When I read about successful authors, I get a feeling that’s hard to describe. It’s not envy, exactly—more like paralysis.
I feel like I’m gazing at Mt. Everest. My body is draped with ropes and crampons. The air is a balmy 48 degrees, and the sun is shining. I am thinking:
“Do I really enjoy climbing mountains? What’s the point?”
The New York Times recently chronicled the wild success of a recent author. Her book, The School for Good Mothers, is on the bestseller list. She won the first author lottery.
The article was titled: How to Get Published.
Jessamine Chan wrote a great book with a compelling title and found a passionate agent.
Next, she stuck with it even when her agent retired. Another agent—friend to the first—had been following along, like an agent-understudy, and wanted to jump in.
I will not pull any punches. The article made me angry.
Greatness is a Big Fat Lie
The idea of greatness is highly overrated because, for starters, there are plenty of talented people who don’t get rich or famous.
I’m happy to live in a world with breathtaking literature, brilliant filmmaking, and incredible acting. I haven’t seen Hamilton and probably never will, but kudos to those hardworking performers.
They all deserve success, yet we seem incapable of acknowledging the power of Luck.
I’m not saying Chan didn’t deserve success, but what irritated me about the article was the glaring lack of analysis about how lucky this author got.
It seemed they were trying to prove it’s possible you can get ahead by what you know, not who. They marketed the article as if it was a GUIDE to how to succeed as an author.
I would’ve appreciated a more honest take, in which we talk about why the publishing industry should never be about who you know.
People write brilliant books, get accolades, and move to Ireland, like my former neighbor, Patrick Fitzgerald. I can’t blame him for moving, but the neighbors who replaced him are several steps down in quality.
He wrote Only the Lovers Sing, and I should acknowledge that because I’m sure he didn’t sell his house to rednecks on purpose.
Back to my point—why does the NYT feel the need to rub our unpublished faces in the reality of how fucking difficult it is to get published?
The publishing industry is no different than acting, athletics, or any other glamor biz: only the stars seem to get attention or get paid.
Whine Much?
As I write this, I realize I sound whiny, so I will take a step back and lay out my argument for why we should also promote books that aren’t destined to become bestsellers.
The NYT has a tendency to favor a culturally elite readership, and this article felt like a cold backhanded slap against striving first-time authors who don’t live in Manhattan.
Oops—I guess my backwoods Arkansas colors are showing.
The bottom line is the NYT article profiled an author who obviously is both thrilled and humbled by her success, but in addition to ignoring Luck, the piece:
Presented a narrative posing as valuable advice, rather than fessing up to the hidden message, that new authors might as well be carrying the Ring to Mt. Doom.
Asserted that anyone can succeed as an author.
They could have focused on the similarities between Frodo’s journey to destroy the Ring, and how getting published as a first-timer is a lottery win. They also could’ve acknowledged how writers without economic resources and a support team (Sam, Aragon, etc.) are behind the eight-ball.
Not anyone can succeed as an author. A lot of stars need to line up, and it begins with writing a pretty good book.
How Do I Know If My Book Is Any Good?
My little YA novel, Down and Out on the Road South, has gotten good reviews from four out of the five people who’ve read it. Two were paid. The original editor was less complimentary, but he read the first draft. He made a valuable observation:
Make the central figure, 16-year-old Cole, more likable and interesting!
The other readers gave it a thumbs up.
That’s good enough for me, but after eight rejections with little feedback, I don’t know if this book is going to survive.
I take heart in the fact that it doesn’t have to be the next John Green masterpiece or Catcher in the Rye.
What it needs is an agent, another champion beside me.
In the meantime, I’d love to see NYT write an article about how many books are submitted that don’t get published.
Final Rant
Until I began this post, I wasn’t aware of my anger about the NYT article.
I appreciate NYT but every now and then, their writing betrays a level of privilege that surprises me.
It sounds petty, doesn’t it? I’m willing to be honest, however.
To quote The Carpenters, I’ve only just begun this publishing journey. Down and Out on the Road South got a much-needed scrubbing recently, with a new proofreader and editor, after I turned the whole story into first-person.
Now the book has a better chance. At least I’m submitting something I feel is up to snuff.
I also acknowledge my whole rant might be due to petty jealousies because the NYT article struck a nerve. It was a brilliant way to present its topic since so many people like me are desperate for practical advice on how to break into the big leagues and become authors.