• Forest for the Trees
  • THE FOREST FOR THE TREES is about writing, publishing and what makes writers tick. This blog is dedicated to the self loathing that afflicts most writers. A community of like-minded malcontents gather here. I post less frequently now, but hopefully with as much vitriol. Please join in! Gluttons for punishment can scroll through the archives.

    If I’ve learned one thing about writers, it’s this: we really are all alone. Thanks for reading. Love, Betsy

What’s Your Sign?

I was contemplating a survey asking what books editors were ashamed of reading when, lo and behold, People  had the very same idea. Kelly Ripa was ashamed of having read Sextrology, which is about what your sign means sexually — what you’re attracted to. She covered it with a magazine in the park so no one could see! Kelly, I’m a Leo, ’nuff said. (Friends, if you have a moment, click on the link and check out the authors’ names. I love life.)

Kathy Griffin (who I believe scored a 2 million dollar book deal?!?) says someone “gave” her L. Ron Hubbards’ Dianetics “as a joke.” Or not.

And Emily Deschanel (does anyone know who she is?) listens to new age, self help books on tape in the car. She says it’s embarrassing when the guy valet parking can hear the tape blasting, “You are so beautiful.” That’s funny, my self-help tape screams, “You fucking loser.” And the valet doesn’t give a shit.

I’ve been thinking about what books I’ve been embarrassed to be caught reading. Just today, at Urban Outfitters, I gravitated over to their highly merchy book table and picked up What’s Your Poo Telling You? And, like the last two times I picked it up, the page opened to a discussion on the difference between floaters and sinkers.

What crap are you reading?

Out for Blood

Readers, I just heard that another vampire book (1,000 pages long) sold for seven figures. If the agent weren’t the sweetest guy in the whole world, I would drive a stake through my heart. I’ve always counseled writers not to jump on the band wagon, not to look to the bestseller list for inspiration, not to be  copycats. Well, fuck all that. Writers: write! I want a 5,000 page manuscript about a Shape Shifter who works by day as a children’s book illustrator and kills small children at night, dates a half-human half-literary agent, and sucks her hammerhead thumbs to the great consternation of her dentist.  Do you feel me? Let’s not spend the rest of this recession watching Mad Men videos when we can be printing money. Printing it!

The One That Got Away

When the venerable editor and publisher Robert Giroux died last year, his NYT obituary listed some of the illustrious writers he worked with  including Flannery O’Connor, Robert Lowell, Bernard Malamud, Jack Kerouac and Susan Sontag. Equally interesting to me were stories about the ones who got away.  One of these writers brought in his manuscript on teletype paper pasted together into a roll of 120 feet long and demanded that no changes be made. Giroux would not agree and Kerouac walked out, On the Road with him. Giroux had also courted a new short story writer whose work had appeared in The New Yorker. When it came time to offer on his first novel, the brass at his company said it wasn’t right for them: adios Catcher in the Rye.

With this is mind, I surveyed some of New York’s top editors asking if they would divulge which books got away, either because they didn’t recognize their value (either commercial or literary) when they saw it, or because the deciders said nay. Friends, the results:

“My saddest loss was the three day auction of the Steig Larsson trilogy which I was sure I was about to land,” writes one editor. He goes on to say they lost the book to Sonny (that’s Sonny Mehta, publisher of Knopf, and known pistachio nosher). “If you’re going to lose it might as well be Sonny.”

NOTE: Everywhere I’ve ever worked, there was no publishing house people would rather lose to or win from more than Knopf. I worked for a publisher who actually defaced a jacket with a ball point pen because she was so frustrated with the art director. “Well, what do you want?” the art director screamed back.  “I want Knopf jackets!” the publisher yelled. “Can you make a Knopf jacket?”

Then there’s the so-called  beauty contest, that is when two publishers make the same bid and the author chooses the publisher/editor she prefers. One editor writes in, “I wish I had acquired The Physick Book of Deliverace Dane. Our offer was identical to the acquiring publisher, but the author went with the other house. ” That’s always a great feeling, like standing in line at your camp social, or for that matter sitting on a bar stool at 3:00 a.m., and not getting picked, not that that’s ever happened to me.

“I passed on Prep by Curtis Sittenfeld.” another editor shares. Years later she approached Sittenfeld for a blurb on a debut novel and praised Prep in the letter. Sittenfeld wrote back saying she’d be glad to read the novel, but did the editor remember that she had turned down Prep?  Ouch. P.S. She never got the endorsement.

Another editor is still smarting over her boss’ refusal to let her bid on Kevyn Aucoin’s Making Faces. (What’s with that spelling of  Kevin??) The book immediately hit the list  and the editor shares how she relished the “oh-so-immature-yet satisfying feeling of I-told-you-so.”  (Disappointing, but not exactly Holden Caulfield.)

Another editor admitted that she cried over losing  The Angel’s Game by Carlos Ruiz Zafon. And also regrets not getting a shot at Edgar Sawtelle and Olive Kittredge. (Note to self:  post a list of novels that are titled with the character’s name? Have a contest? Too nerdy?)

Another editor confessed: “I turned down Guernsey even though I thought it was a very commercial idea because it was stiffly told. Of course then it was rewritten and the rest is history.” And another, “I passed on Shopaholic because I had a current bestseller and thought I didn’t need another one. Ha.” (Funny, no matter what I have, I always want another.)

In the If-You-Don’t-Have’Anything-Nice-To-Say-Don’t-Say-Anything-At-All department, one editor addmitted to having passed on Cold Mountain. But she didn’t just decline, “I airily declared to the agent that I grew  up on a Civil War battlefield and that if I didn’t believe it, noone would.” Thanks for sharing.

And then there’s the horse. Everyone wished they had published The Biscuit.  For two years, all editors said when asked what kind of books they want to publish was Seabiscuit. One editor wrote in to say that she offered, “Except, I told the agent is was worth $50,000.” What are the odds that the book would’ve wound up on the NYT Bestseller list for 23 weeks? And be made into a feature film starring the incredibly sexy Jeff Bridges and be nominated for an Oscar?

And last, our annual “The One That Got Away Award” goes to the editor who claimed he “turned down James Patterson’s first novel Along Came a Spider because it was so poorly, sketchily written even though it was pacey, as the Brits say. MISTAKE!” Hey, you don’t get the prize for nothing.

Full disclosure: When I was an editor, I turned down The Liar’s Club. I just didn’t believe her.

HOT FLASH, er, News Flash

Naomi Wolf to Write History of the Vagina

By Leon Neyfakh
The New York Observer
Sptember 8, 2009 | 4:21 p.m

 Naomi Wolf is going back to her roots. The journalist and author, who has seemingly been on a break for the past couple of years from writing books on the kinds of feminist themes that made her famous in the early 1990s, has signed on with the Ecco Press for a project tentatively titled A Cultural History of the Vagina.

_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Remember yesterday we were talking about titles. Nation, I want to be in the jacket meeting for this one. I have a lot to contribute! First, please, dear god, don’t call it A Cultural History of the Vag.  This is just a bad idea. Don’t use the word Vagina, Vag, or V. Isn’t that a novel by Pynchon anyway.  Here are my “ideas.” Number one choice: Cunt! It’s a classic, classy, and as I’ve always found, fun to say.  Next, to take a page from Courtney Love’s playbook, Hole. Or Philip Roth’s Slit. Poontang is too southern, I think. This is when I really miss being an editor, you know, mixing it up in the jacket meetings.

At the last publishing house I worked for, we were in a jacket meeting and the publisher said he wanted something like “fuck me” pumps for the image. Then he pointed to my Doc Marten’s and said, not like those. Right, I said, these are “fuck you” pumps. Friends, my days were numbered.  

 

That’s Not My Name

Titles. They can be a bitch. I always felt I had a bit of a knack for them because of my poetry days. You have to think up a lot of titles when you write poems. My finest (in my humble): “My Life as a Rash”; “Two Poets Assemble a VCR”, and my signature sestina, “Calories and Other Counts.”

First Place

First Place

 I push my clients very hard to come up with good (selling) titles before we send out their books. And I toil beside them. It just makes it that much easier to sell if you can get the concept/tone/hook in the title. When the editor on the other end of the line says great title, you’re through the door.

Second Place

Second Place

I’m always astonished by some of the titles for deals reported in Publisher’s Marketplace.  Today, for instance, Pacific Rims. Is it just me or does this sound like a gay book set in Hawaii? Mahu Blood: this one is set in Hawaii and it’s a detective story. Mahu? Is this a fish?I love the sound of this one: Tarnsman of Gor, a 27-volume fantasy series (oh, to sell a franchise!).  I  really like Think of a Number. It’s a thriller and I love titles that take a figure of speech and creepify it. I felt that way about my client Eli Gottlieb’s Now You See Him. Then we have the generic titles: Small Miracles, Escape and, god help us, Window to the Soul.

Third Place

Third Place

Happiness Is a Warm Gun

Media Alert: Tonight on the History Channel (9 P.M. EST) Linda Kasabian tells the story of the nine months leading up to the Manson murders. Kasabian stood guard outside Sharon Tate’s home while Manson and his followers committed mass murder.  She became a witness for Vincent Bugliosi, the chief prosecutor in the case, and was granted immunity. It’s forty freakin’ years later. What the hell does she look like? And what can she possibly say?  I’ve always wondered what Kasabian was thinking/doing as she waited in the car.  Did she listen to the radio? Whistle?

I’m sure I was obsessed with the Manson murders in part because they happened on my birthday, August 9. It was 1969, the summer of Woodstock (I got a button with a guitar and a dove design), Neil Armstrong walked on the moon, and the Brady Bunch premiered. I was nine years old, wearing mix and match Danskins, glued to the tv.

Five  years later, Bugliosi published his account of the murders and trial in Helter Skelter. This set off a feeding frenzy; I read The Godfather, Serpico, The Valachi Papers, and my favorite of all time, In Cold Blood. I’m not sure what attracted me, at fifteen, to these gruesome stories. I suspect it had something to do with trying to contemplate what I had decided was a godless world, where random violence rained down on innocent people. There was something sexual about it, too, though I didn’t know that then. Prurient and thrilling.These, too, were the first books I read that I could call page-turners. And that’s when I got hooked, in earnest, to reading.

The Way We Were

The work has officially begun. I’m updating The Forest for the Trees for a 10th anniversary edition. Rereading it now,  I can’t believe I had the chutzpah to write it at all. The only thing that explains it (besides my vast and passionate love of writers and their craft) is that I wrote the proposal and sold it when I was pregnant. I was  turbo-charged by the hormones coursing through my body and I believed I could do anything. Case in point: I attempted to trompe-l’oeil  a table. The entire time I was pregnant, I felt as if I had a huge generator strapped to my mid-section. There were mornings going to work when I felt as if my stride was the length of an entire block. Whatever cocktail of serotonin and estrogen that was — someone should bottle it.

My editor has given me pages of notes as to what needs updating — a huge to-do list. Betty loves nothing more thank ticking things off a to-do list. I’m not being snarky: I do love crossing things off lists, I do love my label maker, I organize my desk drawer for sport. The truth is it’s making me a little sad, remembering who I was when I wrote it, what I was struggling with at the time, who I was close to and who I had lost. And how I sat in a room for months surrounded by my books lined up against the wall like a firing squad.

Postpartum

Almost every I writer I know goes through some form of postpartum after finishing a book. For some it’s more pronounced than others. It depends on different factors: how long you’ve worked on the book, how passionate you were about it, how much of  a toll it exacted from your life. Some writers already know what the next book is and that makes it a little easier. Others have no idea what or if they’ll ever write again. That makes it a little harder.

When I was an editor, one of my first authors sent a birth announcement along with her first book. It read:  It’s a Girl. Weight: 2 pounds, 1 ounce. Length: 8 1/2 inches.

 A writer I’ve been working with for over a decade turned in her book today. She burst into tears. We were both exhasuted having worked intensely for three days.  She referred to me as a mid-wife at one point, and I bridled at the label, imagining myself in a bandana and highwaisted jeans and Crocs.  But it was accurate. I did everything but ice chips. I’m not saying a book is a baby, but it is your baby and there’s no way you can push one out and not, at the very least, have some kind of postpartum mood swing. Equilibrium will return, usually just in time for the agony of actually being published.

You Were Always Waiting For This Moment To Arrive

Spent the last two days going over page proofs with a writer. One of my favorite moments in the publishing process is when you see the manuscript transformed into typeset pages. I’ve always had great respect for book designers and all the decisions that go into making a page.

Today our work centered on space breaks. Her book employs three kinds. The small break that changes the subject within the same time frame. The medium break that generally indicates a jump in time. And the large space within the chapter that signals a new time and place, perhaps a new authorial tone as well.

Toward the end of our session, my client apologized for taking up so much time on space breaks. How dare you, I said, demean the space break. What did a a space break ever do to you? If this were a musical, I would now sing out about the value of space breaks.

Suffice to say, and perhaps I say this coming from a poetry background, space breaks are sacrosanct. They offer a rest, a breather, a game changer, a scene change, a time change, a change in pov, tone, or tense. A space break gives the writer an opportunity to take a left where he might have taken a right, add paprika, turn up the heat, or lower the lights. A poet knows that what comes between stanzas is an essential tool in making a poem kill it. Your space breaks as a prose writer are second only to chapter breaks.

This post sings of the so called blank spaces.  This post also had too much sauvignon blanc at dinner.

MAD LIB

(Proper Name) ought to be an easy person to (Verb). He is (adjective), (adjective), (adjective), and ridiculously well connected. His father is (Proper Name), the editor of (National Magazine), and he grew up in the kind of gilded New York (noun) where Joan Didion, Jay McInerney and George Plimpton were drop-in guests. His godfather is Morgan Entrekin, the publisher of Grove/Atlantic, who bought (Proper Name’s)  first novel, “(Book Title)” when (Proper Name)  was just (Age).  Hunter S. Thompson, another family friend, came through with a timely blurb, saying, “I’m afraid he will do for his (Noun) what I did for mine.”

Photo: Michael Nagle
 
If that weren’t insufferable enough, (Proper Name), now 25, has a third novel, “An Expensive Education,” being published on Wednesday by Atlantic Monthly, and “,” meanwhile, is being made into a (Noun) starring Kiefer Sutherland, Chace Crawford and (Your Favorite Rap Artist).
*Copy supplied by Charles McGrath/NYT/8/3/09