Behler Blog

A woman is mighty mad at her doctor because he used her as the subject of his book, THE ADDICT: One Patient, One Doctor, One Year, published in 2009 by William Morrow, without her knowledge or, obviously, her permission.

In reading the article, two glaring thoughts bump around in the cavern that poses as my brain:

1. Why did he do this?
2. Where was William Morrow’s editor in all this?

As one who specializes in nonfiction, I am achingly considerate of a couple things:

• Content. Is it real (hello, Greg Mortenson and James Frey)? If I can’t get satisfactory verification, then I walk away. Who needs the aggravation and possible lawsuits?
• Permission. If someone comes to me with a biography or a story that involves someone other than the author, I need to see proof of permission. Again, who needs the aggravation and possible lawsuits?

I’m surprised the editor went to submission committee without having those permissions in place. And who knows? Perhaps the good doctor did provide “permission” and the editor didn’t follow through by contacting the subject of the book. I took note that William Morrow isn’t included in the lawsuit, so I dearly hope the editor covered her asterisk.

However, this lawsuit could adversely affect sales, which would make William Morrow, and the doc’s editor, ready to mainline cheap gin. I know I would. To be honest, this sort of thing really takes the jam out of my jelly doughnut because dishonesty is so destructive. The fact that this doctor would break the HIPAA Privacy Rule is beyond stupid, and could end up costing him his medical license, or at the very least, a healthy fine and swift kick in his dangling participles.

But this goes to an even deeper level, and that’s the fervent desire to be published. I use the analogy of crossing the street. Back in the Early Jurassic Era, when I was a wee bairn, I was standing on the corner with my sister – who is infinitely wiser and nine years my senior. I saw something across the street…a candy store…and made ready to dart out like a heat-seeking missile.

My sister grabbed my hand. “What? Are you barking mad? That truck almost smacked you!” She was right. Barreling down the boulevard was a huge garbage truck. I reflected upon the ignominy of meeting The Great Cosmic Muffin at his Pearly Gates and telling him I’d been wiped out by a garbage truck, of all things. Surely, some better demise awaited me…and when I was old and feeble.

My fervent desire for a sugar fix put blinders over my eyes, to where my sister had to save my sorry ass. So who is the one who saves your hide in your never-ending dream to cross the street to Published Land? Are you willing to be smacked upside the head by garbage trucks, or are you more careful about your safety and wait for the Crossing sign to light up?

This doc/author facing a lawsuit (and probably a “go stand in the corner” edict from his editor) didn’t have anyone holding his hand, telling him to wait until it was safe to cross the street, and he was like my six-year-old self who couldn’t wait, or didn’t care, to do things the right way.

Make sure you take better care!

I finally got all caught up in my reading this past weekend, so now I’m a bit cross-eyed…and no one noticed. The beagle just thought she overdid the tequila to lime juice ratio again. It doesn’t take a brain surgeon to see that I live around a bunch of real touchy-feely peeps.

But since I’m all caught up, that means, unfortunately, that I wrote a lot of rejection letters – which is the primary reason for the margaritas. I hate writing rejection letters because it means I failed to find something yummy. The blowback from this is that I often get a number of emails from those who received form rejection letters asking me to please pass along their query letters to those I feel may have an interest. A couple authors were kind enough to even write an email for me, and all I had to do is sign my Jane Hancock, dig into my little black book, and hit the Send button.

Um.

I don’t do this.

And let’s think about this logically. If I didn’t even read the pages, but rather rejected at the query stage, then how can an author presume I’d happily crowd someone else’s inbox with a book I haven’t even read and know practically nothing about? It’s a big stretch to go from a form rejection letter to “Hey, lend a hand, willya?”

Truth be told, I’m not a delivery service, so it’s cheeky to presume I’m going to take time out of my day to do your job. There are times when I’m impressed with a work, and even though it’s not for me I may send it along to friends who pub in other genres. But let me be clear about this: I do it rarely. And when I do pass something along, I tell the author what I’ve done.

I know authors are eager for feedback and gaining any kind of “in” possible, but this isn’t the way to go about it. Networking often helps authors gain traction, say meeting at a conference. I’ve passed out plenty of cards with the offer that they may feel free to contact me any time. But a query letter isn’t networking – it’s a transaction of sorts. You write, you send, I read, I decide. Bada bing, bada boom.

A rejection letter isn’t an invitation to further engage me into doing favors for you. Even if I read your first three chapters and gave you a nice long critique, I didn’t offer to become your ears and eyes for the industry. I – and all my fellow publishing colleagues – have very full days reading queries, editing, screaming at errant beagles, and performing the million other publishy things to put out a terrific product. Nowhere does it say that we’re a referral agency, so please resist temptation.

I know you want to do it, but you need to stop yourself and ask whether you should.

So your book got published by a very good publisher, but you’re not happy with how it was classified. Instead of being pushed as mainstream fiction, your publisher slapped your book as “chick lit.” What do you do? Do you smile graciously and feel grateful for your success, or do you get huffy and slam the door on your literary future?

UK author Polly Courtney chose the latter and made a very splashy, public declaration at her book launch, of all things, that not only was she unhappy with Avon, an imprint of HarperCollins, classifying her book as “chick lit,” but that she was ditching her meanie publisher as well.

The outrage!
The horror!
The aching ridiculousness!

That she chose her book launch party to make her point is like the beagle telling me we’re out of tequila right before a party.

Polly insists that she’s a serious writer and that Avon was condescending to her by the merits of her cover art, editing, and classification of “chick lit.” She writes commercial fiction, NOT chick lit. Harrumph.

Admittedly, chick lit casts a wide net, but it’s not solely about women who are looking to meet the men of their dreams. That’s romance. Chick lit has evolved over the years to tackle weighty issues that appeal to and affect women. And what’s wrong with this? Let’s face it, women make up the bulk of readers, so I can think of worse fates than appealing to the largest readership. I can also think of worse fates than being published by a major publisher.

Overreacting

Prior to her book deal, Polly had self-pubbed two books. Those successes were the impetus behind HC offering her a three-book deal. I appreciate that Polly is mindful of her book’s classification because she doesn’t want to lose her already-established readership. She’s created a brand for herself, so logic would recommend the adage of “if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.”

But if her readership loves what she writes, then won’t they buy her books anyway? How many of you see an author whose books you enjoyed, and said, “Ugh! This got classified as chick lit? Not in this lifetime!” No, you probably just buy it. Chick lit isn’t that far away from mainstream…they’re shelved in the same place.

Of course, there is the editing to consider. Polly says that the editing process morphed her book into something quite unlike what she intended. This is troublesome because she had to approve of those edits. Editors can’t just rewrite your book and publish it la-dee-da. We need authors’ approval because authors do the rewrites.

None of this was a shock, so why didn’t she say something at the outset? None of my authors are shrinking violets when it comes to the integrity of their books, and we openly discuss the shape and tenor of their books before we offer a contract. Did she and her agent engage in a discussion with the editor about their vision for the books, or did they assume all would be lilacs and daisies?

It could very well be that Polly’s editor told her to pound sand and that they’d publish her book however they saw fit. It happens rarely, but it does happen. But if that was the case, then why did she go on to publish two other books with them? Yes, I realize the contract must be adhered to, butI would expect her agent to step in with a very large stick in order to protect her client. At least, that’s the way it would play out here in the US.

The long end of this is that I think there’s more going on than meets the eye. It’s disingenuous to take the money and run, and then kick in the teeth of the very people who published your book because things didn’t turn out as you’d hoped. I also think it’s a bit slimy to air your dirty Victoria Secrets in public because no one ever has both sides of the story. And really, who cares? It’s a private affair between you and your editor. It’s not like the checks bounced, or they’re scam publisher.

Was it her aim to kill sales for this book and punish Avon? Because, believe me, Avon will survive this kerfluffle. Will she? Or will readers see this very public display of bad manners and be turned off. I said it here, that an author’s behavior and demeanor affects sales.

I understand being angry, but what happened to being gracious and smiling through your gritted teeth, all the while promising that you’ll never get yourself embroiled in that particular situation again.

What would you do if it was your book? Would you voice your displeasure to the point of slitting your literary throat at a public event that is celebrating the birth of your book?

If so, why? What would be accomplished?

I’ll cop to having a crummy memory when it comes to mundane things like where I parked my car, or forgetting to include that important item in my daughter’s Care Package while she’s at grad school…y’know, the very reason why I’m sending the Care Package in the first place. In a word, my brain is like Swiss cheese.

Most of the time.

When it comes to publishing, I’m the elephant. No…I don’t look like one. Oh lord, please tell me I don’t look like one! But I have a memory like an elephant. And really, who thought that up…memory of an elephant? How do they know an elephant has a long memory? Ah, but I digress…where was I? Ah yes! My memory.

See, it’s like this. Most of the time I can remember people who queried me seven years ago. Either their name or their story will ring some bell in my melon, and I’ll go to my folder and look them up to see what I had to say about their work. Very handy. That folder is my golden goody box that holds all my impressions and correspondence with authors whom I rejected.

And some of that correspondence isn’t so flattering to the author. I understand rejection bites the big one, but anyone who retaliates by sending the editor a nastygram is setting some seriously icky karma because once they hit the Send button, thar be no take-backs. You can’t unring a bell, stick a genie back in the bottle, or sober up the beagle. And you can never, never, never deny being insidiously rude to an editor. Your name is affixed to that email for-e-ver.

Welcome to the Land of the Burnt Bridge. You may have forgotten all about the fact that you told an editor to go forth and multiply with the barnyard animal of her choosing – but she is apt to have saved some record of it. Which is what happened to me today. An author whose full I’d read and ultimately rejected seven years ago sent me an email, reminding me of how I’d been less than enamored with her book, and would I please look at it. The long and short of it was her publisher was closing their doors, making her homeless very soon, and would I like to have another bite at her apple.

Hello, golden goodie box, my delicious rejection folder where there are no take-backs. What ho! Oh my! The correspondence we’d shared hadn’t been at all lovey dovey. I read one, two, three of her emails. I couldn’t reject her a second time quickly enough. My hair burned and my teeth itched.

What’s sad that had our correspondence been vastly different, I may have entertained taking another look. But she burned her bridge with me, so she was shown the street faster than the beagle could yelp, “Quiet! I have a hangover.”

When an author bites back about a critique or a rejection, she essentially crosses off someone who could become an asset because at a later date. Quite the contrary, no one with half a firing synapse will look at that same author years later and welcome her with anything less that a grenade launcher and a suggestion she run. Fast.

We know rejection hurts, but that’s the way of the business…the world, really. Not everyone is going to want something you created, and you need to decide what kind of person you want to project to the world. A vindictive simpleton, or a classy professional? Grace under fire, or potty mouth? Just because you were rejected now doesn’t mean there won’t be an open door from that same editor down the line. Or that she may offer to send your work to someone else who might like it.

Don’t burn your bridges because you never know whether that editor you’d like to see as a garbage truck hood ornament now will be an influential advocate to you later on. This is a close-knit community and word spreads around like dry tinder. Make sure people will read your long-lost emails and smile with a warm heart. It’s so much more fun.

As for my long-lost author, the pièce de résistance was when she called me Ms. Behler. All those prior emails, and she calls me Ms. Behler. Hello, Rodney? I’m with you, buddy…this elephant don’t get no respect.