Pitching beyond plot

Been listening to a lot of pitches lately! And I have a couple suggestions if you're heading for a conference or a meeting with an editor/agent soon.

First, read Theresa's seminal series on Tweeting your pitch. This works for log-lines in query letters or synopses too!

Then my thoughts:

1) Don't be nervous. Or don't be nervous about being nervous. Almost everyone is nervous in this kind of situation. The editor or agent won't hold that against you! And if you need to read the pitch, go ahead and read. A couple pitchers made a nice little apology, no big deal, that worked as a good lead-in for the pitch. "I'm sorry. I have to read this."

2) Pitching in person might require a bit different a log-line than a written query does. You have to speak it aloud. Say it several times to several people to trim it and make sure it's not an unspeakable mouthful. The editor/agent should not be the first person to hear you say this out loud! A friend can listen and tell you what word could be trimmed and what can be emphasized.

3) What do you do after the pitch log-line? That might take just a moment. What if you have 7 more minutes to fill? Prepare for that. Think about what the editor or agent needs to know. For example, how long is the book? Is it complete (tell if it is complete-- wait to be asked if not :)? Do you have other publications, and who is your agent if you have one?

4) Do not, please, fill the time with a retelling of your plot. The editor or agent is unlikely to be able to follow this, and to tell you the truth, Gone with the Wind would sound dull recited in summary like that. Find a way to talk about your story that is not a recitation of events.

5) How, you ask? Well, first, keep in mind that this is a STORY, not just a plot. What are the major elements of story? Plot, yes, but character too. Setting. Conflict. Action. Emotion. Think about concentrating (at least to start) on any one of these. That is, instead of presenting your story as a series of events, consider starting with one of the other elements (whichever is more intriguing or prominent). You might, for example, talk about "Hagerton, the quaint little southern town with the dangerous big secrets," and sketch out the setting contrasts (the placid county square where the lynching had taken place, the graceful steeple of the church where the young men had sought sanctuary only to be betrayed by the saintly minister) or the characters and their contradictions (the charming old man who had led the dawn raid, the bored teenagers at the high school today who discover a hideous photograph in the school archives....). That is, tell the story through another approach than "this happened, then this happened." This is something you'd probably have to figure out ahead of time.

6)Think of talking not about what happens, but what changes. You can bring in what happened, but the focus would be on "what changed." Danny and his girlfriend Kelsey love their little town, and why not? They are both the youngest of prominent founding families of Hagerton, and they're proud of their heritage. Not that they'd boast about it. They don't need to. Everyone in school already looks up to them. They're the golden couple, homecoming court, prom king and queen. And their future looks just as bright. Kelsey's up for a big scholarship at the state university, and to flesh out her application with community service, she decides to write a history of the town. Danny agrees to help her go through the old photos in the school archives. And what they find shakes their complacent sense of their place in the town and their trust in their neighbors. You can tell what happens as a way to explain what changes. But start with how things are going to change-- an overview, not a summary.

7) Keep focused on, "What is my story about?" Whenever you find yourself veering into plot summary, slow down. Talk about some other aspect of the story. "The theme is--" "The main character--" "The conflict is--" Really, any of those will be more interesting than "And then this happened." But this is something you might plan out beforehand. Most pitchers practice their logline, but the pitch is more than that. Before you go into the session, sit down with a friend and try to get through at least five minutes of talking coherently and intriguingly about your story. You don't have to memorize that, but do have several "overview" approaches worked out in your mind. Figure out what your theme is, what your conflict is, what the character journey is, how the world of the book changes. Then you'll have those aspects available to talk about.

8) If you finish early, don't feel you have to talk more. Ask the editor/agent questions about the market, about the publisher or agency, about what she/he really likes in a book, about what sort of proposal is desired and whether to send a submission electronically or snail mail. If you don't have any more to say, just quiet down. Let the editor/agent take the lead there at the end (because you do want to hear, "Send this to me"). If the editor doesn't say that, and you're feeling bold, you could ask, "Does this sound like something you'd want to see?"

9) If the editor/agent doesn't ask to see the story, stay cool. Just smile and shake hands and leave. (Or if you have another book, and there's still time, pitch that.) It's painful to be rejected right there, and it's going to feel like it's YOU being rejected, not the book. But if you present your story well, the editor/agent can decide then if it's right for the publisher or agency. There are all sorts of reasons why it might not be right, and there's really no arguing with that. If this is an angel book and they are no longer looking for those, the best pitch in the world probably won't make a difference. You want to present your book in the clearest and most intriguing way, but it is what it is. You just don't want the pitch to be rejected because the editor thinks it sounds convoluted or boring (when it isn't!). Do your best to represent what the book is about and why it's good, and if that's not what the editor/agent is looking for, say thanks and don't take it personally.

10) There's nothing wrong with asking something like, "If I write something that's more up your alley, can I send it to you?" But put it better. "Now I've really got a good sense of what you are interested in. I'm going to start a new book, now that this one is done, and I'll be incorporating some of those elements. Can I send it to you when I'm done?" The editor/agent will probably say yes, and then you kind of have an open invitation to submit in the future and put "requested manuscript" on the envelope or subject heading.

11) And the editor/agent does understand that you are an author, not a TV informercial host. You won't be graded on whether your voice quavers or your hands shake. Sure, those who are experienced at pitching business tend to do better in these appointments, but it's not so much their confident manner as their understanding of how to present the "product". They know what to focus on and what to leave out. You can't instantly acquire the sort of confidence that lets you fearlessly recite a memorized speech and make it sound spontaneous. But you can have prepared a comprehensive sense of your story and several ways to explain it. You can be ready with a few intelligent questions that can show you know what's important and make the editor say, "Go ahead and send me this book (or your next book)." So if you've represented your story well, no beating up on yourself! Don't think you were rejected because your voice wasn't strong enough or your gaze wavered. The editor is going to try to figure out from whatever you say if this is a book that might work for the publisher. And your job is not wowing her/him with your zowie personality and great public-speaking skills, but rather explaining your book well and cogently.

The point of this pitch isn't to sell the book. (That probably won't happen right there.) It's to vault over the query stage and get the editor to look at your actual story. That's quite valuable. But it's not your only option, so don't ever assume a "Sorry, I don't want it" is a rejection of you as an author. You can always send an email afterwards thanking the editor/agent for listening to your pitch or meeting with you. And then, when you have another project, you might already have a bit of a relationship with the editor/agent to build on.

And it really is true: "Not right for us" doesn't mean any more than that. It doesn't mean, "Burn that manuscript!" or "Give up your dreams of being an author!" Send the book elsewhere. Pitch it to someone else. The pitch-taker hasn't read a word of your story, so he/she isn't rejecting it, and can't (and won't) comment on your skill as a writer. Do listen, but understand that, "This sounds really convoluted," might mean that your story is convoluted, or alternatively, that you have presented it in a way that's hard to understand (as is very likely if you try to recite the plot). If the pitch isn't successful, take a few moments afterwards to review what happened. Do you think that you didn't present the story well? That the story wasn't right for this place? A couple things you can't assume from a rejection: 1) the editor/agent hates you, and 2) there's necessarily something wrong with your book. Either might be true (well, the first is unlikely), but a pitch-rejection doesn't mean either of those. Don't change yourself or your book solely on the rejection of a pitch. :)

So do prepare, but prepare your explanation of the story. You can't transform your personality in an hour ahead of time (and you shouldn't want to), but you can make sure that you have the understanding of your book-- of what it's about, of what changes-- that will help you present it in the clearest and most intriguing way.

Alicia

Revisions 2

Okay, here's another situation that came from revision requests, and I want to stress the author (and I :) were polite at every juncture.

I got a submission that wasn't really erotica, more like sexy science fiction, and I returned it with some suggestions about how this could be more appropriate for us. Author came back with a revised manuscript. It still was more sexy science fiction-- which is fine, but we publish erotica, and I did assume that, since she had submitted to us, she was okay with making this erotica. I made some more suggestions, got another version, but there was still too much Other Stuff, just right for a s/f story, but detracting from the romantic/erotic story. One of the major issues (I'm shifting some details here) was the title, which was based around "Stars," which might be great in a s/f title, but not so much for us.

Anyway, made some suggestions, including changing the title. Now I was figuring that we'd take this story if the final issues could be dealt with, though I didn't say that out-- I don't offer a contract until I really mean it. :) Author said she couldn't make these final changes as they made the story something other than she wanted it to be-- the title was a big part of that-- and withdrew it. No hard feelings, etc. The emphasis I wanted wasn't what she wanted.

And she was right. But so was I. Why? Because she had submitted to us, and we have a publishing focus, and I assumed that she was okay with our publishing focus, that she wanted to publish with us, because she submitted to us.

If you don't want to do a round of revisions, if you have aspects of your story that you want to keep but are somewhat in conflict with what an editor publishes, you'll save yourself and the editor a lot of time if you decide that before you submit. It is not crazy for me to assume that, if you submit to my house, you want to be published by this house. And there really are genre differences that if you submit to me, and I think your story can work with our focus, I will suggest changing.

For instance, we publish a lot of speculative fiction-- sf and paranormal. But it's erotica too, or primarily. Lots of sf romance can be modified or intensified to work for us, and when we get a story like that, we suggest the revisions which will make it more right for us. (No, we are not going to publish something wonderful but not right for us. That's reality.) It is not an intrusion on author authority to suggest the changes that will make the story more erotica and less standard sf.

I was at a conference once, on a panel about Beginnings, and I made a big point that I didn't want three chapters of worldbuilding before the romance gets going, that the setting information should be developed in with the story. A science fiction editor was also on the panel, and she laughed and said she DID want three chapters of worldbuilding, because that's what her readers were looking for.

If you want to have three chapters of worldbuilding, you should submit to her, and not to me. :)

Not that there's anything wrong with that type of story. But you're the one who is choosing the publishers you're submitting to-- and if you submit to us, we assume that you're accepting that we publish XYZ, and that you want XYZ in your story if that's what we publish. If you don't want XYZ in your story, you really shouldn't be submitting to us.

We publish a lot of novellas, and sometimes I think that everyone who has a novella of any kind just does a global search for "novella publishers" and sends it to all of them. If it's clearly inappropriate, I never even see it. The problem comes when we get a novella submission that is romantic in focus, that is, often rather easily intensified to erotica. Then, yeah, I'm going to make the suggestions to bring the story closer to what we publish. That is not taking over your story. That's not making it wrong for other publishers (you did keep a copy of the original, didn't you? If not, it's really not my fault :). It's seeing if it can be right for us.

This is why it's absolutely essential for the sake of your own stress level (and mine :) that you research the market before you submit. If this publisher doesn't publish stories like yours-- and especially if it publishes stories sort of but not exactly like yours (sf romance, but not straight sf, say)-- think before you submit about whether you are going to be willing to change this story that much. If not-- don't submit there. They are NOT going to change what they publish just for you.

Of course, we seldom know what we value until we contemplate not having it. So it's understandable that you might submit something somewhere and only later realize that you don't want to change the story so much. Just remember-- you're in control here, of yourself, your story, and your decisions. No one can take that away from you. But that also means that you're the one with all the responsibility to make the right choices for your own work.

Alicia

Give gratitude for rejection!

JT asks why publishers so often seem to buy books with hooks and provocative openings... when the rest of the book fails to live up to that.

My sort of answer-- well, you know, quality is often not the primary consideration when it comes to publication of a book. :)

But... well, think about what makes YOU buy a book. I'm a blurb buyer, so hooks really work with me. I've trained myself to read a random page in the middle of the book to make sure I can stand the writing style (and that the mechanics pass muster), but by the time I get far enough to realize the plot doesn't fulfill the promise, well, I've already paid for the book. I don't doubt some publishers count on just that-- that the readers won't know there's a problem when they're ponying up the $7.95. Of course, disappointed readers tend not to buy another book by that author. But if short-term revenue is the most important consideration, the longterm reputation of the author (or the bad reviews, or bad word of mouth) doesn't matter all that much, does it? And how many of us have blamed the publisher? I have to say I've seldom thought, "Boy, I'm never going to buy another book published by --- House." Or "I'm going to find out who the editor was, so I can avoid all other books edited by him or her." Who do we blame? The one whose name is on the front cover.

So I guess the message to writers is: If YOU care about your longterm reputation, about whether readers are happy or disappointed with you, with what's being said about you and your book on the blogs and in the reviews... YOU are the one who has to make sure your book reflects your best ability as an author. You have to be the one who cares the most about that, and you have to be the one who makes sure that's true.

And if you have had the good fortune to encounter editors who reject your less-than-terrific-all-the-way-through stories, well, you should thank them profusely. :)

No, really, there are many reasons a story is rejected, and "the story doesn't live up to the first chapter" is only one of them. How can a writer know if that's the case, so he/she can improve it? What's great is if you know that's the problem, you can do something about it-- there's not a lot you can do about a lousy market or a dying line.
Alicia

Form Rejections-- bad form?

About form rejections-- you know, when I started acquiring, I said I was going to send a personalized letter with every rejection, giving suggestions for improvement. The publisher said, "We'll see how long that lasts." She said the good thing about form rejections is that they don't give the submitter much to argue about.

But it's so impersonal, sez I.

Exactly, sez she.

Anyway, I rather quickly understood her reasoning, because about a third of my carefully worded rejections were answered with arguments, and those were usually the rejections that were for cause-- I mean, the submissions weren't good enough, or were actually bad.

Let's say I rejected a story because, as I pointed out in the letter, the characters weren't sympathetic. (I'd probably even-- I tell you, I was a sap-- explain why, and how they could be made more so.) Well, in return mail would come a disquisition about how the characters were (natch) based on real people in her family, and they were lovely people, and maybe I was just too jaded to appreciate real people anymore.

Or maybe I sent a rejection saying that the story is interesting (interesting, by the way, is what we say when we can't honestly say "good"), but the mechanical problems make this hard to read, such as (example). This sort of letter always engendered a reply about how the submitter had majored in English or always got As on papers or worked in (insert field requiring -- presumably-- some writing skill), and that I was frankly wrong about the issue I identified (which was usually something really not debatable, like how dialogue is punctuated). And besides, if the story is interesting, what's your problem, editor? Isn't your job editing the prose? Are you saying the grammar is more important than the story? Huh?

Significantly, the debaters were usually the worst writers.

The better writers, the ones whose submissions were okay but no more than that, might respond, but the responses were usually more polite, maybe just a thank-you or an explanation of why they'd done this thing I'd identified. You don't actually need to send a thank-you, and I am not all that interested in your explanations, but I don't object to this sort of polite response at all. It certainly doesn't hurt to have your name associated in my mind with courtesy.

But even the courteous respondents would often ask if they could resubmit after fixing whatever problem I identified, and I would generally say yes because I felt sorry for them, wanted to validate their willingness to improve, whatever. Truth is, the problem I identified might be (probably was) just one of several problems, and fixing it wouldn't make the story something I'd acquire. So I'd have to reject the author a second time.

Anyway, after getting debating responses to what I meant as a politely worded "go away" rejection, I came to see the wisdom of form letters. Yes, they really do give less leeway for argument, though I notice Theresa gets argument replies to the form letters!

I should stop and say there are three basic reasons for a form rejection:
1) It actually doesn't fit our line, and I'm not making any judgment about its merits otherwise.
2) The submission isn't bad, but the ways it isn't good can't actually be elucidated in a letter... maybe there are too many problems to list, or maybe it's just really boring, or maybe it's just nothing special.
3) The submission is really bad, and if I'd tell you that, it would hurt, and why would I want to hurt you?

Whenever I got a form rejection (and I got them throughout my writing career, even for stuff I knew was good and ended up selling elsewhere), I just assumed, maybe to save my ego, that the reason was #1. And I do think that's probably the most common reason for form rejections, especially those that come from the first reader, who in bigger houses is often an editorial assistant, and her job is to weed out submissions so that only appropriate ones go to the editors.

If you're getting a lot of form rejections, and (this is important) you have some independent evidence that your writing is pretty good (like contest wins, agent interest, previous publication), consider that you might be submitting to the wrong editor/line/publisher/agent. Read the guidelines carefully, but (cough) be aware that they might not have been updated recently. More important, read the line you're thinking of submitting to, and see if your book is in the same region.

Of course, you can just go ahead and submit to everyone, except it's a waste of paper (not an issue with e-subs), and maybe a waste of time. But it's not that big a sin, and I seriously doubt anyone's got a file of "form rejection types" with your name on it and a comment like "I wish she'd go away." The problem is, once you submit a manuscript, it's kind of verboten to resubmit it to another editor in the same line, or a different agent in the agency. (If you realize, "Oh, wait, this is really a science fiction story, and I should have submitted it to that other line in the same publisher," that's probably okay.) Best to choose the right editor or agent first time. So if you're getting a lot of form rejections, try getting more selective about your targets, so that you don't limit your potential market for this manuscript.

In any case, a form rejection usually does mean that there is no future for this submission with this editor or line. No use arguing about it.

I must put in here that I do send personalized rejections in other cases, like when I think the writer has a good voice or good story-- that is, when I want to give a bit of encouragement or praise. And often there's some aspect that doesn't have to do with the writer's talent and I want to point that out, like "this is good, but too similar to a story we have coming out next month," or "I like this, but the (trend of the month) isn't selling anymore," or "I wish I could buy this, but we're no longer taking (some subject)."

But if I do reject the story, it's probably because I don't see it working for us no matter what. So if I don't specifically ask for resubmission, I don't particularly want to see this again. (Other manuscripts, of course, are fine, especially if I've praised something. When you submit something new, couldn't hurt to remind me, "When I submitted XYZ, you mentioned that you especially liked my hero.") But if I've rejected the story, I don't want to have to reject it again, so don't submit that story again, okay?

Now if the writer completely revamps the story, that's different. I won't mind looking at another version if you really did do a lot of re-invention, or you've taken a crash course in POV or grammar and can legitimately attest that you're writing at a new level and know what you were doing wrong before and how to fix it. (I'd suggest actually giving it a new title if you want to submit anew, not just because publishing houses keep track of submissions that way, but also because it signals that this really is a whole new book worthy of new consideration.) Should you remind me that I've already rejected it? Yes, otherwise I'll puzzle over why this storyline sounds familiar and waste time on Amazon and IMDB trying to track down the source. But do consider stating this in a positive way, like "You passed on an earlier version of this story. I read your suggestions and have done (list a few big changes)." I recently had a writer who vowed that I was actually the catalyst for her going back to school and taking a grammar course, and now she never wrote with out the Little, Brown Handbook at her side to check for punctuation rules. Well, heck, you know, if I changed your life for the better, I want to know. :)

Also, if I think the story has only a couple fixable problems, I send a "revise and resubmit" letter. Oh, let me say this-- sometimes, I know, all you see is the "Sorry, but this isn't there yet," and assume this is another rejection. READ THE WHOLE LETTER!!! Generally the revise and resubmit part is in the last paragraph, after we identify all that is wrong (but fixable). Look for a line like, "If you want to work on those aspects, I'd be glad to take another look." That is NOT a rejection. It just starts like one. I wonder if it would be useful to use a different color font for "resubmit" letters, as so many writers mistake them for rejections.

Anyway, I've come to appreciate form letter rejections, as an editor and as a writer. They're so... clean. And that makes the differential with a personalized letter that much more striking.
Alicia

House style

Theresa, at some point, we should discuss house style and how it might affect an author's edit.

(House style is how a particular publishing house decides various editing issues, like in "the fall of 1999," is "fall" capped or not. Often, as with our house, these rulings are captured in a stylebook, which is available to editors and authors. Complicated editing issues are not usually dealt with in the stylebook, but it's very useful with those discretionary decisions in capitalization and punctuation.)

One thought I have-- the house style is not something a submitting writer needs to worry about. You won't even usually have access to the stylebook. So if you're faced with one of those trivial but knotty questions, like how many if any periods should go in "Ph. D.", check the Chicago Manual or go with your own inclination. It won't make any difference in acquisition decisions.

Once your ms is acquired, the house style becomes more important. And if you can get a hold of the stylebook, it's very helpful if you run through the ms again and make the changes needed to conform to the style. However, the stylebook is really more for editors, first, for quick answers to those pesky little questions, and second, to provide an excuse when an author is sure that deleting that space in Ph.D. will mess up her style. "Hey, that's the house style. Sorry."

Alicia

Nota bene

If you are going to diss someone you work with in publishing, do it on the phone to a friend. And assume the friend is going to pass it on. Maybe the friend won't, but just assume he/she will. If you have been smart enough to do your dissing on the phone, you can always deny it.

But if you posted it on your Facebook, in your Livejournal, or on your blog, or sent it in email even to a trusted friend, or posted it on a theoretically private list, you won't be able to deny it when dissee gets a forward.

I know that none of you do this... so good! You're smarter than many writers out there who ought to be aware of the damage they're doing to their careers.

Nothing is private on the internet.
Alicia who was just reading comments on someone else's blog... eek.

Commas-- a couple easy rules

If you already know this, ignore it. :) This is for those writers who are submitting manuscripts without absorbing the rules for the most common punctuation mark, the comma.

What's the comma for? It's to separate out units of meaning in a sentence, so the reader knows what words go with what words. So, for example, an appositive (which is just a phrase that modifies a noun, like "Jenny, an experienced skater, loves the winter") is a unit of meaning, and so goes together, and is separated from the noun and whatever follows in the sentence.

(I am NOT going to get into restrictive vs. nonrestrictive here, because it gives me a headache to explain, and anyway, it's been explained better by others:
Restrictive_and_Nonrestrictive
Another site for this
Check these out. :)

But with
Jenny, an experienced skater, loves the winter.
-- here's what it looks like without the commas setting off the appositive:
Jenny an experienced skater loves the winter. (*This is WRONG.)

Not only does the phrase an experienced skater just blend in without meaning, but the subject and verb (Jenny... loves) have no prominence-- just two more in a series of words.

Both commas are needed: The appositive is a UNIT of meaning and so should be treated as a unit-- comma before and after, not just one or the other comma.

The other most annoying comma mistake is to skip the comma after a direct address. Fiction uses a lot of dialogue, and so you'll have more direct address (using someone's name while speaking to him/her) than in non-fiction. The name, when the speaker is directly being addressed, is set off from the following sentence with a comma.
John, I don't know what you mean.
(If the name is in the middle of the sentence, then there's a comma before and a comma after:
I don't know, John, what you mean.)

That is, the name is a unit of meaning IN THIS SENTENCE. And the "sentence-proper," the main clause, is another unit of meaning.

What if the name is the subject of the sentence, or another part of the sentence? Then probably there's no comma, because it's part of the unit of meaning:
John didn't know what you meant.
You didn't know what John meant.

But here's what counts: If I get a manuscript and see on page 1 an elementary mistake like
Hello Jody what's going on?
I have to wonder how many other elementary mistakes there will be in the pages to come. Not only presumably has the author been exposed to the correct way in school (no, I don't want to hear that "no one teaches grammar anymore"-- I teach English, remember?), but also she's read books with the correct form since she was six or seven. (A good reason not to read unedited books is that they teach bad habits. ) So if this quite easy rule has escaped her, what else?

The editor has to fix every single one of those. Every one. And in some books, that might be an average of one a paragraph, three or four a page, and that's only ONE chronic error. And-- getting sick of me saying this yet?-- this is the writer's job. Making sentences meaningful to the reader (and that's the purpose of syntax and punctuation) is the writer's job.

Now most of you don't make elementary mistakes. (You probably only make the complicated mistakes that have us consulting handbooks and other editors and waking up in the middle of the night debating options. :) But be ruthless with yourself. Read the grammar handbooks. Study the examples. Compare those against your own manuscript passages. As you read edited books, notice not just how the author develops suspense, but how the author structures and punctuates sentences. Pay attention. Have a friend who is good at editing go over your manuscript-- even two or three pages would help!-- and point out your chronic errors. Don't let the friend fix these, because you won't learn unless you fix these yourself. Most important, challenge yourself to turn in clean manuscripts so that the editor can focus on the plot and characters and not the punctuation.

Make yourself absorb the rules and apply them. Grammar and punctuation are much, much easier to learn than plotting!

Alicia

A Preconference Day in the Life...

I leave for RWA's national conference in seven days and seven hours. Not that I'm counting or panicking or anything. I know, I know. Everyone feels a crunch right before conference. I thought it might give you a little glimpse into what crunch time looks like on my side of the desk. Here is how my day went today.

8:30 a.m.
Sit down at desk. Refuse to look at task list. Instead, cast one ferocious scowl in its general direction, and briefly mull over the fact that not one item got crossed off yesterday. And yes, yesterday was Sunday. And yes, I worked all day. And all evening.

8:31 a.m.
Open E-mail. Begin answering messages that came in overnight. Normal, routine, everyday stuff. One editor sent me a manuscript she wants to buy. One author wants to know when her cover will be ready. Art director needs some information for two other covers. This one has a question about a release date; that one is doublechecking the time for our author dinner. A few reviews came in -- good ones, but they usually are. Multiple e-mails from boss, and those always get answered first. Most of these are questions about our schedule for the conference. Check status sheets on all upcoming releases. Several are ready for the next phase in the process. Send them off. Ha! Off my desk, and onto someone else's!

9:45 a.m.
Sit back and sigh. E-mail is done. For now. Reach for coffee cup and realize it's not there. Get up and make coffee. Ponder the mathematical improbability of making it this far on a Monday morning before drinking any coffee.

10 a.m.
Renew a solemn vow to clear out entire submissions list before leaving for conference. Evaluate submissions list. At the moment, I have one manuscript from a current author and about another dozen manuscripts to evaluate. One is old enough to be making me feel guilty. Decide I shouldn't feel guilty because I cut my submissions pile in half last week in a massive pre-conference desk-cleaning marathon. Normally I would start with the manuscript the editor wants to acquire, but today is an exception because she is out and doesn't need a fast response. Open the one from the current author. I would really like to get her working on this before I leave.

11 a.m.
Making good headway on the manuscript. Just realized that there is a conference document that I need to proofread this morning. The second page needs an entirely new layout. Save work frequently. This is the same document that disappeared from my hard drive yesterday. That little glitch cost me two hours.

11:45 a.m.
Save document. Print a hard copy, and download it to disk, and e-mail it to self, because paranoia runs rampant today. It's ready for the printer.

11:46 a.m.
Check e-mail. Find revision suggestions for the document. Cry a little. (Okay, not really.) Re-open document and begin making revisions.

High noon.
Finally work up the courage to check the task list. Seven priority items, 24 additional items, 31 total. Open e-mail to deal with a fairly quick priority item -- it's always good to get at least one done before lunch. Inbox has exploded in the last 45 minutes. How does that happen? Do you all get together and decide a time at which you will all e-mail me? A coordinated e-mail blitz? Okay, probably not. Briefly ponder mathematical improbability of everyone I know emailing me in the same 30-minute window. Spend 15 minutes dealing with as many messages as possible, as quickly as possible. Several are FYI messages that don't require a response. Yay.

12:15 p.m.
Lunch. I promised myself a little lunchtime shopping today. I want some new clothes for the conference. Isn't this part of the ritual? Drive to favorite store. Make one lap through favorite department, gathering everything that looks worth trying on. Try it all on. Quickly. Feeling harassed by my task list, and want to get back to work. Buy one pair of pants and one blouse.

1:15 p.m.
At the post office. The clerk mentions that a package came in for me from overseas, and someone needs to sign for it, and it's on my mail carrier's truck. I know what this is. I've been waiting for it. One of my authors is sending me something really special, and I've been stalking the mailman waiting for it. Rush home.

1:30 p.m.
Mailman was already here. Did not leave package. Damn. Briefly contemplate driving neighborhood streets until mail truck is spotted. Decide that might be crossing the line. Instead, call mom and ask her to pick it up later on her way over here.

1:35 p.m.
Email Alicia to discuss Batman and Don Draper and her son's recent silent film project. Important stuff. Problems with an event for conference. Might need a change of venue. Begin investigating alternate venues. Frequent e-mail and phone call with boss. Problem is not so much a problem as a preference, and we debate whether we should just live with it. Update conference schedule spreadsheet. Cross-check my schedule and boss's schedule against master schedule. This is a pain in the ass. More e-mail regarding the same. The e-mail never ends.

3 p.m.
Check clock. Freak out. Reread task list. Nothing is quick and easy. Make tea -- caffeine is clearly necessary. Glower at tea kettle while debating what to do next. Wonder if I have any choice in the matter, the way this day is going.

3:10 p.m.
Have re-evaluated priorities for the rest of the day. Close e-mail browser window. Must disengage from e-mail in order to accomplish actual work. Open manuscript from this morning, and resume actual work.

4 p.m.
Mom arrives with package. Open package and squeal. Dare I tell you what was in it? Hint: not a manuscript. (Okay, it was yarn. Awesome handmade yarn from Finland, a gift-souvenir from a vacationing author. Nathalie Gray, you rock!)

4:30 p.m.
E-mail is piling up. Time is running short. Send many emails. Remember that I promised to help a friend with her pitch before conference, and email her some pointers. Realize I have blog post from author sitting in my inbox and post it to company blog. Briefly note that my email inbox has swelled by half today. Briefly contemplate the mathematical probability of getting entirely caught up on email and staying that way. Realize that I have already defied the math gods twice today, and give up the dream.

5:15 p.m.
Must. Eat. Dinner. Leftover stir-fried vegetables and rice. How exciting. Work out. Shower. Fold laundry. The excitement never ends.

6:45 p.m.
Return to manuscript. Open file, stare out window while contemplating possible solutions to a plot problem. Make notes. Read some more pages in the hope that plot problem will resolve itself. (It won't. They never do. Lucky for me, or I'd be out of a job.)

8:00 p.m.
Dear heaven, how did it get to be this late? Oh. Right. I killed a couple of hours on scheduling and other conference matters. Browse interwebz in lazy slacker fashion. Realize we have the number one book in our category on Fictionwise. Email authors to celebrate. We also have two other titles in the top ten, and three more performing very well over there. Six of our books are kicking butt and taking names. I couldn't be prouder.

8:30 p.m.
Okay, enough slackering. Add four items to task list as a result of pre-slackering email blitz. Cry a little. (Okay, not really.) Scour memory, inbox, task lists, and wall of sticky note reminders next to desk in effort to remember detail I was supposed to remember today. Finally remember. It's a two-minute task related to -- you guessed it -- the conference schedule. Email someone to confirm schedule detail. Spend a few quick minutes rearranging wall of sticky note reminders because some items have been finished today. Feel gloaty for finishing any real work at all.

9:15 p.m.
Email from boss. She says we've spend enough time debating issue with venue. I agree. She has made a decision. Whew! That's a big one off the old task list.

9:20 p.m.
Remember that I wanted to blog about Mad Men and character foils today. Episode notes for Mad Men are not on my desk. Where are they? Um. Hunt for notes leads to general desk-clearing. We take 90% or more of our submissions electronically, so my desk never gets too dreadful. Which makes it all the more puzzling when I can't find something. Give up hunting for notes and return to manuscript, pausing briefly to admire descluttered desk surface.

10:00 p.m.
But I want to blog something, even if not about Mad Men. Throw in the towel on the manuscript. Brain is slush anyway. Contemplate day.

Manuscripts completed: 0
Manuscripts evaluated: one-half
Revision letters written: one-half
Manuscripts pushed to next stage of production: 6
Trips to post office: 2 (one mine, one mom's)
Email inbox count at beginnning of day: 33
Email inbox count at end of day: 45 (Boo! Net gain!)
Number of emails written: 46
Number of phone calls regarding conference: 4
Priority tasks at beginning of day: 7
Priority tasks at end of day: 9 (Boo! Hiss! Net gain!)
Revisions to document for conference: 9,437 (or so it seems)
Revisions to conference schedules: 44,695 (or so it seems)
Blog posts: 3
Number of sticky notes removed from wall: 5
Number of sticky notes added to wall: 2 (Hooray! That's a net loss!)

It is now midnight. I'm set to hit the ground running in the morning, but tomorrow has to be more productive. I think I'm almost done with the conference scheduling and planning, and I really, really want to leave with a clean desk. Or as clean as I can get it, anyway. What's the probability of that?

Secondary characters who do too much

This is the advice that gets the most squawks. Let me say first that some stories have a bigger scope than others. If this story is about how a town reacts to a mini-epidemic, then profiling several or even a dozen characters might work just great. (Just make sure each character gives the reader a different perspective on the events… combine characters who are quite similar, like the two elderly men who lose their wives can become one elderly man with one lost wife.) But if you're writing a book not about an ensemble cast, but rather tightly focused on one character or a couple or a protagonist or antagonist, look closely at the scenes involving secondary characters. The secondary-character-who-acts-like-a-primary is, I have to say, all too common in manuscripts, perhaps a holdover from the days when books weren't so narrowly focused. But this kind of character treatment not only takes up space, it makes the protagonist less of a protagonist when someone else commits too many major actions in the plot.

Again, plenty of books have ensemble casts where several characters have near-equal status-- say, four members of a punk band, each with his own journey to make. And if your book is like that, great—just cut down on the OTHER characters' passages. But if your book has one or two central characters, he/she/they should probably be causing most of the plot action. (When it comes to plot-development, the antagonist is often one of the two-three central characters, even if we are never in that viewpoint.) If, for example, the protagonist doesn't confront the external conflict, make mistakes, fix those mistakes, take action, change the course of the plot – at nearly every juncture—is that really a protagonist? Rule of thumb here—the turning point scenes should almost always either result from protagonist action or cause protagonist reaction.

But all too often I see a secondary character, most often the hero's best friend, interestingly enough, doing too much of the protagonist's job. And almost invariably when I point out, oh, that the best friend needs to be throttled down a few notches (during the whole climax, the supposed hero is unconscious, and his wisecracking best friend has to save the busful of schoolchildren, rescue the heroine from the villains, and bring the mayor to justice), the writer will react angrily (my reactions to that reaction in parens):

It has to be this way because the hero gets knocked out (so the god who decided that—the writer—can decide to wake him up).

This is part of the hero's journey, because he has to learn to ask for help (he's not asking for help—he's abandoned the duties of a protagonist).

This is part of the heroine's journey, because she has to learn not to depend on the hero (okay with me, because he's obviously a loser—she should run off with his oh-so-effective best friend, who is the one who has really earned a happy ending).

This is part of the best friend's journey (oh, I'm sorry! I thought this book was about the hero! Let me run off and change the jacket copy to make clear it's about the best friend's journey!).

I have to set up the sequel, where the best friend is going to be the protagonist (and exactly what are you going to do with him in his own book, since he's already done most of the work of the protagonist in THIS book?).

This conception of books as having central characters who do most of the acting and changing is … is too restrictive! (Wait, I have to go email Aristotle and Shakespeare and tell them they got it all wrong.)

You know what the real problem is? The writer loves the secondary character too much, and the main character too little. Yep. Hey, I've been there. I've learned from painful experience that hero's best friend is incredibly seductive and can run off with the book if you let him. Two words for you: Han Solo. And that's fine if the book isn't tightly focused on the hero, and/or if you don't mind demoting the hero (Luke Who?). But be careful of plot incoherence, where the position of Luke indicates he is supposed to be the protagonist, but the plot development actually leads to Han's growing centrality.

Just decide what your book is, and be true to that. If it is a story about the friendship between these two guys, okay, maybe best friend can be a sub-hero. But if it's about the hero overcoming his conflicts, the best friend really can't do that for him. And popular fiction is about internal conflicts being played out in the external realm—that is, the hero can only confront and overcome his conflicts (in pop fiction, not, thank goodness, in real life) by confronting and overcoming some external conflict… and he cannot delegate that duty.

Special note to romance writers and erotica writers: Two men can be lovers. They can even get married now! (Yay, Massachusetts Supreme Court!)

But if this is a romance or an erotic romance between the hero and heroine, make the great love blossom between them. Make their interaction help them together resolve the plot. Too often when there's a hero's-best-friend in there, that becomes the primary love relationship. I've even seen supposedly hetero-romance manuscripts where the hero chooses his best friend over the heroine in some fundamental "love" way (though never, damnit, an INTERESTING way). Male bonding is really intriguing to us ladies (I have never understood how you guys can love each other and insult each other so badly—really, if MY friend called me lardbutt, she would not be my friend for long!), but determine what your central relationship is and focus on that. The hero can certainly, in the start of a romance, trust his best friend more than his lady, but if at the end of the book, the best friend is still taking precedence, methinks the romance has sputtered out somewhere. Or maybe the hero is sublimating his homoerotic affections, and really, that's fine! This is the 21^st Century! Come out of the closet and declare your love, guys… just don't tell me that your real love is the heroine sitting there all dejected and rejected.

(Not all male bonding is homoerotic, but careful—men tend not to comment too much on other men's physical attributes, except, as above, in an insulting fashion. If your hero and his best friend are really just friends, how can you show that without making me think that they want to be more?)

Anyway, whenever (just about always) I tell a writer that the secondary characters are too prominent, I get bristled at. For some reason, this is a very delicate issue for many writers. Could that delicacy be an indication that these characters are getting a bit too much love from you? Taking some of your attention off the main characters?

Now, as I said, there are plenty of books with multiple protagonists, group protagonists, ensemble casts. But if you have a tightly focused story type, try being ruthless here. Look at the actions of the secondary characters. Can any of them be transferred to one of the main characters? Can something that is passive for the protagonist be made active? For example, I have seen secondary characters discover a clue and deliver it to the protagonist. Does the protagonist really EARN that clue, if it's just handed over?

I know I wrote an article about this... it had a cool title. Lemme see if I can find it. Ah, yes, buttinskis.

Alicia

The Road Travels In Both Directions

Yesterday I posted some tips for writers about how to handle revision disputes. I thought I would mention that the same advice applies to editors. When we are annoyed or angry, a cooling off period is also good for us. It's never a good idea for us to insult writers, or to go to battle over things we're uncertain of. A lot of times, it makes sense for us to be open to whatever solutions the writer suggests, because writers are frequently more inventive than we are, and thank God for that. All these tips apply equally to both sides.

I think the biggest point of divergence lies in my advice to writers to remember that your editor is on your side. Editors don't need to remember this. We know it already. What we need to remember, instead, is that especially for new writers, the collaborative nature of publishing may be difficult and even shocking. New writers are used to total control over their manuscripts. They think in terms of "my" book and writing what "I" want.

But signing a publishing contract turns the "my" into an "our" and the "I" into a "we." It's still the author's book, of course, but it's not only the author's book anymore. It is now also the publisher's book, and various people at the publishing house will have some degree of ownership in the project. Yes, ownership, which makes you a co-owner now. Editor, copyeditor, typesetter, cover artist, sales team, copy writers, cover designer -- all of these people, and more, will touch the project at one time or another. Some of this you might love (yay! a cover!) and some of it you might hate (like the author I worked with, many years ago, who demonstrated his hatred of his copyeditor by spelling "stet" s-t-e-t-g-o-d-d-a-m-n-i-t).

If you're a new writer, the thought of all those hands on your precious bundle might make beads of sweat trickle down your neck. What are they doing to your baby? Once you've been around that block a time or two, you'll know exactly what they're doing to your baby: giving it a glamorous makeover before sending it down the red carpet. It's still your baby. It's just shinier now.

When I say new writers, by the way, I'm not necessarily referring to first-book authors. There's a brand-new author, and then there's a new-to-me author, and both are new. I made a mistake some time ago with an author, a multipublished author, who I assumed knew the ropes. She didn't. There were reasons for that which I won't disclose here because I won't betray her confidence, but let's just say that what we were doing didn't compare to what she had done before. She got nervous, and my mistake was in not seeing that her nerves were actually new-author jitters.

She taught me an important lesson. Never assume. Never assume any author will understand the process from start to finish. Never assume that they'll know what a copyeditor does, or what galleys are, or why they don't have total control over their jacket copy. Sometimes I still forget to explain all these things as thoroughly as I probably should. And those kinds of explanations can do a lot of good for a nervous new author. Just knowing what to expect can soothe a lot of the worries. It's easier to trust in a process when you know what the process is.

So that's the difference in advice. Authors, trust your editors. And editors, be generous to your authors. (And Theresa, take your own advice!)

Special tip of the hat to Ian, whose comment yesterday made me think of this topic.

Side note. Alicia is off at an academic conference for pop fiction scholars. Yes, I, too, was surprised to learn of the existence of such a thing. Pleasantly surprised. She may be scarce for the next couple of days, but if we're lucky, she'll have all kinds of great insights to share on her return.

Theresa

Responding to Revision Suggestions

Theresa identified some ways to respond constructively to editor suggestions. I just want to add, stay open. No writer is perfect, and until you earn a publisher as much as John Grisham does, expect to be edited.

If an editor has no suggestions or edits, sure, it might be your book is perfect, but what it probably means is that the editor is too busy to take any time with your story. Editors do sometimes have to practice triage, you know. If another author has been ill or had a family problem and delivered a very scratchy ms three months late, and it's due to the typesetter yesterday, the editor is going to focus on that. If your story happens to arrive right then (because YOU met your deadline, hurrumph), it's probably not going to get the attention it might otherwise get, and might need. If this happens to you, go through the ms again-- you'll have a better understanding of it now that you have some distance. Line edit it yourself (but tell the editor, so you don't end up with two different versions), and send it in-- "I thought I'd take advantage of the extra time to take one more pass--"

Anyway, don't ever take an editor's suggestions as an insult. But don't expect a lot of compliments. If your story wasn't good, it wouldn't have been bought. Quality is a given. The editor is a problem-solver, and focused on problems, and that's what she's going to spend time talking about.

Of course, there are suggestions (or edicts :) which are outrageous, plain and simple. Again, get a much-published author drunk and you'll hear about them. (The secondary character turned into a rodent, literally, for example.) Then what? I'd say, wait a week or so, talk to some trusted and experienced friends to make sure this is really outrageous, and then go over the editor's head. Yeah, I mean it. Editors aren't infallible. And the managing editor might want to know if an editor is not doing a good job.

BUT... consider if this is worth fighting about. Those multi-published authors with the horrific stories? I bet most of them swallowed their pride, accepted the edits (or deputized their agents), and kept their careers. The last thing you want is a reputation as "impossible"-- so really, really think this through. YOU think it's an outrageous change... will the managing editor? We've all had writers who thought every word was golden, and they MEANT to dangle that participle, damnit, it's their VOICE to dangle participles!!! And you sure don't want to go to the mattresses for the dubious right to dangle participles, because you know what? The managing editor is probably more likely to agree with the editor that dangling participles are evil, go figure.

Finally, no matter what, don't trash the editor or publisher on the internet. Duh. You know that. And yet, impelled by righteous indignation, a lot of authors have done just that. Complain by phone, okay? Call your friends-- complain to every single one of them. That's what they're there for. But phone calls are ephemeral. No one is taping what you say, and it doesn't last for more than a day or so. Anything on the internet lasts forever, and everyone who reads it is NOT your friend, and the insult is easily forwarded. If you cannot bring yourself to say this to the editor's face, do you really want it forwarded by someone reading your blog? The editor WILL see it, and maybe even other editors. You might not mind burning your bridges with one editor, but how about all editors?

If you have a complaint about an editor, take it to the editor's boss. But wait a while. Consider, just consider, that you might not be the best judge of whether you're right or not. None of us can be truly objective about our writing. So take some time. Consult with others. And tamp down the rage and listen. If your friends are lukewarm in their support, that could be their friendly way of telling you that you're wrong.

One more thing-- if you are, in fact, a good writer, you should be able craft an email that has a constructive and courteous tone, that finds common ground and presents useful alternatives. If you can't do that, you're not likely to convince the editor or the boss that you're right about your own stuff (even if you are). We all know that emails written in the heat of passion are seldom the most reasonable of missives. So whatever you write, even if you think it's nice and neutral, take a day or so and read it over.

It's hard to know, isn't it? Is the editor being unreasonable? Are you too sensitive? You really can't know. So what ever you do, do it knowing... you could be wrong. Always an uncomfortable realization!
Alicia

Some Tips For Negotiating Edits

Alicia asked the other day about how you all would handle disagreements over edits. We have remarkably little trouble of that nature with our authors, but I've been in this game a long time. I've witnessed plenty of self-destructive behavior and have had to mediate my share of disputes, both as an agent and as an editor. Along the way, I've developed a bit of an understanding of how to negotiate edits.

1. Respond in haste, repent at leisure.

Don't ever respond to the substance of edits in the first 24 hours after you've viewed them. Most of the problems I've seen have erupted during this first tender period. Give yourself a cooling-off, and don't respond until you've cooled off. Can't stress that enough. You don't want to vent your emotions here, because it will not help your cause. Period.

If you get through the first 24 hours and your head is still smoking, write your editor a polite and brief note thanking her for her editing notes and telling her that you'd like some time to review them. She'll understand.

2. Remember that your editor is on your side.

You and your editor both share a goal of making your work as strong as possible. You might not understand or appreciate her methods, but that doesn't mean she's sabotaging you. How do you know when an editor is no longer invested your success? She stops editing you. If you get blanket approval of all your submissions, or if your editor offers only token revision suggestions, that's when it's time to worry.

I once knew an editor who worked on a freelance per-project basis. She admitted quite openly that her profits came from churning paper. Every manuscript that crossed her desk for substantive revisions received the same response: voluminous praise coupled with a suggestion to add an epilogue. Do you think she was doing those writers any favors? Do you think she was a worthy partner in the process?

If your editor gives you a manuscript with carefully thought-out changes, that's all the evidence you need that she's on your side. If she listens to you and responds in detail, she's on your side, even if it takes a while for her to get to you. Turnaround time is not an accurate measure of her interest. Engagement in the text is.

3. Assume your editor knows something you don't.

This is not the same as asking you to admit to your own stupidity. Instead, think of it like this. We are busy people. We don't make changes to your text out of boredom or a need to fill our hours. The editor's motto is, If it ain't broke, don't fix it.

In other words, if we're taking the time to fix it, that ought to signal to you that we see a problem. Maybe you used the adjective "dimpled" to describe something other than facial features twice in four pages. Maybe there's a technical error. Maybe one of your stylistic choices violates house style guidelines.

Your editor is a bigger expert than you might guess. Even if she's never committed acts of editorial pyrotechnics in your presence, you can believe she's capable of them. I've seen Alicia analyze entire plots in 10.2 seconds flat, complete with suggestions for deeper character and theme development. And I've got a few tricks up my sleeve, too -- we all do. The point is, one of the biggest hurts you can do to yourself comes from assuming you're right and your editor is stupid.

Look at the original text. Look at your editor's recommended change. See if you can figure out why she's doing it. You might just learn something. And if you're still confused and still think she's wrong, try asking -- politely, of course -- for more explanation. Example: "I don't really understand your suggestion about the point of view in chapter two. I've looked at the chapter, but I could use a little more guidance on how to implement this change. What is our goal here?" (Not, "I looked at the chapter and don't see any mistakes. I can't imagine what you were looking at. Someone else's manuscript, maybe? Anyway, I'm going to cross that item off the list.")

4. If you want to go to battle, make damn sure you're right.

Every editor can tell war stories about writers who declared war over some grammar or style choice, only to discover that they were wrong about the rules. Before you do battle over whatever nits have been picked -- improper use of past perfect verbs, or comma splices, or placement of participial phrases -- make sure you first review the rules governing the past perfect tense or comma splices or whatever else is at issue.

And make sure you really understand the rules. You can damage your credibility by incorrectly arguing a technical error. You can't win the argument if you don't know the rules.

Most of us would be happy to explain a rule to you if you ask about it. But if you come after us, guns blazing, we're more likely to duck for cover than to meet you halfway.

5. Don't ever insult your editor.

"Dear stupid obstreperous crankynose, Thanks oh so much for your recent so-called evaluation of my work. My cat has enjoyed batting around a crumpled up printout of your letter all morning long, which is about all it's good for. Why don't you get a real job? You wouldn't know real writing if it tattooed itself on you knees! Sincerely, a most exalted genius."

Okay, maybe you would never take it that far. But don't say anything that can be construed as an insult to your editor. You might not mean it as a personal attack when you label her line edits "careless and awkward." But if she called your work careless and awkward, how would you respond? Not well, I would imagine. You might think you're cleverly concealing your attack on her when you scream to everyone in the house that she's not explaining things in a way you can understand. But screams have a funny way of echoing, and everyone who hears those echoes will wonder why on earth you don't just work with your editor to learn what you need to know to follow her instructions.

If you need to vent, do it privately with people you trust. Good candidates are people outside of publishing, such as a spouse or parent or your best friend, the nurse. Or how about telling your dog? That's one audience guaranteed never to repeat your words. You can talk to your agent, too, but remember that this is a professional relationship. You may have the world's coolest, hippest agent, but you're still better off saving the zingers for other audiences.

6. For substantive edits, try it before you reject it.

I've never once had a problem with an author that came to me and said, "Theresa, about this subplot overhaul/new opening/whatever, I tried writing it a couple of different ways and I can't seem to get it right. Can we talk about it? Is there another solution?"

A smart editor handles substantive edits by first identifying the root cause of a problem, and then suggesting a solution. So if I recommend that you clip out the prologue and write a new first scene containing such-and-such, what I'm presenting to you is one possible solution to a problem.

If that solution doesn't work, there will surely be another option. There's more than one way to peel a potato. But how will you know if the solution doesn't work until you try it -- until you think it through, and evaluate the ramifications, and play with the idea a little? Give it a shot. It's not like you have to write the new pages with your blood instead of ink.


I hope this helps. Remember, none of us are perfect. We all have off moments. But a little trust and a healthy shot of kindness can go a long way toward helping you through any disputes.

Theresa

Question about contests

Do you think contests are a good way for writers to get their works noticed by agents/publishers/editors? Are they worth entering if you are serious about getting published? Margay


Good question-- I think it really depends on the contest. Luck and timing matter too, and having the right subject matter at the right moment, same as always. :(

I've known writers who were "discovered" by an editor in a contest, and others who have won many contests (and are very good) and haven't caught a contract.

Since contests usually cost money (though not a lot per), if that's an issue, and it is for most of us, then it's a good idea to be judicious about choosing the right contests to enter.

So here are a few guidelines that come more from my "contest-slut-I-mean-queen" friends than from me:
1) Know what you want, and look for the contests that offer that. For example, early in your writing you might want some feedback, so look for contests that promise real critiquing (and if they promise that and don't deliver, complain to the contest coordinator). Later, however, you might be more focused on publishing, and you want to get your entry in front of an editor. In that case, choose contests which have editors judging the final rounds.

2) If there's an aspect of your story that you need help with, you might choose a contest that asks for (and critiques) that. For example, maybe you aren't sure about your synopsis. Then you might consider choosing a contest that bases a lot of the score on the synopsis, so you'll get suggestions about that. Conversely, if you're more interested in winning a contest, find a contests that will utilize your strengths and minimize your weaknesses. I know some contest junkies, I mean, veterans who won't enter contests that call for a synopsis because they're not good at that, and they want to win or final.

3) If you're interested in placing or winning, look for contests that (I am so bad) have fewer entries. You'll notice that occasionally a contest's deadline is extended, or they're asking for more entries--- let me just suggest that it's possible there will be less competition in those contests. :)

4) If you want to get your work in front of an editor, see what editors are judging what. Usually it's the newer editors who are judging the finals of contests, and they're often the editors who are actively seeking new writers. But make sure they edit for a publisher you would submit to. The purpose of a contest (for you) is to bypass the submission slushpile and get the editor's close attention. So if you have, say, a chick-lit single title, what publishers would you be targeting? Look for contests where the single-title finalists are judged by an editor from that house.

5) However, don't keep contesting the same entry over and over. For one thing, judges get tired of seeing the same entry contest after contest. Be aware that many first-round judges -- being amenable to persuasion :0-- might judge 5 contests a year... and the fourth time they see your entry, it won't seem very fresh. And they might be annoyed if they'd suggested some improvements the first time they saw it, and you haven't made the changes.

6) Entries can get shopworn, just like manuscripts. If you keep entering contests and finalling and getting that entry in front of the same editor, re-think your contest strategy. If the editor didn't call you and ask for a complete manuscript the first three times, she's not going to ask for it this time. HOWEVER, if you enter another manuscript and that finals, the editor might well think that you're pretty impressive, and ask to see more, or ask to see a future project.

So yes, I think contests can help sometimes. But if you're interested in getting the book in front of an editor, you have to final first. (Editors are usual final judges.) And contests should never substitute for actually submitting to editors. It's just too random-- maybe you'll final, maybe you won't. Maybe the editor you want will be judging, or maybe in the six months from start of contest to finals judging, that editor has left the publisher. So keep on submitting.

Do editors pay attention to contest wins? I doubt many are combing the results looking for names. However, if in a query letter, you mention that this manuscript won some contest, that can't hurt. But don't say, "Tiger Lily has finalled in 18 contests so far!" The editor is likely to suspect something is wrong (like it's a great first chapter, and not so great after that), so bragging about many wins without a sale is counter-productive.

Alicia

Same Question, Different View

Question: Because it is something I am incredibly sensitive about (grammar and punctuation) how much does that influence you when passing on a project? It has to, of course, but if something isn't too bad but the story is phenomenal, would you still go for it?

I've been mulling on this question ever since Susan posted it, and I see it caught Alicia's attention, too. There is a tipping point where the poor quality of the writing will outweigh the strength of the story. I keep trying to figure out whether I can quantify that point -- is it so many errors per page? are some errors more egregious than others? -- and I'm afraid that there's no simple way to explain this. There's no formula.

But there are a few common factors that come up over and over again. I thought I might share these.

First, I want to point out that because we edit genre stories for a house that accepts unagented submissions, we see a lot of bad writing. And when I say bad, I mean bad enough to make you wonder how delusional the writer must be to think this should ever be shown to another human being. And is he delusional enough to come after you with a slingshot when you reject him?

But the vast majority of stuff we read is workmanlike. It's good (but not great), moderately well-executed prose with a straight-up-the-middle story. Maybe it's a standard subgenre idea, but the prose is better than average, or maybe it's an idea that breaks a lot of rules but the writing is weak. Maybe it's a riff on whatever the trend of the moment is, in which case the story is probably formed around the trend (rarely the hallmark of a good idea) and the writing is probably competent but not dazzling.

Here's a factor that the writer can't control: our current needs, which fluctuate as we acquire other projects. I can tell you that for one of our acquisitions goals, we're having an enormously difficult time finding projects that meet our standards. And for that reason, in that particular group, we might be willing to work more with a writer who has a great story idea, solid vocabulary/dramatic presentation skills, and an abundance of technical errors. (No I won't tell you which goal I'm talking about. I want all people submitting to us to think they must submit the cleanest manuscript possible, regardless of story type and target line.)

Grammar and other technical errors are important because they represent time in my life. I expect to spend a certain amount of time per manuscript on story, character, setting, theme -- the big picture stuff -- and a certain amount of time per manuscript on the nitty gritty stuff like scene structure, dialogue tags, grammar errors, sequencing issues, and the like. I'm not looking for flawless manuscripts because, frankly, it would be easier to find the rainbow's end.

If a manuscript is clean and the writerly elements work well, but the story needs an overhaul, I'll generally give the writer another shot. I'll send a revision letter and see if they can take direction and produce solid results in a professional manner. Though a revision letter does take some time -- say, two or three hours to read the manuscript and an hour for the revision letter itself, depending -- this is time well spent if it results in a project we can acquire.

By contrast, let me tell you a story about a manuscript I once edited. (Note to my writers: this was not any of you. This was something from a while back. None of you should read anything into this.)

This manuscript had been acquired by an editor that suddenly left her house, and there were some workflow issues that resulted in me being hired to do the line edits. House management was eager to avoid going back to the writer for revisions, so I was working solo to do some cleanup.

The story was above average, unusual in all the right ways, even compelling in places. The writer used diverse word choices and had a knack for building drama in scenes. But the technical aspects were disastrous. Every single paragraph contained at least one, and sometimes as many as a dozen, punctuation errors. Bad ones, too, like semicolons dropped into the middle of prepositional phrases. Real head-scratchers. Even though the copyeditor would normally tackle those, they interfered with comprehension so much that I had no choice but to clean it up as I went, just as a first step toward trying to figure out what the hell to do with all that garbled word-glop. Even after my work, the copyeditor complained bitterly about this manuscript, too -- complaints which ceased instantly once the initial condition of that manuscript was disclosed.

It took me more than forty hours to fix that manuscript, and it was fewer than 300 pages.

So. Forty-plus hours of my life on good story/bad execution, versus three or four hours on good execution/problematic story.

There are two aspects to "writing quality" -- one is the technical stuff like commas and verb tenses, and the other is the writerly stuff like word choices and the ability to get tension into the sentences and paragraphs. If you get the writerly stuff down, I'm less offended by the technical errors, as long as they're not overwhelming. And of course, fictive grammar rules vary slightly from house to house, so we tend to be forgiving of things like final serial commas that don't conform with our particular set of rules. (Consistency is important there -- we will interpret consistency as a sign of deliberate choice rather than a sign of ignorance.)

But, you know, I just can't help wondering why any writer would be willing to risk publication on something like grammar. Doesn't a strong story deserve strong presentation? Why would you take yourself out of the running for something as simple as grammar? And yes, it is simple. Even if you don't understand it at the moment, it's certainly something you can learn. It's not like differential equations here. You don't need any special new knowledge base to learn grammar. All you really need are some study tools and the will to learn.

Theresa

Special Note to Dave: I read a mere 150 pages yesterday. Go ahead! Call me a slacker! :D

What if it's a great story? Part 1

Susan in comments:

Question: Because it is something I am incredibly sensitive about (grammar and punctuation) how much does that influence you when passing on a project? It has to, of course, but if something isn't too bad but the story is phenomenal, would you still go for it?

Susan, good question! I got one of my own: What's a great story? (And eventually I'll probably meander into answering your question.)

Seems to me there are three possible "greats" which we'd be overjoyed to see in one manuscript. So here's Part 1, or Part A, anyway.

A) A great story idea. Hollywood-style "high concepts" might fall under this, and notice it's entirely possible -- in Hollywood-- to sell a great idea and little else, because the idea can be given to another writer and turned into a screenplay. "Treatments," I think, are often handled that way; it's understood that the sort of person who comes up with flashy, compelling ideas isn't necessarily the sort of person who can write well. It helps to secure a big-name actor's interest. You've got a great idea and Jude Law, you've probably got a sale (heck, you can get rid of the great idea then, and I'll still go to the movie :).

You'll see these great ideas in publishing too, but there usually isn't enough money in publishing to hire a writer to finish an idea, and also the idea-generator is often far more sensitive than the film counterpart and doesn't want any other writer messing with her idea. (Or it could be that Hollywood is better at soothing wounded writer feelings with $.)

Often it's the publisher staff-- editing or marketing-- that comes up with the great idea and then chooses a reliable writer or group of writers to develop the idea. This is often done as "work for hire," and the publisher owns the idea and the copyright, and no one in the mix makes Hollywood-style money. (And Jude Law doesn't come to the release party, alas.)

So what if you have a "great idea" and don't think you have the skills to develop it well? This happens frequently, because the sort of person who comes up with great ideas isn't necessarily a great or even good writer-- two different skills. I have read manuscripts that actually hurt me because the idea was wonderful but the story was lamely told and the mechanics were excruciating. It seemed like a lost opportunity.

So know your strengths. If you're getting rejections like, "What a great idea! However...." realize you're an idea-person. And do what they do in Hollywood-- devise a "treatment" for the idea and find someone to write it for you.

(Oh, yeah, you could learn to write better, and I think that's better longterm... but if this great idea has an expiration date, as so many great ideas do, a writerly education could take way too long.)

It's possible to write up a treatment, get a Hollywood agent, and sell the idea, and let the producer hire a writer. Somehow I suspect that's more difficult than I make it sound, especially that "get a Hollywood agent" part. But there's another book somewhere in this office (spent 10 minutes looking for it, and didn't find it, but I did find a couple other books I meant to read last year): Writing Treatments that Sell, by Atchity and Wong, and that might help more than I can. (My suggestion is more useful, perhaps-- Get Jude Law involved. The movie might not be made, but think of the hours of discussion....:)

Where was I? Oh, yeah. A great idea.
Or if this is a book and not a film (and there are some ideas which are "just book"), consider a collaborator. Just as inventors often have to unite with engineers to get their invention to work, great-idea generators might benefit from a collaboration with an experienced but not flashy writing craftsperson. Now this should not be undertaken lightly. There are a lot of legal issues involved, and there are many different variations of collaboration, and all these should probably be hammered out ahead of time. There was a book a few years ago called A Marriage of Minds by the McGoldricks, that deals with a lot of these issues. (I collaborated on a book with a friend, and we were quoted in the book. I don't think we were very form-fitting collaborators, as we have exactly the same strengths... we're both writers, not idea-generators.)

(Have you ever gone to a party and when someone asks, "What do you do?" you modestly allow that you're a novelist, and the asker says, "Oh! That's great! Hey, I have a great idea-- how about I tell you about it, you write it up, and we'll split the royalties?" And you're thinking, sounds like I do all the work, and it's even more disheartening to hear the idea and learn it's not great at all, just some trite thing about how he got divorced and went skiing and met his soulmate up there on the mountain.)

It does take a surrender of ego to realize that you are not always the best person to develop a great idea and go looking for help. But it also takes the craftsperson a surrender of ego to realize... maybe I'm just a craftsperson, great at carpentry but not design. Could be a marriage made in heaven, if both collaborators respect the other's contribution.

But at least the great idea could achieve successful fruition, even if you're not the whole tree. :)

Other parts to come, but I gotta get some paid work done first!

A Few Meandering Thoughts

I read a bit over four hundred manuscript pages today.

That's not a particularly large number for me. I can double that number in a single day if I'm really cooking. I've never yet hit that magical thousand-page mark, but it has been within reach plenty of times.

Four hundred pages is a good, steady pace on a day when I don't have a lot of production or scheduling or other balls in the air. Four hundred pages is 30 or so short partials with synopses and cover letters. Or one full novel. Or a couple of long novellas. No editing, just reading.

Four hundred pages barely puts a dent in my inbox. Four thousand pages, now that might be noticeable. Forty thousand might get me caught up, for the moment. But four hundred? Bah.

How many pages of raw work would you all say you read over the course of a year? Count your pages. Your critique partner's pages. Classmates, online groups, any pages that are not finished, published pages. Do you get above ten thousand? I'm not trying to be all "my dad's bigger than your dad" here, but I do want to illustrate a point.

There were some comments made behind the scenes recently to the effect that Alicia and I are hypersensitive to very fine nuances in prose. Thank you. I assume it was intended to be a compliment because, after all, it means I'm good at my job.

When you read as much as we do, and when so many of those pages are raw pages which we are charged with fixing, it becomes almost automatic to notice certain things. Verb density. Sentence structures. Word choices that undercut or enhance or lie like dead fish on the page. Experience teaches us that if we spot these things in the first few lines of a text, we'll find them all over the manuscript.

And, to be truthful, you don't even have to look hard to spot these things, both the good and the bad. A trained eye sees them as quickly and easily as a hot pink Hummer parked in a driveway.

Of course, we also want to evaluate your characters and plot and conflicts. But, you know, we usually have to read more than three lines to do that. And the problem is, as we're reading enough to get to the point where we can make some judgments about your characters and plots and conflicts, we have to read through the hot pink Hummers. And the banana yellow Cadillacs. And the flawless silver Bentleys with upholstery that smells like money.

The funny thing about doing all these openings here on the blog is that I've become very conscious of how quickly my eye absorbs things from the page. When I'm writing a post about an opening, breaking it down for you all, I feel like I'm dropping down to a very slow pace so that I can record the impressions and judgments which are typically formed instantaneously.

In other words, I don't pick up a fresh submission and read the first page with any conscious intent of decoding the sentences. It just happens. It's almost intuitive.

Do I read a submission the same way I write about openings here? Yes and no. Yes, because these posts are representative of the things I notice. And no, because I don't stop reading to consciously think, "Oh, great use of comparative language there!" Or, "Aw, gee, too bad about the present participles." I just read until I reach the point where I may stop reading because I've read enough.

This is also why I usually have two sections in every post about openings, the first impressions and the fine breakdown. I want to give the experience both ways, the fast way where we read all at once and form judgments, and the precise way where our minds are in the background ticking off points as we go. Alicia's presentation is different, but you know, we're doing basically the same thing.

I don't know if it's at all useful to explain this, but maybe it will add some perspective.

Theresa

Alicia opens the mailbox.....

Okay, so I'm going to combine a couple of the questions, because they're both about agents:

How important is it to acquire an agent? Do we dare submit on our own?
Cheryl

What are the differences (benefits, drawbacks) between querying an editor versus querying an agent, and should it be handled differently by we authors?,
Ian

----

Getting an agent, especially at the beginning of your writing career, isn't always a matter of choice. If you are going to submit to certain lines or certain publishers, you have to have an agent, as they won't look at "unagented submissions". (It is sometimes possible to get around this by meeting the editor, maybe at a writing conference, but their first question is often, "Who's your agent?") The big NY publishers tend to use agents as first readers or "gatekeepers," winnowing out the worst manuscripts. So if you've got a book bound for the publishers, you might have to get an agent whether you want to or not.

On the other hand, a lot of agents have taken to saying they are only open to currently contracted authors. (Anyone gotten the infamous rejection: "Love the book! Write to me when you've sold it, and then I'll represent you?") So if you WANT an agent, you might not get the one you want until after that first contract.

Do you need an agent? Well, think about what you want from an agent. If you just want a quick sale, you might decide to go it alone, if you're submitting to an editor who will read unagented material. But if you want more than the standard advance, or a better than standard contract, you might look for an agent first. Certainly there are certain types of "high-concept" books that a good agent can do wonders with—getting a great contract, reserving film rights, selling the film option to Hollywood. And a good agent can very likely get a contract for the next book or two on similar or better terms. That's hard to do by yourself.

However… notice I keep saying "a good agent." A good agent is worth his/her weight in gold (sometimes literally— I suspect JK Rowling would NOT be a billionaire if she hadn't had a good agent), but a bad agent is worse than no agent at all. Get a bunch of published authors together in a bar (so you can get them drunk) and ask them for their bad agent stories, and you'll hear things that will curl your hair-- embezzling agents and editor-antagonizing agents and negligent agents and cheating agents and so on. So don't think about getting "an agent," think about getting "a good agent," if you decide you need one. And remember, the prime purpose of an agent is to sell the book and negotiate the contract, not to make you feel good. I know too many writers who look at getting an agent as an end in itself, when there's another very big step after that (the agent getting you a contract). Focus on that, and find the agent who can help you most.

Once you've got a contract, however, you might decide your needs change—you need more long-term attention, beyond this single book. Agents should be focused on your career and not just this one book, so a good long conversation about what sort of books you want to write and what sort of career you want to have should happen early rather than late. There are good agents who simply aren't the right match for a particular writer. Let's say you want to keep your day job and write part-time, and the agent wants you to sell (and write) three books a year. Or maybe you want to sell big thrillers, and the agents thinks you should play it safe and continue working on those little cozy mysteries. Or you love what you write, and the agent loves your voice, but thinks you should be writing something else. These agents might all be great for someone else, but they probably aren't right for you, because their vision of your career is different from yours.

As to queries, it's a matter of focus. The editor is probably buying single books, while an agent is looking for an author. So the query to the editor should focus on the book, with maybe a paragraph at the end telling what's relevant about you (you're an attorney and this is a legal thriller, for example, or you think you will do a great job promoting this book because you have so many contacts in the community). The query to the agent should introduce the book, but spend maybe more time introducing you as an author—why you are likely to be successful, what your career plans are, what writing successes you have had in the past. If the editor likes your book, who you are won't make much difference (in the main… obviously if you're a US senator or the recent scandal-of-the-week subject, who you are might matter more). The agent probably won't take you on if she doesn't like the book… except that some do, especially if you have a strong track record of selling books before, or an existing relationship with a publisher. (I would not suggest going with an agent who doesn't like your writing… but one of the little secrets of publishing is that plenty of agents don't read every book they're submitting.)

So… just keep that in mind. Both types of queries should deal with your book and you the author; however, the editor-query generally focuses more on the book, and the agent-query focuses more on you. For example, I'd be sure, in an agent-query, to mention that I'm good at marketing and promotion, that I speak to a dozen women's groups a year and can hand-sell books then, that I can get blurbs from NYT-list friends (I'm making all that up, alas!). Those are items of interest that the agent knows she can use when she pitches your book to an editor.

This is why meeting with an agent at a conference is usually more productive than meeting with an editor. An agent can pretty much decide to take you on right then, but an editor isn't going to be much swayed by your sterling credentials and great charm—he'll say, "Send me the manuscript," and make his decision solely on whether the book works for him and fits his line.

By the way, I'm hearing more and more that agents often ask you to get a blurb (a recommendation) from a prominent author if you can—before submission. This is one more selling tool the agent can use. However, most new writers don't have access to a lot of prominent authors, and even if they do, many are resistant to asking for that sort of favor. But that's something to keep in mind. For example, if you're workshopping the book in a class with a well-known author, you might think about asking for a read and a rec. That blurb can actually go with your submission, whether it's to an editor or agent.

Alicia

Ian Gets a Twofer

When Alicia and I first started talking about doing a blog together many months ago, we thought of it in terms of going public with our running conversation about books and writing. Anyone who has ever been privy to one of our long, wine-soaked gab sessions will recognize some familiar features on this blog: we hopscotch all over the writing playground, juggling multiple trains of thought, doubling back to tag an old idea, and generally having a grand old time even if we sometimes teeter when we intend to totter.

Well, okay, there's a lot less merlot on the blog. But in other respects, I think it really is taking on the flavor of our conversations. Which is good because we can chase stray ideas wherever they might lead, but, well, then we have to find ways back home.

Which leads us to Ian. Actually, before Ian, we started off talking about structure, but we didn't get very far. Opening World material led to a robust discussion of openings and sentence structure tricks to add impact, and that led to Ian volunteering his first lines.

Remember these?

The airport was a pandemonium of police, journalists, and strange, beautiful people in colorful costumes. Katie Malone watched them in fascination from the comparative coolness of the concourse. The temperature was threatening to break the hundred-degree mark for the third day in a row, and the air conditioning strained to keep up. She watched the jet from Deep Six taxi across the tarmac, circled by a woman sporting feathered wings.

Alicia has already parsed these lines, and I agree with everything she said. But I'm going to put the lines through the Theresa machine anyway. This is not because we're bored or have run out of material. This is because a) Ian was very brave to volunteer and deserves some extra attention, and b) there's a hidden lesson in having two editors walk through the same sentences. More on this to follow.

Reading Speed

When I pick up a new manuscript to evaluate, my reading speed drops to about half what it normally is, at least for the first page or two. I'm not reading for the experience of reading here. I'm focusing tightly on the narrative and the story as presented through the narrative right from the first words. I parse as I go.

So I'm going to intersperse Ian's words with what my personal interior monologue might sound like if I were reading this as a fresh submission. I have read Ian's entire first page, but that was a couple of weeks ago and I don't really remember what follows these four sentences. (Nothing personal -- I've read a few thousand pages since then and I just can't hold all those details in my head.) But I do remember that I liked Ian's first page quite a lot.

His words will be in italics, mine will be in color. Purple for the good stuff, red for the red flags. Not all red flags are "bad" per se, as will become evident as we move through this. They're more like warning lights than stop signs.

The airport
clear setting, strong visual

was
flag -weak verb

a pandemonium
sense of sound

of police,
authority figures in blue uniforms (Any word which can be used in a children's picture flashcard deck with present readers with strong visuals. The writer's job is to ensure that these are the visuals they intend to create.)

journalists,
not uniformed, but I get a visual of drab people with a strong sense of purpose

and strange, beautiful people in colorful costumes.
Whammo! Look at what he did there. We move from uniforms to costumes and from drab to colorful. And from authority figures to "strange" people. The contrasts are subtle but they work. I don't know about the rest of you, but because this is an airport, to me "costumes" means not Halloween costumes but characteristic clothing. So I'm seeing saris, bright African and South American fabrics, a Hare Krishna's monk robes -- but no vampires or Nixon masks.

Next, I like it that he brushes the crowd into the picture with three strokes. Policemen. Journalists. Strange people. One, two, three. This is a great way to shorthand a setting without shortchanging the reader.

Finally, he's placed the correct item last in the list of three items. There are two rules of thumb for lists. First, move from shortest to longest. Or second, end with the highest-impact item. Often we have to choose between one or the other approach, but Ian's list complies with both. (Though he might consider switching the policemen and journalists. The visual progression is a bit cleaner that way. Drab-blue-colorful. Also casual clothes - uniform - costumes.)

By the end of this sentence, I've forgiven him the weak verb because the rest of the sentence is so strong. The rest of the language is highly evocative. If he'd said, "The airport was crowded and noisy," the weak verb would have continued to be a red flag because the rest of the sentence is also dull.

Katie Malone
Ah, good, now we're being oriented to a single character in the crowd. I assume she's the pov character. I also assume that she is not a police officer, journalist, or strange person, because if she were, those three list items would have been handled differently. For example, if she were a journalist, she would have mentioned passengers instead of journalists, or she might have mentioned her cronies/competitors being pushed behind barricades. Something to orient the reader to her membership in one of those groups. Because she is introduced without reference to any of those list items, we can assume she belongs to none of those groups.

watched them
Again, she's an outsider

in fascination
flag - this is "telling." Almost without exception, if you name an emotion on the page, you're telling instead of showing. You can get away with this every now and then, but on the first page you'd be better off letting me into her viewpoint so I can experience her fascination with her. This will quickly build the reader-character bond. Or, if you have reasons for a more objective point of view here, at least show her behaving in a fascinated manner and let me conclude that she's fascinated. There's an exceptionally cool book by Ann Hood called "Creating Character Emotions" that will give lots of ideas and insights for manipulating the show/tell dynamic.

from the comparative coolness
I like the use of temperature as a visceral cue, but compared to what?

of the concourse.
I'm starting to lose my sense of orientation to place. Katie is on the concourse. The police, journalists and strange people are in the airport. She can hear their pandemonium. But this sentence leads me to believe she's somehow isolated from the crowd. I'm a little confused. But this is something that can be clarified easily. If the pandemonium is on the tarmac rather than inside the concourse with Katie, then say "The airport tarmac was a pandemonium...." And then reverse the order of this second sentence: "From inside the concourse, Katie watched them without daring to blink." Or something like that. Move us from outside to inside in a more clean fashion.

Or am I wrong? Why are we being given cues that Katie is isolated from the crowd? Where is she compared to the crowd?

The temperature was threatening to break the hundred-degree mark for the third day in a row,
outside

and the air conditioning strained to keep up.
inside

Again, I'm not sure where she is. I like the contrast of heat outside and cool inside, though, and I like the use of the present progressive here -- it orients us in time (day three of a summer heat wave). It's crucial to orient the reader, and Ian does a great job here in every way *except* letting us know where Katie is in relation to the rest of the setting details.

She watched
flag - "watched" is a weak verb to begin with, and this is the second use in four sentences. Add in that "was" from the first sentence, and I'm starting to worry about the verbs. There's so much other good material here, a real deftness with detail, that I'm still feeling a bit forgiving about the verbs. But I've already decided to watch out for verbs as I continue to read.

the jet from Deep Six
"Deep Six" to me indicates a certain kind of story -- thriller, maybe spy, with perhaps a dollop of futurism. I'm thinking James Bond with lasers.

taxi
Note: this is the first real action verb. It's a good one, too. We've got a little internal echo here -- the X in six and the X in taxi, both of which are strong in the ear and on the page. It perks me up a little as I'm reading it.

across the tarmac, circled by a woman
This bugs me. I think Alicia flagged it too. According to syntax, the tarmac is being circled by the woman. But I'm pretty sure you mean that the jet is being circled by the woman. Modifiers should go next to the words they modify.

sporting feathered wings.
Right-o. Just like that, you got me back. Now I know the reason for the pandemonium and the police and journalists. Now I know why Katie is fascinated. It's not the air conditioning or the heat or the costumes or the noise. It's the woman who can fly. Now I want to keep reading to learn more about what's going on here and what Katie's role in all this will be.

The first and last sentences in Ian's quartet are strong. The middle two sentences trouble me a little but they're fixable. As an editor, I've already decided the manuscript is worth a little more of my time -- I'll keep reading in the hope that the promise in the first and last sentences pans out, and that the minor problems in the middle two sentences won't repeat.

I've already decided to edit the last sentence by killing the weak verb and moving the intervening prepositional phrase to the front of the sentence:

Across the tarmac the jet from Deep Six taxied, circled by a woman sporting feathered wings.

I'm still not 100% satisfied with this sentence, but it cleans up those little nagging problems while preserving the dramatic impact of that last phrase. (Ian, thank you for suffering through my tinkering with your prose.)


The Hidden Lesson

Two editors read the same four sentences. Some of the things we notice are the same, and some are different. But we both draw the same conclusion: this opening is pretty darn good overall.

Even though there are tricks and rules governing good prose, there is still an art that comes into it. The writer has his art, and the editor has hers. Part of our art has to do with the unique perspective we bring to the editing process. There are certain foundational things we all look for, but beyond that, it starts to become personal.

When we say that the editor's job is subjective, this is part of what we're talking about. Even though personal content preferences may come into play, in this respect it's got little to do with how much we like the content. If that were the governing force, very few people would edit dental journals, because who likes getting their teeth drilled?

The subjectivity that I'm referring to, then, has more to do with the editing process. Any good editor might take the same piece of prose and wind up at the same end point. But the paths we take won't always look alike.