A rough outline of the path taken by a novel to publication in the traditional way:
First, a definition: by “publication in the traditional way,” I mean that the end product is a hard- or soft-cover book which can be found on the shelves of — or can be ordered by — just about any bookstore or library in the world. The book has an ISBN, it is copyrighted, and (most importantly) its author has paid no money to arrange its publication. (He or she may have paid in many other ways, of course — in time, frustration, and anxiety, if nothing else.)
So it all begins with an author and a book. The author — let’s call him J, and assume he’s a “he” for convenience’s sake:
- writes a complete novel,
- gets it vetted by numerous readers (ideally objective readers — not just family and/or friends, but independent writers’ groups, university writing workshops, and so on),
- researches the correct formatting of a manuscript (or MS) according to some set of rules other than his own, and
- prepares a physical manuscript ready to be schlepped around to those in a position to see it published: acquisition editors.
Note a few key points about this journey so far, implicit in the above list.
First, the book is done. When and if J becomes sufficiently successful as author, then — maybe — he will be able to submit a few pages or chapters, or just the wisp of an idea, to the powers that be, and they will accept it for publication on that basis. But J is a long way from that point yet. If he does not have a complete manuscript, he might as well have no manuscript at all.
Second, J’s novel has already been read by at least one other person, someone who is capable of regarding it with the dispassionate eye of a reasonable critic.
Third, the MS is absolutely ready to go. Perhaps it has not yet been printed on the LaserJet in J’s office. But if he hears from someone who wants — possibly — to publish it, he will not have to first be sure his margins are all consistent, his fonts are legible, his page numbering is accurate. All he has to do is click on the little icon with the picture of a printer on it, and then package and mail it to the editor.
With one major change, this was the pattern for books published for centuries, at least in the Western world since Gutenberg’s time. Some authors ran their own presses, but most relied on the services of outside publishers — and over time, especially on the services of editors employed by those publishers expressly to acquire and edit works by authors.
The one major change came along probably in the early decade or two of the 20th century: the idea of the “author’s representative” or “literary agent,” or simply agent for short.
Why agents? On one hand, an increasingly literate world was demanding more and more product from an increasingly mechanized industry, book publishing. But there were only so many books which an editor could handle in a given period of time. (No matter how much production was automated, there was an unmechanizable choke point early in the process: the editor.) Agents serve(d) a valuable roll as gatekeepers — gantlets which had to be run first, in order for an author to be put in contact with editors.
(Related to this function, agents could also keep tabs — better than their clients — on which editors were with which publishers, which ones preferred somber works of art and which ones were ready to get down in the mud with trashy pulp fiction, and so on. In short, agents made the whole process of matching book to editor more efficient.)
On the other hand, authors themselves proved generally to be profoundly inept marketers of their own works, even when put in direct contact with acquisition editors. To put it politely, the skills required to write a novel were a poor fit for the requirements of selling it. At the very least, few authors are capable of separating themselves from their work to the point of recognizing all of its virtues, let alone its faults. And the stereotype of the authorial temperament was all too often all too true: shy, and/or neurotic, and/or too modest or immodest, and/or flat-out addictive, co-dependent, moody personalities for whom the word “nuts” was perhaps invented.
So then: J completes the work; optionally, J finds an agent and convinces the agent to represent him; and either J or his agent finds an editor to acquire (and probably edit) the novel for its eventual publication.
Given all this, let’s talk first about time, and second about risk.
Time: From the moment J writes or types “The End” at the end of what he assumes to be his (ha ha) final draft, to the time he holds a printed copy in his hand, a year or more has elapsed. The book has perhaps first been marketed (in J’s clumsy, neurotic, moody way) to numerous agents, and perhaps one of them has agreed to represent it. J’s book has certainly been offered to numerous editors, one of whom (if the book is to be published at all) has said, Sure, we’ll do this. A contract has been negotiated, quite likely going through several versions before signing. Changes large or small have been made to the book, its plot or its characters or both, and it has been plain-old copyedited as well, so that the final product is as immaculate in all senses as all parties can agree it should be, in the allotted time. A cover has been commissioned and produced. Blurbs have been solicited. The rights to poems, popular songs, or other media quoted in the novel have been acquired. The publisher’s marketing team has been at work arranging for the book’s appearance in retailers (and perhaps for J’s public appearances). Did I say a year? I’m such a kidder!
And now let’s consider risk.
The risks involved in getting J’s book to its eventual readers take many forms, from personal and psychological to cold hard financial.
J has of course put himself — his person — on the line by even letting his baby leave his hands in the first place. There’s no telling what will happen next. Will anyone at all be interested in publishing the thing, in something like the form in which he wrote it? And once published, what then? Will readers and critics have any idea what he intended for the book? Will they care? Will they even notice it… notice J himself, for that matter, since his book is an extension of him?
He’s just blown months or years of his own precious life, in short, on an enterprise whose outcome is — literally — out of his hands now.
The agent (if there is one) and the acquisition editor have their own psychological stakes in J’s book — and its success — too. Each of them is dependent for his livelihood on his continued ability to “sell” any book to someone further up the ladder. Accidents happen, naturally, and missteps are made. But if they botch too many of these representations, to too many people. their careers will dry up. Their calls will no longer be returned. It’s not just a matter of career for most of them, it’s a matter of calling: their ideals of shepherding good words into the hands of good readers will evaporate.
And everybody, all along the way, can’t ignore that there is money at stake here…
I’ll talk about the money in a later installment. For now, just based on the above descriptions of process and of personal and psychological risks, you gotta wonder: Are these people all crazy? why on earth would anyone subject themselves to such uncertainty and such stress — repeatedly, at that?
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