Editors on Editing: What Writers Need to Know About What Editors Do (20 page)

There’s little that bothers me more, at a conference, than seeing someone sitting alone in a corner, watching groups of people but never approaching them. (Editors get lonely, too.) Shy’s okay, but don’t ever think that the other people aren’t interested in what you have to say. So, once you arrive at the conference, start making friends. Go up to people and say hello, ask questions. Participate. Yes, you’ll get something from the meeting if you just sit back and listen; you’ll gain infinitely more by giving as well as receiving.

And there’s lots to receive. Maybe too much. Take a look at the schedule: there might be nine or ten panels going on at the same time! Before you arrived you probably received a program; if not, check your registration package and start planning your day.

You’ve come because of a particular need or because you want to hear a particular speaker; find those panels on the schedule first, so that you don’t miss the events that mean most to you. Then, find other sessions of interest and mark them. Uh-oh, a conflict, two at the same time. What will you do?

Many of today’s conferences provide recordings of all the sessions at a nominal charge. So, you can begin by picking the session you want to attend (because it is the one in which you are most likely to have questions … and ask them) and buy the cassette of a panel you can’t attend. Or, you can ask someone who is going to the one you’ll miss to share his notes and insights with you later.

Bring your own cassette recorder if you own one. I’ve never heard of them being banned from a meeting room, even at the conferences that provide recordings. Before you use one, though, make sure that they’re permitted and that the speaker doesn’t object. Simple courtesy dictates that you get permission: the speaker has no idea what use the tape will be put to; the speaker may want—or need—to sign a release; the speaker may not want his or her words recorded for any number of reasons. It’s rarely a problem (though there are times I’ve worried about exactly what it
was
I said), but there’s no reason to cause one when asking beforehand can prevent it.

Between sessions, or at any time during the day, you’ll undoubtedly meet one or another of the guest speakers in the hall or in a lounge area. Respect her privacy to the extent that you don’t interrupt her if she’s deep in conversation with someone else; otherwise, always feel free to come up, introduce yourself, ask if she might have a moment, and let things develop naturally. If the speaker is a mystery editor, don’t go on at great length about your horror novel; tell her what you’re working on, say something about enjoying one of her sessions (you do write fiction, don’t you?), ask if she’s enjoying herself (not every conversation has to be about work), and, if appropriate, ask if you might submit something for consideration.

You may be asked for some details—how long is the manuscript, does it fit into a particular subgenre, or any one of the hundreds of other questions editors ask about any submission—and then invited to send the manuscript or a partial. When you do—as quickly as possible (I’ve had some arrive on my desk the same day I got back to the office)—mention the meeting you had in your cover letter, thank the editor for her attention and consideration, and keep your fingers crossed. (As long as that doesn’t interfere with your writing.)

If she says no, don’t try to change her mind. Agents and editors aren’t always right, but we always have reasons for our decisions. We know our needs, what we can do something with in the marketplace, and what will
work for us. You can’t “sell” us anything. You can, though, ensure that we’ll remember your name if we find you difficult. This business is hard enough without antagonizing the people who can help you.

The speakers are there for you. Some of us are going to be easier to approach, to speak with, to get along with, than others, and only rarely will you meet someone who ignores you. If you do have that misfortune, make a note of it on the evaluation form that was in your packet of materials. Every conference provides one, asking what you thought of the meeting, of the speakers, of the panels; what you liked best and least—questions that will help them produce an even better meeting next year. Answer honestly, and if someone was arrogant, unhelpful, curt, or otherwise didn’t live up to your expectations, mention it. And if something or someone was particularly helpful, worthwhile, or otherwise enhanced your time, make sure to mention that, too.

The speakers aren’t your only source of help. You’ll be meeting writers not only from your area but, possibly, from around the country. Like you, they’re there to learn, to gain those insights that are going to help in their careers. Like you, they’ve had disappointments, downtimes, blocks, and successes, accomplishments, and experiences worth sharing. It won’t take long for you to discover those who share your particular writing interests, and lifelong friendships can develop out of taking a moment to say hello. The person next to you has less or more experience, different insights, different knowledge, and is just as eager to exchange that information for yours as you are.

There are writers who worry that someone they speak with at a conference is going to steal an idea. But think about it for a minute: these are writers, too; their heads are teeming with ideas they don’t have time to work on. The conference should be a place for openness and sharing.

And having shared, having exchanged ideas with people (and addresses), having learned that you’re not alone in your efforts, having listened and asked questions, having
participated
at every level, every step of the way, you come home.

But it isn’t over: mail the manuscripts that have been invited; send query letters to those editors and agents you weren’t able to discuss your work with but who said things that you liked, that made you feel comfortable with them.

If someone was particularly nice in some way or another, send him a thank-you note, let him know how much you enjoyed meeting him. Tell him you’re looking forward to seeing him again. (Don’t tell him that you’re looking forward to submitting something to him someday. But when you do, remind him of how much you enjoyed meeting him once upon a time.)

Keep in touch with the other writers, too. Ask for their advice and offer
your help. Exchange ideas about writing, about work habits, editors, publishers, agents, and possible markets.

You may be physically alone at your desk when you are working on a story, but you’re not alone in the real sense; there are thousands of us right behind you, ready to help, to lend a hand. All you have to do is ask.

And you can find us easily enough by attending a writers’ conference, by taking a few hours off and talking to people about writing and about publishing what you write. Nothing may be created on the page during that time, but the knowledge gained, and the support received, will make the next page you type that much better.

…

Just as you choose carefully before deciding to go to a conference, I do much the same thing with the invitations I receive to speak. There are conferences I particularly enjoy and those to which I will never go again. The first thing I do is find out who is on the program, because when I have the time, I audit other sessions. There’s always something for me to learn, either about writing or about publishing.

If I don’t know the conference, I ask other editors or agents whether they’ve spoken there and whether or not it is well run. By that I generally mean: Do the sessions start on time? Do registrants have access to speakers? Are individual meetings or small roundtable discussion groups held, so that I can talk one-on-one with people who need that kind of contact? Is there a contest or critique service offered? Is there a pleasant bar or lounge in which we can all meet later in the evening, to have the kind of long, rambling conversations I find the most productive because by then all the barriers are down and all the pretensions left behind?

And that’s when I remember the pundits and the thought that I teach most the things I most have to learn, as an editor and as a writer.

At one conference I attended recently, I overheard some of the speakers complaining about all the people coming up to them during their “off time.” My feeling is that when someone agrees to speak, he commits to giving as much time as possible to the conference. Whether you meet me or one of the others, though, a little common sense and courtesy will make the experience more pleasant and rewarding for everyone. We know—or should—most of your needs. We try to be kinder, gentler people, but we also tell the truth. We won’t encourage you to submit something that isn’t ready; we will—or should—give you the kind of feedback in a critique that you don’t receive when you get that cold, informal rejection note.

When you’re meeting with an editor, you have every right to expect his full attention. But remember that you have the appointment; there’s little that’s more frustrating to us, or unfair, than agreeing to a meeting and then
finding the writer hasn’t shown up. The editor’s time is wasted, someone else has lost the opportunity for a meeting, and you haven’t done very much for yourself, either. If you can’t keep the appointment, cancel it. Everyone will appreciate it.

Getting the most from a writers’ conference is really simple. Acknowledge that you’re there to learn; pay attention; be open. And remember that the editors, whether they know it at the time or not, are getting as much from you as they are giving.

That’s one of the reasons I enjoy the experience of lecturing as much as I do—because of the things I learn from you. It’s easy to get lost in the clouds that surround the towers of New York City and forget that America begins west of the Hudson and north of the Bronx. Meeting with you, seeing the things you’re writing, is a way of discovering not only your concerns but the interests of our customers, the folks who never buy enough books to keep any of us happy. I may gain an insight into a category I should exploit as an editor (or as a writer). I may achieve a deeper understanding of the needs of writers (but I’ll never be able to read manuscripts any more quickly). Or I may even discover a new writer for my list.

Yes, that happens too, and frequently enough so that you shouldn’t discount that possibility when you attend a conference and start talking with editors and agents; picture yourself and them as members of a team looking for the same thing. I’ve bought ten or eleven manuscripts as a result of meeting writers on a weekend away from my desk and have been able to help unnumbered others make the contacts they need. It is what I hope to do every time I board a plane for somewhere in this country where there’s a writer looking for information and answers.

Each of us attends a conference looking for something different. And most of us find what we’re looking for. Or, at least, discover a map that is going to lead us to the next stage of our development.

You never know everything. You never know enough. The creative process is always changing. The needs of publishers change with the seasons. New editors come along and begin to leave their mark both on the publishing industry and on the art of writing.

Take time away from writing to learn something
about
writing so that you will not be the only person who reads the words you’ve so carefully crafted.

And you can gain strength from the knowledge that you’re alone no more, that there is a large, vital, and exciting network of people waiting to help you, to welcome you.

Including the editor who will buy your next work.

Martha K. Levin

M
ARTHA
K. L
EVIN
is currently vice-president and publisher of Anchor Books, the trade paperback imprint of Doubleday. Ms. Levin sold subsidiary rights for ten years, most recently as the director of the subsidiary rights department of Random House. Authors she has worked with include Edward T. Hall, Naguib Mahfouz, Donald Spoto, and Mark Richard
.

Ms. Levin defines a negotiation as “the discussion that takes place between two parties … that will result in the drawing up of a contract for the purchase of some type of book rights.”

Starting with two basic rules, “(1) in a negotiation, either party has the right to ask for anything—just be aware that the other party has just as much of a right to say no; and (2) don’t presume anything—if it hasn’t been discussed and it’s not written down, it’s open to totally different interpretations by either side,” Ms. Levin’s essay goes on to offer the editor valuable, workable, creative suggestions on how to make that negotiation an equitable, happy, and financially rewarding experience for author, agent, and publisher
.

Three months after the author had delivered the manuscript and fifteen months after he had signed the contract, I got a call: “You know, I did a lot more work than I expected to do, and I really think you should pay me more money. And, I’ve been talking to some of my friends and they say you should be paying me a royalty.”

I sighed. I knew when I hired this author on a flat-fee arrangement that there was always the possibility that he might eventually feel this way. I had no idea, however, how ugly it would get.

This was not a straightforward deal to begin with. The estate of another author had contacted me about publishing an anthology of her essays. I thought it was a great idea, but felt the project needed an outside editor, one with appropriate credentials to put the work in its literary context. I spent a month making inquiries and finally was given the name of someone who would fit the bill. I phoned him, and he agreed to work on the project. He didn’t have an agent, so I very carefully went over the flat-fee deal I wanted to make with him, saying several times in the course of our discussions: “You do understand, don’t you, that this means you won’t be receiving a royalty, don’t you?” Each time he indicated to me that he did understand.

…

Having begun my career working for a literary agent, I tend to favor authors a bit more than my publisher would like me to. So I wasn’t withholding royalties from him because I wanted to. I obviously had to pay the author’s estate, and when I’d done a profit and loss statement, I saw it wouldn’t work if I had to pay royalties to two recipients. I had explained this, I thought, very clearly. I really felt I had gone the distance in trying to convey what it would mean if he made this deal with us. Clearly I hadn’t, and the resulting resentment on his part became so great that he stopped speaking to me and immediately took his new project to another publisher.