Orphaned Authors

A: Knock-knock.

B: Who’s there? 

A: Orphaned Author. 

B: Orphaned Author who? 


The joke above popped into my head unbidden a few weeks ago.  I texted it – inappropriately, perhaps – to a friend of mine who is an orphaned author, and has, well… not really enjoyed being an orphaned author. 

What is an orphaned author, you ask?  And why would it suck to be one? 

An orphaned author is an author whose book has been bought by a particular editor at a particular publishing house, only to have that editor quit, leave, retire, fill-in-the-blank-what-have-you, and be indisposed when the book in question is published. 

Why does it suck?  Well, it can suck for a number of reasons.  For my friend, it sucked because it was his debut novel that was being published (already an experience that can be daunting, and that brings a writer into uncharted territory). 

An editor who’s investing in your book really gets in there, you see.  They go through the torturous work of making sure the manuscript is up to snuff, working with you through multiple editorial rounds.  Then they fight for other people within the publishing house to read your manuscript, and fall in love with it – just like they did.  And finally, they metaphysically hold your hand as the publishing house sends you off into the Great Big Scary World, AKA your book tour, or what-have-you.

A book’s success depends upon the people who get behind it.  If these people have no clue who you are or what you wrote about, and/or don’t care, well… you’re pretty much sunk.  For a debut author in particular, this can make or break a career.  As readers, if you ever come across a wonderful debut novel and think to yourself, “Why haven’t I heard of this?” well… the answer is likely some combination of bad timing and ineffective media outlets… and sometimes a lack of enthusiasm from within the publishing house that published it.  I mean, it happens.  Resources are precious, and in publishing – a field that is in the midst of some serious growing pains – there are not enough to go around. 

All this is to say my friend, the debut author, has legitimate reason to begrudge his orphan status.  It’s seriously stressful.  You, as authors, really have no control over this.  Your job is to sit back and be gracious, and, of course, “write the best book you can write.”  Stay positive and do everything you can to promote you book, and no matter if it succeeds or fails, try not to point fingers, because it’s likely you don’t know what happened during those in-house launch meetings (the meetings publishers hold when they determine when to publish and how to market your book), and, quite frankly, it’s better that you don’t. 

Why did this silly joke pop into my head the other day?  Because I am an orphaned author.  My editor (and publisher) was Amy Einhorn.  She bought my second novel on behalf of Penguin/Putnam/Amy Einhorn Books.  And last August, she moved to Flatiron Books/St. Martin’s. 

I was, admittedly, frantic when I learned of the news. 

Have you heard of Amy Einhorn?  She is a force to be reckoned with.  When she launched her eponymous imprint, she hit it out of the park with her first title… a little book you might’ve heard of, called The Help, by Katherine Stockett.  Reporters have written profiles about Amy in Gotham Magazine and The Observer.  Amy makes books succeed in a climate where, hey – let’s admit it – books ain’t doing so well.  It is her job to make lightning hit the same spot twice, and she’s damned good at it.  When she left, I was understandably panicked. 

Enter Jake Morrissey, my new editor. 

To be clear, this is an appreciation piece, so if you are not in the mood for my grateful Pollyanna chatter, best to click away now.  But if you are an author who would like to hear a surprisingly upbeat message about the bloodsport that is writing, by all means, keep on scrolling. 

My new novel, Three Martini Lunch, was a very ambitious undertaking.  It takes place during the 1950s, and is written in three stylized voices from the era.  Oh, did I forget to mention, there are three first-person narrators?  The book takes on Greenwich Village, beatniks, jazz, the publishing biz, race, class, sex, gender, sexual orientation… and plenty of other things I’m already too exhausted to try to list off.  As a writer, I was trying to stretch myself with this book.  I sold it to Amy because I trusted her to guide me through the inevitable madness that I knew would descend upon me in trying to write this book.  And we were in early editorial stages when Amy left. 

Lots of things could’ve happened.  I could’ve gotten paired up with an editor who didn’t give a damn, who only made the lightest of editorial comments, let the manuscript go to the publisher without a second thought.  But luckily enough, I got Jake. 

One of Jake’s recent successes is Marlon James’s A Brief History of Seven Killings.  If you haven’t read it or at least googled it yet, you really should.  Michiko Kakutani named it one of the top 10 books for 2014, and for good reason. 

Anyway, back to my point: Jake rolled up his sleeves, gave me comments, read and re-read, and gave me comments again.  He was patient, he was insightful and tireless, and all for a book that he didn’t technically acquire!  Dear Reader, let me tell you: This is not always the way things work out. 

So, the long and the short of it is being an orphaned author has worked out OK for me so far.  Instead of just getting one great editor’s input, I got two (wow, pressure’s on me now for this book to be good, I guess).  Amy certainly put her two cents in early on, and I am super grateful to her.  And Jake added to this concoction and helped both me and my book find our way out of the dark and into the light.  I can't actually imagine getting the book to the place where I wanted without BOTH of them.  So I guess I'm lucky in the end.  Not to mention greedy.

I’m really only halfway through this process – there’s still the question of whether or not the book will be popular in-house, and whether the PR/marketing people will get behind it and "do their thing."  But my last experience with the Penguin/Putnam team was 100% positive, so there is solid reason to hope it will be again. 

For now, I’m just grateful that as an orphaned author, Jake did not hang me out to dry.  Instead, he worked quite hard with me on my edits, helped me to make my second novel the book I wanted it to be, and I feel not so much orphaned as adopted. 

With any luck, by this time next year, you’ll have heard of my book. 

On Selling a Book in Partial Manuscript Form - Part Two, AKA, The Scary Deadline Edition

In my previous blog post I told the story of how I decided to go ahead and sell my second book before it was done, also known in publishing as selling “on a partial.”  It’s not terribly uncommon; generally speaking, book contracts come with a built-in option clause on a writer’s “next full-length work of fiction.”  The expectation is, you and your editor now have established a working history… you probably know if you want to go on working together.  And I did.  I loved my editor.  So, I sold her my second book before it was done, and was quite happy about my choice to do so.  However, this doesn’t mean I wasn’t nervous about selling something I hadn’t finished writing yet.  How do you know for sure you can be creative on the clock? 

We struck a deal right around the same time Penguin made headlines by suing a handful of authors who never turned in the books they’d promised to writeThat had certainly never happened before, at least, not that I’d ever heard.  There was speculation that Penguin’s decision to sue these authors was an indirect result of Amazon, Apple, and other new-ish publishing forces taking a big bite out of traditional publishing.  The big six just couldn’t afford to hemorrhage money like that anymore.  It was only speculation.  Who knows? 

It's not that I oppose Penguin’s decision to exercise their right to sue. In all of the cases, the writers basically didn’t turn in their books (in one case, the writer fabricated his biography, so he couldn’t legitimately publish his memoir).  Back when I used to work for a literary agency, it had always been my experience that publishers were fairly flexible about a writer taking a little longer than the contractual delivery date to finish his/her respective book, but when the years start flying by and an editor has yet to see some pages, well… understandably, people start getting a little uneasy.  In the case of the Penguin lawsuits, the authors were all nonfiction writers whose topics were very timely, so perhaps, in some ways, their books lost value with every passing day they went unwritten.

But getting sued for not turning in your manuscript sounds like every writer’s nightmare.  Or, at least, the plot of a movie starring Bradley Cooper.  Besides those non-fiction writers who were sued, I also knew of a fiction writer, who, after spending years revising her manuscript, had her contract cancelled.  In the course of several sizable rewrites, the book had wandered too far away from the version she had sold to the publishing house, and the editor no longer felt it was publishable.  The writer was asked to return the advance.  I can’t imagine how terrible it felt to get that letter in the mail, and I don’t want to.  It’s the kind of thought that can keep you up at night. 

When I signed a contract promising to deliver my second novel by a set date, it marked my first deep experiment with creativity and deadlines.  Deadlines, I discovered, really crystalize the polarity of art and business.

When it comes to writing, here is the argument art makes:

A novel is the kind of thing you don’t want to rush.  You want to work on it intensely, sure, but you don’t want to hurry it into production.  When you write a novel, it’s an act of sustained OCD.  You basically write the same story, from start to finish, no less than five or six times (note to aspiring writers: you gotta really love that story to get through those final rounds, just FYI, so pick a good one).  If you were to skip one of those rounds because you’re feeling the heat of a deadline (or angst, or jealousy at the bookstore, or whatever else it is that makes writers rush to crank a novel out), your book will suffer. 

And here is the argument business makes:

Time is money.  You could spend an eternity making editorial improvements on a manuscript, but if you NEVER punch the clock and say, “Here you go!  Here’s what I’ve got,” what do you have to show for your work?  It’s reasonable to strike an agreement whereby a worker agrees to deliver X amount of work by date Y. 

Most professionals in the business world are comfortable describing their work in terms of “results” and “products.”  But I’m pretty sure if you described Jonathan Franzen’s book to him as a “product” (an Oprah-branded product, no less!), he would take umbrage (I also feel like “taking umbrage” is something Franzen has made into a minor media sport).  Agreeing to a deadline is a reminder that time is money, and that you’ve promised to deliver a product. 

So what did I learn from my Great Deadline Experiment? 

I think deadlines are good – mostly  if you let them into your head just the right amount.  Obviously, thinking about those worst case scenarios, sued authors and such, won’t do you any good.  But neither will pretending the clock doesn’t exist, or buying into the notion that you are somehow a great artist who is above time and money.  A deadline gives you a good reason to get out of bed in the morning, and more importantly, to get to work. 

For me personally, I’d get lost in my work and forget about my deadline for a spell.  I’d try out a new scene or chapter, consider writing in a different tense or POV.  Then I’d pick my head up and remember my deadline, and I found it helpful.  Why helpful?  Well, when you write, you are constantly making choices.  Make this character tall or short?  Write in a wildly experimental second person voice, or a traditional third person past tense?  A deadline can push you to pick a choice and stick with it.  “If you’re going to make this choice,” the deadline says, “you’d better go all in and make it work!”  

All this is to say, deadlines do change the feeling of writing a novel.  Instead of merely wanting to write, you find yourself needing to write; you are obligated to write to fulfill a professional commitment.  As far as I’m concerned, I don’t think that’s such a bad thing.  One of the ideas I’ve been really advocating in this blog is that writing is a job, not a hobby.  While writing a novel is certainly a joy and a passion, it can also be difficult and arduous, and a deadline can help you push through the part that is work, allowing you to accept it as just that – “work.”  Work that can and should have an output, work that will help you keep a roof over your head, work that can’t be confused with “a hobby.” 

Of course, there are lots of different personalities in the writing business.  TV writers, for instance, have to be very comfortable with the idea of writing on a deadline.  Novelists, I feel, can really go either way on this.  My best advice is to know yourself, know how you work best, and if you do agree to produce a novel on a deadline, take care to close your ears to all the noise that might mess with your head.