Chapter 1
The Writer's Paradox: Navigating Creation and Publication
In a world where everyone believes they have a book inside them, few understand the psychological warfare that accompanies the act of writing. Betsy Lerner's "The Forest for the Trees" stands as the ultimate insider's guide to the writing life-not a craft manual, but rather a psychological roadmap through the minefield of creative expression and publishing. Since its initial publication, this beloved book has become required reading in MFA programs nationwide, with Stephen King calling it "the best book about writing I've ever read." Lerner's unique perspective as both a former executive editor and current literary agent gives her rare insight into both sides of the publishing equation. Her candid exploration of writers' psyches has resonated deeply with authors at all career stages, from unpublished dreamers to Pulitzer winners, precisely because she understands the fundamental truth: writing isn't just about talent-it's about managing the complex psychology that either enables or sabotages creative work.
Chapter 2
When Love and Hate Collide: The Writer's Ambivalence
Do brilliant ideas constantly flood your mind, yet you never complete anything? Do you mentally compose perfect sentences that never make it to paper? If so, you possess the essential qualities for a writer-that peculiar mix of self-aggrandizement and worthlessness. The ambivalent writer shifts between loving and hating themselves: I am great. I am shit. This mantra isn't limited to beginners; published authors experience it too. The difference between those who succeed and those who quit is the ability to contain this ambivalence long enough to finish something.
Many writers ask which of their ideas to pursue based on market trends, but this is like asking someone to choose your clothes-I can suggest what looks good, but you must wear it. Finding your form resembles finding a mate; you must search without compromising. Most authors revisit the same themes throughout their careers, and the most striking books emerge from writers' obsessions rather than market calculations. Who would have predicted bestsellers from John Berendt's Savannah murder story, David Sedaris's essays, or Elizabeth Strout's novel about an unsympathetic sixty-something woman?
Writers have little choice in their subjects; they're driven by obsessions. The ambivalent writer may be avoiding psychologically threatening material or dancing around content that might upset their world. Fear drives both the paralyzed and the productive-for successful writers, it's the fear of not being heard.
You'll never finish writing if you don't understand what motivates you-whether exile, redemption, revenge, or love. As William Gass said, "I write because I hate." Many great books emerge from anger, pain, and the struggle for self-definition. Most writers are haunted individuals for whom the world doesn't sit right. Books provide a safe place to explore feelings banished from polite conversation.
The ambivalent writer confuses procrastination with research and can't hear their true voice through the static. Writing demands quieting the voices insisting you're not worthy. Remember that pre-publication is your only time of complete freedom. After publishing, you'll contend with critics, agents, editors, and readers. To succeed, your work must bear your unique stamp with sentences that are yours alone and a belief in your vision that is nothing short of fierce.
Chapter 3
Natural Talent: Myth and Reality in the Writer's Journey
People occasionally identify writers as "the real thing"-naturals with God-given talent who effortlessly produce breathtaking prose. We romanticize discovering fresh voices while simultaneously believing artists should suffer for their art. But our most deeply held belief-that we're all created equal-quickly dissolves when observing any writers' workshop. Equal we are not.
Having "natural ability" doesn't necessarily make writing easier and may sometimes make it harder. Neither does having deep feelings guarantee their effective communication on the page. The best predictor of success is perseverance-some combination of ability, ego, desire, and discipline. I've seen gifted writers self-sabotage while those who struggle with every line persevere. Once I edited a professor whose writing had influenced me in college, only to discover she was dyslexic. When I expressed disbelief at how she could write with such an impediment, she proudly replied, "I've written five books, haven't I?"
For most writers, being unable to write feels like suicide. "For me, writing is like breathing," Pablo Neruda said. "I could not live without breathing and I could not live without writing." Writers are constantly forming sentences, gathering observations, and reducing experiences for future use. The great paradox is how much time writers spend alone trying to connect with others.
Most writers began writing in childhood. The child writer typically identifies as an outsider with an awareness of inner life at a young age. Truman Capote was nine or ten when "something took over inside me, some little demon that made me a writer." John Cheever told serial stories to classmates. Joan Didion wrote stories as a girl but wanted to be an actress, not realizing "it's the same impulse."
Young writers who achieve early acclaim face a double-edged sword. At the beginning of a career, a writer is all promise and potential. But our appetite for novelty is insatiable, and careers that should develop over lifetimes can flicker out quickly. Michael Cunningham persisted through dry spells and feelings of inadequacy, noting, "A certain fearlessness in the face of your own ineptitude is a useful tool." For older writers, Frank McCourt offers hope-at sixty-six, after "working through his awkward self-conscious James Joyce phase," he found his voice for Angela's Ashes, which sold four million copies and won a Pulitzer.
Chapter 4
The Family Secret-Keeper: Writing Against the Tribe
Writers who expose family and community secrets risk rejection by their tribe. Philip Roth became the quintessential example when his story "Defender of the Faith" provoked accusations of anti-Semitism from the Jewish community. He followed with Portnoy's Complaint, revealing "Jews masturbating, Jews wanting to screw shiksas, Jews being Jewy." Every writer who reveals what's behind the curtain risks offending someone-whether it's Jhumpa Lahiri's portrayal of Bengali American life or Junot Diaz's raw depiction of the Dominican immigrant experience.
The impulse to protect family battles against the need to express painful experiences-a tension that has fueled great literature from Dickens onward. Dickens's childhood abandonment-sent to work in a rat-infested warehouse while his father was in debtor's prison-permeates his fiction with orphans and a sense of neglect. This combination of hurt and desire keeps many writers in the ring.
What allows some writers to transform their lives into art while others tiptoe around subjects? Entitlement-the feeling you have the right to say whatever you want about whomever you want. Yet writers equally fear being exposed themselves, especially to their families. Coming out as a writer announces you're different, and until established, this struggle can bring humiliation.
Most writers, like children, need to tell their stories, though this often provokes parent-critics determined to control what can be said. "Writing is nothing if not breaking the silence. The problem is, no one likes a snitch." Our culture discourages taking one's pain seriously, considering stoicism a virtue. Yet ironically, many damning books about childhood are dedicated to parents-Pat Conroy's brutal "The Great Santini" is lovingly dedicated to his father, Dorothy Allison's harrowing "Bastard Out of Carolina" to her mother.
As a young poet, I hid behind metaphors and opaque images until a teacher confronted me, asking if I was intentionally trying to confuse people. I wasn't ready to face my intentions-I was "the good child" terrified of what might be discovered if I wrote clearly. Telling emotional truth requires risking your place at the family table. The most famous example might be Truman Capote, whose "La Cote Basque" chapter exposed secrets of his high-society friends, resulting in wholesale rejection.
Every writer uses people from their life-what other experience do they have? Though writers aim to convey truth, they're not telling literal truth. Everything on the page is deliberate manipulation-choosing words, building images, creating rhythm and structure to make readers believe what they're reading is real. When successful, the best fiction reads like nonfiction and vice versa.
You must give yourself permission to tell. Most importantly, give up hoping people will like your work-people like vanilla ice cream. Hope instead they love or hate it, find it exquisite or revolting. Cocteau had it right: "Listen carefully to first criticisms made of your work. Note just what it is about your work that critics don't like and cultivate it. That's the only part worth keeping."
Chapter 5
Shameless or Strategic? The Writer as Self-Promoter
In an age when fame equals godliness, perhaps only false modesty remains. We still prefer our poets starving and novelists in garrets, though ambition is accepted in other professions. Literary self-promotion has historical precedent. America's most important poet self-published one of literature's most ecstatic works weeks before his thirty-sixth birthday. Imagine Whitman's elation when Emerson wrote, "I am not blind to the worth of the wonderful gift of Leaves of Grass... I greet you at the beginning of a great career." After some less welcoming newspaper notices, Emerson's letter mysteriously appeared in the New York Tribune without his permission.
In sharp contrast to Whitman's self-proclamation, Emily Dickinson's first letter to Thomas Wentworth Higginson reveals how one's approach influences reception: "Mr. Higginson, Are you too deeply occupied to say if my Verse is alive?" Her delicate gambit shows the vertigo writers experience examining their own work. "The Mind is so near itself-it cannot see, distinctly-and I have none to ask-" she wrote, almost foretelling Higginson's eventual betrayal; she died leaving over two thousand unpublished poems.
Every writer secretly wonders "Why isn't that me?" when peers achieve success, often dismissing them as mere self-promoters. Yet being a writer inherently includes hoping to become known. We're suspicious of writers who court fame, as if serious work and self-promotion were incompatible. Joyce Maynard has endured decades of derision for writing about herself, achieving early success, and especially for exposing her relationship with Salinger. Yet what writer doesn't excavate their life for material?
The relationship between ego and writing talent is complicated. I once believed insecure writers produced better work, but sometimes the most arrogant are truly brilliant. Norman Mailer collected his writings at just 36 in "Advertisements for Myself," boldly declaring his work would "have the deepest influence of any American novelist." Dale Peck proclaimed himself "one of the best writers around," while Lionel Shriver openly admitted she "wanted badly" to win the Orange Prize.
A writer's work emanates from personality, sensitivities, blind spots and unconscious wishes-all contributing to style. As Truman Capote noted, "Style is you... the personality of a writer has to appear almost like a character that makes contact with the reader." Yet many celebrated writers suffer crippling self-doubt. Susan Sontag confessed writing "The Volcano Lover" felt like "climbing Mount Everest," while Judith Guest, after her bestseller "Ordinary People," felt like "a trickster" who had forgotten how to write.
Wanting recognition isn't a crime, whether you seek Jacqueline Susann-style glamour or literary prestige. All writers must make their own impression, whether through quiet illumination like Alice Munro or explosive statements like Jackson Pollock. Whether you hide at home like Dickinson or live flamboyantly like Mailer, ultimately you "will live or die by your line."
Chapter 6
The Neurotic Writer: Rituals, Fears, and Creative Energy
Writers are inherently neurotic, exhibiting behaviors from nervous tics and insomnia to full-blown paranoia. Many suffer physical manifestations-Updike with his psoriasis, Gass with his ulcer, others with allergies and skin eruptions. Most develop ritualized behaviors around their work, dictating when, where, and how they can produce. When successful, these quirks become your "process"; when unsuccessful, they look like excuses.
As Joyce Carol Oates notes: "One must be pitiless about this matter of 'mood'... the writing will create the mood." The essential truth is that great writing requires nothing but paper and pencil-not a new PowerBook, an Aeron chair, or a writing coach. When writers indulge in neurotic notions about necessary conditions, they're simply stalling. The feared stimulus is writing itself, and when the words don't come, "you could have all of Versailles to yourself and it wouldn't make a damn bit of difference."
Writers' phobias serve as protection, creating walls between themselves and others that allow them to enter "the supremely narcissistic world of the page." Whether homebodies like Jane Austen or travelers like Mark Twain, writers need antisocial behaviors to work when life conspires to distract them. An absolute solipsism takes over as they become "more alive inside his work than in the real world." As Kafka said, "I am in chains. Don't touch my chains."
Writers have a conflicted relationship with their craft. Many claim writing makes them miserable yet admit they're never happier than when immersed in a book. William Styron confessed, "writing is hell," while Hemingway described the experience in erotic terms: "I suffer like a bastard when I don't write... But I never feel as good as while writing." The act parallels lovemaking-a writer seduces, enchants, and befriends readers, creating an intimate charge.
Writers are intensely neurotic about money. Most struggle financially with no guarantees, benefits, or security. When Frank McCourt was asked about becoming wealthy from writing about poverty, he quipped, "irony is my constant companion." The world often fails to recognize writing as actual work-therapists schedule appointments during "writing time" and people assume writers spend their days in pajamas.
Editors inevitably become therapists to their authors, dealing with writers who can't let go of manuscripts, those who revise endlessly, and authors who seek constant reassurance about their standing compared to other writers. During publication, writers' deepest insecurities surface as they simultaneously crave and fear exposure. An editor sees "into the medicine cabinet of his soul"-all the paranoia, vindication-seeking, and obsessions that can fuel great writing when properly channeled.
Chapter 7
Touching Fire: Addiction, Mental Illness, and Creativity
The relationship between creativity and self-destruction has long fascinated the literary world. In writing programs, I witnessed "cowboy poets" who drank heavily every night, leading to fights and reckless behavior they would boast about the next day. These young men swaggered into class late, borrowing pens and aspirin, treating the city as their territory to mark "like a pack of dogs." The program also had garden-variety drunks whose drinking led to melancholia, along with a junkie, a Valium zombie, and students on antidepressants.
I once acquired a book proposal from a crack-addicted writer. Despite promises to produce pages, she would disappear for months, creating a cycle of missed deadlines, apologies, and extensions. After three years, we canceled the contract-the only project I ever lost. Similarly, F. Scott Fitzgerald's alcoholism alienated his agent and friends after The Great Gatsby's commercial failure. Addiction wrecks lives and careers, often serving as a flight response from rejection, criticism, or inability to write.
The literature of addiction memoirs is extensive, from Caroline Knapp's Drinking: A Love Story to James Frey's controversial A Million Little Pieces. Susan Cheever sharply rebukes the romantic view of literary debauchery, emphasizing the destructive reality of alcoholism. Her father John Cheever's journals document his alcoholic dissolution with painful clarity, from early awareness to his eventual first AA meeting after "planning to visit A.A. for twenty years."
The connection between artistic temperament and addiction suggests genetic factors may contribute to both creative impulses and addictive tendencies. Writing creates perpetual anxiety where "the chances of failing far outweigh the rate of success." Writers use substances to disinhibit themselves-Anne Sexton needed alcohol before every public appearance. Initially, substances may enhance creativity, but eventually the addiction consumes the art itself: "She had the drunk's fluency but not the artist's cunning."
Beyond addiction, mental illness is heavily romanticized in literary circles. People with mood disorders are often judged harshly-their work questioned, their behavior criticized. We romanticize these artists after death, but in life they can be "draining, demanding, and sometimes deluded." I reject the myth that mental illness produces genius, citing David Foster Wallace's tragic struggle with depression that ultimately ended his life despite treatment. From my editorial experience, I can detect authors' mental states through their voices and work patterns. Creating art serves a need but doesn't necessarily fill it.
Chapter 8
Breaking In: The Path to Publication
My entry into publishing began when I responded to a classified ad for a literary agency assistant position. Traveling from Columbia University to Gramercy Park, I was struck by the elegant brownstones with their ornate details, a stark contrast to my previous job at an investment bank. I descended into what staff called "the Dungeon," the agency's basement offices, while the owners worked in the "aerie above." Unlike the sterile corporate environment of my banking job with its "framed tombstones from completed mergers," this new workplace "teemed with the life of the mind and creativity" I had always desired.
I fell in love with the literary agency atmosphere immediately, devouring every scrap of information I could find. The rejection letters from publishers fascinated me-some kind, some editorial, others terse or unnecessarily cruel. Reading those editorial letters on thin, frosted paper became my best career training, watching how agents guided clients with encouragement and structural advice.
My most exciting responsibility was reading manuscripts from the unsolicited pile. For my first assignment, I spent an entire weekend reading a 400-page manuscript and produced an elaborate four-page report. When I proudly submitted it, the agency owner barely glanced at it, asking simply, "Did you like it?" When I admitted I hadn't, he instructed me to reject it. I was shocked by this casual dismissal of both my work and the writer's fate. The senior agent consoled me with "Welcome to the real world"-the day I lost my "publishing virginity."
Literary agents come in countless varieties today-mega-agents, boutique agents, specialists in every genre-but all aspiring writers need one. Agents serve as both business representatives and literary advisors. Agents and editors respond to well-written cover letters and opening sentences that bring manuscripts to life. Professional, succinct letters sent to the right person get attention; misspelled, presumptuous, or unhinged ones get rejected-sometimes after being passed around the office for sport.
I've received countless gimmicks with queries-chocolate cigars, stained glass, baby booties, money, alcohol, photographs (sometimes revealing), and bizarre "art" installations. None work. Don't use colored paper, scented stationery, binders, stickers, or glossy photos. A simple, dignified letter stating your credentials and intent will succeed where gimmicks fail. Do your homework using resources like PublishersMarketplace.com to find the right agent for your project.
Always submit to multiple agents simultaneously unless specifically instructed otherwise. Send your work to about six agents-two "reach" choices at major firms, two mid-range options, and two "safety" choices at smaller agencies or with independent agents. The waiting period after submission is maddening, but remember that a form rejection is all an agent owes you. Personal notes from editors or agents are encouraging signs.
Before signing with an agent, request their client list, sales record, commission structure (15% is standard), and additional charges. Understand the submission strategy and what happens if initial publishers reject the work. Meet potential agents in person if possible. The best agents understand your publishing history, work style, and presentation needs.
Chapter 9
Surviving Rejection: The Writer's Crucible
Rejection is an inescapable reality of writing life that doesn't end with publication-it often intensifies. Writers should view rejection as a ladder to climb: first come form letters, then personalized notes, and finally acceptance. Most successful writers accumulate numerous rejections before breaking through. John Grisham's first novel was rejected by dozens of agents before finding one, then faced a year of publisher rejections before a small press printed just 5,000 copies. Yet he immediately began his next novel, which became "The Firm" and launched his phenomenal career.
For unpublished writers, finding peers slightly more advanced than yourself is crucial, like choosing a tennis partner whose skills challenge yours. All you truly need during rejection-heavy years is one honest friend to share work with. Literary history shows how writers have always relied on each other-Wordsworth and Coleridge, Hemingway and Fitzgerald, Welty and Porter, Kerouac and Ginsberg. These communities provide more than critique-they offer shelter during the struggle.
Before attempting book publication, make your work more rejection-proof through smaller publishing venues. Nonfiction writers should place op-eds or magazine articles on their topic. Consider teaching classes to build a following. Self-publishing can also lead to traditional deals when authors show determination. Blogging has become another path-Julie Powell's cooking blog became "Julie & Julia," Christian Landers' "Stuff White People Like" earned a $300,000 book deal after NPR controversy, and Heather Armstrong's Dooce.com transformed her firing for blogging about work into bestselling books.
Editors live for discovering original voices and unexpected successes, despite industry focus on "slam dunk" bestsellers. Nothing compares to finding a first-time writer whose work flourishes-like "Reading Lolita in Tehran," which began modestly but stayed on bestseller lists for over 100 weeks. Modern acquisitions require approval from sales, marketing and publicity teams, not just editorial passion. Make your submission bulletproof: professionally copyedit if needed, secure expert endorsements, and study competition.
If rejection letters make you quit writing, you've given those pages too much power. While some editors enjoy wielding authority, most genuinely dislike disappointing writers. Their delayed responses often stem from discomfort with rejection, not just busy schedules. Thank editors for their time and ask if they'd consider future work. Never mistake polite rejection for encouragement-many writers misinterpret standard phrases as interest. File rejection letters away rather than obsessing over them. Only follow editorial advice if it genuinely resonates with your vision-never revise solely because an editor suggested it. The only writers deserving contempt are those who threaten to quit unless published-the world owes no one publication, and ultimately only you can stop yourself from writing.
Chapter 10
The Editorial Relationship: A Delicate Dance
Asking what editors want resembles asking what women want-preferences vary widely based on workload, support, track record, and timing. Everyone in publishing secretly hopes to work on books that shape national dialogue or enter the lexicon. Even cynical veterans soften when their company produces a runaway bestseller like Allan Bloom's "The Closing of the American Mind," which stunned Simon & Schuster with its unexpected success in 1987.
Publishing houses differ dramatically in their approach to books and authors. In 1987, Farrar, Straus & Giroux stood apart for its commitment to literary quality regardless of audience size-even using metal type instead of cheaper film because it looked "more expressive." The editorial ladder resembles a writer's publication quest-long apprenticeship, frequent rejection, uncertain advancement. Finding mentors proves crucial.
Editors crave the thrill of discovering new writers like junkies need fixes-it's almost amatory, with the pursuit more exciting than possession. Some editors become inattentive after signing authors, as if conquest were the point. Today's publishing climate is ruthlessly competitive-manuscripts once submitted sequentially are now sent simultaneously to fifteen editors electronically. Despite technological acceleration, good writing and editing remain slow processes that deserve thoughtful consideration.
The Maxwell Perkins fantasy of discovering authors over three-martini lunches has been replaced by corporate consolidation. Within a decade, independent publishers were absorbed by conglomerates: Farrar, Straus & Giroux by Holtzbrinck; Random House by Bertelsmann; Little, Brown by Hachette. Editors now need skills beyond acquisition and editing-they must secure blurbs, cultivate reviewers and booksellers, attend readings, and fight for attention among fifty other titles.
Heavy editing is relatively modern-before Maxwell Perkins, Scribner's policy was "hands-off." When Perkins received F. Scott Fitzgerald's "The Romantic Egoist," he broke convention by offering extensive revision suggestions. Today's editors have less time for actual editing, but it remains essential. Good editors think with pencils in hand, questioning word choice and syntax, marking where chapters should begin or end. They build trust by first showing appreciation-"lovely phrase," "great word"-before suggesting cuts with gentle margin queries.
The editorial contribution remains invisible once a book is published, and our literary culture prizes authenticity above all. When Gordon Lish's heavy editing of Raymond Carver's work became controversial, Don DeLillo advised Lish to step back: "There is no exposing Carver... Even if people knew you are largely responsible for his best work, they would immediately forget it." Maxwell Perkins himself warned editors against self-importance: "An editor creates nothing... at most he releases energy."
No reviewer ever praises good editing, though they readily criticize its absence without knowing how hard an editor might have fought for changes. If a book is fundamentally sound, editors typically defer to authors' wishes-it's their book after all. Editors and authors happily publicize their successful collaborations but rarely discuss the books that disappointed or relationships that soured. An editor's stable of writers resembles siblings with clear favorites: hardworking ones never feel appreciated enough while charismatic, erratic ones often win hearts.
Chapter 11
From Manuscript to Marketplace: The Book's Journey
The publishing process encompasses everything between writing and reading-ultimately an intimate encounter between author and reader. Most first-time authors are woefully unprepared for what publication actually entails. Journalists accustomed to quick turnarounds are often shocked by publishing's slow pace. Publishers typically need nine months from final edit to publication for copyediting, design, typesetting, proofreading, cataloging, jacket design, manufacturing, sales representation, publicity bookings, and marketing arrangements.
Most author disappointment stems from unrealistic expectations. Landing a contract merely guarantees physical production and catalog listing-not success. Bookseller interest depends on numerous uncontrollable factors: competing titles, market saturation, author credentials, media potential, and even jacket design. The business's unpredictability makes it both maddening and thrilling. When consultants once suggested a publisher only produce bestsellers since 10% of books generate 90% of revenue, the publisher explained the fundamental problem: "We never actually know which is which."
Book jackets are crucial marketing tools. Some art directors insist on reading manuscripts before designing, while others work from just an editor's description and title. Jacket meetings often spark the most contentious reactions in publishing, with silence being worse than criticism. Authors' reactions vary widely-some care only about name placement, while others take designs personally. Unlike other industries, publishers rarely market-test jackets, and art directors typically handle 50-100 titles per season with limited budgets.
Finding the perfect title can focus an entire work. Amy Tan initially considered "Wind and Water" for her first novel until her agent suggested "The Joy Luck Club"-a title that ultimately shaped the entire book. Peter Benchley tried over a hundred titles before settling on "Jaws" just before publication, despite everyone hating it initially. James McBride's memoir title "The Color of Water" emerged from his mother's dialogue after rejecting numerous alternatives. The best titles often come from the text itself, capturing both the broad themes and nuances within.
While marketing plans unfold, manuscripts undergo physical transformation. Copyediting-which the best writers deeply appreciate-serves as the last defense against linguistic errors. After copyediting and author review, the manuscript is designed and typeset-a moment that never fails to excite editors as the book materializes in its final form. As John Updike once noted, typeface selection creates a powerful emotional connection; seeing his "youthful willful hopeful words" set in Janson typeface with Perpetua chapter heads left him "still dizzy" decades later.
The final jacket elements include flap copy and endorsement blurbs-a system that persists because consumers inherently distrust publishers' claims about their own books. While literary insiders may recognize the connections between authors and their blurbers, most readers accept endorsements at face value. Blurbs often work most effectively in-house before publication, creating internal excitement when famous authors endorse unknown writers.
Chapter 12
Life After Publication: The Reality of Literary Success
James Purdy's dark observation that "most books come into the world with the fanfare of a stillborn" captures the cruel reality many authors face. Despite attempts at rational expectations, all writers harbor dreams of greatness, hoping publication will transform their lives-professionally, socially, even romantically. Yet for every breakout success like Alice McDermott, whose debut novel received a front-page New York Times review and whose subsequent books won major awards, thousands of books disappear without notice.
The term "publication day" often creates unrealistic expectations for authors. One seasoned novelist described frantically cleaning her apartment before her first book's release, half-expecting journalists to arrive for tea. Instead, "nothing at all happened." For most writers, publication day is less a personal milestone than a technical term marking the book's on-sale date in stores, coordinated with the timing of reviews. Authors are advised to begin working on their next project before publication to shield themselves from the vulnerability of reviews or public silence.
The first indicators of a book's reception come from prepublication reviews in trade papers like Publishers Weekly and Kirkus Reviews. Positive early reviews bring joy to editors and authors alike, while negative ones create awkward situations. Many writers claim they want to see all reviews but change their minds after being bludgeoned. Beyond public reviews, author mail provides meaningful connection between writers and readers. These personal connections often prove more sustaining than formal reviews, creating bridges across what Rilke called the "infinite loneliness" between writers and readers.
Publicity has become essential to book success, a shift Michael Korda traces to Jacqueline Susann's 1966 publication of "Valley of the Dolls." Susann revolutionized book marketing with "shameless self-promotion, personal appearances, and celebrity tie-ins." Today's authors obsessively check their Amazon rankings "much the way a stockbroker reads the Nasdaq." Few writers are naturally gifted at readings or interviews, and those deemed "unpromotable" can become liabilities.
Book tours rarely match authors' fantasies of "green rooms and limos and long lines of devoted readers." Annie Proulx described a Wyoming reading where the audience consisted entirely of local writers waiting to read their own work. Common tour disasters include bookstores that never received books, interviewers who use the wrong name or haven't read the book, advertisements with incorrect dates, and hotels with lost reservations.
Publishers covet "brand name" authors who consistently generate bestselling sales, like John Grisham, Stephenie Meyer, and J.K. Rowling. The ultimate "mega-brander" might be Rick Warren, whose "The Purpose Driven Life" has sold over 52 million copies. His success demonstrates that "word of mouth is still the most powerful way to sell books," though building such a constituency takes decades.
Dave Eggers exemplifies literary entrepreneurship, creating an empire starting with McSweeney's Quarterly. His ventures expanded to include four imprints publishing over fifteen books, The Believer magazine, Wholphin DVD quarterly, and the award-winning McSweeney's Internet Tendency website. Beyond publishing others, Eggers authored bestsellers, co-wrote screenplays, and founded 826 Valencia, a national youth writing organization.
The best advice for authors approaching publication: "treat your publicist like gold." Many writers unrealistically expect publicists to function as personal assistants rather than recognizing they handle multiple titles simultaneously. Publicists rarely receive proper credit when they secure major media opportunities, yet they're crucial to a book's success. They sense early reception and can advocate for your book in countless small but significant ways.
The publishing industry faces unprecedented challenges: print media contracting, newspapers folding, book review sections vanishing, bookstore chains struggling, and beloved independents closing. E-books threaten traditional pricing models while raising piracy concerns. Yet despite technological upheaval, Isaac Bashevis Singer's wisdom offers comfort: "The more technology, the more people will be interested in what the human mind can produce without the help of electronics." Books possess a soul and staying power that transcends their physical form. Whatever delivery system prevails, what matters most is preserving the writer's voice and the reader's connection to it.
