So you want to be a novelist?
Well, there's no one path to take. Novelists come in all shapes and
sizes. They're men and women, wunderkinds and retirees. Some of them
are very attractive. The rest of us resent them horribly. And if there
was a single magic bullet, or a list of steps to follow that would guarantee
publication, believe me, someone would have published it by now. What
follows is just my take on the question - a completely idiosyncratic,
opinionated, flawed and somewhat sassy take on some of the steps you
can take to get published. Important caveat: I have only written two
books, and I'm thirty-two, which, as my mother would hasten to point
out, means I am probably not qualified to give advice to anyone about
anything. If you're looking for lessons from the life masters - people
who've made long careers in the world of fiction - then run, do not
walk, to your local bookshop and buy Stephen King's On Writing
and Anne Lamott's utterly indispensable Bird by Bird, and Eudora
Welty's One Writer's Beginnings and Ursula LeGuin's Steering
the Craft.
If you want my advice, read on (and if you've already written your book
and just want to figure out how to get it published, skip ahead to Step
8).
1. The Unhappy Childhood
The big joke in the publishing community is that smart editors shouldn't
waste their time at lunches or conferences, but should instead proceed
directly to the local elementary schools. There, they will carefully
note the boys picked last in gym class, the girls sitting alone in the
cafeteria - all of the outcasts, misfits, geeks, dweebs and weirdos
- and give them some kind of small identifying tag (much like wildlife
services will tag animals to follow their progress through the years).
Twenty years later, the editors should track down the kids they've tagged,
now hopefully grown to more successful adulthood, and say, "Okay,
where's the book?"
Why do unhappy kids grow up to be writers? I think because being an
outsider - a geek, a dweeb, a weirdo, a smart, mouthy girl or boy who
just doesn't fit in - means that you're naturally equipped for observing
life carefully. You're not on the inside, you're on the outside - and
nobody's a more careful, dedicated observer of life than a kid or teenager
who's trying to figure out how to finally fit in with the in-crowd.
Also (and this is totally my own take on things, unproven by any kind
of study or research), but I think that kids whose parents are divorced,
separated, single, or otherwise un-Cleaver-ish might have a slight edge
over those who grew up in happily-married homes. For kids, divorce is
a mystery, a puzzle that begs to be put back together - what went wrong?
Was it my fault? Can Humpty Dumpty be put back together again? All of
these questions reinforce the powers of observation, the questioning
spirit, the impulse to try to make sense of life that can lead to becoming
a writer. Or a mass murderer, I guess, but hopefully a writer instead.
So if you're a would-be writer whose parents are divorced, be happy.
If you're married, and a parent, and trying to turn your kid into a
writer, please don't break up just because I said so. Because by the
time our theoretical young writer has figured out that fitting in with
the in-crowd isn't a consummation devoutly to be wished, and has given
up trying to make sense of Why Daddy Doesn't Live Here Anymore, it will
be time for…..
2. The Miserable Love Life
Again, a crucial ingredient for the formation of a novelist - romantic
humiliation and heartbreak. The unhappy childhood gives you the tools
of observation. Unrequited crushes, romantic despair, a few memorable
break-ups, will give you something to write about, an understanding
of grief. No prospect of heartbreak in sight? I can provide phone numbers
upon request.
Now that our would-be novelist has survived high school, heartbreak,
and perhaps her parents' divorce, it's time to talk higher education.
My advice?
3. Major in Liberal Arts (but not necessarily creative writing)
This is something I've taken straight from my own mother's book of
wisdom. My Mom is a great proponent of the liberal arts education. Why?
Because a liberal arts education, whether you're studying history or
anthropology or political science or English, teaches how to read, how
to write, and how to reason. Everything else, says Mom, is just commentary.
Once you've got the foundation of a liberal arts education - once you've
slogged through the required reading, written the papers, attended the
lectures and seminars - you know how to think. And in order to write,
you have to be able to make sense of the landscape of the world. In
order to be any kind of artistic innovator, you have to understand everything
that came before you.
And a liberal arts education gives you a framework in which to place
your own experiences, a context you can use to look at everything else,
a framework that any writer needs.
So why not major in creative writing? Here's a line that bears repeating:
a writer writes. If you're going to be a writer, nothing, not even a
difficult major, can stop you. You'll write poems, you'll write stories,
you'll begin a novel about suicide or bisexuality or a suicidal bisexual
that will forever languish in a shoebox beneath your bed, but you will
write. You'll do it in your spare minutes, you'll snatch time before
work or eschew prime-time TV after. You'll think of stories while you're
walking the dog or driving to work. You'll do it because it's your passion
and your calling, because doing it makes you happier than almost anything
else, because, really, you don't have any choice.
What college can give you is the luxury of immersing yourself in a
subject that you'll never have the unbroken blocks of time to study
again, an unbroken stretch of time to
devote to reading great literature, or America history, or politics.
I say, take advantage of everything college has to offer. Learn something
new, knowing that writing will always be available to you as both hobby
and vocation.
Now that you've got that shiny liberal arts degree tucked under your
arm, it's time for you to….
4. Get a Job (not an MFA)
This is pretty controversial, and will most likely earn me the enmity
of writing professors, students, and MFA graduates everywhere. But I
think if you want to be a writer, you're probably going to be better
served by going to work (or by traveling, if you've got the financial
wherewithal to do so), instead of spending two years and tens of thousands
of dollars getting a degree that announces to the world that you are
an official, academe-sanctioned, card-carrying practitioner of fiction.
When I was finishing up with college, lo these many years ago, I had
an English degree, which meant that I was qualified to do precisely
nothing, except compose lovely paragraphs, and speak knowledgably about
French feminist literary theory (don't laugh. I'm going to kick ass
on Jeopardy! Someday. Maybe). I was lucky enough to have John McPhee
as a professor, and he was generous enough to give me the best piece
of advice ever - go into journalism. "You'll see a different part
of the world. You'll meet all kinds of people. You'll be writing every
day, on deadline" - which, of course, turned out to be invaluable
when it came time to write fiction. Best of all, you'll be getting paid
to write, instead of paying someone to tell you that you can.
So off I went to Central Pennsylvania, where I spent two and a half
extremely instructive, occasionally frustrating, desperately underpaid
years at a small newspaper called The Centre Daily Times, where I covered
five local school districts, plus the occasional car crash, fire, zoning
board meeting, and wild-bear-on-the-loose story. Looking back, I think
I was a fair-to-middling news reporter. It just didn't interest me,
the numbers in the budget stories confounded me, and I always wanted
to be way more descriptive than the space, or my editors, would permit.
But I was a darn good features writer, because in my years at the paper,
I learned how things looked, how people talked, how people interacted
with each other, how they looked when they lied (cover politics, even
in the micro level, and you'll get to see plenty of that).
I'm now a convert. I think that journalism is just about the perfect
career for aspiring young writers. It's not especially remunerative,
nor, in spite of what you see on TV, is it particularly glamorous. But
it's great training. Like John McPhee said, you write every day, and
you write on deadline, and you write to fit the space available, which
means you don't grow up into one of those writers who gets sentimental
over her sentences or overly attached to her adverbial clauses. And
writer's block? Heh. Try telling an underpaid, pissed-off assistant
city editor that your story on the school board meeting isn't done yet
because your Muse hasn't spoken, and you will quickly, perhaps painfully,
come to the understanding that writer's block is a luxury no working
journalist can afford - which will help you avoid it when you're a working
novelist. Journalism, particularly at the lowest levels, will knock
the F. Scott Fitzgerald right out of you…which is something many
recent college graduates - myself included - could use. It also means
that when you finally write your novel, your New York City editors will
adore you, because years of journalism will have taught you the fine
art of being edited - of how an impartial reader can suggest changes,
cuts, additions and amplifications that will make what you've written
even stronger. Plus, you will not whine about your deadlines - you'll
meet them. You will not be offended if someone suggests that your second
chapter's dragging and your title's ill-conceived - you'll fix them.
This willingness to be edited, and ability to meet deadlines, will make
you different, and easier to work with, than a great many novelists.
Your editor will adore you.
And if you can't be a journalist, or aren't inclined, or can't get
hired? Go do something that's going to take you out of your comfort
zone, putting you in contact with different kinds of people, perhaps
in a different part of the world. Be a waitress at the snootiest boite
in town, and pay attention to how your customers look, how they talk,
how they tip. Lead bike trips through Italy, making careful note of
the countryside. Be a camp
counselor, be a cook, be a nanny. Just do something that takes you out
into the world. If at all possible, avoid working in a bookstore, or
in publishing. Remember, the point of this exercise is to take you out
of your comfort zone, out of the comfortable life you've made inside
your own head, out of a workplace full of people Just Like You. You're
looking for challenges, for adventure, for new faces and new places.
Plus, if you've followed Part Two of this plan, you're most likely single,
and will want to get out of town anyhow.
"But if I got an MFA, I'd get to spend two years just concentrating
on my writing!" True. But remember: a writer writes, whether or
not she's in school for writing.
And I think that in the end, staying out of writing school gives you
more to write about. Saves you money, too.
5. Write to Please Yourself
So now you're in your twenties. You've got your liberal arts degree.
You've got a job that's put you smack in the center of the wild, bustling
world. You're writing - of course you're writing - because a writer
writes. And perhaps you've started to think that it's time to attempt
a novel. Perhaps you're looking around with awed and slightly covetous
eyes at the stacks of books about Young Women with Romantic Woes and
Weight Problems. Or the neighboring piles of accounts of Young Men with
Family Tragedies. Or how Harlequin has launched a line of Sassy Single
Girl in the City books. There's a market for this stuff, you think,
and you set down at night and try. Don't do it.
Tell the story that's been growing in your heart, the characters you
can't keep out of your head, the tale story that speaks to you, that
pops into your head during your daily commute, that wakes you up in
the morning. Don't write something just because you think it will sell,
or fit into the pigeonhole du jour. Tell the story you want to tell,
and worry about how to sell it later (more advice on that to come).
And also….
6. Get a Dog
Okay, you're thinking, what does getting a dog have to do with becoming
a writer? More than you'd think. Writing is about talent and creativity,
but it's also about discipline - about the ability to sit yourself down
in that seat, day after day, often after eight hours of work, and make
yourself do it, day after day, even if you're not getting published
yet, even if you're not getting paid, even if ABC is hosting an all-star
reunion of your favorite cast members from The Bachelor and The Amazing
Race. It's a form of training that's as much physical as mental in nature
- you sit down, you do the writing, no matter what distractions are
out there, no matter that you're tired or bored or uninspired.
Being a dog owner requires a similar form of discipline. You wake up
every morning. You walk the dog. You do this whether you're tired, depressed,
broke, hung over, or have been recently dumped. You do it. And while
you're walking, you're thinking about plot, or characters, or that tricky
bit of dialogue that's had you stumped for days. You're out in the fresh
air. Your legs are moving. Your dog is sniffing the butts of other dogs.
It gives you a routine, a physical rhythm, a loyal companion, and a
way to meet new people when you're in a new place. It gets your body
used to doing the same thing at the same time - and if you're walking
the dog for half an hour at the same time of every day, it's an easy
step to go sit in front of the computer and create for half an hour
at the same time every day. So go to your local pound or rescue organization,
and get a dog. Trust me. You'll be glad you did.
7. Get Published
If a tree falls in the forest and nobody hears, has it really fallen?
If a writer writes poems and short stories and novels, but nobody ever
reads them, is she really a writer? Nope. If you want to be a writer,
you've got to bear the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune (not
to mention evil reader reviews on amazon.com). You've got to put your
stuff out there for the world to see, and fall in love with, or revile.
In short, you've got to get published.
"But I don't have an agent!" you complain. Here's the exciting
news: when you're just starting out, you don't need one. If you're trying
to sell a novel, yes, you need an agent, and if you bear with me, I'll
tell you how to get one. But if you're trying to sell a short story
- and this is where I'd recommend you start - you can just be Joe or
Jane Schmoe, with a great short story and a killer cover letter, and
you can get published.
I sold my first story to Seventeen magazine - one of the shrinking
number of mass-market magazines that still publishes fiction. No agent.
I just printed up my story, wrote a cover letter saying who I was and
what I'd done, and mailed it off, and was thrilled and delighted a few
months later when I got a phone call….and, eventually, a check.
Now, granted, I went to Fancypants U., and I was able to do some name-dropping
on my cover letter. Did that help? Sure, probably it did. Is it necessary?
I don't think so. I think if I'd submitted the same short story (it
was called "Tour of Duty," and published in the spring of
1992), with a letter that left out all the stuff about Princeton, and
just said I was a recent college graduate working as a reporter, the
story would have met with the same happy response. No matter where,
or whether, you went to college, good writing finds a home.
And once you've gotten that first story published - whether in a magazine,
an alternative newsweekly, a literary quarterly that will pay you in
free copies, or your campus literary magazine - then you've got a foot
in the door. You've got a calling card. Your next cover letter can boast
that you're the author of "Your Short Story Here," published
in the Anonymous Quarterly. And then you're on your way, and you're
getting your stuff out there, which is one of the most important things
any writer can do.
So you write short stories. You publish short stories. You get rejected
a lot, eventually moving from pre-printed rejection postcards to typed
or handwritten personal notes of rejection (I myself have a shoebox
full of thanks-but-no-thanks missives from Harper's, The Atlantic, and
yes, of course, the New York Times). Eventually, you get started on
the story you want to tell - your novel. You finish said novel. Finally,
it's time to….
8. Find an Agent
This is, by far, the question I'm most often asked at readings and
seminars - how did you find your agent? Judging from the way people
ask, it seems that there's a certain level of mystery that's grown up
around the process. You have to live in New York City, the logic goes.
You have to have blood relatives who work for William Morris. You have
to know someone who knows someone who knows the secret handshake, and
the code word to get you into the after-hours club where all the agents
hang out, and once you're in you have to order just the right brand
of vodka for your martini, else the assembled agents will know you are
a fake and a poseur, and will all pretend that they've forgotten how
to speak English.
I'm here to tell you that it's just not so.
I'm also here to tell you that agents want to find you just as badly
as you want to find them.
Think about it it. How do agents get paid? By selling stuff to publishers.
How to they find the things to sell that are going to make them money?
By referrals, by word of mouth, and, in many cases, including the case
of my agent, from people they've never heard of before who basically
just wandered in off the street. They're looking for the next Grisham,
the next Susan Isaacs, the next Tony Hillerman, because if they find
that person, they're going to get paid. It's as simple as that.
So this is the true story of how I found my agent. I began my search
in the winter of 1999/2000, after I'd finished GOOD IN BED (and that
stops about 95 percent of my questioners in their tracks. You have to
finish the book first? they ask, in tones of mingled of dismay and disbelief.
Yes, you have to finish the book first. I'm not saying it's not possible
to obtain an agent on the basis of 100 pages and an outline, or even
just a really good idea. I am saying that if you want to maximize your
chances, finish your book before you even think about obtaining representation.
If you're coming to agents with a complete manuscript, you've got a
much better shot.)
Step one: I spent a day in the bookstore, and in my own shelves, going
through the books that in some way resembled GOOD IN BED, making careful
note of the names of agents (and agents are almost always thanked in
the acknowledgements, so it's not like it's some big secret).
Step two: I availed myself of one of the many fine guides to literary
agencies available, that lists contact names, addresses, websites and
phone numbers and whether the agencies will even consider unsolicited
material (most will, some won't). The Literary Marketplace publishes
a yearly guide to agents. This can be your guide.
Step three: I put together a list of about thirty agencies, places that
represented writers sort of like me who were willing to consider unsolicited
manuscripts.
Now, I don't live in New York, but truth be told, I had some connections.
There were other people at the Philadelphia Inquirer who'd written novels,
or were in the process of writing them. There were professors I could
have talked to for referrals. But I really wanted the process to be
- for lack of a better word - pure. I didn't want an agent asking to
see my manuscript because So-and-So is my uncle, or my colleague, or
went to the same college. I wanted agents asking to see my manuscript
because they were impressed with the letter I'd written, the resume
I'd assembled, and the places I'd already been published. Calling in
favors might have simplified the agent-finding process, but as you'll
see, I wound up with the absolute perfect agent for me, so I think my
method worked just fine
Step four: I wrote a kick-ass cover letter. It began with a paragraph
from the opening pages from GOOD IN BED, ending with the line where
Cannie reads the phrase "Loving a Larger Woman" and realizes,
with a sinking heart and M&Ms stuck to her teeth, that the larger
woman is her. It went on to say who I was, and what I'd done - that
I'd published short stories in Seventeen and Redbook and written non-fiction
pieces for Mademoiselle and Salon.com. It said that I was currently
a staff writer at the Philadelphia Inquirer, that I'd finished my novel,
and was seeking representation. I sent off about two dozen of these
cover letters, sat back, and waited.
Step five: I got rejected. I got postcards from agents saying they
weren't taking new clients, or weren't taking on more fiction, or generally
weren't interested in buying what I was selling. Out of the original
field of twenty-four letters, I got a grand total of three requests
to see the manuscript. Agent One, the woman I'd long since picked as
my dream agent, the woman who represented half a dozen of my favorite
authors and who would, I was certain, become my soul mate, best friend
and surrogate mother, wrote back in three weeks to say that while I
was "definitely a writer" she was "failing to connect
with the characters in (my) book." "Perhaps," she added
thoughtfully, "this is simply a factor of where I find myself in
my life at the present." Which I took to mean menopause. Which
resulted in many bitter jokes about Agent One's journey through the
unwelcoming terrain of hot flashes and hormone replacement therapy (not
very nice, but I was heartbroken).
Agent Two, a total high-powered, big-shot, you'd-know-her-name-if-I-told-it-to-you
woman who's been sitting on top of the publishing world since my own
college days, eventually got back to me with a thanks-but-no-thanks
form letter. Unfortunately, the letter arrived six months after the
book had been sold. Yikes! Attention, Agent Two! Do you even read Publishers
Weekly! Helllooooo!
And Agent Three said yes. Unfortunately, Agent Three said a lot of
other things, including "nobody wants to see a movie about a lonely
fat girl" (this comment came in the midst of a misguided attempt
to have a simultaneous book and film deal), and "why don't you
change the title to BIG GIRL?" (No, I still can't explain where
that one came from. I figured that if we were going to call it BIG GIRL
we should just go all the way and call it DON'T BUY THIS BOOK, YOU BIG
FAT FREAK).
I was very upset, and in much despair. After all, I was nobody. I didn't
live in New York. I didn't know any secret handshakes. And here was
this big, powerful agent telling me that nobody wanted to hear about
a lonely fat girl, telling me to change the title. Didn't she know better
than I did? Shouldn't I trust her?
I wasn't sure. I'm not one to get on my high horse about artistic integrity
or the absolute rightness of my vision, but I believed in the character
I'd created, and I believed in the book I'd written, and I was sensing
quite strongly that Agent 3 did not share my belief.
I agonized for a weekend, wrung my hands and ran the pros and cons past a
series of vodka martinis, then Fed-ex'd the manuscript out to a few other
agencies who'd asked to see the book. On Monday morning, I picked up my
phone and heard a by-now-familiar tiny little voice. "I loved your book!"
the voice was saying. "It spoke to me!" In all honesty, I was thinking,
"how?" But I knew I'd found what I was looking for - an agent who was in
love with what I'd written, who got it on every level, who was going to do
her damndest to find my book a happy home. And that, bless her adorable
little size-two heart, is exactly what Joanna Pulcini did.
Important note (and please read this before you email me asking for my
agent's contact info) -- Joanna is, unfortunately, not taking new clients
right now. She left her big agency, went out on her own, and is committed to
keeping her list of authors very small. And I'm sorry, but I'm not in a
position to suggest who another good agent might be -- there are guidebooks
aplenty that will do so. Believe that the good agents are out there, and
with enough hard work and self-addressed stamped envelopes, you will find
the one who's right for you.
Which leads to an important point….
9. Be a Smart Consumer
I know how it feels. You've slaved for years, you've prayed for months,
you've sent out dozens of query letters and manuscripts, and gotten
nothing, nothing, nothing. Your inclination is to fling yourself bodily
toward the first person who so much as hints that she might just possibly
be willing to consider representing you, and cling to her with a lover's
helpless ardor even if you have the nagging suspicion that beneath her
sharp suits and fast talk she might be, oh, I don't know, SATAN. (If
her every movement is accompanied by the faint but recognizable reek
of brimstone, that's a bad sign).
It's hard, but try to hold off, keep a cool head, and ask the right
questions - questions like, "Can I see your list?" and "What
publishing houses have you made deals with lately? Which editors?"
and "Can I see your contract?" and, "If you were to represent
me, how would you pitch this book? Who would you send it to? What's
your plan?"
A good agent should be willing to share her list, to tell you the names
of her other authors, to give you some phone numbers so you can check
her references. A good agent will readily discuss who she's worked with,
at which houses, and what percentage of your earnings you can expect
to share with her. Most importantly, a good agent should have a plan
- a vision not just for your book, but for your career -- that sounds
and feels right to you, the author.
And don't worry if the agent who winds up meeting these criteria isn't
at the top of her company's masthead. A bigger name isn't always better,
provided your agent has connections, and a plan (and young agents have
often been networking with young editors since they were all underpaid
assistants and associates, which means she's now got valuable connections,
in spite of her relative pip-squeakiness). If I'd stayed with Agent
Three, I'd be one in a stable of hundred-plus writers. Would I be her
top priority? Probably not. I wound up going with a young agent in a
big agency who was just putting together her roster of clients. And
yes, it felt like a big leap of faith, to put my trust in her rather
than in one of the gigantic, important, bold-faced ladies who've been
making the big money deals since Joyce Carol Oates' output was still
in the single digits. But I heard the passion in her voice, and the
excitement as she talked about parts of the book she loved, and the
editors she knew who'd love it, too, and how excited she was about a
chance to bring my book into the world, and I just knew that she was
The One. You'll know, too. Plus, I got in at the ground floor, at the
moment when my agent was preparing to set up shop on her own, and assembling
the very small list of clients whose careers she wanted to build. Now
I'm lucky enough to be one of them. It all worked out really, really,
well.
Joanna, and I spent a few months revising GOOD IN BED. Lots of trimming,
lots of shading, refining the characters, sharpening the dialogue. All
the while, she was having a series of lunch meetings with editors in
New York. It was a running joke - every time I'd call her office, her
assistant would say that she was at lunch. Even if it was, like, 10
in the morning, or 4 in the afternoon. I knew that no one person could
possibly be eating that much lunch. What it turned out Joanna was doing
was taking editors out to lunch. She'd sit them down, lean across the
table, and say, "I have three words for you: Good! In! Bed!"
And that would be all she'd say. By the time we were ready to actually
sell the book, there was a tremendous amount of carefully orchestrated
buzz. Who is GOOD IN BED? the editors wondered. What is GOOD IN BED?
Can I get GOOD IN BED? The book sold very quickly. Life was good. Life
continues to be that way. So here is my final piece of advice for anyone
embarking on the writing life….
10. Read
Read everything. Read fiction and non-fiction, read hot best sellers
and the classics you never got around to in college. Read men, read
women, read travel guides and Harlequins and epic poetry and cookbooks
and cereal boxes, if you're desperate. Get the rhythm of good writing
in your ears. Cram your head with characters and stories. Abuse your
library privileges. Never stop looking at the world, and never stop
reading to find out what sense other people have made of it. If people
give you a hard time and tell you to get your nose out of a book, tell
them you're working. Tell them it's research. Tell them to pipe down
and leave you alone.
So that's all I've got in the way of advice. As always, feel free to
email me with follow-up questions.
Take care, and happy writing!
Jennifer Weiner
jen@jenniferweiner.com
May, 2002
