Behler Blog

I – I think I’m in love. Every spare moment I have, I think of my new love and reach out – tenderly, with tentative fingers – hoping that my heart won’t be crushed as it has so many times before.

No, no, I haven’t ditched The Hubby. God forbid. My mother would kill me. I’m talking about a manuscript that I’m currently reading. As writers, we all know what it’s like to fall in love with our writing, our stories. But what about the impact your works make on those who reside on the other side of the desk. Our lives aren’t all about herding wayward beagles and press releases. It’s about the fire that ignites when reading a fabulous manuscript.

I look at this step like a new boyfriend. Vic Hamilton – my sophomore year in high school – comes to mind. I wasn’t sure if he was my type or not. I tended to avoid the super popular guys because they tended to be jerks and want what I wasn’t willing to give up. He was the total surfer dude; blond (I prefer dark haired guys), blue eyes, and the cutest dimple in his chin (that looked like a great target for my knuckles at a later date).

I took a chance on the guy because he was friendly and funny. Hey, back in high school, how deep and esoteric does one get? The more time we spent together, the better time I had. He always thought of fun and different things to do; things I wouldn’t have thought of – and weren’t illegal.  Just as I started to really like the guy, it all fell apart, and he dumped me, the bastid. When he started dating that flooze Amy Hartman, I knew that his libido couldn’t outlast me, so it was on to fresher, greener, more pliable pastures.

That’s where I am with this manuscript. The first page sucked me in like revved up Hoover. The second, third, and fourth pages did the same. Before I knew it, I’d moved from my desk to my easy chair (after tossing the beagle off) and nestled in for the next couple hours. Just like Vic, I was smitten.

We’ve dated ourselves into the middle of the manuscript, and I’m afraid at how much I love this. After all, the threat of falling apart lurks around every chapter – like it has so many times before. Is this one different? It’s been six months since I signed an author, and out of the hundreds of queries that slip through my fingers, I’ve only requested fulls on six.  Some of those broke up with me, others I broke up with them.

Dry spells suck stale Twinkie cream. I’m ready to fall in love again, and this manuscript has me singing in the shower. With every chapter I read, the other part of my brain is working on promotion and advertising. Oh, how the reviewers will love this. And the movie possibiliites on this are ripe, ripe, ripe. It’s like I envision us as a couple, married with a couple kids.

I hate projecting into the future, so this part really bugs me. I’ve had too many great possibilities melt like those Alaskan ice roads (totally hooked on that damn show), so I’m trying my best to shove my excitement under my hat. But it’s not easy. My fingers keep reaching for the phone to offer the author a contract right now, and the beagle is performing double duty at keeping my margarita glass full and using my business phone as a chewie toy.

I’ve considered blowing off the rest of the day to finish my new love and see if all the promises it made to me about fidelity, unending worship, and everlasting loyalty carry through to the last page. If it does, I can’t wait to send out announcements of another impending marriage.

Hmm…that would make me a polygamist, wouldn’t it? I’m good with that provided all my other spouses are happy. Ach, here’s to love!

When I dig into pages, I have a little list next to me that gets filled in as I read.  I’d like to share it so writers can hopefully analyze their writing with an editor’s perspective in mind.

The Hook – did the story pull me in right away and wrestle me to the floor like a rabid dog?

The Conflict – did I feel that the “what is at stake in the story” aspects produce proper amounts of tension, and the authors use that tension?

The Characters – did I align myself with the characters? Were they compelling and three dimensional? Did I care about them and what happened to them? Do they react logically to the unfolding story and conflict?

Setting and Mood – did the author suck me in and make me feel like I was really in the story, living it?

Pace and Style – how well does the author move the story along, and how effective is their writing style – their voice?

Resolution – does the story have a satisfying ending, or do I walk away feeling cheated or unfulfilled?

Grammar and Spelling – eeeek! Do I really need to go there?

Overall enjoyment – after I finish a story, I let it marinate and try not to formulate any strong opinions. Am I still thinking about the story three days later, or did I forget it the minute I put it down? This is an important litmus test for me because I can love a story the minute I finish it, but how do I feel three days later? This tells me whether it’s a story I really believe in and will fight to the death to sell. An example of this is when I read a story and loved it. I wanted it, but my submissions committee had some concerns. A week or so passed, and I couldn’t get the story out of my head. I called the agent – who was ready to tear me a new orifice – and told her I wanted the book after all. That book is going to be a big hit; I just feel it in my bones. It all started because I thoroughly enjoyed it.

If all systems are go, I order up a pitcher of the beagle’s margaritas and contact the agent. Negotiations; that’s another post altogether and requires more tequilla than we currently have in stock.

Overworked Underpaid Editor: “I’m sorry, Father, it’s been exactly one hour since my last confession.”

Patient Catholic Priest: “My child, why do you insist on plaguing me so much? Don’t you realize there are other people in line who have real problems?”

Overworked Underpaid Editor: “Hey, I resent that. These are problems that make me think ugly, vile thoughts. Thoughts of spilling blood and turning people into hood ornaments.”

Patient Catholic Priest:“Have you thought about getting a new job?”

Overworked Underpaid Editor: “No, Father, not once. You see, I adore my job…”

Patient Catholic Priest: “Yes, but you complain so much.”

Overworked Underpaid Editor: “Bear with me, Father? Just this one last time?”

Patient Catholic Priest: “One last time, my child.”

Overworked Underpaid Editor: “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. I wrote a pissy – ah, sorry, Father – terse email to an author today. I shouldn’t have, but it all got the better of me.”

Patient Catholic Priest: “What got the better of you?”

Overworked Underpaid Editor: “See, I get about 200 queries a month, and that’s a lot of reading and processing. Because I have such a load that comes into my inbox every day, I created this thing called ‘Submissions Guidelines.’ I did it to streamline the query process – to make my job easier. It tells authors exactly what we’re looking for, what we won’t accept, and the information that must be included in the query letter. Yet day in and day out, I get queries that make it obvious they never read my guidelines.”

Patient Catholic Priest: “Like what?”

Overworked Underpaid Editor: “Fantasy, young adult, mysteries, romance. Today, I just lost it and finally snapped. I told this author that had she grown a pair of eyeballs and looked at our guidelines, she would have spared us from wasting each others’ time. But since her brain was rectally inverted, she hadn’t bothered to check anything more than to determine if we have a heartbeat. Oh, it didn’t stop there, Father. I yammered on about how I was now forced to take time out of my day to send her a rejection letter because WE DON’T PUBLISH WHAT SHE WRITES. It, um, sort of took a downward spiral from there.”

Patient Catholic Priest: “Dearie me. What happened?” (whispering from the confessional booth) “Sister Mary Margaret, fire up some popcorn. This is getting good.”

Overworked Underpaid Editor: “Well, the author wrote back and told me to, um, uh, go forth and multiply with a rabid mongoose. I wrote her back and told her to make merry with the rotting corpse of a yak. Look, Father, I realize I was beyond naughty, but I don’t understand why authors don’t read the submissions guidelines. They aren’t there to amuse the tourists, but to help us from wasting each others’ time. Instead, I eat up time and resources answering people who don’t even write what we produce. Or they don’t give us what we ask for.

“For instance, I took out a hit contract on an author who didn’t give me the genre and word count in her query letter, even though I specifically state that in the guidelines. And the week before that, I sent a letter bomb to an author who queried me to ask me if it was ok to query me. What the fuc…heck is that about? Last month it was a query about a cookbook. COOKBOOKS!

“What makes my blood turn to liquid magma is that smart authors investigate publishers. They read the submissions guidelines and take a close look at the books we’ve published. They may even order one or two to get an idea of the quality of our editing and marketability of our books. I have piles and piles of query letters that I use as bird cage lining for my cockatoo, Screeching Mantis. It’s sort of taken its toll on me. I’m bad. I know this.”

Patient Catholic Priest: “Yes, I can see where one could be driven to commit heinous acts. I suffer from the same problems – with errant editors who complain a lot, for instance. Here’s your penance; do fifteen stations of the cross at the Mission Viejo Library, call your mother more often, eat all your vegetables, and refuse to answer anyone who hasn’t read your guidelines. The cookbook writers? Forget them. Same goes for the YA, mystery, and romance writers. Toss ‘em all. Writers are professionals, and if they can’t be bothered to follow common courtesy, then they don’t deserve your attention. Oh, and cancel the hit contract on that author.”

Overworked Underpaid Editor: “Yes, Father, I will, immediately. And thank you. You have no idea how much better I feel; like a huge weight has been lifted off my shoulders.”

Patient Catholic Priest: “And no more naughty letters or letter bombs. You are to correspond in a professional manner.”

Overworked Underpaid Editor: “Yes, Father.”

Patient Catholic Priest:“And, my child?”

Overworked Underpaid Editor: “Yes, Father?”

Patient Catholic Priest: “Try a shrink next time. You’re not even Catholic.”

This is a common lament from writers. Their not-so-genteel remarks to me often include comments of, “if ONLY you’d read on to chapter 12, you would have understood the story.”

Dude. Seriously? If I have to read through eleven chapters in search of your nugget, I’d be better off having root canal sans Novocain, or a margarita with no salt because chances are that nugget doesn’t exist.

“I can’t explain my story in three chapters.”

What you’re really telling me is that you can’t organize your thoughts in a professional manner. No one is asking you to explain your story in three chapters – that would make for a pretty short book. We’re asking that you set up your story in those first three chapters so we know where it’s headed. That’s the purpose of those first chaps. If you can’t get your point across in that lengthy – yes, you read that right; lengthy – amount of space, then you’re probably a victim of rambling-itis. Readers are a sophisticated lot with short attention spans. Either get to the point or forget it.

“My story requires deeper reading.”

Please. This comment always makes me think of the frustrated artist who paints three-day-old meatloaf in earth tone metallics and frames them in cut-out garbage can lids, and screams, “No one understands me!” Well, yeah, we don’t. I have doubts these complaining writers afford that kind of patience to the books they buy, so why is their work any different? It’s hubris to insist that your story requires deeper reading, like you’re Deepak Chopra or something, and we lowly agents and editors should shove everything off our desks in order to pay homage to your gilded words.

These types of statements always make me think that the author doth protesteth too much. It’s tell and no show. If you can’t show me that your book requires deeper reading within the first three chapters, I’m willing to bet that the next twelve won’t reveal any epiphanies either. After all, we’re not stupid. Well, some of us are, but that’s a whole other post.

My point is that these cries of outrage are hobbyist, newbie writer stuff. I have never had an experienced, brilliant writer insist that I “keep with it.” They understand the minds of readers and get on with the business of writing a captivating story rather than complaining that we don’t “get” their three-day-old painted meatloaf.