Anatomy of a Book Deal
January 11, 2019 § 59 Comments
By Sandra A. Miller
It’s the thing you most need to write, so for years that’s what you do, between teaching jobs and magazine gigs, between kids’ soccer games and the holiday dinners where you sit with the restlessness of the story wanting to be told, most inconveniently when your family expects your presence, but all you can do is wonder if the homemade gravy was worth the hours away from words.
You write and rewrite through the seasons, until autumn circles around again, and you find yourself making a familiar wish on your lovely white cream birthday cake: to finish your memoir and find an editor who takes it.
At last, one autumn day it’s done, and you send out queries, and when the email arrives like a Christmas miracle, your family dances you around the kitchen in the fading winter light. There’s a phone call and a contract and a trip to NYC where you sit across from your spunky agent in a Union Square diner on a custom-made spring day, and between bites of a salad, you whisper your thanks to the literary goddesses.
You go back to Boston and rewrite again, this time with—that magic word—representation. Then the agent sends it out, and you cross your fingers and look for signs—pennies, trinkets, stones, and fortunes—that the publishing world will soon shout yes.
Random House says, “It’s wonderfully written, earnest, humorous, and endearing. The problem is the author’s small platform.”
And Viking says, “I’m sorry not to be able to take it forward at this stage. She’s a compelling writer and something about the voice is quite good.”
And with every “almost, but…no” comes a pain as real as a punch to the gut, one that radiates to the heart, the head, the limbs. But then you recover and dive back in and tweak again and wish again and send again, until your birthday comes around again and your favorite cake tastes less like Chantilly cream and more like longing. You are starting to feel like you are made of longing.
Your writer friends throw lifelines, doing for you what you have done for them, reading and editing, praising, cheering. And you toast to their book deals with a bittersweet joy, wondering if your turn will come. At night in bed you count the years like mistakes. In the morning you scan LinkedIn for a job—any job—that’s not baring your soul into a void.
But then Cynthia says, “It’s no. It’s no. It’s no. Until it’s yes.”
And Erica says, “It took me 27 fucking years!”
And your husband says, “I believe in you,” which makes you cry because you are struggling to believe in yourself.
You are afraid to doubt. You are afraid to hope. And you’re afraid not to hope because the universe can hear the tick of your uncertainty. You plant a crystal in the dirt outside of the Flatiron building, but when nothing grows, you call Lisa in despair. “Trust that your book is strong enough to make the journey,” she says. But it’s your birthday again and the journey has worn you down, and you don’t really want the cake that your husband carries to you, as if cradling your pain.
Another Christmas. Another New Year’s. Spring flashes past, then it’s summer again, you rewrite again, and Graywolf says you have a great eye and a strong, resonant story, but it’s not a bulls-eye for our list.
And that’s when you quit.
You quit the agent. You quit the pain. You quit pretending that you can wait anymore for one of the cool kids to want you. So you shut your eyes and sail your words off to a place across the country where you feel like they might be heard.
An hour later the editor calls and wants more. Two hours later, she wants a phone call. And the next day, you talk to her, the editor you’ve been waiting for. But she’s only read half, so you have to wait. Five days later the email comes. “No, but almost…” She wants it shorter. She wants less thru lines.
You whet your knife and cut 100 pages, take it right down to a sharply focused story about a girl so full of longing that she spends her life on a search for treasure.
You send it back, this tiny gem that you’ve been shaping and polishing for years. You wait. Then one sunny December day you have a phone call. When you hang up, tears are streaking your face, and your heart is just a big, beautiful ache of gratitude.
__
Sandra A. Miller’s memoir Trove will be published by Brown Paper Press in the fall of 2019.
Earned. I am so very happy for you.
Thank you!
Too many writers know that pain, I think. I’ve read so much about this struggle, the relentless disappointment, that I have little desire to begin. I see why some writers just self publish and move on. They reject the game, rather than be rejected.
True. The game is tough, but it was satisfying to try playing it a different way and have it work out. And to never stop writing because of the game.
Congratulations!!
Thank you!
You’re welcome!
If it was easy, everyone would do it. You are stronger for the effort. I hope I am as strong when it is my turn. Good luck with it all!!
Thank you. And I guess what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger!! I wish you the best on your writing journey.
This is inspiring Sandra. I can’t wait for your book! Congrats!
Thank you!
I’m so happy for your Sandra – and you inspire me. Second person was perfect this.
Thank you Amy.
Beautiful! Best wishes for great success!!
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Thank you!
This makes me wonder how you were told no all of those times. I love your writing. The imagery is perfect. I am happy for you and cannot wait to read more from you!
Thank you. I really appreciate your thoughtful words.
Gorgeous!
Thank you so much.
Nice to find the ending I was hoping for. Cheers.
Same! Thank you.
Every phase of this is so freaking hard and gut punch after gut punch. The writing around family and the few moments you have is where I’m at. And you think it will get easier when you do x or finish y, but it’s just a new kind of struggle. Like growing up. Like living. Like loving with everything you have no matter what.
Indeed! I wish you the best with your work.
Exquisitely and insightfully written. Congratulations!
Thank you so much.
Wonderful.
Thank you!
Congratulations, Sandra! And thank you for so eloquently describing this anatomy. The consolidation of the large presses has heightened the competition – and has opened the way for new, small, indie presses. I’m finding that many of these new presses (such as Homebound Publications, who accepted my memoir) are publishing exciting, innovative, and compelling work that likely would never be picked up by the big houses. They’re also willing to take a risk on diverse voices and themes. I’m so glad you found a home for your memoir (the press sounds like a perfect fit); I look forward to reading it.
Yes. That’s so true, and encouraging. I wish you the best with your memoir, too.
Love the blog post; LOVE that your memoir will be published. Huge congrats, Sandra. Can’t wait to read it.
Thanks Mary!
While my journey has not been as long as Sandra’s, I seem to already know some of these professionally trained punches to the gut. Sandra, my love for you and your story is from the heart. If your memoir is written half as well as this piece, those who passed on it are the ones whose cake has soured. Best wishes, Luca DiMatteo
Thank you Luca. That means so much to me. I hope to hear the happy ending of your journey soon.
Beautiful. It appeared at just the right time, as I prepare to seek an agent after cutting from 1500 to 340 pages. I will take the next step along with you, although behind your steps, knowing it to be a slippery slope but yet a slope that might promise, somehow, someway, a view. I hope the birthday cake this year was delicious and that you had a second piece. Very best wishes to you and to the book.
Thank you. Best of luck on your journey. Trust that your book is strong enough for it. And, yes, the MOST delicious cake.
Uplifting and depressing at the same time.
Ha. Yes. Just like life I guess.
This is so beautifully written, and painful, and so relatable. I’m thrilled for your happy ending. I cannot wait to read your memoir.
Thank you. Dana.
This was quite hard to read, because I could feel your pain! (without meaning to sound trite). It was also easy to read because it is so relatable and honest. So glad that things ended well
Thank you for reading and appreciating. And there’s nothing trite about feeling a writer’s pain when she writes.
Wow. Beautiful. Achingly beautiful. And timely, as I am finishing up a query letter and sending The First Pages out into the world. I anticipate a long road ahead, but wouldn’t not write because of that. Thank you.
Thank you. And best of luck with your journey.
It all rings true. The writing, the near misses, the nearly quitting. Best wishes for more success.
Thank you. I wish you the same.
What a journey! It is amazing you persevered. Congratulations.
Thank you!
Inspiring! Hard work goes into every masterpiece writers of this cloth put their hearts to. Understanding shelving, and buying the line “best seller” discredits the industry, but I’m sure there are earnest, cool kids out there.
Indeed. And the cool kids do publish some beautiful books, but there are other routes to making book dreams come true. Best of luck with all of your dreams!
[…] on the Brevity blog: an inspirational (not to mention beautifully written) account of the “anatomy of a book deal” by Sandra A. […]
Thank you for sharing this.
I’m snuffling at the end. YOu’ve caught it well with your words.
Congratulations.
Thank you. Happy to make someone snuffle for a good reason!
Love this. Congratulations!
Thank you!
Thank you for this, Sandra. I am inspired by the realness of the journey you portray so well. Congratulations! I await a good read.
Thanks so much!
Beautiful. Been there. You capture the longing SO perfectly!
[…] several years of having my heart broken by the publishing industry, after a crap ton of challenges, I finally sold my memoir, Trove to a dream editor at Brown Paper […]