I was at a dinner party over the weekend with a group of people I was mostly meeting for the first time. One of them turned to me at one point and said that she had read my memoir. She wanted to know if it had been difficult to write. It wasn’t. In fact, it was easy. Even the parts I sobbed through. I knew what I wanted to write. I had over twenty diaries from the time period I was writing about. I had an in-depth outline, but more than that I knew every key scene I had to write and the way each one connected to the next like the stars in the big dipper. I knew what I would say and what was off limits. It was all clear to me, there for me.
What was hard were all the terrible false (fictionalized) starts I had attempted over the years. What was hard was the outsized jealousy I felt reading one memoir after another, believing I could do better while unable to write anything at all. Funny how that works. I had made many mountains out of my little mole hill.
WHat’s more difficult: writing or not writing?
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Today, the most remarkable thing happened. A client sent me an idea for a non-fiction book. I liked it, but had that same old sinking feeling that it wasn’t “big” enough. What does that even mean. We know what it means when we are talking penis size, portfolio size, your number of Twitter followers, and yes I’m looking at you Ashton Kutcher who apparently has all three. But what the fuck does it mean to have a big book, to conceive of one, to put a proposal together that feels…big. Well, it can be idea driven (Tipping Point), story driven (Sea Biscuit), personality driven (Keith Richards). It can be new age driven (the Secret), it can be high concept (The Seven Habits of Highly Defective People). It can be real-estate driven (The Fuckin’ South Beach Diet.) Oh, canine-driven (Marly and Me). Goopy-driven (Morrie and Me). Or find a little known story set against an exciting moment in history (Devil in the White City). Or you can just be an exception to all that (Just Kids).
The Fall is always a time when projects are flying fast and furious around town. Publishers and editors are in a buying mood with the back to school snap in the air. Foreign publishers are criss-crossing Manhattan in search of a big book to bring back in their suitcase. Scouts are chasing down every lead so that their publishers are pre-Frankfurt ready. So how do you feel if you’re an agent without a big Fall book to sell? How do you think?
Some writers want to work without thinking or caring about market concerns. I get that. Some are hyper-aware of marketing concerns and want to reach a specific audience. I get that, too. There are some projects that have some kind of magnetic force field that draws the market out. You can often see it first inside the publishing house where interest pools around a book in the form of buzz, of galleys disappearing, of people wanting to work on it, a kind of momentum starts to build driven by in-house reads, rep enthusiasm, etc. Most books, however, need a push. And to that end, while you are writing, or when you’re shopping your project, and again when it is published, the clearer your idea is of your market, the more likely you might actually reach it.
Dear All:
I’ve often wondered what it’s like to be an actor and go out on auditions. Standing on a stage, a few deep breaths, a monologue. Someone calling out, “Thank you, next.” I’ve wondered what it’s like to be a dress shirt on a dry cleaning carousel. Or to be taller than everyone in the room, to have a cashier’s love for change, or to find a tiny monkey carved from a peach pit under the stage. Is this my imagination? Or the last thing I will ever write? No, sweet love, this is just a small child’s forehead waiting, in the dark, for a kiss goodnight.
The reason for the lateness of this post: I was at a real live book party. Hosted by a big glossy magazine. Filled with people who used to be people, people who want to be people, and people who are someone (as in, isn’t that someone?). Waiters circulated with silver trays of risotto balls. It was the kind of party where you could reasonably expect to be dissed a few times. First, by someone who pretends not to recognize you. Then by someone who recognizes you but doesn’t say hello. By someone you used to work with. And finally by the waiter with the risotto balls.
Tomorrow it begins. The parade of meetings that lead up to the Frankfurt book fair in October. Editors from all over the world come to New York in their hunt for new books. During these meetings, we schmooze about publishing, we find out what books are working in their countries, and we pitch our clients, hoping to find a British, German, Japanese, etc. sale. We have a rights guide that we’ve created with a description of the book, jacket, and author bio.
I spent most of the weekend reading. Lots of clients delivered manuscripts they had been working on this summer. And some prospective clients have surfaced. I’ve been blown away by a few revisions. THere is nothing more impressive to me than a writer who isn’t afraid to junk some material in favor of a fresh start, or who can really crack open a piece instead of just moving the mashed potatoes around the plate. One of my great pet peeves has always been when a writer returns a manuscript a little too quickly, claiming a full revision, only to find a work that has been tweaked like a hem raised a quarter inch. But then, another writer will go away, burrow in a for a while, and eventually return with a revision that inspires you all over again, and produces in you that feeling that got you hooked on this work in the first place.
Betsy Lerner 