First published in Montreal in Hour or Mirror long enough ago (circa 1999) that it has slipped off the bottom end of my CV. Anyhow, for you all trying to sell (find a resting place for) your first novel, here is my tale of woe, writ wry: Selling The Big One. The novel became Eva's Threepenny Theatre (Gaspereau, 2008). Apologies to Grain and Cormorant (I was young).
I
finished my novel over two years ago.
After six drafts, it weighed in at one-hundred and seventy-two thousand
type characters in all, including commas, colons, and periods. A fly-weight. I called the lug, Eva
And Her Brother.
The setting is pre-war,
post-war Germany. A story about a
young actress dragged through the theatrics of time and place. Funny, sad, tragic, triumphant. It has it all.
Then how come I can’t
convince the jury?
More difficult than
writing a novel is pawning it off on a publishing house. Finding a home for the thing. A maison,
as the French put it. The problem
is not that so few books are published, but that yours probably won’t be.
Some say you need only
to persist, that the difference between a published writer and a
writer-turned-into-something-else, like a computer programmer, is merely
stamina. Robert M. Pirsig’s widely read philosophical odyssey, Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance,
was shot down 120 times by publishers before going to press. That’s perseverance. And so the myth develops: persevere and
thy shall inherit a Pulitzer Prize.
Others speculate that
success is a function of sheer luck, chance, coincidence. That there is no god, no method, no
meaning, all you need is a certain je ne
sais quoi. Like French
novelist Marie Darrieussecq whose debut novel, Pig Tales, sold to a publisher in under 24 hours, unsolicited. This novel, about a prostitute who grows teats, gives birth
to stillborn piglets, is sodomized, abused with dogs and nearly eaten, sold
over 250 000 hardback copies and ran for over 28 weeks on the bestseller
list. In France, you say. Yes, but still.
Last winter, I set out
to sell my own novel, Eva and Her Brother. There are many dead-ends to
follow. Here is a list of
just a few.
False hope/strategy #1. The friend of a friend who “knows somebody”.
My friend in the UK gave
two chapters of Eva to a reader at
Faber & Faber. The junior
liked it and passed it on to a senior editor. He liked it too.
They asked for more.
Hurray! Pass the Booker.
Last I heard, junior and
senior were sacked. Let go because
“their” books weren’t selling.
Defer that dream.
False hope/strategy #2. A good Samaritan is moving to NYC to get into
publishing.
She loves my story and
wants to paint the town with it. I
e-mail a copy to her account. She
can’t unzip my file. Stop right
there.
False hope/strategy #3. A Harvard Professor requests a copy. Met him at the marriage of my UK
friend. He came across an early draft
in London and “quite liked my voice”.
I e-mail, he unzips, and
takes a peak through Windows. It’s
a high-tech striptease. Promises
are made. But late semester term
paper correcting will keep him busy into summer. And the whole next six months, from what I can gather.
False hope/strategy #4. Aim small, small fish.
Try the local presses.
Cormorant Press,
Ontario. It has a rural route
address. I send the first fifty
pages as per guidelines. A six
month wait. What are they doing
out there, rotating crops? No
communication. Then I get the
letter. Not suited for us, good
luck, try elsewhere.
Time to get
serious. So I pick up some
literature on how to sell literature.
Market guides. That stuff
sells. One each for Canada, the
US, and the UK.
I do research, build a
database, buy bond paper, envelopes, stamps. Then I write a cover letter, an elegant synopsis, and
assemble sample material.
False hope/strategy #5. Aim big, you got nothing to lose. Use the buck-shot approach. Hit ‘em all and see who falls down. 40 maisons. Alfred A. Knopf. McClelland & Stewart. Granta. Jonathan Cape.
HarperCollins. Viking. Penguin. All the majors.
Rejections come fast and
furious. I’m overwhelmed. But at least I’m getting mail.
Some rejections include
a personal touch. One Dr. Philipp
Blom, editor of Harvill Press, thinks I’m “vivid and touching”, but Harvill
isn’t “taking on any new fiction at the moment”.
Then what are they
doing, if not accepting fiction?
Taking on circus acts?
Other houses are plain
boring. Macmillan condescends,
using the popular line, “you might find THE WRITER’S HANDBOOK useful”.
The problem with the
majors is half of them won’t accept unsolicited material in the first place,
and I’m nothing if not unsolicited.
While the other half will only deal with “agented” writers, read: fixed
or neutered artists.
That leads me to false hope/strategy #6. I need an agent. A champion. A Don King. Sure. Wake up
Balzac, that’s been your problem all along.
Another day, another
mail-out. I launch my packages
from the Zoubris Papeterie on Park Avenue. Overnight, I hit London, Toronto, San Francisco, and NYC. One, two, three weeks pass. Then a squadron of self-addressed
stamped envelopes land in my mailbox.
No agent will represent
me. Eva is flawed. I need
more dialogue. Add characters,
preaches another. Perhaps water,
and eggs, too. At this rate, I
need another part-time job to afford another offensive. And I need a psychiatrist to put Humpty
Dumpty back together again.
I get counselling from
friends.
Be more aggressive, they
say. Do-it-yourself. Self-publish. No, I say. You
don’t understand. There are no
Fugazzis or Ani Difrancos of the novel.
Then do spoken word,
they taunt me. No. I. do. not.
like. spo. ken. word., I retort.
Send to literary magazines, build a portfolio from the bottom up! I know that scene, friends. Mail out , wait eight weeks, and receive an acknowledgement
of reception along with a subscription coupon. That’s the killer.
As they hold your first born for ransom, they hint that you should
subscribe. It’s a good market
strategy on their part. Because
who else but a desperate poet or prose writer would hook up with a magazine
from Regina, called Grain, with a
quarterly circulation of 2,000?
Then, there are those
friends who really care about you, who encourage you to do something crazy to get attention. But I’m an author, not a stunt artist. I don’t want to hunger strike under the
desk of the editor of The Paris Review.
That would be George
Plimpton’s desk.
***
To demonstrate against
the injustice of the publishing machine, I stop reading “other people”. I read only Le petit cahier des sports in La
Presse.
I can’t suffer anymore Proust or
Proulx. Those rats. What do they have that I don’t?
Talent, maybe. But I’m a writer. I don’t need talent. To survive every writer makes an
inductive leap early in their career.
Despite critics, they assume they’re great, good, or a great good to
society. They lord a moral tenure
over the talent scouts.
Unpublished writers
amount to great pretenders, their self-actualisation depends on print. The ultimate responsibility of these
writers is the manufacturing of the belief that he or she is a writer, which, in many cases, amounts to a considerable work
of the imagination – a powerful fiction, in of itself. Every day that these writers sit down
to work, they are in essence composing parallel fictions: one they write, and one
that they live. Sometimes the
writer’s life is the better story, and biography eclipses any narrative committed to paper.
As for me, I need a
break, that’s all. In the
meantime, my ego defences are holding the fortress.
By chance I pick up Funny Boy by Shyam Selvadurai, the
latest offering from that group I call the Sri Lankan mafia. In the credits, I read that the front
cover photo was snapped by Michael Ondaatje.
I’m miffed. That confirms everything. It’s a clique. To get in you have to know somebody. Can I get Martin Amis to do my
cover? No chance.
The
worst of it is I’m a Canadian writer.
Face it, there are only so many seats around the CanLit table. And Anne Michaels just fit in with Fugitive Pieces. I figure she nabbed Robertson Davies’
seat.
False hope/strategy #7. Spot someone famous. Roll up your novel and stuff it through
their navel.
Lucky
me, last summer, I spotted Mordechai Richler twice in a matter of days.
The
second time, he was loading groceries into a green Jaguar, on the corner of
Green and de Maisonneuve. He had
come down the mountain, so I figured he was fair game.
When
Richler left his car to descend into that den of breast-feeding moms, otherwise
known as Westmount Square, I pushed my 20 month old daughter down two doors and
bought pen and paper in the pharmacy.
Sitting
outside Jean Coutu, my Sonya sucked her purple freezy, and I addressed a short
note to the Absolut poster-boy.
Mr.
Richler, I wrote, would you consider reading the first chapters of my
novel? Then I added, sorry for these guerrilla tactics. And that’s it. Short. Sweet.
Name. Telephone number.
I
tucked it under the windshield and ran for cover.
I
never got the call. He probably
torched my number in an ashtray, in a Crescent Street bar. Oh well. I think I’ll escape this race and buy some land like Duddy
did.
But
that’s another story altogether. A
version of which I’ll have to sell to Sonya’s mother.
-circa 1999