The last time I was on an agents’ panel, a man asked how we knew which editors to send our projects to. No one had ever asked that simple question. The answer is lunch. A decade of having lunch with editors to get to know them, their taste, what they’re looking for. We’re talking a lot of sushi.
For me, the worst lunch is when an editor lists all of the books he is working on and describes them at length. The best is when we just get to know one another. Some broad strokes are always good, i.e. my list is 90% non-fiction, you say tomato.
Today I had a breakfast and lunch meeting with young (30ish?) editors. (My stamina is boundless.) The anecdotal things you learn about an editor are often decisive in submitting a book to him. Such as: where they are from, how oldish, how many siblings, single, engaged, married, divorced, does yoga, loved Avatar, has rug rats, reads Pride and Predge once a year, vegetarian, in therapy, the glass is half full, loves Ikea, wishes NYC weren’t so dirty, is dead inside, etc.
If you have an editor, is it a good match? If you don’t, how would you describe your perfect editor, besides writing big checks?
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I recently had a conversation with a writer whose editor told her that her pages, while well written, lacked emotional suspense. Intensity. How do you put that in, she asked, her voice gravelly with despair. Her editor had looked under the hood and found a clean machine that had no go. How do you give an ailing manuscript the infusion it needs?
Let’s talk about poets. Poooets. Wordsmiths. Visionaries. Mongrels. Thieves. When I was getting my MFA, someone asked the great William Matthews why poets didn’t have agents. “Because 15% of nothing is nothing.” When people discover that I have a degree in poetry and won a couple of prizes when I was still in diapers, they ask me with a hopeful longing, “Do you still write poetry?” And it sounds like, do you cavort with the angels, do you still touch yourself gently, or lay down in a field of alfalfa where wild ponies run?
At what point do you stop saying, “Happy new year?” I always feel kind of like Eddie Haskell. Worse, is saying happy new year to Jewish colleagues at Rosh Hashana. It’s like all that brisket stinking up the room. Where am I going with this? Work protocol? Agent banter? Greasing the wheel. Sending out first project of the year. Getting back to work. Getting it up. Hey, happy new year. How was your vacation? If you consider gaining six pounds a plus, it was great.
Whenever assistants ask me what to look for in manuscripts, I always say page turners or prize winners. There is an assumption in my directive that the two are mutually exclusive. That’s a big topic which I’m not prepared to get into while watching The People’s Choice Awards.
Are you the kind of person who automatically points out a flaw once you’ve been given a compliment. For instance, a co-worker says, “I like your skirt,” and you respond by pointing out a tear or a stain. Or maybe you say you got it for a few bucks at a tag sale or on sale at Marshall’s. In that spirit, I feel like posting the two worst Amazon reviews for the Forest for the Trees. At first, I was mortifried when this sort of thing turned up. Now, I like to rub my body with it.
I used to crack the office window and smoke into the cold morning. Across the way a water tower. A woman moving inside a building — easy to imagine her more beautiful than I. The stone ledge smudged from so many mornings. It was the part of a lifetime. Do you miss me? Did I doze? Can you hear me skidding? Someone took the stones from my father’s grave. Who am I talking to? The end of the year means nothing, but visits upon me a strange feeling. Long ago, I resolved not to make any resolutions except to distrust people completely. Ha! Will I always be nine years old with my bangs cut unevenly across my forehead? Is there more faith in the world than in a plastic barrette plastered to the head of girl ready for greatness, poised for destruction.
