Slice of life

JHE’s Guide to Getting a Book Deal

jeanhannah:

When the marvelous Rachel Hills asked me to contribute to her post about how to get a book deal, I got a bit overexcited and basically wrote an essay. So it wouldn’t go to waste, I decided to post it here.

Disclaimers: I used to work in publishing, and I keep up to date on the industry for my blogging purposes (and personal interest), and I do a little critiquing of new writing on an ad-hoc basis (and have introduced a handful to their now-agents). But I’m not, of course, the absolute last word on the topic. OK? OK.

Five rules of getting a book deal

The first rule of getting a book deal is to write something that is extraordinary. Yes, I know that you think your book is good, but it has to be REALLY good – by which I mean well-written and original and something that makes people want to turn the page. When I worked for a literary agency, we read dozens of submissions every week, and the vast majority of them were terrible – not just OK, or mediocre, but really astonishingly awful. Before you start submitting your work, get several objective opinions on it. By ‘objective,’ I mean not from your friends or your mum. The good news is that thanks to the flourishing communities of writers on the web, it should be easy for you to find someone who is interested in the kind of writing you are doing, who doesn’t know you, but who is someone whose opinion you will respect – and whose criticism you will take on board to make your writing better, rather than a reason to shout, ‘you don’t understand me!’ and sulk. Websites for Writers is a great portal for key writing sites.

And yes, you might be inclined to argue that there are lots of books being published that are not extraordinary. That is true. But producing something mediocre is still not going to increase your chances of getting a book published.

The second rule of getting a book deal is to research. Yes, you should research your book, but you also need to research the business of publishing. Which literary agents are most interested in your kind of writing? What books have been published that are similar to yours, with which your book will compete? Who published them? How were they published? What market are they aimed at? Some aspiring writers think that they should just submit their work to everyone under the sun, until someone bites, but that’s a waste of your time (and theirs) – you want to identify the people who may be genuinely interested in your project and target them carefully. Trade websites are a good place to start – if you’re in the UK, The Bookseller and Booktrade.info and BookBrunch are the must-reads. And, of course, book blogs – Nathan Bransford, Bookslut, the Guardian books blog and Book Ninja are my top four go-tos, but there are many more as well, particularly for specific genres. Check Twitter for directories of publishing professionals, too, and start following them. You’ll learn a lot.

The third rule of getting a book deal is to network. There’s often a lot of complaint on writing blogs about how people who get books commissioned have ‘connections’ in the world of publishing, but how many other industries would you expect to crack in to without having some contact with the people who are already in? This doesn’t mean that you have to get a job in publishing (though it undoubtedly helps – I would certainly not have published a book at this stage if I hadn’t worked in publishing) but it does mean that you should look for ways to engage with publishing professionals to learn from them about the industry, about what they are interested in publishing, etc. Again, thanks to the internet, this doesn’t mean you have to live in London or New York – but you need to get stuck in to the dialogues about publishing that are flourishing online. Yes, this wasn’t necessary ten years ago, but book publishing is not as old-fashioned as it seems: it does move with the times, and writers have to as well. Email people and ask them for advice. Sure, some will never write back, but many will be happy to give it.

The fourth rule of getting a book deal is to get an agent. There’s been a lot of debate recently about the usefulness of agents in a digital world, but I think that’s because most people don’t understand what an agent’s real job is. I didn’t either, when I started in an agency – I imagined I would drink coffee, read manuscripts, wear tweed and occasionally shout things like, ‘I’ve discovered the next Philip Roth!’ In fact, the bulk of the agent’s work happens after the book has been sold - negotiating the contract, making sure that money flows through to the writer, negotiating sub-rights deals, arguing with editors when they try to make writers do things that they don’t want to do, administering a hell of a lot of paperwork. You’re a writer; you don’t want to spend time handling complex contractual issues when you could be writing. Get. An. Agent.

How to get an agent? You’ve already done your research and your networking, so contact the people who you think will be interested in your book, and contact them according to the instructions that they set out on their website – if they don’t have those instructions, they’re not a very good agent (or agency) and you don’t want them representing you. But if you ignore the instructions – sending the whole book when they ask for a synopsis, or sending an email when they ask for a hard copy – they’ll ignore you or reject you outright, not because they are jerks, but because they work very hard and need submissions to fit into whatever system they have for dealing with them. They don’t have time to take out to deal with someone’s alternative approach not because they are jerks, but because they are working so hard for the authors they’re already representing. That’s good, because you want an agent who works hard for his or her authors. There’s no need to load up your submission with bells and whistles: your work should speak for itself, and if you feel the need to write things in your submissions letters like, ‘my book starts off slow, but becomes interesting on page 74’ you’re not ready to submit; if you feel the need to attach sexy photos of yourself to the submission (more common than you’d think), you’re not ready to submit. An agent won’t take on a project that he or she can’t sell to a publisher, so it’s your job, in submitting, to help the agent see how your book is sellable.

The fifth rule of getting a book deal is to be patient and manage your expectations. Publishing is a slow, slow business. Decisions aren’t made quickly; everyone experiences a lot of rejection; sometimes people write fantastic books that aren’t right for the market at the time (because, yes, the market does matter, annoying as it is) and their books prove to be unsellable. Even if you do get a book deal, it is unlikely to be for the kind of money that will mean you can retire to the French Riviera with your typewriter – these days, most advances are very small indeed (mine included, which is why I have a secret, unglamorous copywriting job).  There are few things more satisfying than holding a book in your hands that you wrote yourself, but it is unlikely to set you up for life.

Short Story Challenge Day 3 - Your round

Bethan Jones shook the snow from her big white boots on the ironwork shoe scraper outside the Albany. Blethyn strode ahead into the lounge, determined to find a booth that would seat four of them. He hated sitting around the tables in the middle of the room. He needn’t have rushed though - Pat and Roy were already there, sitting on the deep red corner sofa next to the back door. Blethyn sighed deeply - now he and Bethan would have to sit on the small barstools - but corrected himself and smiled at Roy, who stood up to shake his hand. Pat stood up and they kissed on the cheek. Bethan stood outside the door and watched them all through the glass. She took a deep breath and walked into the pub.

Blethyn sat down and reached for his drink. There were already two extra pints of Brains on the table - 45 for him, SA Gold for Bethan. Bethan awkwardly kissed Pat on the cheek, and then greeted Roy. She sat down opposite Pat and looked down at the table, fingering the disintegrating beer mat in front of her. There was rugby on the TV screens around the pub, and Roy and Blethyn were already elbow deep in discussions about the Wales team that season. Pat was wearing a long brown cardigan, black t-shirt and flowery scarf. She had no makeup on, but whatever she wore, she always looked incredible. Bethan often felt dowdy and plain next to her. Whenever she made an effort to doll herself up - as she had today - she felt more tranny than glam.

Blethyn burst out laughing at something that Roy said, an uncomfortably loud laugh that made Bethan wince. Blethyn wiped under his eyes and slapped his hand down on Bethan’s thigh. She winced again, then was jolted by her mobile phone vibrating in her handbag. It was a message from Lowri. “merry xmas mam. have u done it yet? love u xoxo” Bethan deleted the message and put the phone back in her bag.

Pat raised her glass and cleared her throat. “A toast - to our very good friends - and a very good Christmas.”

“Hear hear,” rumbled the two men, and the four of them raised their glasses to the centre of the table. Bethan felt Pat was trying to make eye contact. She kept her eyes on the glasses, then looked back down at her knees. She didn’t like the way her trousers fell across her skin. She plucked them loose, and the material relaxed back down. She glanced at Blethyn. His thick fingers drumming on the table. The tough skin on his neck. His navy fleece hung over the back of the chair. It’s not like I hate him, Lowri. It’s not like I see him around the house and think - God, I hate you. You don’t understand, Lowri. It’s different - at my age, these things are different. It’s not like you - your relationships. We are not all entwined. We have seperate lives. We are too old to live these romantic dreams - they are for when you are young. I made those mistakes once. Once was enough.

“Yeah, ours has been pretty quiet,” said Blethyn, leaning on his elbow and looking across the table. “Not really been out or done much this year. Beth’s hardly been out at all, apart from when she came over your place to see you Pat, last weekend . She came back and wasn’t feeling well after that - was in bed for days, couldn’t get up. Feeling better now though, aren’t you love.”

Bethan coughed on a sip of her pint. Pat pulled a handkerchief out of her pocket and handed it across the table. “Yes, yes. Better.”

Bethan felt her phone going. She glanced quickly at it - Lowri was calling her. She turned off the vibrate alarm, and inhaled deeply.

She picked up her bag and looked at Pat, dead in the eyes. “I’m just going to the ladies.”

Pat sat silent for a second, then stood up, picking up her bag as well. “I’ll come too.”

Unnoticed by their partners, the two women walked out of the lounge. They stopped briefly outside the toilets and looked at each other. Without saying a word they continued down the corridor, into the other bar area of the Albany, and out of the side door. It would be some time before Roy or Blethyn started wondering where they had got to.

Short Story Challenge - Day 2 - petey’s giblets

Creaking chair legs. A thump. petey leans over the back of the chair and leans on the kitchen counter, resting his face on his upturned hands, eyes glazed over, transfixed. Shrieking cartoons. Cookery books. A thump, thumping behind him.

“petey pass the flour, will you love?”

petey reaches out to his left and feels around on the counter, not letting his eyes leave the TV screen. He pats around unsuccessfully, looking round just as his arm brushes the edge of the paper packet. He almost knocks the flour to the floor but catches it just in time.

“petey!” Mam is scolding. “Watch what you’re doing, will you?”

Mam’s chest huffs around the kitchen. Thick wooden rolling pin. Squidgy pastry on the side. Petey’s eyes flick over to where she thumps a fist into it. He looks back to the cartoons.

From the other room, Dad’s paper rustles. The TV is on really loud because Grangran is watching it. You can hear the rustling in the quiet between the adverts. The only thing louder than the TV is Lauren, on the phone in the hallway. petey reaches for the volume control, but Mam is quick and smacks his hand away.

“Don’t turn that thing up any louder, Lord we’ll all be deaf! And move away from the telly. Remember what Grangran said. Your eyes will turn square.” Mam is stern. petey is scared by things that Grangran says. She’s shouty. She’s shouty a lot, usually at him, while they eat dinner. His favourite meal is breakfast, because Grangran never gets up til late. She is shouty because he doesn’t like potatoes. She is shouty about his spirit. She is shouty because he doesn’t like to eat when she’s around.

“You have to finish everything on the plate!” Her speaky voice was even worse - like chairs scraping across tiled floors. petey hates it. “He’ll have no character when he’s older, he has to do as he’s told, whether he like it or not!” Grangran complained once to Mam. Mam cooed soothingly from her chair, but she was unable to chill the burns in petey’s ears.

“Do you hear me boy?” Grangran lashed at him. “Character! It comes from the IN-side!”

petey gets up, still watching the cartoons, and moves around the table to the chair at the other side, furthest from the TV. It scrapes across the tiles as he drags it out. Mam frowns at him, then turns back towards the wall and pulls a knife from the magnetic holder above the range. It zings away from the wall. It is as big as her hand - maybe even bigger. She pulls apart the legs of the enormous chicken and takes her knife to its underneath, pulling and ripping the skin. She sticks her hand into the cavity between its legs, all the way up to her elbow, and pulls out a small plastic bag.

petey jumps up and runs over before she has the chance to call him. Mam is surprised. “Oh - thank you petey. You know what to do with this, right?”

petey nods. “I take this out back and feed Molly.”

Mam smiles, leans down and kisses petey on the head. “That’s my good little soldier.”

petey runs to the back door. The handle is heavy and cold, and petey sometimes has to put all his weight on it to open it, lifting his legs up off the ground. It opens a little more easily than usual. Molly - having heard the back door opening from her bed in front of the fire - runs through the house to the back door and bounds out, nearly knocking petey over.

petey shuts the door behind him and skips out into the cold fall air. It’s almost November, and their back garden is littered with leaves, all read and leathery. This is how petey likes them best, before they turn to sludge, or go skeletal and make dust between his fingers. He rests his back againts the wall of the house and stands silently for a few moments, clutching the bag to his chest. Standing on tiptoes, he peeks in through the kitchen window. Mam is rolling out the pastry now. A twist of hair has come loose from the pin on top of her head, and she stops for a second, holding the rolling pin under an armpit while she fixes the strays.

Satisfied that Mam is too busy to call him for at least a few minutes, petey creeps round the side of the house and pulls the door of the shed. It creaks terrible loud, and petey’s heart is in his mouth - expecting to be discovered any second.

He peers back round the corner. Nothing. He eases the door open and shuts it behind him, careful to leave Molly outside. She whimpers and scratches and the door for a few seconds, before petey hears her drop to her belly, waiting for him to come out.

In the corner of the shed, petey lifts the wrinkled black tarp that is covering his and Lauren’s bikes. He fingers a large dusty jar, and pulls it out from behind the bikes. He rips the plastic bag open with his teeth and holds it between them, then screws up his nose and forces the lid of the jar open. He tries not to breath through his nose, but it’s hard with the bag in his mouth. He can tell it stinks. He knows it’s nearly ready. He puts the jar down, takes the bag and spills out the bloody insides into the jar, accidentally spilling some drops on the floor of the shed. Carefully, he puts the plastic wrapper in the bag that was hidden with the jar, the bag that holds all the other plastic wrappers. He pulls a stick out of the bag, and pushes it into the gloop, stirring the mess around, poking it, watching it drip like bloody fat. petey almost gags, but remembers Grangran’s shouty, and strengthens himself. Tonight is the night, he decides.

petey has been stirring his magic potion for what seems like hours. Finally, it’s time to add the secret ingredient to the potion.

The shelves in the shed are piled with rusted pots and bottles, things that Dad uses to fix things or clean things or make things. petey wants Dad’s spirit. He knows he needs some extra, and Dad keeps a plastic see through bottle in here. He has to lean against the window frame and stand on Lauren’s bike to reach - it’s higher than he thinks - but petey brags hold of the bottle. It’s greasy on the outside, and it stinks. But it can’t smell any worse than the insides in the jar.

The bottle is old, and petey cracks open the top using his stick to lever it off. He holds the bottle above the jar and thinks about how much he needs. Three pours? Three is a magic number, but Grangran says magic is witchcraft.

Which means …

Um, which means …

Which means two pours would be better.

petey’s brow furrows. he’s concentrating really hard. One pour - then two - and a final mix with his stick. He wonders whether to drink it now, but then thinks he should probably leave it til after dinner. Wait til Grangran sees him after this. Character - from the insides. And spirit too. petey looks forward to the day she stops shouting at him.

“petey!”

petey gasps with the sound of his mother outside and nearly knocks the jar over - but catches it before the red swill has a chance to bleed all over the floor of the shed. He rams on the lid of the jar and quickly hides it under the tarpaulin, then runs out of the shed, nearly treading on Molly while he does. He runs back into the house, where the table is laid and the family are sitting down to eat. He wipes his hands on the back of his trousers and sits down in his chair, with his palms under his thighs.

Grangran narrows her eyes and stares at petey, then sits back, still staring. petey looks down at his lap, smirking, and allows himself to think things he’d normally never think while Grangran was around. Like he thinks she’s a stupid head. And she smells like belly button fluff. By the time the night is out, he’ll have more character than she’s ever had in her whole long life.

He lifts up his knife and fork and smiles at Mam.

Short Story Challenge - Day 1 - PricklyJesus.Org

Carl pulled his kafia a little closer round his ears. It seemed to make little difference to the sharp January wind. He tried to leave his tiny flat by the canal in Islington rarely, even in the summertime, and his battered leather jacket - and his wardrobe generally - flapped ineffectually, inviting the cold in. Icey water pumped up through a hole in his vintage converse - a bad choice of shoe, he realised. He pushed open the door to The Shepherdess and stood at the bar, panting, trying to catch his breath.

The barman appeared from behind a display unit at the corner of the pub, where he was removing Christmas decorations from the windows. Carl ordered a pint of guest ale, then immediately wished he’d ordered a soy latte. He watched the barman pull the pint glass from the top of the bar, and almost said something before he pulled the tap back, but instead kept his mouth closed. Halfway through the pint the pipes spluttered and ran dry, and Carl got his latte instead.

The Shepherdess was quiet. Even though it was 12 midday on a Tuesday, the dark oak of the pub was usually generously sprinkled with a variety of East London types from opening at 11am til closing. Carl chose the booth opposite the pub’s door, closest to both a heat vent and electricity, and pulled out his MacBook Air, plastered with various band stickers, as well as a decal that had been given away free with the book he’d had published in September just passed - entitled ‘Prickly Jesus’.

The monitor vibrated quietly back to life, showing a Skype text conversation he’d been involved with before realising he was late for his meeting. Behind that, two windows were open, showing the blogs that had birthed his book: a tome of fad non-fiction, a coffee table book featuring pictures of cacti shaped like jesus that he had found online, doctored on photoshop (giving them jesus sandals) and added captions to. Each cactus had a different caption, depending on what it looked like, or the kind of situation it was in. There was a tiny cactus on the dashboard of a car, which he gave the caption: What Would Jesus Drive? There was a picture of a huge cactus with two hipsters hanging out in front of it, one of with holding a joint in his hand, to which Carl added the caption: What Would Jesus Doobie?

Carl had spent the months just before he dropped out of Goldsmiths (an art college in New Cross) agonising about what kind of clever website he could set up. The world - his world - was completely online. His music, his fashion, his culture - everything he consumed he found online first. Studying anything - other than website design - seemed to be a total waste of time to him. Somehow he’d ended up at Goldsmiths studying English Literature, which he had found it easy to blag through but hated passionately. As a result had ended up repeating both his first and second years. He’d taken a year out before going to Goldsmiths, so by the time he was halfway through his third year he was nearly 25. He’d been living with the same dropout friends, but decided he needed a clean break. He dropped out, moved out, and found himself a tiny one bedroom flat in Islington. He’d met some cool, arty people through various websites - people who’d left comments on Holy Moly or VICE - people that he ended up connecting with through Twitter, eventually befriending them in real life too. Most of them lived in renovated warehouses in Hackney, but Carl had already signed a 12 month contraxt on his box-room, and would have to wait a few more months before he could move again. Besides, most of the warehouses were bitter cold at this time of year, and he was so slight that any cold chilled him to the bone.

The door of the pub clattered open, and Carl started in his seat, almost knocking his latte onto his lap. “Fuck,” he muttered, then looked up quickly to see who had come through the door. A local, by the looks of things, with a huge sheepskin jacket, tight jeans, leather satchel and impossibly long fringe. Carl was jealous of the jacket for its warmth, but equally repulsed by how unfashionable the thing was.

The laptop beeped quietly. A new Skype chat window opened up. It was his friend Windsock, a poet from Tunbridge who had just moved to one of those draughty warehouses in Hackney. Carl had met Windsock on the VICE website, trading smart comments about a new art show consisting solely of photographs of vaginas.

“is she there yet” asked Windsock.
“no. place is empty. this was a stupid idea” replied Carl. He looked around the empty pub again. He looked back at the screen and continued typing. “what u doing”
“freezing balls off. boiler gave out last night. am in multiple jumpers and sleeping bag. desperate for piss but its too cold to get up”
There was a pause. Windsock continued: “what u going to say to her when you c her?”
“dont know. didnt really think that far ahead. sure something will come to me” Carl replied.

He flicked screens back to pricklyjesus.org and read through the comments under the last post. Since the book had come out interest in the website had peaked in October, but had gone worryingly quiet over Christmas. Some new art blog called oeufenouef was all over the usual sites - some girl filling empty eggshells with lard and coloured dye, freezing them, smashing them and filming herself doing it. Stupid performance art stuff. Carl smoothed his hair flat with the back of his hand, and looked at the clock. @missmarshal had said she would be there by 11.30. He was starting to think she’d lied.

He clicked a shortcut on the desktop and opened his Twitter, but paused while deciding what to post. “Taking time to work on new material - bloody freezing in old street.” Click. He opened the search column in Hootsuite - the third party app he used to manage his Twitter accounts - and where he had a search column dedicated to all of @missmarshal’s tweets. He scanned up the column. Nothing more had been added since her first post at 9:21 that morning. “too cold to work in the house! off to my darling shepherdess for latte and inspiration.” It was nearly 12. Carl started to feel decidedly uncomfortable.

“so what u doing today. want to meet later” asked Windsock.

the door banged open again. the first thing he saw was a huge fur coat. it looked real too. vintage though. From Portobello, he thought. Grey jeans. Tiny white plimsoles. He opened up his organiser and made a note about a potential blog about shoes.

She ordered a latte - with cherry syrup - and set her bag down on a table near the door. She pulled out her Macbook and glanced over. He looked down quickly, trying to avoid her gaze.

“shit shes here - think she just caught me loking” he blasted to Windsock.

Windsock didn’t answer. @missmarshall - first name Lauren, according to those who left messages on her blog, surname presumably Marshal - opened up a notebook and stared intently at it.

“wtf am i supposed to do now” he asked Windsock.

Still nothing. Looking down at the screen, Carl opened up her Twitter page and set it to refresh once a minute. He clicked idly for a few minutes, still checking it. She hadn’t posted anything.

He covered his face with his hair, then looked up through it over to her table. All the times he’d tried to accidentally bump into her around Old Street - and every time he had failed. He even went to the Barbican one time when she said on her Twitter that she was going there alone to watch Akira. He positioned himself on the balconey before the show, and studied every face that went in. Even though he only knew her from photos on Flickr - and really, had no idea what she looked like in real life - he was certain she wasn’t there. Her Twitter was a fairly unreliable source of information, truth be told. In fantasies where they became friends and went for coffee, Carl admitted to her that before they met he had made an art project out of following her Twitter trail. She found it flattering and hilarious, and it reaffirmed her growing - but suppressed - desires for him. Even in fantasies, his love life was fraught with anxiety and opportunities lying just out of reach.

She looked up again, but Carl managed to look away before she made eye contact.

And now what, he wondered. What the fuck was he supposed to do now.