe six agents. I loved the pages, and she came to meet me. I said, "Oh, you're great. You're going to be a star. I don't know how effective I can be, but I will fight very hard on your behalf." She had already seen four people and she said, "I want to go with you. I like your energy." But I said, "No. Wrong. You've already made an appointment with this last person, who comes very highly recommended, and I want you to see that last person." She said, "Why?" I said, "Because if you and I ever have a fight, or a temper tantrum, I don't ever want you to wonder what that other agent would have been like. I want you to come to me with a full education of having met five other people who were highly recommended to you. Besides, you made an appointment and it's wrong to cancel your appointment. Go ahead and continue your education of finding an agent." So she did, and in the end she came back and told me that she still wanted me, which was great.

What was it about her writing that you responded to?
I fell in love with Terry's writing because she had an original voice. Go back and read the first page of Mama, when Mildred, the mother, is wielding an ax. It's like, "Whoa!" It springs off the page. That's why it happened. But Terry built a career by believing in herself more than anybody else did. She really worked hard. She had a two-year-old son, and she was living in a sixth-floor walk-up in Brooklyn. She was doing programming or something in a law office. Things were not easy for her. But she just got on the phone with all these bookstores and said, "I want to set up a reading" and"You're going to want me" and "You must want me."

I remember that Houghton Mifflin got an offer of ten thousand dollars for paperback rights. This was before we knew how Mama would perform. I called them up and said, "No, no, no, no, no. You have to understand who you are dealing with. You are dealing with a force of nature, and it's a force of nature has not been felt yet. You will make a terrible mistake if you sell reprint rights for ten thousand dollars. Believe me, if you hang on a little bit longer, you'll be rewarded." And they did, and they were.

So to go back to your question about how you build up a list, the answer is that you just keep fighting on your authors' behalf. Sometimes the fighting is not effective—it doesn't work, it doesn't matter, it doesn't make a difference. But sometimes it is effective, and when it is, and your efforts have been proven right, people start to remember. They start to think, "Maybe she knows what she's doing." Then it gets to the point where it gets out of control with editors who want to see your submissions and become really upset if they don't.

Tell me about that.
I remember one editor who started to cry at lunch. This was one of the people to whom I did not say "No." She's crying and she says, "I just really want to know what I can do to get on your submission list." I thought, "This is really appalling. I am now in an official tight spot." Sometimes you have lunch with people and you know by the time the breadbasket is empty that you will not be submitting to them anytime soon. It's usually when somebody says, "So! Tell me about your list!" I think, "You jerk. You moron. How dare you have lunch with anybody and not know that stuff." When I have a first lunch with anybody, I know what they've published. I know how to spell their name. I take the time to learn who my audience is.

But when this person started sobbing and saying, "What can I do?" I was very gentle with her. I said, "The thing is, it's not easy." I'm not a mean person, and there is a part of me that's deeply maternal. But I knew she was a disaster. I said,"You have to find your own people in the beginning. You can't expect agents to just submit their most beloved thing to you. If they haven't done business with you, that is a huge risk for them." I said, "Tell me about some books you have published that you have found on your own and won and done well by. Books that you've really published well. And this is not a test. I don't mean to put you on the spot. But if you don't have an answer—and I suspect you don't because you are, after all, very young—then two things have to happen. One is that you have to build a list a little bit, and the other is that you have to be right about a book at least two times in the next five to seven years. If you do that, people will start to send you things, because you will have stepped out on an editorial limb and proven yourself right. That's the way to get attention. You have to be right."

I think that's how it works. You hang around long enough, and you insist, like Scarlett O'Hara just before the intermission, "As God as my witness...this book will sell!" And if it does sell, and you were right, and everyone else was wrong, then you build up credibility. But it takes time. Here I am, thirty years later. I'm old! I'm fifty-five years old! But seriously, it is a business of staying with it long enough to really build up credibility and respect and a reputation for honesty. Always for honesty. God, this is a small business. I can tell you exactly which agents exaggerate the interest they have. I can tell you who lies. They're out there. I know who these people are. It's my job to know.

How should an author choose which agent to go with?
First of all, I don't think an author should approach an agent before they have a manuscript. I had an author come to me who didn't think he'd be ready for seven to ten years. He'd had a huge first success and he was leaving his agent and wanted to sign on with somebody new. I asked him why he was leaving his agent. It was clear the agent had done a wonderful job selling the book, a wonderful job on foreign rights. And now the author wanted someone new to exchange letters with him—talk to him, be his friend, be his sponsor—for five years or seven years before his next book was ready? He said, "I've left that agent because I want someone more prestigious." I said, "I don't want you. I don't want to read what you've written. I don't want to read what you will write in seven years. I don't want you. I want you to go back to that first agent and show some loyalty, because you have a really shabby reason for leaving that agent. That agent has done everything possible to secure and establish your career. You've done something too—you've written a good book. You have every reason to write a second good book. But for you to leave because you want someone more prestigious? That sucks. Bye!" He wrote me a letter saying he admired my moxie.

But you know what's really sad? That author did go with someone else, a very well-known agent, and that very well-known agent sold the book for three hundred thousand dollars. So you know what? I'm sorry to say it, but this author was sort of right. Not right to leave his agent, but right to think that going with an agent who was very well known might have helped him. We'll never know what the poor, sad, sorry, hardworking first agent who would have gone to bat for life for this guy would have done. But would that editor have paid ten times what the first book was sold for? I don't know, but it really stinks.

So how is an author supposed to know whom to choose?
Okay, so the first rule is that an author should never approach an agent until they have something. If I met every person who wanted to just have a chat before they sent their book, I'd go out of business. If they have a book and they are sending it out, they should always say in the letter if they are doing multiple submissions. That is common courtesy. I would also say that I want to know the circumstances under which I am reading something. Have you sent this to ninety-five other people? Have you sent this to one other person? Do I have this exclusively? Because if I push aside my own reading, which is the tyranny of all our lives, in order to be fast, at least tell me what I need to do. The other thing is that the author should agree—if the author is playing consumer here and sending it to five agents who want to read it—that he's not going to make a decision until he has heard from all five people. You should respect an agent's time. Do we get paid for our time? No. Respect a busy agent's time. The thing I want to kill someone for is when I read something over the weekend and I'm about to pick up the phone to tell them it's the most wonderful book since War and Peace, and they say, "Oh, sorry, I've signed on with Joe Blow who called on Sunday morning." No. No, no, no, no, no. That is really wrong. Be fair. If you are going to put us on the spot, give us all a fair chance.

The first thing you are going to look for is: Who responds? The second thing to look for is: What do they say? And what do they think about the book? Now this is where it gets murky, because a lot of agents get the author by saying, "Oh, it's wonderful! Wonderful, wonderful, wonderful!" Then they sign the author on and begin the hard work of getting the book into shape. That tends not to be my style. I tend to be very up-front about what I think the book needs from the very beginning. And I have lost authors because of it. Sometimes I wonder,"Should I become dishonest?" Should I say, "It's great!" to get the author and then deconstruct the manuscript over the course of twenty painful weeks? I don't know what the answer is. I know you always have to be true to yourself and your own style, and my style is to be utterly frank about what I think the manuscript requires, how I would position the book, and what I would do on its behalf.

Then the author may say, "Oh God, I can't decide! You're all so wonderful!" If that's the case I would say to get on a plane and come meet us. Figure it out. You should never be afraid to talk to your agent. Some authors are terrified of their agents. On the other hand, there are some agents who have very different styles and are overly friendly. They become "the girlfriend." They become so close with their authors that we arrive at what shrinks call "the boundary problem." This is also problematic, because then the agent loses the authority they are supposed to have in the author's life.

What kind of questions should an author ask potential agents?
You are fully within your rights to ask an agent whom else he represents. You are also within your rights to ask an agent to tell you about a couple of authors whose books he's sold recently. You can't live on your laurels and sit around bragging about your top five best-known clients."What have you sold recently, and how'd it go?" And maybe ask, "What did you love that you weren't able to sell?" Everyone thinks I sell everything I touch. Wrong, wrong, wrong. There's loads of stuff I take on and don't sell. It's extremely painful. So I think it's fair to talk about these things. I think you want to see what kind of a match you are. Can you talk with this agent frankly? Do you feel comfortable?

But it also goes the other way. It's a mutual interview process. There are many people I talk to and realize that I may love this person's work but I do notlove this person. This person is going to be trouble. Big trouble. I had one author who I took on. It was a beauty contest, and I won her. She was a nonfiction writer, and I don't have much nonfiction, so I want nonfiction. She'd been published before and had a raft of fabulous journalistic credits to her name. I worked with her a little bit on the proposal—you know, shoring it up—but she was a true pro and didn't need much help. I got three offers and sold the book for six figures. It was great. But by the time the contract arrived, this woman had so exhausted me that I called her up and said, "I'm not going to tell the publisher this because I don't want the publisher to be nervous about it, but once the contract comes in and it's signed, I want you to know that I am leaving you. I'm giving you my full 15 percent. You can take it. I want you to thrive. But you have exhausted me. I'm sorry, but it just isn't a good match." Nonfiction books don't take six months to write. They take years to write! And the prospect of having this woman in my life for years filled me with such a chill that I thought, "I can't do this. Let's solve this."

Tell writers one thing they don't know about editors, something that you know and they don't.
I would say that they must view the fawning, deeply complimentary praise that marks the honeymoon phase of their relationship with an editor for what it is. They must not buy into it. They must realize that editors will say almost anything to get a book when they have to have a book. The problem is that what you need from editors is to have them be there for the long haul. Not just the long haul of the publication process, but for the next book and the book after that as well. When the first review comes in and it's terrible, you need your editor to say, "That fucker! He didn't understand the book at all. Ignore it and go on." An editor needs to be deeply, lastingly loyal to an author and a book that he decides to buy, because bad things will happen and that loyalty will be tested.

Tell me what you're looking for when you're reading a first novel or memoir.
That's so easy. I'm looking for the first page to be good. Then I'm looking for the second page to also be good. Really! The first page has to be good so that I will go to the second page and the third and the fourth. It's true that sometimes I get all the way to the end knowing that I'm going to turn a book down—I've come under the book's spell but the spell is not holding me—and then I may feel committed to reading it and showing off with a fabulous editorial letter. That does happen. But the main thing I look for is immediate great writing.

I think the world of memoir is divided into two camps. One camp is the memoir of an unbelievably fascinating life. Huge! Can you top this? Death, famine, child abuse, all kinds of terrible and extraordinary events...but the author can't write. In the other camp you get beautiful writing—magnificent writing—with a kind of pointillist attention to every marvelous detail in the course of a life in which nothing interesting has happened. It's usually one or the other. So when you can combine those two things in one book—an interesting life and good writing—then you have pay dirt. But it's hard. It's hard to sell memoir, especially if it's not big in an obvious way.

What about with fiction?
Fiction is being published less and less. The stakes are higher. All editors say the same thing to me. They say, "I've got money to spend. I'd really love to do business with you. I'd love to buy a book from you." That's code. What they mean is they'd love to buy a book, for which they can possibly overpay, that is big in obvious and immediate ways. And most books are not big in obvious and immediate ways. They simply aren't. Something has to change.

I have sold books for many millions of dollars and I have sold books for two thousand dollars and pretty much everything in between. I have experienced the fantastical joys of selling books for a whole lot of money. It is a joyous moment. But it isn't necessarily the best thing in the world. It isn't. Perhaps it's blasphemous for me to say that. But if you sell a first novel for a million dollars, you are putting so much pressure on that book to perform at a certain moment, in a certain season, at a certain level. And most books don't perform immediately. Something, I think, has to give.

If I'm going to say that maybe we shouldn't take a million dollars for a first novel, that we should take less money, then it seems to me that we all have to think more imaginatively—we agents and editors and publishers, all of us collectively. I think the place to do that is in the royalty rate. You're always taught, coming up as an agent, that the royalty is the thing in the boilerplate that essentially doesn't change. You know: 10 percent on the first five thousand copies, 12.5 percent on the next five thousand, 15 percent after that. We are told that these percentages are pretty inviolate, certainly for most fiction. But where is it written that you have to stop at 15 percent? If you don't want the burden to be up front, with the large advance that sunders all plans if it doesn't work out, then change the royalty structure. Give the writer 20 percent. Go on, do it! And if you're a small publisher, definitely do it. Hold on to your writers!

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But don't you think most writers want the big advance?
Not necessarily. You need to be able to read your author. Some authors don't want the big advance. Don't misunderstand me. I'm not talking about going from an advance of a million dollars to an advance of ten thousand. It's really unfortunate, but to some extent an advance is How much do you love me? I decided about ten years ago that the differential of love in an auction is about seventy-five hundred dollars, which is really unfortunate. So sometimes when I'm in an auction, and I know that the author really wants to be with a certain publisher but the underbidder is determined to have the book and will offer more to win the author, basically I go to the underbidder and say, "Don't offer any more. Don't do it." Because the author has made up her mind and I don't want the editor to be humiliated. I don't want them to be embarrassed. I don't want to financially mug a publisher, get the top amount, and then say, "Hey, guess what? Thanks for letting me use you, but actually we never wanted you in the first place!" That's terrible. I have to stay in business with these people. My job is to do the best job I can for my author without ever being in collusion with the publisher. That's a very tricky business.

Tell me something that you often see beginning writers doing wrong.
I think they can over-hype themselves. If they have a writing teacher, a letter will arrive from the writing teacher. It's so transparent. It's not genuine. It feels like a form of logrolling. And it doesn't really work with me. Or they will make false comparisons between their book and other books.

This is the magazine's Independent Press Issue. As you've watched the industry become more and more corporate over the years, do you think it's been a good thing or a bad thing for writers?
It's been a terrible thing for writers.

Why?
First of all, there are fewer publishers. When I started out, there were publishers all over the place, all kinds of publishers that were legitimate companies, in business legitimately, in New York. I mean, what's happening at Harcourt and Houghton is just another nail in the coffin. I remember having a drink with Dick Snyder maybe twenty-five years ago. He said something that I found appalling at the time. He said that in twenty years—remember that this was twenty-five years ago—there would be four publishers left. And we're not that far away from that. We're really not. It's bad for writers in the same way that it's bad for publishers to pick one or two big books and dump all your efforts and resources into those books. It's great if you're the agent of one of those books. It's terrific. Enjoy the ride. But you too will be on the other end of it if you stay in this business long enough.

But I think the main thing that has been lost is a sense of diversity. I mean, everybody complains about this. There just seems to be a terrible sameness, and maybe it's because of the book groups and book clubs in this country, but it feels like readers in America are only having one of three or four conversations a month. Look, I love Khaled Hosseini. I love Elaine Koster. I love Susan Petersen Kennedy. I love everyone connected with The Kite Runner. But I read that book in bound galleys four or five years ago, and really, if one more person comes up to me on the beach this summer and says, "Oh! I love books too! Have you read The Kite Runner?" I really will kill myself. The opposite of that are the people who come up to me all the time saying that there is nothing to read. There is so much to read.

But what are the implications for writers? Why is it bad?
It's bad for writers because there is a sameness to conversations in the larger public. And also because they have fewer choices. If you look at Publishers Lunch, you'll see nonfiction, nonfiction, nonfiction, romance novel, paperback original, nonfiction, nonfiction, and then there will be one novel that was sold. Everybody wants it to be obvious and easy, but most books aren't. It would really be interesting to see whether a book like The Beans of Egypt, Maine would be published today. It's a great book. Or take Annie Proulx. How about that? Try describing that to your editorial department and see how far you get. She's an extraordinary writer, but you wouldn't get far at all.

So where do we go from here?
I guess you have to just keep putting your face to the wind, and never stop trying, and you have to give publishers a chance to build an audience and a sense of family. I mean, were doing that with Leif Enger's second book [So Brave, Young, and Handsome]. Paul Cirone, in this office, is the agent. Honestly, we could've had an aggressive auction for that book. The trade paperback sales of his first book [Peace Like a River] is one of the great sales stories of all time. Do you know what the returns on that book are? They're zero! It's sold eight hundred thousand copies! But we didn't shop him around. We wanted to do what was right for the author, and the author was very comfortable with the deal we came up with. The deal we came up with wasunorthodox, but why not do that if you can? And Grove was very happy. Their first printing is very hopeful, and it's on the extended New York Times list, and he's doing this huge tour. It might be a slightly old-fashioned business model, but it's one that works for that particular author and that particular house. So why not stick with it? I think that loyaltyis very important. Just like reader loyalty is important, loyalty to a publisher is important.

How has technology changed the business from your perspective?
I'll tell you, what is hard about being an agent now is the Internet. The Internet is both the joy and the bane of everybody's existence. The bane part of it for me, for an agent, is that it used to be that authors were in isolation. Which was partly bad, obviously, but it was also a good thing because they really got to focus on their work and confront what was on the page. They weren't distracted and hyped up by too much information. Today, if you are a writer of a certain genre, you feel that you've got to get blurbs, you've got to cultivate all these people, you've got to go to this or that event, and on and on. So you have writers who aren't really being given enough time to write the best book they can write. And meanwhile they have become a kind of awful consumer. There are a lot of conversations about who has what. Like, "Well, Joe Blow has shelf talkers. Why don't I have shelf talkers?" No! I don't want to hear about Joe Blow's shelf talkers. You don't have shelf talkers because your career is set within an entirely different context than the person you just mentioned. They all compare notes. They compare advances. Part of it is that they have been told it's no longer enough to just write a good book. They are told that they have to get out there, press the flesh, have blogs, have Web pages, and get advance quotes from everybody and their dogs. Then they're told, "By the way, don't you think it would be a good idea to do two books this year?" This is insane! It is altogether too fast. Everything in this business is too fast.

But how can you build a career anymore if you don't do that stuff as an author?
You can. You have to have some luck. I mean, look at Paul Cirone's author, Megan Abbott. She's building a career. She's on her third or fourth book. She just won an Edgar. She's under contract. She's with the same publisher. She hasn't had outrageously great sales, but she's building an audience. She is a great, edgy, funny, noir mystery writer.

What about for a literary writer? Maybe a writer who has published a couple of books that haven't sold too well?
They are in trouble. I'm not going to soft-pedal that. It's very, very, very painful.

So what do they do?
Well, thirty or forty or eighty years ago when people said, "Don't give up your day job," there was probably some wisdom to that. Certainly, if you get a large enough advance and decide to recklessly give up your day job, at least don't give up your insurance. Hang on to one writing class, which gives you insurance and protects you and gives you the potential for tenure. Don't give it up. The first thing I tell my authors when they sell their first book is to try to live as though they don't have the money yet. Don't start building additions on your house. Don't start taking expensive trips to Sicily. Try to remember that this might not happen again. It's very important to me that people live within their income, whether your income is thirty thousand dollars a year or thirty times that.

Tell me how you spend most days.
I would say being on the phone. Of course I do a lot of e-mail now, and I see the advantages of hiding behind e-mail. A lot of the day is spent getting information. Learning. I really read every catalogue that is sent to me. I genuinely want to know what people are doing. From the moment I take a project on, there is not a book I'm reading—if it's remotely relevant to building an argument or a case for positioning that book—that won't in some way inform or aid me in selling that book, or in understanding that project or the marketplace. A lot of time is spent doing that, and getting information. Who's selling what? The stuff in Publishers Lunch, I'm sorry to say, is rarely the big deals. Those can be the people who want the publicity, they want to be out there. It's great for them. Good. Fine. But it's not the big deals. Sometimes the big deals aren't even in the rights guides.

What is the hardest thing for you about your job?
The whining. I won't have it. I don't whine. I don't want whining from editors. I don't want whining from my authors. I don't want to read about authors I don't represent who whine. I want every single person who gets published to be grateful that they get to be published, because many of their colleagues don't get to be published. I don't want whining about money or any aspect of the business. Of course that doesn't mean I don't want to know when you have a problem. It is my job to help you figure out whether a problem is legitimate or whether it is just nervousness, paranoia, insecurity, fear, dread, the sense that the world is passing you by and you haven't heard from anybody. You've got to get a writers group, a mother, a spouse. You have to seek your support system elsewhere. Because that's not the job of an agent. When I see a problem, believe me, I'm already going at it. The question is: Do I get on the phone with the editor or do I get on the phone with the author and tell him I'm going to get on the phone with the editor, and then not have time to get on the phone with the editor? In other words, you have to trust that your agent is doing her job. When your agent says, "I will take care of this," chances are really good that the agent will take care of it. But at the same time, you can't assume that agents are always effective. I can howl, scream, beg, sob, and implore, but it doesn't always mean that my howling will make a difference. Sometimes the answer is just, "No. We've decided not to publish this book in paperback. The sales of this book in hardcover were three thousand copies, and we won't publish it in paperback."

What do you love most about your job?
Here is the thing about me as an agent: I am not only looking for literature that may be a contender. If I cry at three different points in a manuscript—even if it is lumpy, and overlong, and deeply flawed—then I am going to go to bat for it. I love finding something and getting the whole world to read it. Changing somebody's life. Changing a writer's life. I love the thrill of loving something and really believing in it, and then selling it really well. All agents know when they've done a good job. They know when they've done a crappy job too. They know when they've let their author down and when they've let themselves down by extension. It doesn't matter if you've sold the book for a song or really aggressively. You know when you've done well by a book and the book's author. And then having it all work out? Having it be published well? Being part of that ride? I mean, it's great to be right. It's wonderfully validating. It's thrilling to share in an author's success. Frank McCourt is an obvious example. What gets better than that? And to have an author who remains unspoiled, like Frank has? It is just a joy to represent an author like that. He always has been. He's so appreciative and never complains. And when he does complain it's because he's making a joke out of it. He called me up one time, maybe a year after Angela's Ashes had come out, and he said, "Oh Lord, Molly, the taxes." And I said, "No, no, no, no, no. If you're making enough money to complain about taxes, you don't get to complain about taxes." He laughed and said, "All right, fine!" He's just a joy to work with.

Is there anything you haven't accomplished that you still want to?
No. I just want to always be in the game. I want to work for at least another ten years. I don't want to retire when I'm in a walker. The reason why this is such a great job, first of all, is that I've been able to work around my children and my life. I have been able to call my hours my own to an unusual extent, in a way that would not have been possible if I stayed at Doubleday. But I have a very highly developed work ethic. I work really hard. What is extraordinary about this business is that we get to be more interesting than we would otherwise be. Because of our work. That's really important. In other words, we do go to dinner parties, and we do meet interesting people, and reading remains and will always remain a great common currency. It's fantastic to work in the world of ideas, and great plots, and the great insights that are given to us by writers. I don't ever want to be far away from that. And I won't be. I refuse. I feel deeply privileged to be in this business. So what if it's changing? I'm not going to change as quickly as it changes—there's room for troglodytes like me. And I'm never going to rest on my laurels. Because if you aren't always excited to get something in that is fresh and new, then you shouldn't be in this business. If you're just going along like a hamster in a wheel, then you've lost the pure white heat that makes this business so much fun. And it should be challenging. That's what separates the great agents from the good agents.

Jofie Ferrari-Adler is an editor at Grove/Atlantic.

Agents & Editors: Eric Simonoff

by
Michael Szczerban
7.1.13

When I first entered the offices of Simon & Schuster as an intern seven years ago, I half expected to find rooms heavy with pipe smoke and equipped with decanters of whiskey, their inhabitants ensconced in the quiet seriousness of a library. Instead, I found an ordinary office in midtown Manhattan alive with the ringing of phones, endless photocopying, and assistants scurrying from cubicle to cubicle. An ordinary office, yes—except that it was teeming with books. They were everywhere. They spilled off of shelves and hid in the corners of conference rooms. Boxes of them obstructed hallways. Their jacket art adorned every wall. 

I soon learned that books are the magic dust that turns an ordinary building into a publishing house: a place where writers can feel at home.

This spring I spoke with Eric Simonoff, one of the wizards who casts such dust around the hallways of New York City publishers, to learn some of his spells. He is a literary agent at William Morris Endeavor (WME) known for representing some of the most impressive writers—and for making some of the most lucrative deals—in the business. 

Visiting WME’s office is different from visiting a publishing house: It feels more like walking into an investment bank. The reception area is sleek and modern, and the place hums with quiet efficiency. Insofar as one sees books lining its corridors, they are tastefully displayed. Everything about WME seems designed to say, “This is where serious creative careers are made.”

The literary agents at WME work in an estimated $300 million enterprise that includes talent agents in Beverly Hills, California; Nashville; Miami Beach, Florida; and London. Like all agents, they are charged with their clients’ economic and professional livelihoods. No wonder, then, that so many prominent writers choose to work with WME, which is both the oldest talent agency in America and one of the most powerful. 

When Simonoff and I met, it became clear that the bank comparison stopped at his door. He wore a sweater and canvas shoes, and we sat on a comfortable leather couch inside his office, which is decorated with sports memorabilia, historical artifacts, and the prizewinning books whose authors he has represented. We had never met in person before, and as we shook hands I thought, “Now here’s someone who loves to read.”

Simonoff began his career as an editorial assistant at W. W. Norton in 1989. Two years later, he moved to Janklow & Nesbit Associates as an agent. He became a director of the firm sixteen years later, in 2007, and was widely expected to take its reins one day with his colleague Tina Bennett. Then, in 2009, Simonoff departed for William Morris, where Bennett joined him three years later. Simonoff’s list of clients includes Pulitzer Prize winners Edward P. Jones, Jhumpa Lahiri, and Stacy Schiff, as well as Jonathan Lethem, Lincoln Child, Douglas Preston, ZZ Packer, Philipp Meyer, Bill O’Reilly, Daniel Alarcón, Alexander Maksik, and Karen Thompson Walker. 

For Simonoff, the business always comes back to the books. That’s where we began.

Did you grow up around New York City?
I grew up in Cherry Hill, New Jersey, a suburb of Philadelphia, but my parents were from New York City and my grandmother lived in Brooklyn. The entire time I was growing up, I spent all of my vacations with her in her tiny little studio. They were the best memories of my childhood. 

It was New York in the 1970s, but I had no idea how bad New York in the ’70s was. To me it was a magical place. We’d go to the Metropolitan Museum of Art, the Museum of Natural History, the top of the Empire State Building, and always, always, always to Gotham Book Mart, which was a legendary used bookstore in the Forties. I never left empty-handed. I still have all the books my grandmother bought me over all those vacations from Gotham Book Mart, which is sadly no longer there.

You were a bookish kid.
It was what I did best. That’s probably still what I do best: sit quietly and read. It defined my childhood. I was never not reading. My parents could bring me anywhere. So long as I had a book, I’d be quiet and well behaved and happy. And that’s still the case.

You went to college at Princeton, where you studied classics. What did you anticipate doing afterward? 
I applied to law school and got in. I had worked in three different law firms during the summers in college, and I suppose I should be grateful that I did, because working in those law firms made me realize that I didn’t want to be a lawyer. I deferred admission for two years and sent résumés to the editors in chief of every trade house in New York City. It wasn’t until very near graduation that I got a job as legendary fiction editor Gerry Howard’s assistant at Norton.

Did you aspire to be an editor?
Yes. I didn’t know what literary agents were. So I thought, “Max Perkins, that’s what you do.” Gerry was certainly the closest thing—probably still is the closest thing—to Max Perkins out there. It was thrilling to get to work at a house as venerable and recognizable as Norton, and for an editor as groundbreaking and yet old-school as Gerry.

Gerry wrote incredible editorial letters, longhand, on yellow legal pads, that I would then have to type. Observing his relationship with a text, and also the relationships that unfolded in his correspondence with his many writers and friends, was an incredible and valuable education. 

How do you think people learn how to edit today?
I wonder about that. Depending on a boss’s relationship with an assistant, there’s a permeability of e-mail that makes it possible for an assistant to track all of the professional correspondence in real time. That is, to see what’s coming in and to see what’s going out, and to learn the rhythm of a relationship—with a client or with editors, if you’re an agent. So it’s evolving. It’s not the same as Gerry dropping off four or five single-spaced legal-sized handwritten pages and asking me to type them, but I think there’s a substitute for it.

Have the types of publishing relationships that you saw Gerry cultivate changed over the years? 
Probably not. It is still fundamentally a business of relationships, as it was then. It probably has always been a business of relationships. 

One of the things I marvel at is that so many of the people who were assistants when I was an assistant, or who had recently been an assistant, are running publishing companies today. At the time, it seemed like a complete impossibility that the people with whom you had relationships that were built primarily around swapping books would someday be the heads of houses. 

But I think it’s those relationships that are forged at every step of your tenure in publishing that are the ones that ultimately bear the greatest fruit, both in terms of friendship and in terms of business. 

Who are some of the people you met at Norton and have stayed in touch with?
There are a lot. I’m not sure I met them all at Norton, but Bill Thomas, who’s at Doubleday; Jordan Pavlin at Knopf; Reagan Arthur, who was then at St. Martin’s; Jon Karp, who was Kate Medina’s assistant at Random House. Molly Stern came a little bit later. We were all assistants at one point. Almost everyone you encounter will have been someone’s assistant at some point.

You were at Norton for two years. Why did you leave?
Norton still is a terrifically stable place, which is to its credit—it’s an employee- owned company. But it was a long wait to become an acquiring editor, and there were people who had already been there four and five years answering phones and typing their boss’s mail. They were beginning to acquire their own books but were not really editors yet. I asked myself, “How many years can I do this before I become hopelessly restless and fail to believe it could be possible?” And at the end of two years I began to mention to my friends that I was looking for a job as an assistant editor at another house. 

Jenny McPhee, who was Ash Green’s assistant at Knopf, said, “A friend of mine, Lydia Wills, tells me that Janklow & Nesbit are looking for a young agent.” So I reached out to Lydia. We had a drink, we hit it off, and she gave a favorable report to Mort Janklow and Lynn Nesbit. They had me in to meet them shortly thereafter, and on the basis of a single conversation with Mort and a conversation with Lynn, they hired me to be a junior agent doing magazine work, selling audio rights, taking the movie meetings when development people came through town, and then eventually building my own list. 

I was twenty-three years old, and I went from being an assistant in a cubicle to having an office with an assistant in a cubicle. It was a shock, to say the least.

Had you edited any books on your own at Norton?
There was a book that Gerry and I jointly acquired called The Wives’ Tale by a terrific writer named Alix Wilber. The book was a wonderful work of rural magical realism. All the pieces were there but it was a complete jumble. 

Gerry said, “Look, if you think you know how to fix this, we’ll buy it and fix it.” It was a question of taking a pair of scissors and cutting it up and putting it back together again, and working with Alix very closely. 

That’s the only book I can claim I really left my fingerprints on. It was a thrilling experience. The agent was Sally Wofford, now Sally Wofford-Girand, who was with Elaine Markson at the time. 

You took your taste from one building to another. What else did you bring from Norton into your life as an agent?
It was hard to shake the notion that I wasn’t going to become an editor. It was a relatively recent dream, but my dream was that I’d be an editor someday. 

There are some agents who edit, and there are some agents who don’t edit. I came to agenting at a time when editing became a lot more common among the agents. It was still that relationship to the text that I found thrilling, and that is probably the main thing that I brought with me from one building to the other. The other is the realization that I had been completely and utterly bitten by the publishing bug, and I couldn’t imagine working in any other industry.

I’m imagining what it would have been like to join Mort and Lynn.
What impressed me right off the bat was how incredibly comfortable they were with their clients—all of whom, to me, were giants. The notion of being the longtime agent and friend of Joan Didion was so completely outside my experience that it was awe-inspiring. Or David McCullough, or Michael Crichton, or Tom Wolfe, or any of these people. 

Lynn Nesbit has represented Tom Wolfe for his entire career. I found that incredibly inspiring, and I thought, “So, I could do that? I could find some bright young journalist and say, ‘Hey, you don’t know me, but let me be your agent,’ and wake up several years later with a superstar client?” Working with Mort and Lynn made it seem achievable.

Who was the first writer you represented on your own?
There was a playwright named John Jiler who proposed a book about Hurricane Gloria hitting Fire Island in 1985. He had summered for his whole life on Fire Island, and in advance of the hurricane the entire island was evacuated by the Coast Guard. John huddled in a school shelter for the duration of the storm, but later heard that ten people had refused to leave. He went back and found the ten people who weathered this unbelievable storm, and told their individual stories alongside the natural history of Fire Island. 

What about that proposal attracted your attention?
I remember being struck immediately by the voice. The accessibility of it, the gentleness of it, the sophistication of it, the broadness of it. There was a feeling like, “Okay, this is someone who can tell me a story. He seems to know what story he wants to tell me, the story is a compelling one, the story has not been told before.” That is so often at the heart of what strikes us both in fiction and nonfiction.

After you made your first sale, you continued to sell subsidiary rights for Mort and Lynn. When did the focus shift to your own authors?
I think it happened about three years in. The books I was taking on were beginning to make some decent income, and it made more sense to focus as much time on that as on the subrights. So we hired another agent to help with that.

She was a young woman who at the time had no publishing experience, not a day of it. She had been a graduate student at Yale in English. Her name was Tina Bennett, and we hired her to do the rest of the subrights work. That was a good hire. [Laughs.]

She ended up going on to not just become one of my closest friends in the world but represented Seabiscuit and Unbroken and Fast Food Nation and Malcolm Gladwell’s books and Atul Gawande and you name it.

What about Janklow & Nesbit appealed to you?
There was a very, very strong ethos to the place, from the top down. It was always an extremely dignified office, with a very clear sense of itself, and very focused on wanting to be in the highest of the high end, both in terms of literary merit and commercial possibility. It was never a volume business. It was really about curation.

Did you always see eye to eye about the quality of the books you took on?
I can’t remember disagreeing about quality, and it was a fairly independent process. In the very early days I would run by Mort or Lynn what I wanted to take on, so they had some sense of what was going out under their name. When you’re the name partners in the company you like to know what’s being sent out under your letterhead. But they were great at trusting Tina and me not to embarrass them.

What kinds of risks did you take as a young agent?
When you are young and building a list, you’re able to roll the dice on new talent and think, “I’ve only read three stories by this person, but they’re three of the best stories I’ve seen all year. I have to believe this person is capable of contributing another seven stories to a collection and eventually writing a novel,” and then say to them, “Yes. I want to be your agent.”

In the time that I was coming up in the business, there were many fewer agents than there are now. I felt tremendous amounts of competition from my peers—that if I didn’t take the plunge and say “yes” to a writer, someone else would be there in the next five minutes to say “yes.” And today, it’s unimaginably more competitive than it was then.

There’s always a risk when you call the seven or ten editors with whom you have the best relationships and say, “I’ve read the most extraordinary novel.” Every time you do that, you’re putting your reputation on the line. You send it out and you hold your breath.

No matter how many years you do it, you still sometimes think, “What if I’m crazy? What if the three people who love this book most are me, the author, and the author’s mother?” [Laughs.] And then when the phone rings the next day, and the first person says, “Oh my God, I was up all night reading this, I can’t believe how great this is,” you exhale. 

One of the things that now distinguishes you is how quickly your submissions are read. That wasn’t always the case.
No, it was not. Agents don’t have magical powers. The truth is, editors are tremendously hungry for good books. The writer who’s outside of the business views the business as this fortress designed to keep him or her out. And in fact, what I see is an industry in which we want nothing more than to discover an amazing new voice. Who wouldn’t? If you actually have a great book, it matters who sends it out, because you want someone who understands the business, who has the best possible relationships, and who can negotiate the right deal for you as a client. But your book will get discovered regardless. It might just be a question of when.

That said, it’s much nicer to have things get read overnight than have to call three weeks later and say, “Hey, have you had a chance to read that book I sent you three weeks ago?”

How did you distinguish yourself from other agents at first? Was there ever a writer you really had to fight for?
I don’t recall going head to head all that often. I used to go visit the Iowa Writers’ Workshop every couple of years. The first time I went I was twenty-eight, and it was incredibly heady to get out of New York City and to arrive at this hotbed of literary creativity and competition.

Students would sign up to meet with a real live literary agent and talk about the state of the business and whether people buy short stories or not, and I would give a talk about the state of the business and what exactly it is literary agents do. One year I went and kept hearing this name, ZZ Packer. People kept saying, “Have you met ZZ Packer? You’ve got to meet ZZ Packer. Have you read ZZ Packer?”

And ZZ Packer did not come to my talk. ZZ Packer did not sign up for a meeting. And if she hadn’t attended a party for a writer who was in town reading at Prairie Lights, I never would have met ZZ Packer. But I finally met her and I said, “Oh my God, you’re ZZ Packer! You’re the person everyone keeps talking about. Can I read some of your stuff?”


She was surprised, and a little reluctant. Even after that, I had to chase her and say, “No, really, please, please send me anything you want to send me.” That was almost more of a challenge than being up against another young agent. She was just not thinking in those terms, which is also quaint when you think about it in this day and age. There are some writers who write one story and think, “Okay, time to get an agent.”

You were twenty-eight when you first went out there? What else had you accomplished by then?
I can’t remember if had accomplished anything by the time I was twenty-eight. [Laughs.] I do remember vowing when I was twenty-eight that I would have a New York Times bestseller by the time I was thirty.

Did that work out?
I did not, no. I can’t to this day tell you what my first New York Times bestseller was; I don’t remember. But that was the goal I set for myself, and failed at.

It’s funny, there was an Observer piece around that time, in which Nick Paumgarten, who’s now at The New Yorker, was tasked with writing about the up-and-coming young agents. I found it when I was moving offices four years ago, and was interested to note first of all what a good job he’d done picking the young agents of that day, and secondly how little I accomplished by the time I was twenty-eight.

You were among them?
Yes, but I hadn’t really done anything to merit being among them.

Who else was in that list?
The only person who isn’t a literary agent anymore is David Chalfant, but Sarah Chalfant, Kim Witherspoon, Sloan Harris, Jennifer Rudolph Walsh, Nicole Aragi, and me, I think.

Do you feel competitive with those people today?
I don’t, strangely enough.

Are there other people you feel competitive with?
I don’t think that way, I guess. In fact, many of those people are very, very close friends, and have been for years and years and years.

Did I feel competitive with them? I’d rather my books succeed, I’d rather WME’s books succeed, than anyone else’s books, insofar as I feel competitive.

Publishing is doing surprisingly well given all the reports of its demise, and yet I feel that it’s still challenged enough that any time there’s a great success story, it’s good for all of us. That mitigates the feelings of competition.

Did you set other goals for yourself after the bestseller deadline passed?
I don’t really remember. One thing that you learn by doing is what you’re good at, and what you’re not good at. It’s certainly possible to have beginner’s luck in certain categories. But part of the learning process, of maturing as an agent, is recognizing that there are certain categories that you’ll never really understand.

I remember having a lunch with Jennifer Enderlin when I was a young agent, and she was talking about how much she loved women’s fiction and romance. She undeniably has an eye for it, and it comes from genuine passion, love, and understanding of it. She can tell a good one from a bad one. And I realized I will never be able to tell a good one from a bad one. It’s not where my passion lies. I have huge admiration and respect for her, and still do, because she is really good at something I will ever be good at.

Was that a tough lesson to learn?
Sure. The complicated thing about commercial fiction, especially, is that there’s well written commercial fiction, which I get, and then there’s badly written commercial fiction, which I don’t get. I wish I got badly written commercial fiction. I wish I understood what made a badly written thriller a million-copy seller. But I don’t.

What other lessons did you learn as you were launching yourself?
I think as an agent you have to remember that you have many clients and they all have one agent.

Tell me more about that.
It’s a lonely job being a writer. Years ago, a client said to me, “You’re the only person I’ve spoken to today.” That was a very sobering moment, and I realized what a lifeline an agent can be to an author. I probably spoke to fifty people that day, and this client spoke to one person, and the one person he spoke to was his agent.

I’ve had clients say, “Five years ago you said something that really stayed with me,” and had them repeat that trenchant piece of advice back to me, and I thought, “Wow, that’s a really good piece of advice! I have no recollection of giving it to you, but I’m glad that it helped.”

You’re talking about the importance of the relationships between you and your authors.
Exactly.

Can you characterize the ideal relationship between author and agent?
Everybody’s different. There are some authors who are very clear about what they are looking for, and there are some authors who say, “I don’t need any hand-holding, I don’t need any therapy, I just want you to go out and kill for me and get the best deal possible.” And then there are authors who need a lot of editorial give-and-take, need to contextualize where their work fits into their personal lives, need to know that you know when to give them a pep talk, and when to let them down easy.

When authors are picking an agent, it’s easy to be dazzled by a big name, whereas in many cases, the bright, sharp up-and-coming agent—especially if he or she has the support of a mentor—understands the work better, understands the writer better, can kill for the writer, can devote more hours of the day to the writer, and might be a better fit.

There’s no rule covering all of it. But it’s a relationship worth getting right.

Every relationship is different, but at a place like William Morris Endeavor, you’re probably looking for some uniform level of excellence.
True.

How do you define excellence as an agent?
First and foremost, communication. That is, if you can’t adequately communicate to the community—not just to the publishers and editors, but to the wider world—your passion and commitment to the writer, you probably won’t be able to follow through with the rest. You have to understand the value in the writer and the work, and to encapsulate it in as compelling and cogent a way as possible. That’s a lot of what we do: crafting the pitch. If you understand the work that you’re representing correctly, half the time you’ll end up seeing your own words in the flap copy of the book. There’s also being a member of the community. That is, not sitting behind your desk all the time, but being out there in the world, engaging with all kinds of people. Engaging with editors and publishers, but also with writers, literary festivals, MFA programs, the much wider world of letters.

WME does these amazing retreats every January, in California, where they bring incredible speakers to talk to the assembled offices. London, New York, Nashville, Miami, Beverly Hills—they all convene on this site in California. One of the speakers was talking about collisions—the number of times you bump into somebody serendipitously, and how hugely stimulating to creativity that is.

I find it to be true. Bumping into colleagues and getting out into the world and having those lunches and bumping into people at the lunch spot that you didn’t expect to see tends to be where the real work happens.

What have your writers taught you about staying creative?
If you’re a writer, and you’re working on a book, your job is to wake up in the morning and tackle that which you have set out for yourself, whether it’s solving the problem of chapter three, or getting your character from point A to point B, or starting at page one and meticulously improving the language of every sentence. The dangerous thing about almost any office job is that it’s very easy to become merely reactive. If I’ve learned anything from my clients, it’s that you do have to make your own day.

How involved do you get in helping writers work out a writing problem?
I get involved, but mostly in the form of belief. That is, I believe fundamentally in the talent of my writers and that they will find their way out of the thicket. Also, there are so many examples of writers, even recently, who have gone into the wilderness for ten or more years and returned with masterpieces. Look at the lag time between The Virgin Suicides and Middlesex, for instance, or the lag time between Drown and The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao. You can tell a writer, “You know what, it’s been a while, but look at these other guys. They did okay.”

How much editing do you do? Is that something you feel in your gut, or is it an intellectual decision?
I do think a good agent edits, but he edits only when he knows that he can make a book significantly better. The last thing I would want to do is screw up a perfectly good book. It is something you feel in your gut. I take on very little in the way of new clients these days. Even so, there are times when you read a story and you think, “I can’t not offer this person representation.” Usually it’s a gut impulse that’s then bolstered by a meeting, or by further exploration of the author’s work. I’ve taken on three first-time writers in the past four or five years.

Can you take me through your experience with one of them?
One of them was Karen Thompson Walker, formerly an editor at Simon & Schuster, as you are now.

A terrific writer.
Terrific writer.

Beautiful person, too.
Lovely person. And that doesn’t hurt, by the way, that she’s a nice person. She sent me a query pretty much out of the blue, saying that she graduated from the Columbia MFA program and that she was working on a novel. There was a line about the premise of the novel, which sounded incredibly compelling, the first forty pages of the novel, and maybe three excellent short stories. I read the forty pages of the novel first, because there’s still a bias in favor of novels in the industry, and you could love the stories but it’s going to be an uphill slog if the novel isn’t working. I was completely blown away by the first forty pages. Those pages exist in her first novel, The Age of Miracles, largely untouched from when they crossed my desk. They were absolutely arresting.

You meet her, you love her, you take her on. Then what?
Then I wait. And I wait, and I wait, and I wait. I waited for four years, I think. A couple of great things happened bam, bam, bam. One was she was promoted to full editor at Simon & Schuster. The other was that she won the Sirenland Fellowship, an all-expenses-paid trip to Positano, Italy, to hobnob with other notable writers. And shortly thereafter she sent me the whole manuscript. I held my breath, thinking, “I really, really hope she pulled it off,” hoping beyond hope that she really did pull it off, and then, as page after page went by, recognizing that she absolutely had pulled it off. When I sent it out into the world, it was greeted with exactly the same reaction that I experienced: jaw-dropping appreciation for what a marvelous writer she is, and what an amazing novel she’d created.

Did you know her book was going to be big? You are known for selling big fiction, and big nonfiction, too—books that garner advances with life-changing numbers of zeros. A lot of people want to know how you do it.
Yes. I knew that book was going to be big. The answer to the question “How do you do it?” may sound facile, but I would ask you, or anyone who’s a serious reader, this question: How many great books do you read a year? How many books do you read that you would recommend to almost anyone you know? For most people the answer is a relatively small number.

If as an agent you read a book and recognize it as that, a book that you know the people you give it to are going to want to give it to other people…those are the big books. Good isn’t enough.


When you have a book that’s truly extraordinary, and you realize the money is going to be significant, do you ever caution writers not to take the money?

No. And you can put this in parentheses after that: “He didn’t hesitate while saying that.” No.

Walk me through the consequences.
I think there are no consequences. Maybe that’s a terrible thing to say. I would rather my client have the money than CBS [which owns Simon & Schuster] have the money. [Laughs.] And this is not to single out CBS. I love my colleagues at Hachette and News Corp. and Bertelsmann and Macmillan. But I’d rather my authors have the money. No one puts a gun to a publisher’s head and makes the publisher pay this money. They pay large advances because they can’t bear the idea of not publishing a particular book. They go in with their eyes open. What’s the worst that happens? You’re paid way too much money for a book that then gets an enormous amount of attention that it probably wouldn’t have gotten if you hadn’t gotten a huge amount of money for it. These enormous advances, which are fewer and farther between than they were prerecession, are still, as you described them, life changing. They are that rare thing that enables someone to say, “I’m a writer,” and mean it. That is, not a writer slash teacher slash freelance editor slash anything else. To say, “This is what I do because I am able to sock away enough money from that crazy first advance to spend my days writing my second and third books.” Not a bad thing.

The writer who’s outside of the business views the business as this fortress designed to keep him or her out. And in fact, what I see is an industry in which we want nothing more than to discover an amazing new voice. Who wouldn’t?

That will be gratifying for people to hear.
For the few people who get paid too much money?

Everybody aspires! And as you said, those are the books that publishers want to take a crack at too. But when a publisher really takes a bath, it doesn’t feel very good.
Let me say this. If a publisher overpays for a really good book, and that really good book garners rave reviews and does really well by almost every other standard other than the giant advance, they don’t feel good about it, but they don’t feel bad about it.

Every publisher I’ve spoken to who has been in that situation has said, “I’m steadfastly proud of the job we did on that book. I’m proud to have had anything to do with that book,” whatever that book may be.

And then there are the books that earn out, the ones that actually become the sensations that they were destined to be in the first place. And you think, “Wow, I should have gotten more money for that one.”

Do you think the short story collection is in a commercial renaissance?
I certainly hope so. It’s a great American art form. In terms of WME’s ability to sell them in translation, we have a big foreign rights department, and we never sell translation rights to publishers. We reserve those rights to the clients and sell them internationally. There are territories that we find it very difficult to sell short stories in, in which it is very easy to sell novels. Some of the best short story collections do find a lot of foreign pickup, but it usually takes a certain amount of massaging to get publishers on board internationally.

Domestically, I think publishers would still say that in the aggregate, novels far outsell story collections. Every year there are notable exceptions. The question is, how many? In recent years, between Daniyal Mueenuddin and George Saunders, and Junot Díaz, Nam Le, Jhumpa Lahiri, Edward Jones, there have been a number of commercially successful short story writers. But each year probably doesn’t allow more than four or five.

In the case of George Saunders, or in the case of Sam Lipsyte, who’s a new client of mine—he used to be with Ira Silverberg, a friend and a phenomenal agent who left agenting—there’s a feeling almost of, “Now it’s time.” In the case of George Saunders, or in the case of Sam Lipsyte, who’s a new client of mine—he used to be with Ira Silverberg, a friend and a phenomenal agent who left agenting—there’s a feeling almost of, “Now it’s time.”

You’d think that in a short-attention-span age, it’d be much easier to sell story collections than novels. Yet the initial investment a reader makes in establishing where he is in a fictional landscape is only made once in a novel, but is made ten times in a story collection. Short story collections ask a bit more of the reader than novels do.

In literary fiction, there is usually work associated with figuring out where you are in each short story, who is telling the story, what the parameters of the world being described are. In a novel, once you get your feet wet in the first fifty pages or so, you can kind of glide on through.

What do the words “literary fiction” mean to you?
People outside the business ask that question on occasion, and it took me a while to figure out how to respond. When you’re in the business, it’s one of those you-know-it-when-you-see-it sorts of things.

When you have to actually put some thought into it, you realize that what defines literary fiction is an attention to language on a word by word and sentence by sentence level that is equal to or greater than attention to plot. How’s that for a definition?

I’m probably going to steal it.
And then in purely commercial fiction, plot is paramount. You have to have a ripping good plot in commercial fiction to hold the reader every sentence and every paragraph. Regardless of the craft of the writing, it’s really about transmitting a story. Pure, unadulterated storytelling. With literary fiction, yes, it’s storytelling to a greater or lesser degree, but it is as much about reaching the reader through the nuance of word, rather than merely getting the reader from point A to point B.

Earlier you said that you respond first to voice. It’s easy to see how that relates to the craft of sentences in literary fiction. But you also represent commercial writers. What does voice have to with, say, your attraction to Lincoln Child and Douglas Preston?
What Lincoln Child and Douglas Preston’s books bristle with is intelligence. There’s an incredibly strong voice that comes through their work because there are these two enormous intelligences operating in it. In the same way that Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s works tend not to be described as literary fiction, there is an intensity of purpose, care, and attention to characters and character development, and yes, plot, in the works of Preston & Child. It makes you think, “Ah, I’m not wasting my time. My mind is being engaged by this work, because I know that I’m in the hands of two incredibly smart writers who are taking me someplace I’ve never been before.”

Are you somebody who prefers a linear narrative, or kind of a curlicue one that hops around in time?
It really depends on the book. I’ve certainly encountered clients’ novels, I can’t think of any particular titles off the top of my head, that in draft were clearly linear books that were made into curlicue books unnecessarily. Sometimes the only editorial note you need to say is, “You know what, just tell this one chronologically. It’ll be fine.”

There’s a tendency to think it’ll be more literary if it’s structurally complex. And in fact that’s not necessarily the case.

Does poetry have a role in your professional reading life?
When you’re a publishing professional and you’re consuming huge amounts of text, both professionally and for pleasure, reading poetry slows everything down. There’s a speed at which you can consume prose, even the densest prose, that poetry just does not allow you.

For me, reading poetry is like putting the brakes on. It’s a conscious act. It requires you to truly stop what you’re doing, and focus not just on the paragraph, but on the word. I feel like it stimulates a different part of my reading brain than reading prose does.

Is it sort of a recalibration of your reading mind?
That’s a good way to put it. I think it is that.

When do you need to recalibrate?
I still read submissions and everything my own clients write, which is a lot. I also read a lot for pleasure, and I encourage all the agents here to read for pleasure, which is paradoxical in an industry in which we’re just absolutely overwhelmed with work reading.

In the same way that you use a different critical faculty reading poetry, I think you use a different critical faculty doing pleasure reading than work reading. You can turn off bits and pieces of the critical apparatus that, when you’re reading for work, are saying things like, “Can I fix this? Can I sell this? What’s the editor going to make of this?” You can dial those down and think, “I’m just a reader engaging with a good book.”

Poetry serves a parallel function. I can’t say that I reserve any particular time of day to read poetry or manuscripts, but as you can imagine, I have an apartment littered with books. Sometimes it’s just a question of picking up one that’s been lying there for a while.

What was the last truly magnificent book that you read that is not on your list?
That’s not on my list?

If you want to choose, okay, but I figured you would say, “I couldn’t possibly. All of my children are tall and handsome.”
I was blown away by Mohsin Hamid’s How to Get Filthy Rich in Rising Asia. Wow. It’s both very sly and readable but packs an unbelievable emotional punch. I think everything he writes is incredible.

Anything else?
There’s an amazing biography of Talleyrand by Duff Cooper, written in 1932, that biographers still talk about. I just read that, finally, after years of meaning to, and it was phenomenal. I was tweeting about it.

In your pleasure reading, how far back do you dip? Do you ever go back and say, “It’s time for my Milton fix?”
Absolutely. I have a thing for Dante, so I read a lot of different translations and attempt the Italian. I finally read Lydia Davis’s Madame Bovary translation last summer, which was fantastic. I’m never finished with the past, but I like to mix it up between what’s coming out now and what came out some time ago.

Are there any books that you’re embarrassed not to have read?
Sure, don’t we all have books that we’re embarrassed not to have read? Do you want me to name some?

Well, it might be interesting.
I have never read The Faerie Queene. And I’ve never read The Golden Notebook. How about that?Have you?

No! I haven’t read either one.
OK, then I feel a little bit better.

But then again I’ve been around for a lot less time.
[Laughs.] That’s true, I’ve had more time to catch up.I haven’t finished Proust. I’ve only read three of the six, I think. How volumes are there? Six? I don’t know. Someday.

I ask because some readers expect gatekeepers like agents and editors to maintain an extraordinarily vast knowledge of letters from the beginning of recorded time. Yet few of us could live up to that expectation. Do you see yourself as a gatekeeper?
Yes. I think we all are. And I would argue, without any grandiosity, that agents, editors, and publishers are performing a public good. I’m sure that one of your questions is going to be about self-publishing, and I think the opportunity that digital self-publishing offers writers is enormously to the good in terms of breaking down those barriers. But I think that most consumers are actually looking to gatekeepers, though I think gatekeeper is probably the wrong word.

What word would you use instead?
The word I would use is “curator,” in the same way that, coming from outside the music industry, I’m looking for people who spend all their time listening to music to help me identify which bands I want to listen to. People who read for pleasure are looking to people who spend all of their time reading books to tell them what books they might be interested in reading. It’s not crazy to expect that people who have developed expertise over many years as to what makes a really good read would be in a position to help consumers make that decision.

I often hear the word “curator” in context of someone arguing that books are merely “content.” Would you say that we’re in the book business, or the content industry?
Well, they’re certainly not mutually exclusive. I’ve been at WME for four years and part of what’s thrilling about it is being a part of a much larger entertainment industry and field. There are so many creative people passing through this office. Some of them write books and some of them write plays and some of them write music and some of them write movies and some of them direct movies. But they’re all in the content creation business. I don’t see it as a pejorative at all, nor am I such a purist as to say that the only form of intellectual appreciation is that for books.

I wouldn’t much want to meet someone who only ever read books and never listened to music and never went to see plays and never saw movies. There’s no shame in contextualizing books as part of a larger content universe. And yet I think book lovers are sentimentalists. I know I am.

I love books, first and foremost. That’s why I’m in the book department at WME and not in the motion picture department. But I love interacting with my colleagues who are in those other businesses because they feel absolutely as passionately about what they’re doing as I do about what I’m doing.

You mentioned stacks of books around your apartment. Do you prefer to read print books, or digitally?
It’s funny, I went largely digital when the first Kindle was introduced however many years ago. I was really enamored of it, especially for work, and then my pleasure reading migrated to a device for four or five years. And then I went back.

I realized that I missed the experience of reading paper, and I missed having the trophy around afterward. I was also influenced by my kids, who are biased very much in favor of paper. They’re big readers. My daughter, who’s ten, will read on a device in a pinch, but still prefers the physical book. And my thirteen-year-old son simply refuses to read on devices. He will not do it. Do you read on a device?

I do, but mostly for submissions. It’s much easier to hold an iPad on the subway than it is to hold four hundred pages of manuscript. But the reading experience is something so richly textured, and the print book is a piece of technology so deeply refined, that an e-reader can feel rude in comparison to a print book for pleasure reading. It’ll do, but…

Yes, and I think there still is a divide for me, and apparently among the larger world of consumers, between a kind of book you feel you need to own, and a kind of book that you can perfectly well read on the device without missing afterward.

Do you have any thoughts on how magazines and newspapers have managed their transition online and on devices?
I exist on the periphery of the magazine and newspaper business, and our authors and clients interact with them much more directly. There’s probably not quite the degree of sentimentality around print newspapers and print magazines as there is around print books, in part because they’re less permanent objects.

I still own every book that my grandmother bought me at Gotham Book Mart, but I don’t own every newspaper I’ve ever read—otherwise I’d be one of the Collyer brothers. It’s the same with magazines, although God knows my parents had stacks and stacks of National Geographic that they never got rid of.

Having switched to reading TheNew York Times on the iPad, it feels different to me. I don’t have that feeling of starting at page A1 and looking at every single page in the newspaper until I get to the end, and knowing that I have at least read every headline. It’s a different engagement with the information.

From a business point of view, I wouldn’t presume to speak for the future of the newspaper and magazine industries, but as a consumer, it’s somehow more different engaging digitally with magazines and newspapers than I find it is with books.

There are lots of debates going on in the publishing business about e-book royalty rates, the value of digital editions, how e-books may be sold, and so on. How much should an author actually pay attention to?
It’s good to be informed about your business. If you’re a writer and you want to make writing more than an avocation, it makes sense to have some understanding of the industry. I don’t think writers should obsess about it. But it’s fair to know how all the different pieces fit together.

I’m always a little surprised by how much ink is spilled by The New York Times and The Wall Street Journal about our business, seeing as it’s dwarfed by other entertainment businesses. If a million people read a book in America, it’s a huge bestseller. If a million people go to see a movie, it’s a disaster. It’s just the nature of the numbers. There are many more moviegoers and TV watchers than there are readers. 

It’s good to be informed about your business. If you’re a writer and you want to make writing more than an avocation, it makes sense to have some understanding of the industry. I don’t think writers should obsess about it. But it’s fair to know how all the different pieces fit together.
We’re entering an era where being in a very stable, big boat with a very powerful engine, and with an extremely well-trained crew all pulling in the same direction, is a very nice place to be.

What about the upcoming merger of Random House and Penguin? What do you think the fallout’s going to be?
It’s impossible to know until it’s here, which is why we here spend very little time even thinking about it. Those of us who have been doing this for a while remember when Si Newhouse owned Random House, and when there was a separate company called Bantam Doubleday Dell. We woke up one day to discover that Si Newhouse was essentially selling Random House to “the Germans.” It was as if the sky was falling. Now, it’s inconceivable to think of Random House as anything other than Bertelsmann. In a very short period of time people will forget that Random House and Penguin were not always Random Penguin or Penguin Random or whatever they’re going to call it.

There will be a lot of difficult decisions and a lot of growing pains in the meantime. There will probably be other mergers. And there will probably be just enough competition for the really, really big books and the really, really good books to enable writers and agents to continue doing what they do.

Do you think that there’s a similar pattern in the agenting world? For instance, the merger of William Morris and Endeavor, but also the combination of boutique agencies. You moved from a smaller agency to a much larger one.

It probably is a trend, and it’s a trend across a lot of different industries. Many people credit the real motivation of the Random House–Penguin merger being less about market share and more about pushback against Amazon, who have such an enormous position of strength in the retail end of things.

We’re entering an era where being in a very stable, big boat with a very powerful engine, and with an extremely well-trained crew all pulling in the same direction, is a very nice place to be. When a multinational publishing company comes out of the blue and dictates unreasonable terms to its authors, it’s very nice to be able to say, “That’s nice, but you can’t do that to us, because we have too many of your authors. We’ll simply take the better part of your content and go elsewhere.” That position is a very attractive one, both for the agents and for the clients of that agency.

Let’s get back to relationships. An agent’s relationship to a book doesn’t end when you sell it.
Well, some not very good agents’ relationship to the book ends when they sell it.

What are the ways in which you end up being involved?
If you’re a good agent, it doesn’t end. You should be a part of the process every step of the way. And not an intrusive part of the process. A good agent is additive to the process.

I’ve heard editors say that working with an agent who is constructive, who actually contributes positively to the experience rather than merely as an irritant, is value added. They will pay more money for that agent’s books than they would otherwise—or at least more than they would for an agent who they know will be a distraction from the process of bringing the book to market.

A good agent is involved in all the major decisions, from the titling to the jacket to the marketing to the publicity. And in many cases, it’s merely the function of reminding the publisher that someone’s watching.

It’s very easy, especially if the author does not live in New York City—and most authors don’t—to forget that the author is even a human being. If you’re the editor, you have a direct relationship. If you’re the art department, or the marketing people, or any number of other people who are working in support of the book, there’s a chance you’ve never spoken to the author, let alone met the author, and it’s easy to depersonalize the process. Part of what the agent is responsible for doing is making sure that book and that author are not forgotten.

The best, most clarifying thing, to do is to ask for a marketing meeting several months before publication—to bring the author into the publishing house, sit down with the editor, the publisher, the head of marketing, the head of publicity, and say, “What’s your plan?” for the simple reason that it forms a connection between the author and the various people in the room, and it requires preparation before the meeting. The people in that room have to think, “Oh, Simonoff’s coming in with his author, I guess we’d better come up with a marketing plan.”

There have to be things that make you roll your eyes when you hear publishers say them.
I despair that the old line some publishers still trot out—“We don’t publish individual books, we publish authors”—is less and less true. Take Cormac McCarthy. He had an enormously supportive editor in Albert Erskine, who would publish almost anything McCarthy wrote. And McCarthy did not sell particularly well. For his first few books, I’d be surprised if he sold more than in the four digits. But the feeling was, “He’s our guy, and we will keep at it.” It really wasn’t until All the Pretty Horses that he blew up. The question is: Can you have a Cormac McCarthy today? Can you have someone who publishes even three, or four, or five brilliant works that don’t sell particularly well, and have a publisher hang in and say, “We can’t pay him very much, but he’s got a slot on our list regardless of what he writes”?

I’m sympathetic to what publishers are up against, but it’s harder for a publisher to make that statement than it was even ten or fifteen years ago.

Do you think that has anything to do with advances?
I would argue that publishers would rather spend $200,000 than $15,000. If they’re spending $15,000, they have to say, “Why are we bothering publishing this book if we think we’re only going to sell three thousand copies of it?” If they get up enough energy to offer $200,000, it means they are confident it’ll hit the list somewhere.

The problem with the Cormac McCarthy paradigm is that it takes years and years of faith in an individual writer over a long period of time without a great expenditure of money. It’s not a question of advance, in my opinion; it’s a question of slots. There are a limited number of slots on a publisher’s list. And the question is, “Are we ‘wasting a slot’ if we plug in one of our house authors?”

What changes in the business have made you grit your teeth?
Many of the tools that publishers used to get the word out are gone. In the olden days, and I’m talking about five years ago, you had print ads, print reviews, and co-op advertising—that is, stacks of books in stores. Since then, the newspapers are in free fall, which eliminates the efficacy of print ads. There’s been a collapse of something like eighty percent of column inches devoted to book reviews, and there’s only one freestanding book review associated with a newspaper left, at The New York Times. And there are no stores. Borders disappeared, and Barnes & Noble is closing them.

So the three main ways of letting people know about books have essentially been taken away from publishers, and they haven’t been replaced with anything yet. Some books are made by social media, but you still have books like Stacy Schiff’s Cleopatra that are made essentially by traditional acclaim: the cover of the Times Book Review, named to the top ten books of the year by the Times, fantastic reviews in all the other places that still exist. When they coalesce around an individual title, they can still move the needle. And then, radio and touring. It was a notably beautiful book, with amazing full-color endpapers and enormous care given to the look of the thing. People still wanted to pick it up and own it.

This was two years ago. Can you make that book only with social media today? I doubt it. We’re still working on figuring out how to do what Little, Brown did for Cleopatra on a larger scale, more frequently.

Do you think that there’s anything to the argument that publishers should be extinct?
Not yet!

Saying yes would have been like pressing the nuclear self-destruct button.
Publishers still add value. Unquestionably, the most important thing they do is provide capital to writers. I would caution against moving away from an advance-based system only because it is the one absolutely irreplaceable thing that they do. You could argue that you could outsource the other things. It would be probably harder than it looks in the short term. I’m not saying it wouldn’t be possible to reinvent the publishing paradigm from the ground up.

The popular word for it in all media is disintermediation. Do we need the studios, do we need the networks, do we need the publishers? The answer in 2013 is, most of the time yes, all of the time, no. There are films that can be financed outside the studio system, there is television programming that can be created and disseminated absent cable networks and networks, and there are books that can be disseminated by self-publishing.

Is that where publishing is now for WME and other agents? Not really. We are still making the existing paradigm work, and I don’t see that changing radically in the near future.

I sometimes describe a book advance as an investment in a startup—the startup of the writer’s career. Do you think that’s a useful way to think about it?
I often tell first-time nonfiction writers who are trying to write a proposal that they are essentially writing a prospectus used to convince an investor to invest in their business, and their business is the book that they intend to write.

It’s a little bit different with fiction, which tends to be sold on a finished manuscript. So much of the initial outlay of capital has already been made by the author: nights, weekends, early in the morning, et cetera, while working a day job. That’s different.

Nonfiction tends to be sold on proposal, so it really is about trying to get someone to invest in your project. That said, publishers obviously need to do more than simply be venture capitalists. They need to be part of the creative process.

What makes you send a book to an editor you’ve never sent a book to before? Are you a closed shop?
No, I’m definitely not a closed shop. There are certainly people to whom I submit more than others, usually as a function of simply knowing them longer, and knowing them better. But there’s still something thrilling about meeting an editor you haven’t met before and talking about books.

You can have a publishing lunch in which you do nothing but talk about movies. You can have a lunch in which you do nothing but talk about your respective children. Or you can have a lunch in which you sit and just talk about books. The former two are not without their own satisfactions, but there’s something about engaging someone you’ve just met in what books really, really excite them. That’s how you determine who it is you have to send a book to.

The other thing we do here at WME is crowdsource it. Someone will send down an email saying, “I have an amazing novel that’s set in the world of opera. Who loves opera?” We collectively take the seventeen lunches we had that day, and among us, someone is bound to have had lunch with someone who loves opera. The same can be said for any number of different categories. Who loves dance, who loves dogs, who’s a birdwatcher? Part of it is relying on your colleagues to help curate a submission list.

Among the editors who are working today, do you want to single anyone out for exuberant praise?
That’d be terrible. No, I’d get in all kinds of trouble if I did that. One thing I will say is that, contrary to the old saw that no one edits anymore, it’s simply not true in my experience. There are a lot of really excellent editors.

I want you to try to reverse-engineer your list. Is there a line that connects, say, Jhumpa Lahiri to Bill O’Reilly to Edward P. Jones to Preston and Child? Is it voice?
I honestly don’t know, in part because the list of almost any agent accrues organically over many years. The ones you just mentioned all happen to be huge commercial successes in addition to whatever else they have in common.

The three things we tend to look at here are: Is this book potentially prize-worthy? Is it going to garner enormous critical attention and praise?

If not, is it enormously commercial? Is there a chance that this book will sell huge numbers of copies and be the book that you see everyone reading at the beach?

Lastly, is this book neither prizeworthy nor the book everyone’s going to read on the beach, but the first effort of someone who’s likely to become one of those two things?

If it’s none of those three things, we probably shouldn’t be representing it.

To pretend that there was some master plan in the creation of my list would essentially be a lie. If you think about Edward P. Jones, for instance, his first short story collection Lost in the City, is a masterpiece. It was a first book that garnered enormous attention but didn’t sell particularly well, although it won the PEN/Hemingway, and it was a finalist for the National Book Award, and it garnered him a Lannan Foundation grant. But it was out of print for years afterwards, which is not that unusual for a very literary collection of short stories.

It was a decade later that he sent me The Known World. A year after that, it won the Pulitzer Prize and sold a million copies. I’d like to say that was my plan all along.

Did you feel the frisson you described earlier when you were reading The Known World?
Absolutely. Yes. One of the great privileges of the job is the occasion of being one of the first readers of a work of true greatness, and knowing it while you’re experiencing it. It was unambiguously a masterpiece in manuscript. And you typically still have the nagging suspicion that maybe no one else will recognize its genius other than you, but in that case that was an impossibility. It was too powerful a book not to become a classic.

What are some of the other high points in your career?
It’s hard to pick them—I wouldn’t want to leave anybody out. I have to say that seeing Jhumpa Lahiri’s Unaccustomed Earth debut at number one on the New York Times bestseller list was absolutely thrilling. To me, not to Jhumpa.

Why was that?
Jhumpa is absolutely remarkable and is so completely focused on the work rather than what comes after. For her, the great satisfaction is in the process. She would tell you the same thing.

She was traveling at the time that we were waiting for the first week’s bestseller list. I called her and said, “Look, the list is going to come out probably around five o’clock. When I get it, do you want me to call you?” And she said, “No, it’s okay, you can just let me know tomorrow.”

Did you have some sense of how it would perform.
In advance of a big publication, and then the week of the publication, the publisher sifts through tea leaves and tries to get a sense of where it’s going to land. Is it going to be number five? Number two? The New York Times has their own impenetrable, opaque system.

It was reaffirming not only because Jhumpa is a friend and a client, but because she’s a truly great writer of short fiction. To have a short story collection debut at number one in this country was good news for everybody.

I don’t know about you, but I can’t stand Twitter feeds that are all self-promotional. They’re boring. If you hook me by making me interested in what you have to say to begin with, and then slip one in every now and then, that’s palatable. But the people who post every single review they receive of their novels are very quickly unfollowed.
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Any low points you want to mention?
Oh my God, yes. I tell the agents here are that the list of authors I have passed on is far more impressive than the list of authors I represent. And they laugh and think I’m kidding and I wish that I were, but everybody misses something.

Every editor I’ve spoken to has an incredibly impressive list of bestsellers he or she has passed on, and every agent I know has a list of gems that they didn’t see, didn’t get around to reading, or weren’t in the mood for at the time. The only thing for it is to let it go. You have hold onto the ones that you were ready for, the ones that you did recognize, and especially the ones you nurtured and brought into the world. 

And then the other thing: Every agent at some point fails to sell something. It feels like an enormous personal failure to the client. It’s an awesome responsibility to have someone entrust not just their baby over to you, but their literary life. To fail to find the best publisher for it feels like a very public failure. But it’s not nearly as public as it feels, because everyone’s much more worried about their own work than yours.

Some people think that if you’re Eric Simonoff or Binky Urban or Lynn Nesbit, this has never happened to you. But it’s happened to everybody. It’s the worst telephone call to make. There’s that call between the Paul Giamatti character and his agent in Sideways, where he’s standing outside the vineyard and she says, “We tried everybody.” That’s the worst.

Is there a circumstance in which you would advise a client to self-publish?
WME is actually positioned to publish an author’s works digitally if we deem that the best way to go. But without the marketing and publicity piece provided by publishers, you really aren’t doing much more than making the work available. This is the problem of self-publishing. Unless you have an enormous platform of your own, or a huge social media footprint, or a way to make your self-published work go viral, it’s like dropping it down a well.

The media stories that you hear about the wildly successful experience of self-publishing are usually three or four titles a year. Those are not great odds. They’re just not. The odds of being published by one of the mainstream publishers in New York and having your book actually sell a decent number of copies are pretty long too. Which makes you realize how much longer those odds are when you take out the marketing and publicity piece, or the triage of agents and editors, or all the other things that come from having a physical book in bookstores.

Can you describe what you mean by “platform?” How would you define a good one?
Platform is the ability to get the ability to get your message out to as many people as possible, who are already existing fans of yours in one form or another.

Bill O’Reilly has a very good platform. He has the highest rated cable news program on TV twice a day, every weekday. Every time he goes on television, he sells books. That’s a great platform, but it’s not the only platform. If you are a hugely committed tweeter, if you have an enormous following and people hang on your every tweet, you have a platform. You can reach a committed fan base, a committed readership. If you have a syndicated radio show, you might have an even bigger platform. If you have neither a radio show nor a big Twitter following but you speak to sixty speaking dates a year, you have a platform that is convertible into book sales.

Publishers find it enormously reassuring to think that they are not the only ones who are going to be drumming up business for a particular book, so “platform” is shorthand for that. Can you bring readers to us? Can you bring book buyers to us?

An agent once told me that the phrase she despises hearing an editor say the most is, “I just didn’t love it,” and that a close runner up is, “The platform just isn’t there.”
Well, we’re talking about different kinds of books, I think. Karen Thompson Walker, when we sold The Age of Miracles, did not have a platform. She was not on TV, radio, or social media. She wrote an amazing first novel. You didn’t read it and say, “I just didn’t love it.” You read it and said, “Oh my God, I have to have this book.” I said it before: Good isn’t enough.

Would you say that a platform isn’t enough?
Platform isn’t enough for a bad book. I think even with platform you need a good book. Consumers of all kinds of media care about content and quality. So it’s not enough to have a big platform. You also have to have a really good product to plug into that platform.

This is true of Bill O’Reilly’s books too, which have been enormously successful. If they weren’t good, if people didn’t love to read them, they wouldn’t be selling like they are, eighty weeks after initial publication. People really like them. Would they have been this successful without the platform? No, they wouldn’t have had the initial push to get them to a critical mass to explode the way they have. Nonfiction and fiction are very different in that respect.

I don’t resent either of those statements, “I just didn’t love it” or “the platform just isn’t there,” because it’s not fun publishing books that nobody reads. That’s not fun for anybody. It’s not fun for the author, and it’s really not fun for the publisher. And it’s not fun for the agent, because the agent has a second book from that author. If the first wasn’t read by anybody, that makes the second one impossible to sell.

A writer’s relationship with his or her agent is likely to outlast the relationship with any given editor. Such is the nature of the business. How can an author make the most of being inherited by a new editor?
It’s sadly and increasingly a fact of life, especially if it takes you more than a year or so to write your book, that at some point in your career you’ll be orphaned and inherited by someone else.

If at all possible, you should meet that person quickly and try to forge a feeling of ownership between editor and author. Editors are human beings and they like to take pride in their work. They would rather be instrumental to the process than peripheral to it. This is human, and normal. If they feel they are merely babysitting someone else’s author they will not have that feeling. And if they do not have that feeling, and they are given five minutes in a large marketing meeting to advocate for one of their books, they’re not going to advocate for your book.

It goes back to this question of relationships. The author-editor relationship, regardless of whether it’s the original acquiring relationship, the editing relationship, or the person who inherits the book merely to shepherd it through the remainder of the publishing process, is an important one. People work harder for people they are engaged with. And I hate to say it, but people work harder for people they like, and who they feel beholden to in some way. It’s also the agent’s responsibility to make sure that that book does not fall between the cracks.

How do you do that?
By being a pain in the ass. [Laughs.] And there’s a nice way to be a pain in the ass, and there’s a jerky way to be a pain in the ass, but sometimes it’s just a question of persistence and being a reminder. We all recognize that our actions have consequences. If an editor inherits a book and does a really good job, I’ll remember it. If an editor inherits a book and does a really bad job, I will remember it.

I think most editors still operate from a place of self-preservation and realize, if I do a good job on this person’s book I will get more business. You want to earn your acknowledgment in the book. You don’t want your acknowledgment to be obligatory. It’d be nice if you felt that you were acknowledged alongside the acquiring editor not because it was for form’s sake, but because you actually made a positive contribution to the book.

I get curious when an editor or an agent decides to get his feet wet and put his own name on the cover of a book.
Yeah, isn’t that amazing?

You’ve done it.
Only a little, really, and that was a fluke.

I’m interested in how it came to be, that book. [Sleepaway, a collection of stories about summer camp compiled by Simonoff, was published by Riverhead in 2005.]
I loved summer camp, obviously, and I noticed that a number of clients and other writers had written summer camp stories. Margaret Atwood, ZZ Packer, David Sedaris. I thought, “Wow, there are a lot of good writers writing about sleepaway camp.”

I was having lunch with Cindy Spiegel, who was then at Riverhead, and I said to her, “We’ve got to find someone to edit this thing, because it’s just lying there.” She said, “Why don’t you do it?” And she made me an offer to edit an anthology, so I edited an anthology. It sold hundreds of copies. [Laughs.] Still very proud of it.

It sold more than that! I looked it up.
It’s out of print, I think, but I’m sure there are plenty of copies floating around eBay. It’s a good book! Diana Trilling is in there, and Jim Atlas, and Lev Grossman.

What I’m curious about is if that experience changed your outlook. You were involved in a new way in publishing a book.
It certainly felt different—it gave me some appreciation for what authors go through. But I didn’t have the nail-biting, nerve-wracking experience of putting something out there and waiting for people to respond to it. That step was completely skipped.

I told Cindy and the publicist, “Just get me on one NPR show. That’s all I want. I want the experience of being in the studio, having someone ask me questions.” And they got me on one NPR show, and it was fun to be there with the headphones on.

One of the humbling things was that BookCourt, my local bookstore, offered a reading. And one thing I didn’t do was feel that I could invite every Tom, Dick, and Harry who I’ve ever met to this reading. I felt shy. I felt embarrassed about begging people to come. And as a result, very few people came. In fact, if the three authors who were reading and their editors and my family hadn’t come, it would have been a very, very sparse reading.

What role does groveling play in successfully publishing a book?
Every author has his own limits as to how much groveling he’s willing to do in the service of getting the word out about a book, how many and what kinds of favors to call in. I would never dictate to an author what I think she should do in that regard.

I don’t know about you, but I can’t stand Twitter feeds that are all self-promotional. They’re boring. If you hook me by making me interested in what you have to say to begin with, and then slip one in every now and then, that’s palatable. But the people who post every single review they receive of their novels are very quickly unfollowed.

What gets you excited about the way our business is changing?
I think there will always be some place for the physical book. There will always be a core group of people who are attached to the book as object, as my own children demonstrate. But I think the accessibility of books because of ebooks is enormously gratifying—to feel that we’re not losing sales.

I had an author, who will remain nameless out of respect for the publisher, whose book was selected by The New York Times as one of the top ten books of the year in the weeks leading up to Christmas, and was out of stock. Five years ago, you’d lose uncountable numbers of sales. When that happens today, especially with a novel, it’s hard to say how many sales you lose, because there’s the possibility that the customer will say, “I’ll read it on my device.” The feeling that you’re not losing a sale because your local bookshop doesn’t have a copy of the book is a great relief.

Eliminating the inefficiency of printing, binding, shipping, inventory management, and returns for everybody in the business is an attractive proposition—even as the notion of letting go of the look and feel and smell of the book is not attractive.

That authors and individual citizens are able to build up huge followings on social media from their living rooms and parlay that into book success is enormously exciting. And the fact that you can migrate from platform to platform, that you can write TV and film and books and you can lecture and you can be part of the larger media universe and still do what you do best, which is tell stories and string sentences together.

I remain an optimist. It’s a business for optimists. If you have a great book, you will find a readership for it. What else can I tell you?

When you’re looking to represent somebody for a book project, are you also thinking if it could be a movie or a miniseries?
I am always thinking that, but the answer isn’t always yes, and the answer not being yes doesn’t affect my decision one way or another.

Instead I’m thinking more in terms of what the client’s thinking. Does the client want this? Is the client looking to expand into other forms of storytelling? I recently began working with Stephen Chbosky, who wrote The Perks of Being a Wallflower, largely because he’s represented by WME for writing and screenwriting. He was finally able to take this novel he wrote in the late 1990s and put it on the screen in 2012. This book has sold incredible steadily since it was initially published, but the amazing thing was to watch it spike to number one, not when the movie came out, but when the trailer came out. You see what expanding into other media can do for a book, putting aside for the moment the author and the author’s career. It can give a book an entirely new life.

Do you have any predictions about the future of books?
I predict that people will continue to write them. I do feel that there is a persistent and insatiable desire for long- form prose—that there is something about the experience of disappearing into a long piece of writing that has enormous appeal to enough people in the world to maintain the publishing industry through the foreseeable future. It’s not replicable by film or television; it’s not replicable by video games or blogs. It is that experience of immersion, and the fact that it is both solitary and yet communal—that it requires quiet time alone in an incredibly hectic, overburdened world, and that the great satisfaction of it is talking to other people about what you read—that will never be replaced by anything else.

Let’s end on a high note. What are you grateful for?
Outside of a very happy personal life, I’m grateful to work in an industry in which all the people I engage with on a daily basis are involved in some way in the life of the mind. I’m grateful for the publishing community, the group of people who as I described essentially have grown up together in the business, and are all focused on the same thing, discovering great storytellers and bringing them to a readership. And I’m incredibly grateful to my colleagues in every one of these offices, all of whom are the best at what they do, and who allow me to glimpse their work in fields related to but different from the field that I’m in. I’m never bored. I’m always learning. I feel very, very lucky. I’ve got the best job in the world. 

Michael Szczerban is an editor at Simon & Schuster.

Agents & Editors: PJ Mark

by
Michael Szczerban
6.18.14

What makes a literary agent great? It is not necessarily editorial acumen, negotiation skill, or relationships with powerful editors, but rather the strength of an agent’s conviction about the writers and work that agent represents. Of course, being shrewd, tough, and connected doesn’t hurt—but the most important thing any of us in the publishing world can do is believe passionately in authors and their ability to communicate something real.

But where does that conviction come from? That is what I sought to discover by talking with PJ Mark, an agent whose clients are among the freshest voices in American writing, but whose path into the agenting business was anything but direct.

Mark made his way from Scottsdale, Arizona, where he played in a punk band, to New York City in 1990, where he founded Feed, an alternative literary journal, with his student loans. Soon thereafter he began to evaluate projects for Ballantine Books, and through a chance meeting while he waited tables at a macrobiotic restaurant, he became a book scout for foreign publishers. He later worked as a journalist covering the publishing industry, and since 2002 has been a literary agent, first at International Management Group (IMG), then Collins McCormick, McCormick & Williams, and now Janklow & Nesbit Associates, where he moved in 2010.

Mark’s list of authors includes five writers who have received 5 Under 35 honors from the National Book Foundation—Samantha Hunt, Grace Krilanovich, Dinaw Mengestu, Stuart Nadler, and Josh Weil—as well as many other notable writers, including Rachel Aviv, Rosecrans Baldwin, Jim Gavin, Shelley Jackson, Wayne Koestenbaum, Sarah Manguso, Maggie Nelson, Ed Park, and Craig Thompson.

Let’s begin at the beginning.
I grew up in Arizona in the seventies and eighties, in what was then a small suburb called Scottsdale. I was the youngest of seven kids.

What was your first experience with reading?
I don’t have those memories of sitting in the back of the car reading or being in a library and borrowing books. I really struggled as a young person. I wasn’t a reader. I was a gay, poor, punk-rock kid in Scottsdale, and I fell into music instead.

That changed in high school, when I was the lead singer of a punk band. Through lyrics and music I began to understand the power of expression through writing. There was an album of spoken-word poetry released by Exene Cervenka from the punk band X and an African American poet named Wanda Coleman—literally a pressed vinyl album—called Twin Sisters that I listened to on a loop. They talked about cultural issues and outsider status, and that sort of alternative writing led me to the kind of people you would expect: Kathy Acker and William S. Burroughs and Allen Ginsberg. Those were the writers I fell into reading and really loved.

It took me a while to develop the skill to sit down with a book and to allow it to take me on a journey. With the vocabulary and reading issues I had when I was younger, I didn’t have the capacity to fully comprehend what I was reading, so I would just shut down.

What else was going on in your life? Were you acting out or involved in drugs?
Both of those things. I had a nihilistic view, and took a lot of risks and engaged in dangerous behavior. Then two things happened. The first thing was writing: learning to express myself creatively, and finding other creative people to engage with. That directed my energy toward something productive. The second thing was that my twenty-eight-year-old brother killed himself when I was eighteen. I saw that I was pointed toward a really self-destructive path. I saw that I had to get the fuck out of Arizona and change my life. I had to turn everything around.

I got into Arizona State University, but I was determined to get to New York, because it was the furthest place from where I was. I knew New York would allow the kind of creative exploration I was interested in. I wanted to write fiction.

Wow.
My mother was determined for us to have a different future than what she came from. We were first-generation college graduates, my brothers and sisters and I. She expected us to do something with our lives. I was good at working through the requirements of what was expected of me, but I floundered with traction and had to find my own way. That brought me on a path to publishing and directed me to make the decisions that I’ve made throughout my career.

How did you get to New York?
I applied myself and transferred to NYU as a junior in 1990. I was putting myself through school by working full-time, five nights a week, at Tower Records. It was hard to work until 2 AM, close up, and get to class at 8:30. I dropped out and decided that the best way to get what I wanted, which was then to be in publishing, was to delay my studies for a year and finish up at Hunter College. Hunter was a community of other students who were also putting themselves through school. There was no campus to lounge around in. You arrived and you got down to business and you left and you had the rest of your life, and that was very meaningful.

How old were you then?
I was twenty when I came to New York in 1990. And then in 1991, when I was still in school, I used my student loans to start a literary magazine that lasted a few issues.

Tell me about that magazine.
It was called Feed. The parenthetical was “Eat your critique,” which was just a preemptive fuck-you to anybody who had anything to say about it.

The idea was to encompass marginalized voices. There were some very cool queer-theory things happening at the time, and a lot of gay and ethnic and marginalized writers were finding traction. Cool stuff was happening at the Poetry Project at St. Mark’s Church. The Portable Lower East Side journal was being published. And Ira Silverberg had released High Risk: An Anthology of Forbidden Writings, which was mind-blowing for me.

At one point, I went to a poetry reading by David Trinidad at the New York Public Library. It was pouring rain, and Ira was there—he and David were partners at the time—and there was a writer, Rachel Zucker, who wound up being a student of Wayne Koestenbaum. David read to the three of us and then we had this four-person conversation. I told them that I was working on this literary journal, and Ira, in his infinite generosity, said, “You should come to my office and look at the CLMP,” which was a bound book of information about distributors and printers. Then he said, “If it’s useful, I can introduce you to people.” Ira was one of the first people I met in publishing and he really set me on a path. I’m very grateful for that.

Were you still playing in a band?
I had aspirations to be Ian Curtis, right? But I didn’t have a very good voice, and depressive music only goes so far. There was just no time for it, and there was no money in it.

I once auditioned for a band and lost my voice the next day. I thought it was a sign from the universe that it was the wrong thing to be doing. I was here to be in school, to be a writer, to be in publishing. So I redirected the energy towards curating a creative community of writers and friends.

I arrived as a young gay man in New York in the midst of the second half of the AIDS crisis. It is a very scary thing to suddenly have friends who were dying, and not know how to navigate a sexual world when you’re coming of age. But there were writers like Dale Peck, who was writing Martin and John. And a little bit later, Scott Heim was writing about this new queer coming-of-age.

After the High Risk anthology, Ira published a list of “High Risk” books and I bought and read every single one of those. They were voices of a very specific New York time, and they probably feel very dated now, but they were about rock and roll culture, drug culture, gay culture. Gary Indiana and David Trinidad and Dennis Cooper and June Jordan and Lynne Tillman—these were important voices at a very important moment for me. They crystallized what writing could be, and what books could be. They were seminal in the way that I viewed what was possible in fiction and nonfiction, and how one could express oneself.

These books became a part of you.
They did. Those writers became the rock stars for me. Those writers were marginalized, and that made me more interested in them. I felt that they were clearly saying something that needed to be said but weren’t given a larger platform to say it.  

Tell me about the literary scene.
The community of reading was different in the 1990s. When something was reviewed in the New York Times, a new writer debuted, or someone was on the cover of the Book Review, it became part of the cultural conversation. It was your responsibility to read that book and to be engaged in that conversation. That was what you did. You read the New Yorker for their listing of readings, and looked at the Village Voice for what was upcoming. You went to the Poetry Project at St. Mark’s and you saw those writers read and you were part of it in a way that just feels different now.

Alternative culture was different, too, because it wasn’t commoditized and it wasn’t gentrified. The East Village was rough. I was on Thirteenth Street between First and Second Avenues. Between Second and Third was a crackhouse and between First and A there were heroin dealers. Tompkins Square Park had been shut down. You also didn’t go much west of Eighth Avenue—that was also sort of scary. New York was grittier.

I browsed bookstores like I would browse indie record shops. I would browse through covers and see that an album was put out by 4AD, and buy it, or that it was from IRS Records, and think it would be amazing. I would see a book on the shelf from Grove, or Knopf, or FSG, and think that it must be important.

When did you realize that you could get a job in publishing and help bring those books into print?
In my senior year of college at Hunter, Ira introduced me to somebody who knew the assistant to Clare Ferraro, who was then at Ballantine Books. This was back when one publisher would publish a hardcover, and other publishers would buy the paperback rights. They would get these hardcovers in and evaluate whether they were viable as paperbacks. But there was such a volume that they needed readers.

I was paid thirty-five dollars per book. It would take me eight hours to read, and four hours to write a report on it. But I learned how to discuss literature in shorthand, and to identify what was viable and what was relevant. That was my first inkling that publishing is a business, and that there are decisions that go beyond art and have to integrate commerce. Sometimes it’s just art, and sometimes it’s just commerce, and that’s okay. But the beauty is in the intersection of both.

At that point, I was also waiting tables at a macrobiotic restaurant, so you can imagine how much money I was making. [Laughs.] A young woman kept coming in, and she would read galleys and the New York Times Book Review before it came out, and I thought that was astonishing. We would talk, and she eventually said, “I work at a company around the corner and we’re looking for an assistant. You should come in for an interview.”

That was Mary Anne Thompson’s scouting office. I was able to arrive at Mary Anne’s office with the reports I had written for Ballantine and a literary journal of writers I had scouted and published and say, “I’m sort of doing what you’re asking right now: I’m looking at contemporary writers and evaluating whether they can be published, and I’m also engaged in this conversation with a mainstream house.” Mary Anne hired me immediately.

Do you remember any of the books that you evaluated?
I wish I did. When you’re reading that kind of volume and you’re that tired, it all becomes a blur. I can’t claim to have recommended anything that was bought. I was probably getting the not terribly important books to decide whether they should be published. But it was a good exercise.

Would you talk a little more about how people inside the business determined whether those books were “terribly important” or not? Those decisions can seem pretty opaque to a writer.
At that time, when you were looking at a book for paperback publication, it was to see if you could grow the audience that had been established in the hardcover, blow out the amazing groundwork that had been laid, or find a book that had been overlooked and create a second life. That was when you could have a second life in paperback. Reinventing a book in paperback in the traditional way is not really possible anymore.

I don’t know why books were given to me, but I would assume there was a tier of projects that were considered very seriously because there was potential to make a lot of money off of them, and a lesser group of projects that were considered to see if any money could be made if they were published properly or differently. I’m assuming those were the books I was reading.

Clare Ferraro would never remember this, but I recall having a conversation or two with her and her assistant about why a book should be pulled from the stack for consideration.

What did you learn from those conversations?
That you have to trust your heart—that even if someone disagrees with you, it doesn’t mean you are wrong. That was something I carried forth into scouting. That when I recommended a book to my clients, it didn’t matter if they disagreed. My opinion was true to me and the value of what I saw in the book was real. It might not be for them at that moment, or might not be for them for that list, but it didn’t negate my response.

That was very valuable to bring as an agent as well: to believe passionately in something, to be able to sell it to an editor, but also to recognize that it is not a failure if something doesn’t sell or doesn’t meet with the response that you hoped for. It just might not be the right time for that book, or there might be other factors that we can’t even see that are interrupting the process of acquisition.

A lot of people start out in this business in a tentative, indecisive way. But deciding that something is good is the first step to making others agree that it is good. I wonder where your conviction came from.
I have always felt that I want an emotional response to a work, whether it is a work of fiction or nonfiction or music. If I’m receiving an emotional response to whatever that work is, then I know it’s true. It’s operating with the capacity for honesty and generosity. That’s trusting the feeling you get when you’re reading something.

When you’re a book scout, you are reading a huge volume of books—eight to ten a week—and reporting on them. You have to be very clear, very quickly, about what you spend your time reading, and what your client should pay attention to. Your client is receiving not only submissions in their own country, but also international submissions from the United States and the U.K. You have to give them clarity about what they should spend their time on.

I was a junior person when I started with Mary Anne, and I was tasked with scouting the small presses. I was trying to find gems to break out, so my job involved seeing SoHo Press publish Edwidge Danticat, and saying, “Everyone should buy this”—and then seeing that happen, even before Edwidge had representation.

This was all pre Internet, pre e-mail. We heard about books that were on submission in hard copy and then called around to editors and their assistants to convince them to make a copy of a book and to leave it in a messenger bag for us to pick up. There was a series of steps that had to happen for us to even get the book in hand. And then we had to evaluate the stack and write a report, and then copy those books for our clients, copy the reports, copy all the scouting magazine reviews, and copy all the other reviews that were happening. We would send these huge packages internationally that would take two days to put together. That was every week.

You have to hone that skill very quickly: to say this is something engaging and fresh, this is not; this is going to sell for a lot of money and you should pay attention to it, and this is going to sell more modestly but has potential to break out.

The scout is probably one of the most invisible roles in publishing to an outsider.
Scouting has transformed tremendously since I was involved in it. I suspect there are different ways of doing business now, but basically scouts are hired by an international publisher in the U.K. or in another country to be aware of all of the material that’s being submitted at that moment. They have an ear to the ground to find out what people’s reactions are, what’s selling, and how much it’s selling for, and they try to secure that material and read and report on it as quickly as possible. They’re in competition with other scouts working for other companies, and they want their international publisher to get there first.

Scouting gave me a great bird’s eye view of publishing. I dealt not only with a range of publishers, but with agents of every scale, from independent shops to the bigger agencies and the more tony lists. It was a tremendous amount of exposure, and I formed relationships that have remained for the last twenty years. Stephen Morrison was a book scout with Maria Campbell at the same time I was scouting. Reagan Arthur was an editor at Picador with George Witte.

I also had the opportunity to travel to the book fairs, mostly Frankfurt and London, and got to see the world publishing community in action. It geared me towards recognizing what has potential internationally and what might be a harder sell.

How much do you interact with scouts now that you’re an agent?
I have some friends who are scouts, so I talk to them. But having been a book scout and then having also sold foreign rights at McCormick & Williams when I was there, I am okay with relinquishing the responsibility of the international market to my colleagues and working with them. They are on top of the movement of those markets and they are really the experts at this point.

I am eager to be involved in the selling of my books internationally to those foreign markets, but I don’t regularly meet with scouts and talk about my books. It’s hard when you’re friends with somebody to have them give a reaction to one of your projects that you don’t want to hear. To hear a scout not respond in the way that I hope is harder than to hear editors tell me that they’re turning something down. 

So much of an agent’s job is hearing the word no and an editor’s justifications for it. Has the way you handle that kind of response evolved?
Oh, yes. As a new agent one can be devastated by hearing no. You’re putting yourself on the line with your taste, and you feel the responsibility of taking a writer on and that writer’s expectation for what you can deliver. It’s incredibly disappointing, but it can be devastating when you’re younger if you don’t understand that there are other factors at play. An editor can really love a book but not be able to push it through, and that is not a failure of you or of the project. It’s a moment in that publishing house.

We like to hear yes more than we like to hear no. But the other evolution as an agent is that the longer you do it, the more you understand what you can successfully sell. You gear yourself toward those projects that are going to make you money.

That’s interesting to hear from somebody who grew up in the punk scene.
The work I am attracted to is relevant and authentic and meaningful. It’s unexpected and creates a response. That can be something commercially minded, or it can be something strictly literary. But we are in a business and I have to earn my own keep, so I have to find projects that are going to get attention, find an audience, and sell.

I can’t sustain, and don’t want, a list of writers who are read by a very small group of people. It’s just not what I am interested in. I am interested in those voices exploring issues of identity and duality that can reach a broader audience, and sometimes they are more successful than others. My goal is to have books both in fiction and nonfiction that create dialogue and engagement as part of a larger cultural conversation. I don’t care about books that have no impact. Sometimes, though, I know that the impact is undetectable to me and to the writer, but the work is still reverberating because of its content or style.

I suppose it’s true, too, that even many popular books do not become a big part of mainstream culture.
That’s the problem of there not being as many readers as you would want. We have conversations within the publishing world about a book, and the larger cultural conversation happens externally. It’s always the hope that the book that we in publishing are all excited resonates externally in the buying world. 

How long did you remain a scout with Mary Anne Thompson?
From 1993 until the very end of 1999. I had a good run, but I wanted to do other things, even though I didn’t know what those other things were. I had read a piece in the New York Times about Kurt Andersen founding an online company that would report on different media, like music and television and film and book- and magazine publishing, and politics.

I was familiar with Kurt because I was a Spy magazine reader, and because he had written a novel that I had read as a scout. But I was naive enough not to understand who Kurt Andersen was. I wrote him and said, “Hey, you’re starting this new online venture and I’m interested in exploring what that might be.” I told him what I did as a book scout and suggested that I could do that for him digitally. He really responded to that—the idea that I could report on Inside.com what submissions people were reading and what people were buying in real time blew his mind. I was hired. So was Sara Nelson, and we had a blast.

We worked together for a year and a half: Michael Hirschorn, Kurt Andersen, Sara Nelson, Lorne Manly, David Carr, Craig Marks, Joe Hagan, Todd Pruzan, Jared Hohlt, Greg Lindsay, Kyle Pope, Steve Battaglio. These key people within their industries all came together for this one venture, and we were for a year the white-hot center of media coverage. But it was the Internet version 1.0, and we couldn’t figure out how to monetize it properly. We launched as Publisher’s Lunch was about to launch. We had a lot of ambition about what we could do, and we disrupted things for a period of time, and then it ended after September 11.

That was my transition step. My reporting on projects about writers and auctions caught the eye of Mark Reiter, who was an agent at IMG. When David McCormick left IMG to start Collins McCormick, IMG needed a literary agent and Mark offered an amazingly generous opportunity to cut my teeth.

IMG’s literary department was unwinding, but it was an opportunity. It was just Mark Reiter, Lisa Queen, and me. I had not thought about being an agent until Mark asked me.

Had you thought about writing?
I wrote a terrible novel. A really, really terrible novel. And no, it is not discoverable. It does not exist in any form digitally. It is buried deep within a drawer in a remote undisclosed location. I discovered very quickly that real writers are those who wake up and believe that they cannot do anything else but write. That they will not survive if they are not writing.

In a way, writers are people who find ways to organize their lives to support their writing.
Yes, I think that’s a terrific way to state that. And very few writers can support themselves completely independently from their writing. That’s because of the nature of payout on a book contract. Even a very lucrative book contract is paid off over the course of two years, and when you’re taking 40 percent of that money to pay an agent and pay taxes, you are working with a very small margin. I do have writers who are fortunate enough to be able to survive on their writing. But most writers are not able to do that.

I didn’t have that drive. While I was writing that novel, it was what I wanted to do, but when it was finished, I saw that I didn’t really have anything to say—or if I did have things to say, I didn’t have the language or experience to say them. The book felt false.

I was able to recognize that and put it aside. But that experience reinforced that I do have this creative instinct, and that I could cultivate those impulses and ideas with other people who were more skilled, and who could actually execute them on the page. I could bring my own creative perspective into shaping the work with the writer.

IMG was an opportunity to be paid a really decent salary, take a lot of risks, and make a lot of failures. I didn’t have a clear mentor or guide, so I learned through trial and error. I had no idea what the fuck I was doing. That can only last so long. You have to get it together and step up.

What sort of mistakes did you make?
I took on things that I thought would be financially viable, but which I didn’t really care about. I thought they would sell and that I was employed to make money for the company, and to that end I should just find books that were a commodity. But I quickly learned that if your heart isn’t in a project it’s very difficult to sell it, and people recognize that. I learned that agenting was going to be much harder than I expected, and that I have to really love everything that I take on. I have to be determined to go to thirty-five people even if they keep saying no.

My first writer when I was at Inside.com, Joe Hagan, and I became friends. His wife, Samantha Hunt, was starting to publish in McSweeney’s, and she sent me a seventy-page prose poem called The Seas. And I thought: “This is brilliant! And I have no idea what to do with it!”

Through a very generous relationship she had with Dave Eggers, she worked that book into a novel. Sam was my first fiction client, and her book was the first novel that I sold. We had a lot of firsts together. She was in the first group of writers to be named “Five Under Thirty-Five” by the National Book Foundation. She was the first writer whose work I sold to the New Yorker. We’ve had a lot of nice milestones in our growing up together. 

And you just recently sold a big book by Joe Hagan—a biography of Jann Wenner, the editor of Rolling Stone.
Right! I have talked to Joe over the years about many, many projects. The great thing about Joe and our relationship is that we could talk out an idea and very quickly realize that he wasn’t interested in sustaining it over the course of writing the book. We have known each other for fourteen years. Patience is the story of my life.

How long were you at IMG?
A year and a half. And then the writing was on the wall. When [the founder of IMG] Mark McCormack died, it was clear that the company was going to go through a transition. Lisa Queen told me I should reach out to David McCormick. I met with him and Nina Collins, and they said, “You can be a part of our shop, but we don’t have any room, so you would have to work from home.” I did that for about a year, and then Collins McCormick moved to Bond Street and I had my own office.

Did you have a fire in your belly to prove yourself?
The fire in my belly was hunger for food. [Laughs.] I had to work my ass off to make a living. I was not paid a salary and every dime I made was self-generated. Once we moved to Bond Street, I took on foreign rights and that gave me a little bit of an income stream, but I was still unsalaried and trying to develop my list.

The dark secret about agenting is that it takes time to build a list and to get traction. It took three years to feel like I was on my feet. I started as an agent at thirty-two years old, so I already felt I was late to the game. But I had relationships with editors who were very patient with my early submissions, when they weren’t up to par or needed work. They would give my material a read because they wanted me to succeed, and would give generous feedback about what wasn’t working. I learned quickly, and by the time we moved to Bond Street, I had sold books for six figures. I was confident I was on track.

The beautiful thing about being in publishing is that it’s a little like gambling. You never know when your number is coming up and a book is going to hit. The Seas was a novel that was turned down by a lot of people, and MacAdam/Cage bought it for more money than they had spent on a novel previously. Sam got a tremendous amount of attention for that book, and we did well.

Whom did you represent early on?
It was one writer bringing me another. Samantha Hunt brought me Sarah Manguso. Then, because I was working with Sarah, Ed Park came in. People kept connecting me to their friends and my list grew. I took on Rosecrans Baldwin when I was at Collins McCormick.

Then, in 2005, there was a shift in the arrangement between David and Nina Collins and the company folded. It was right before the Frankfurt Book Fair. It was tricky. I went to Frankfurt to represent Amy Williams’s and David McCormick’s lists but I had no idea what I was going to return to. While I was in Frankfurt, I negotiated a deal over the phone, with David and Amy, who wanted to re-form the agency with me as a part of it.

I loved working with David and Amy. I learned so much from both of them, about instincts and business. When to talk, and when not to talk, in a negotiation. What to expect, what to demand. David and Amy were my real first mentors and the people I turned to for advice and for guidance.

One of the first novels that I sold was The Beautiful Things That Heaven Bears by Dinaw Mengestu. I read that in June 2005. I had a sense things were tricky within the agency. Dinaw and I were going back and forth on some revisions for the book, and I decided that it would be good to submit it around Frankfurt. By the time the company was re-forming, I had sold Dinaw’s book. I was standing on the corner of 23rd Street when I did it, because there was no office. I was working with David and Amy in Amy’s apartment, sharing her living room on the Upper West Side.

That set the tone, I felt, for whatever the next step was going to be for me. There were lots of great moments after that. But then at some point my list was becoming bigger, and the work I needed to do as the foreign-rights agent was not sustainable—I couldn’t effectively do both. And that was the moment that an opportunity presented itself at Janklow & Nesbit. My next step was to come here in 2010.

Tell me about making the transition from one place to another.
Moving from an agency like McCormick & Williams to an agency like Janklow was about servicing my clients in the best way possible. I was aware that as my clients received more and more attention and acclaim, they were getting eyed by other agents. I needed to be able to provide them with the kind of attention they deserved.

Not just from you, but institutionally?
Exactly. This company had a history of doing that, from a contracts department negotiating terms that I wouldn’t be able to negotiate independently to a general counsel who is anticipating the changing landscape way ahead of what I could possibly anticipate to a foreign rights department of four engaged, really integrated agents who intimately understand the market. 

Having the opportunity to work with Mort Janklow and Lynn Nesbit and Tina Bennett was really exciting. Tina became a very good friend and a terrific confidante. It was incredibly valuable just to run scenarios by her and to learn from her experience. And my list grew and exploded. That first year I think I sold twenty-three books.

What connects the work of the writers you represent?
There are a few loose associations. I’m interested in explorations of religious identity, probably because I came from a born-again Christian family. My brother converted our family during the seventies campus movement. We had Bible studies in our house and groups of teenagers came in to play the guitar and read Bible verses and converse. I was allowed to be a part of that, and I loved those times. Everything felt safe. It was, weirdly, a joyful part of my life, because it provided a sense of community and belonging. Children were valued in that community and I felt looked after. So, faith is a general theme of books that I like—and the subversive or not obvious ways that faith can be explored.

I’m also interested in sexuality. There is a blurring of binary gender roles, and a fluidity to gender and sexuality, that I’m interested in. There are people who explore that in their nonfiction work, like Maggie Nelson or Wayne Koestenbaum, whose beautiful collection of essays Farrar, Straus and Giroux published last year. He talks about how art and culture influence the man he became. But he looks through a queer eye at these things.

I’m interested in marginalized and underrepresented voices, whether that is related to ethnic or national or cultural identity. Dinaw Mengestu brings a perspective to what the immigrant idea is that subverts the idea of the immigrant narrative. Stuart Nadler’s first collection explored the relationship between fathers and sons and Jewish identity.

All of those books are having a larger cultural conversation and prompting responses, I hope, in readers. I look for that dialogue when I read something. If it doesn’t give me that response, I know it’s not for me. I see plenty of intellectually rigorous, smart, good, ambitious fiction that doesn’t have this kind of heart, and so it’s not for me.  

Would you give me an example of a book that spoke to you?
Ismet Prcic is a beautiful example of a writer with a punk rock ethos, cultural ambition, and a pure heart. I read a piece of his in McSweeney’s and contacted him. He sent me a 420-page manuscript—it may even have been longer. It was a rant. It was parts of a novel. It was a story of war and coming of age and immigration and fear and damage and fracture. I flipped out over it. It was so ambitious and so smart, and it was making me happy and sad and I had a pure emotional response to the book.

I sent that submission everywhere, and that book freaked people out. They didn’t know what to do with it. We got so close with so many people and it just kept getting killed at the top. Then Lauren Wein and Morgan Entrekin at Grove recognized that there was real brilliance in that voice and that the book ought to be published. They took a risk. In the end, Shards won or was shortlisted for a long list of prizes, and we made money on the book and established this tremendous voice.

There are incredible, smart young editors who have their ears to the culture and can recognize the future in the writing they see. It is devastating to me when a young editor loves something, but hears “no” from the boss. My career has been because people have taken risks with me and allowed me the room to make mistakes and to have successes. It is very aggravating to see how afraid of taking a risk the corporate machine can be.

You’re talking about building a literary list, not just turning a profit.
A literary list needs to get critical attention and awards and have a conversation with a community of readers. It should also sell, and we hope that it sells very well. But a literary list also attracts other writers to it. It is magnetic. A more commercial writer is attracted to the literary merit represented on that list, and that will make a publishing house more money. And of course there are those literary authors who break out in a very big way, whether on their first or second books or even three or four or five books later. The returns on taking those risks are evident. 

Who are the publishers who recognize the value you see in cultivating that kind of list?
They’re literary houses that you would assume that they are. Farrar, Strauss; Grove; Knopf; Houghton. They’re publishers who are saying that the market for a book might be modest, but they understand the importance of that book within the market. 

Of course, all publishers take risks. If we knew the secret to making a book successful we would be printing money. The fact is that the cultural landscape and the interests of readers are always shifting. Trying to forecast that is a risk. It’s arbitrary. But there is some skill to it. The skill is in recognizing individual and collective successes and failures. You know, realizing that you do not publish this book this kind of book very well, and therefore this kind of submission isn’t right for you, or that you have had luck breaking out this kind of writer so you’re willing to take a risk on someone similar. The worst kind of publishing, and the worst kind of agenting, occurs when you throw something against the wall just to see what happens.

How did you learn to negotiate?
My relationships with editors in submission and in negotiation are always pretty transparent. I think it’s just through experience that you learn how to negotiate. You learn to trust your instincts about whether you’re working toward closing a deal with the right components: the finances, the editor, the author. All of those pieces have to fit. You know when it doesn’t, and when it’s going to be a problem.  Sometimes there is no other option, but it just requires more work. 

From your vantage point as an agent, what makes a great editor?
When I’m selling a book to an editor, I want that editor to have an intuitive response to it. I want that editor to love the book as much as I do. I want editors to call me and tell me they stayed up all night, or they freaked out, or they have been hand-selling the book in-house. Then I know they are not going to give up later on when things get hard. Because things are going to get hard! The book is going to be up against another book in-house that is possibly going to be getting more attention. Or the book didn’t get the review we hoped for, or the marketing money we want. Or the booksellers aren’t responding, or we’re having trouble getting blurbs.

My most valuable relationships with editors are ones in which I’m working very intimately with them through every step of the process through publication and beyond, to figure out ways for the material to move forward and get the attention it deserves. I remind them that they have a responsibility to the writer. I remind them when things aren’t going appropriately. I remind them that they need to be investing more money and remind them that they need to be doing more for publicity and remind them that their edits are overdue.

My job is to run interference between the editor and the author on difficult conversations that the author can’t have. One of my best skills is that I am able to back into difficult conversations very easily, and have those conversations end in a result that is beneficial to my writer. My hope is always that I’m working with an editor who understands that we need to be collaborative and that we need to figure out together how to make this work.

What are some essential components to breaking a book out?
It’s essential to understand how to talk about the book so that everyone is on the same page when they’re pitching it. How I pitch the book to the editor comes from my discussions about the book with the author. I have tried to articulate their intent as clearly as possible. Then that editor needs to take that information and have a response to the material and articulate that same intent to their colleagues. Once the book is acquired, it’s essential to make sure that we’re on the same page regarding what’s said to the sales force, what the sales force says to the booksellers, what the booksellers say to the customers, what the publicity department says to reviewers, and what the marketing department puts up for public consumption. You must figure out how to position the book apart from other titles.

There are many things that we do, and they’re all part of the repertoire, but everyone has to be doing them. Not every book is going to have the same response, and attention for a book isn’t going to manifest in the same way. Sometimes it’s just somebody hustling and getting a book out there. 

What can writers do to make sure they get the best shot at success?
It is important for a writer to be a part of a literary community. A writer needs to read and buy books and attend readings and support fellow writers. It’s very difficult to engage others in supporting that writer’s work if that’s not happening. Sometimes it is the responsibility of the agent and editor to bring that writer into a community.

I don’t believe that Twitter sells books. But readers need and want to feel connected to a writer, so it is the writer’s responsibility to learn how to do that—whether it’s having a Facebook page or packing books in the back of a car and setting up readings if a publisher can’t pay for a book tour. Going to festivals, writing for online magazines, publishing work in journals.

Have you ever worked with somebody who was originally self-published?
I have not. I don’t know if I have a good viewpoint on self-publishing. I know there are success stories, but it just seems like a very hard road. It’s already very difficult for readers to discover new writers. I haven’t seen a road map for self-publishing success for the kind of writers that I work with.

I wanted to ask you about genre fiction. You represent some novels with dystopian, sci-fi, and fantasy elements.
Just as I was attracted to reading marginalized texts in my formative years, I was interested in books that experimented with form. A lot of time that meant science fiction or fantasy or comic books. I love the literary interpretation of those genres. Then, having Sam Hunt as one of my first writers—somebody who plays with form and time and reality—really laid the groundwork for attracting writers like Lucy Corin and Ramona Ausubel and Grace Krilanovitch. Now Josh Weil is playing with dystopian concepts in his new novel.

I love people pushing outside of what is typical. On the other end of the spectrum, I also love things really rooted in reality that are very clearly sincere and honest and generous, which was why Josh Weil’s novellas first blew me away. His characters were isolated men longing for connection, and the emotional components of those individual novellas were so strong that it was undeniable.

I’m not a genre reader, so I’m not one going for strictly sci-fi. I respond to the books that can cross over. Writers who play with form broaden their audience in a way, because they can hit a literary audience and also a genre audience. A lot of times genre allows you to get at the root of something through a narrative engine that couldn’t exist in a typical literary novel.

It can be a different way to show what’s actually happening in our world.
Exactly. It’s another prism, a spiky piece of mirror that’s reflecting the narrative in a different way. I love that.

What are the other things in the culture that your passionate about?
I love documentaries because I get immersed in a world very quickly and can digest it and feel like I’ve had an experience. As I get older, I get more interested in other cultural touchstones, whether that’s opera or experimental music or art or dance. I devour magazines all the time. I like media and stimulation and creativity. Television, too, but I don’t have shows I religiously watch. I would prefer to see a movie. I think the last real series I committed to was Battlestar Galactica. I find the commitment of time difficult.

That’s interesting. In another interview, the agent David Gernert noted that the Netflix series House of Cards called its episodes “chapters.” That made me wonder if soon people will feel the same sense of accomplishment after watching ten hours of television that I feel after reading a literary novel.
There is a sense of accomplishment. The requirement of sitting down and reading a novel is that the story is propelling you forward, and the same is true of sitting down to binge-watch a series. Both are narratively driven impulses, and there is probably an overlap. But I don’t sit down and read a novel from start to finish, in the same way I don’t sit down and binge-watch Orphan Black. I do most of my pleasure reading on the subway to and from work. A half hour a day, five days a week—it takes a long time to get through books. 

It must be every writer’s aspiration to find out that the New Yorker wants to publish her work. Can you take me through what it’s like to submit a story to a magazine like that?
I submit to the top-tier journals for my clients: the New Yorker, the Paris Review, Tin House, One Story, Zoetrope, Harper’s, the obvious places. I do this almost exclusively for fiction. I have relationships with those editors. I know what they are looking for, and I know that when I submit something, it’s going to be read and that I’m going to get a response. But if each client has a finite amount of time with me, it’s not a great use of our time together for me to submit to smaller magazines and journals. I depend on my writers to handle that on their own.

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Is sending a story to a magazine substantially different from sending a manuscript to a book editor?
No, it’s in fact the same thing. Success is often in knowing what’s appropriate for an editor and what’s not—what an editor has previously responded to, and what that editor may or may not be able to push through. It’s knowing your audience. And it is extraordinary when Tin House or The Paris Review or The New Yorker want to publish a piece of work by your writer. It’s an amazing thrill to be able to make that call.

What about the editorial work you do with an author? Are there any differences between stories and novels?
No, there aren’t. I read both as closely, and I give as many detailed notes as needed. I will read a short story and do a two-page letter if I think it needs the work, and I do the same thing with the novels that I’m reading. I’m very fortunate to have a colleague who reads along with me. To have a conversation with her before I have the dialogue with the author is incredibly valuable. It helps me articulate my response and things that I might not have seen.

A writer understands very clearly, very quickly, whether an agent understands her work. Sometimes I can really love something and my response to the work is not what that author wants to hear, and I’m not the right agent for that author. Sometimes I want work to be done on a book that the author doesn’t want to do. If I was to take that book on, and the work wasn’t done, and the work was rejected by editors, all I would think is, “What if we had made those changes?”

When I submit something, I know that I am right. Even when people are rejecting that book: I know they are wrong. The value of that book is the value that I see. It might not be appropriate for them, but their reaction isn’t my truth. I need to find the editor who mirrors my reaction.

I don’t want to interfere with a writer’s work or muck it up, but I want a writer to value our engagement and the time that I’m giving their work. Ultimately it’s the author’s book and he can take my response or not, and there are plenty of times when we’re in the process of revision that I want something changed and an author is not willing to do it. It’s his vision and his book, and it’s important for him to have it be his.

Do you have any guilty pleasures?
I don’t feel guilt about anything. I just have pleasures. [Laughs.]

Good for you!
I’m sort of unapologetic with my interests. I’m not ashamed of what I’m interested in because I feel it’s just a further expression of who I am. I like to watch television sometimes, I like to watch movies, I like to see Broadway shows, I like high art, I like camp, I like kitsch.

The flip side of that is that I don’t feel guilty or ashamed about the stuff that I don’t know. I always feel like I’m learning. There are plenty of books that I have not read. I’m not ashamed that I haven’t read them because I hope to get to them at some point. Part of the joy of being alive is exploring and finding those things that you don’t know.

Is fiction harder to sell than nonfiction?
I think it’s dangerous to say that nonfiction is easier to sell than fiction, but I think that it’s true. You can make an argument for an audience in nonfiction more clearly than you can in fiction. For fiction, you’re reliant on a lot of things lining up to find an audience. That’s what I was getting at earlier—that it’s imperative to position a novel with enough identity to break out from other fiction and to find that audience.

I don’t know the statistics, but I wonder if people read less fiction than they do nonfiction because they don’t understand why they should be interested in a novel. Of course, you can sell nonfiction on a proposal, but a novelist has to write the whole thing first. If a proposal doesn’t sell, you may just come up with a different idea and try again. It’s harder to come up with another novel very quickly, or with the same enthusiasm.

Can you imagine doing anything else with your life?
No, but at one point I couldn’t imagine being an agent. I think the kind of creative engagement that I have with my writers, and seeing the reaction from readers to their work, is immensely satisfying. It’s a privilege to be a part of the creativity of these writers and to feel like I’m helping change a writer’s life but also putting ideas forth.

Maggie Nelson sent me something just recently. She has a book, The Art of Cruelty, which was about representations of cruelty in high and low culture. She sent me an article from BOMB in which Matthew Barney talks about something that he’s working on in response to her book. That’s bananas. The conversation that Maggie started, and which I helped put forth, is having its own dialogue independent of us.

That’s what books do. That’s what’s exciting about not knowing the life a book can take. On paper it can look like a book is not successful, but that book could have changed the life of a reader. You may never know. That is amazing to me. The impact of that can’t be lost.

Do you get a physical sensation when you read something you want to take on?
There is a physical experience, and I want to talk about that. But each of us has his or her own truth. When we see that reflected in something else, that is authentic. But what is true to you may not be true to me, and what affects you may not affect me in the same way.

The experience of reading something on submission that speaks to me as authentic, or articulates something I have been unable to put into words, or surprises me, creates a feeling that is very hard to deny.

There is a physical manifestation of that. I felt it when I read The Beautiful Things That Heaven Bears, physically shaking and knowing that it was a book that I had to be a part of. Talk about a book about isolation and loneliness and longing! I read that book right after my mother had passed in 2005 and I was numb. That was the first thing I had read in about eight weeks that sparked a response. I immediately recognized it: “Oh, right, this is what it means to be alive again.”

You represent Choire Sicha, who cofounded The Awl, and there’s a lot of other interesting literary activity happening online. Do you find writers on the web?
The web is a place where agents are finding interesting writers. I am not online enough to be finding writers there. I am so occupied with my clients and the material that’s coming in that it’s difficult for me. I’m not online during the day and I refuse to go online at night because it would be impossible to decompress. I am reliant on journalists and writers like Choire and Ed Park to tell me about writers who are doing interesting things.

A lot of new nonfiction writers are exploring their ideas online because that is the form and venue available to them.  I see those stories when they reverberate widely, and hear about those pieces that could be the inspiration for something larger. The online form is just another way for writers to explore their work and get their work out there. 

If you were to move to New York City today as a twenty year old, I see you starting a literary website rather than a print journal.
If I was a young person now arriving in New York and had all of the same instincts I had in 1990, I would start a journal online immediately and publish new fiction and photography and new-form journalism. I would absolutely find those writers and explore those options. And it would cost me nothing, by the way.  It would not have been the student loans that I paid off for the next ten years in order to produce a bound literary journal to be distributed by Ingram.

I think writers feel isolated outside of New York, but writers are available to go online and to submit their work and to get readers for their work, and to be on websites where people are reading each other’s work and giving feedback and to be engaging in that way. 

You’ve had a pretty varied set of experiences. Do you think you could have taken any shortcuts?
I know that everything that has happened in my life has led me to now. It is very clear, from meeting Ira Silverberg to reading for Clare Ferraro to working for Mary Anne Thompson and then Kurt Andersen, to agenting and arriving where I am today. I see the through-line. I see the evolution that was necessary at every step along the way. I don’t think I could have created a shortcut.

The interesting thing is: What’s next? How does my list evolve? How do I change? How do my interests continue to grow? Discovering that is the satisfaction of this work. The really exciting part of being an agent is that the book that will propel me to the next step is potentially in my inbox right now.

Michael Szczerban is a senior editor at Regan Arts.

Agent Advice: PJ Mark of Janklow & Nesbit Associates

by
PJ Mark
5.1.10

To submit a question for the next featured agent, e-mail agentadvice@pw.org or write to Editor, Poets & Writers Magazine, 90 Broad Street, Suite 2100, New York, NY 10004. Questions accepted for publication may be edited for clarity and length.

Areas of interest: Literary fiction, narrative nonfiction, journalism/investigative reporting, memoir, pop culture, graphic novels

Representative clients: Samantha Hunt, Sarah Manguso, Dinaw Mengestu, Ed Park, Andrew Rice, Craig Thompson, and Josh Weil

Looking for: Query letters

Preferred contact: Postal mail

Agency contact:
Janklow & Nesbit Associates
445 Park Avenue
New York, NY 10022
(212) 421-1700
www.janklowandnesbit.com

About three months ago, I sent a synopsis of my novel as well as a cover letter to six literary agents whom I researched and found to be interested in the kind of fiction I write. I haven’t heard from any of them and I’m wondering when I should follow up with queries about my proposal. I don’t want to be pushy, but at the same time, life’s short.
Andy from San Francisco

It’s fair to follow up with them if you haven’t heard back after six weeks; it’s likely an oversight. Send an e-mail that says you are checking in to see if they had a chance to consider your query and that you look forward to hearing from them soon. Be emotionally detached, and don’t take it personally. If you don’t hear from them, move on to other agents. Your letter may be in a pile on an overwhelmed assistant’s desk, or stuck in his e-mail inbox or in his desk drawer. Or it’s in a stack the agent intends to get to, and feels guilty about not addressing more quickly. Unfortunately, most agents do a kind of triage on the volume of material that moves through their office—but most of them take queries seriously.

What do you look for in a query letter? How much do you need to know about plot versus potential marketing tactics in order to make the decision to request a partial manuscript? 
Luke from Nashville 

Here are the things I look for in a query letter: a distinct pitch, a short tease of the plot (set up the story and make me want to read more), and a comprehensive bio. I take notice if it’s a referral, or when a query suggests the author knows the kinds of books I handle. I prefer a short, clear letter rather than one that is overwritten or opaque. By which I mean, get to it: Know how to talk about your work succinctly. And, in general, keep it to one book per pitch. When I read a query, I am going with my gut in deciding if I want to see more material. There’s no real trick. Your pitch may remind me of a novel I loved, or one I couldn’t sell, or something I recently read and passed on, or one I wished I had represented.

I don’t care as much about an author’s explaining the potential marketing strategy, and don’t need quotes from friends and family or workshop or conference readers about how much they love your writing. As for the bio, I admit I am partial to queries that show some publishing history, that the writer has done the groundwork of sending writing out and getting it picked up by journals or magazines. This is especially true of short story writers. It’s not mandatory (though it almost is for nonfiction), but it’s nice to know, when considering someone’s submission, that the editor of a magazine, journal, or Web site also thinks the writer is doing good work. Still, agents want to discover something exciting, and I’m always up for being surprised.  

Lastly, some turnoffs: jokey queries; queries written by hand; stationery that features images of quills and ink pots and books; e-mail queries with hundreds of agents in the “To” field; e-mail queries sent from companies that solicit agents on behalf of writers; queries that describe the work as “a fictional novel”; and especially that spam query I received almost every day for six months about a novel called “Elizabeth.” Also arrogance. And desperation. Just be confident in your work.

Deirdre Fagan

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With whom do you prefer to work?: 
Any
New York
In which languages are you fluent?: 
English
Phone: 
231-591-3031
First Name: 
Deirdre
Last Name: 
Fagan
Born in (Country): 
United States
Photo of the Author: 
completed
Are you interested in giving readings?: 
Yes
Are you willing to travel to give readings?: 
Yes
Yes
Listed as: 
Fiction Writer, Poet
Application Accepted: 
Application Accepted
Private E-mail: 
Department of Languages and Literature 820 Campus Drive, ASC 3052
Big Rapids, MI49338
22586 205th Avenue
Paris, MI49338
author_statement: 
Deirdre Fagan is a native New Yorker who has lived in Arizona, Florida, Illinois, and Maryland, and currently resides in Michigan where she teaches and coordinates the Creative Writing program at Ferris State University. She has been teaching college writing and literature courses since 1996, and began her writing career publishing academic essays. She is the author of Critical Companion to Robert Frost and has published critical essays on poetry, memoir, and pedagogy, among other topics. She writes poetry, fiction, and creative non-fiction, and is also working on a memoir. She is a remarried widow and mother of two who resides with her charming husband, delightful children, and incredibly friendly golden retriever and tabby in a home surrounded by woods.
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