An Interview With A Publisher by Mariam Kobras
The beach is rosy with the sunrise, bathed in slow, warm light. There is no wind, the surf no more than a lacy curl, as if the ocean’s toes are playing in the sand.
In the distance, a young man is walking his dog, the puppy dashing in and out of the water, yipping with excitement.
Pelicans pass overhead, as always in tight formation, this time four of them, patrolling their stretch of shore, black silhouettes against the dawn sky.
The air is so soft, not yet humid, like a rose silk shawl, like a flower petal, and it is very quiet, the earth still asleep.
I’m here with my publisher—I'm still stunned that I now have a ‘publisher’—walking along in companionable silence.
She picks up a stone, a perfect, black globe shot with white streaks like memories of lighting.
We were talking about the stones on our drive down here, they play such an important role in my book, and how they made her relate to the story. My grand piece of luck, she shares the love for debris with my female lead character. And that made me think about the workings of the publishing business.
“How does a publisher know which book to pick from the pile of submissions,” I ask, “How do you do it? Is it a special talent? A hunch?”
She wipes her stone clean on the hem of her shirt.
“It has to ring all your bells,” she says, “Because you are going to be spending a lot of time and money working with and on the chosen book, you have to believe in it. It’s part gut instinct, part experience, part knowledge of the marketplace and the current trends. It has to speak to you, demand that you pull it out and work with it, help polish and nurture it, finally bringing it into the world as a finished book. To a certain extent, it has to keep you awake at night, pondering cover designs, proper niche/genre placement. You have to care about it all the way from the font to the page count. It has to make you proud to have your name on it as publisher.”
A small smile, a glance, and I blush. Layers and layers of meaning.
“You signed me, I’m your author now.” Once said, it sounds awkward and silly, but she laughs. “And I never even properly submitted. So how strict are your guidelines really? How important is that query letter after all?”
“I guess I’m a firm believer that every rule is made to be broken, but don’t make a habit of it.” Her eyebrows go up thoughtfully, and suddenly she seems to be a different person, a tougher, public version of herself. “Publishers and editors set up submission guidelines for a reason, and it’s not just to make writers’ miserable.. We want to know that you are going to be your own best promoter, that you don’t think your work ends when you hand over the finished manuscript and we accept it. In a way, we become partners, and we want to be sure that the writer can hold up their part of that partnership. We want to know that the writer will be as involved in the process as we will. All of this and more should be in that query letter. Do you already have a following, a blog? Are you on twitter, facebook, or other sites? Tell us!”
We walk on, move past the boy and the dog, who now is lugging a piece of driftwood with him. It is really much too big, and he keeps stumbling over it but refuses to let it go.
“And the synopsis?”
“ We need to know that your story has a beginning, a middle and an end. Don’t make them a mystery.” She stops to look at me, shrugs, passes the stone from one hand to the other. “And please, when we say send the first three chapters, send the first three chapters. Don’t cherry pick three unconnected chapters that you think are the best. We want to see how your story flows from page one on. We need to know your first chapters are strong enough to capture the reader and keep them reading.”
“You sound like your own submission guideline.” Which, and this I will never tell her, I didn't even read until our contract was signed. “What do you expect from an author, besides being a good writer?”
Among the seaweed, tangled and hidden, she finds a piece of amber. This is a surprise, I never thought there would be amber on this beach. But yes, it really is amber, dull, gold-brown, rugged, and as big as a walnut.
“I always wonder,” she says instead of answering, “Where the pebbles I pick up come from, how long they’ve been in the ocean. And this...” she holds up the amber, “Such a rare find!”
“Tell me,” I insist, and she sighs.
“Enthusiasm, enthusiasm, enthusiasm. They need to be ready to go out there and beat the bushes to find their readers. More than ever, with the advent of ebooks and the burgeoning self-publishing movement, a writer’s book faces unbelievable competition. A publisher can only do so much. Nothing takes the place of the personal touch of an author. People want to talk to them, get to know them, ask them questions. This is no time to be a shrinking violet!” The amber wanders into the jeans pocket. “I was quite shy as a child, and my mother—who had a platitude or pithy saying for every occasion—often recited this to me:
“He who has a thing to sell,
And goes and whispers in a well,
Is not so apt to earn the dollars,
As he who climbs a tree and hollers.”
As a child, I was endlessly irritated by this. As an adult, I appreciate the way it sums it all up. What am I looking for? Authors who are willing to climb the tree and HOLLER!”
Again, that small smile, and I wonder if I’m really all that, if she sees all that in me, too.
Wiping the sand of her hands, she turns to face inland. “Did you know Bruce Springsteen lives somewhere here? Your Jon reminds me a lot of him.” My Jon, she means my male lead, the guy my books are about. Huh. Springsteen? That’s actually pretty cool...
“There is this,” she goes on, “If you were to ask me what I’d tell any beginning writer, it would be, write, write and rewrite. Then rewrite again, several times. Hone your story. Know your audience. Who are they? Where do they live? What books do they read? Write TO them, for them. Then, when you think your story is a polished gem, burnish it one more time. Then submit, submit, submit. You will never be published if you are too afraid to submit your work. And if you get rejection letters, remember, they are not a measure of your worth, but merely one person’s opinion. Keep trying and keep writing. Hmm, I suppose that is more than one piece of advice isn’t it?”
It is, and pretty intimidating, too. I’m really so glad I didn’t hear or read all this when I started out writing, and just wrote. But this, too, she will never hear from me. Of course.
“Do you actually ever read just for pleasure? It seems impossible, if you have to read submissions all day long, that you would enjoy that.” I’m having debris envy. I want to find some amber, too.
“Sure, I’ve always got at least two books going, one on my nightstand and another on my kindle. What I Thought I Knew: A Memoir by Alice Eve Cohen was the last book I read just for fun. I loved it, but I found myself making lists for weeks afterward, all titled: What I Know…”
The water is warm and pleasant, and we roll up our jeans to walk in it. From the cafe up on the promenade wafts the pleasant odor of coffee and fresh bread. They have just begun putting out the chairs for the first customers, and I’m suddenly hungry for a bagel.
“What’s your favorite cake?” I ask.
She blinks at me. “I’m not quite sure how that fits into this publishing discussion, but it would have to be red velvet cake with buttercream cheese frosting.” And adds, her gaze following mine, “But not for breakfast.”
We leave the beach and stroll toward that café.
“So what’s your favorite book? Do you have one?”
Thoughtfully, she stops walking. “Wow, that’s a tough question. I tend to have favorite authors rather than favorite books. Anne Tyler, Alice Hoffman, Clyde Edgerton, Nevada Barr, Minette Walters, Jan Karon, Robert Parker, Kaye Gibbons, are all authors that are on my ‘reliable’ list.”
Wow. I never knew there was an author called “Nevada”. Must google that, and find out if it’s a boy or a girl.
She points at the cafè. “I’m hungry now. But yes, books by these authors are as comfortable as an old pair of jeans, they always provide an entertaining, good read. I think that’s the feeling I look for in the authors I sign at Buddhapuss Ink too. We want writers who can provide reliable, comfortable, entertaining books, again and again.”
That makes me swallow, and shut up.
The thought that I’m supposed to be like that is scary, and quite intimidating.
“Here.” She is holding out the piece of amber to me. “You take it. Maybe it will inspire you to write your next book.”
- Many thanks to MaryChris Bradley, publisher at Buddhapuss Ink LLC. I owe you a Red Velvet cake, I think.
