“Also, it makes it sound like the editor is a trainer and I am a golden retriever, but it is wise to offer praise. My editor made it clear she loved the book and in our discussions we’d confirmed that our visions of its best incarnation aligned, so she could also give me notes like, “I just feel like this section is so long and talky and boring,” and my trust in her and maybe my Stockholm syndrome were strong enough that I could hear her.”—Thoughts on Editing & Being Edited, by Michelle Wildgen
“Some college students, like my friend Suzanne, take aerobics classes. Some college students, like Sheryl Sandberg, teach aerobics classes. Other college students, like myself, lie around the dorm reading novels. No wonder I can’t remember meeting Sheryl Sandberg in college! She was already busy leaning in. I was busy leaning back on my sofa, with a good book and a nice cup of cocoa.”—Foreign Policy’s “Recline! Why ‘leaning in’ is killing us”
“My first clue that my book would not be a bestseller came in a marketing meeting about six months prior to publication. Actually there were several clues in that meeting. The first came when a marketing assistant suggested that I start a blog, and I had to explain that her bosses had acquired my book in part because I was a well-known blogger.”—“How Much My Novel Cost Me,” a great and honest essay by Emily Gould
“Earlier this month Amazon released a list of ‘100 Books to Read in a Lifetime.’ It joins Esquire’s ‘80 Books Every Man Should Read,’ The Telegraph’s ‘100 Novels Everyone Should Read,’ Huffington Post’s more manageable ‘30 Books You Should Read Before You’re 30,’ and The Guardian’s ambitious and inflexible ‘1000 Novels Everyone Must Read.’ These lists serve a purpose if you’re Jay Gatsby furnishing a library or if you’ve, say, just arrived from Mars and have no knowledge of Earth books. What they miss is that one of the greatest rewards of a reading life is discovery.”—The Million’s delightful “28 Books You Should Read If You Want To"
“I have very specific advice for aspiring writers: go to New York. And if you can’t go to New York, go to the place that represents New York to you, where the standards for writing are high, there are other people who share your dreams, and where you can talk, talk, talk about your interests. Writing books begins in talking about it, like most human projects, and in being close to those who have already done what you propose to do.”—Walter Kirn
FullStop: Today, we’re flooded with stories via the internet — on personal Tumblrs, Facebook and Twitter statuses, the abundance of magazines and newspapers that make their content free online. With so many narratives all around us, why do we still read (and pay for) novels?
Choire Sicha: Oh I’m fairly certain we… don’t any more. We do a little I guess! We all paid for Beyoncé’s album though didn’t we, how do you like that. People will pay for a book for a few reasons:
* The big books get bought because they’re guaranteed feel-good weepers. (Not a contradiction; see also Upworthy, dogs greeting homecoming veterans, and babies.)
* The littler books get bought for a few reasons, besides the “oh I have heard good things from a trusted purveyor of opinions and I wish to indulge in this book”: aspirational purchasing (related to aspirational sharing), which means “I want to be the kind of person who buys this book,” which is less obnoxious than “I want to be seen reading this book” which is less bad than “I want to tell people I’m reading this book.” I mean not that I haven’t done all those things, so you know. Then there are identity reasons; Tao Lin is bought by a cadre of young smart people who want to be in some sort of Smart Kids scene. And then there’s the good old capitalist market-maker: exclusivity. You can’t get it anyhow anyway? Then you’ll buy it.
The New York Times Book Review: You spent your early years as an editor at the New American Library and the Dial Press. What are your fondest memories of working in publishing? What has been the most significant change you’ve witnessed in the field?
E.L. Doctorow: At New American Library, a mass-market reprinter, we were publishing books with a price of 50 or 75 cents or a dollar and a quarter for a huge novel, and distributing them in great numbers all over the country. Or we’d buy a good first novel that had sold maybe 2,000 copies in hardcover, and print a hundred thousand and put it in every airport and railroad and bus station in the country. That was wonderfully satisfying work. NAL’s list was eclectic — publishing Mickey Spillane, but also Faulkner; Erskine Caldwell’s “Tobacco Road,” but also Susanne K. Langer’s “Philosophy in a New Key.” We published “The Signet Classic Shakespeare,” of which I was the house editor, and a science list which fell to me to handle. It was all very exciting, reading these books, bidding for the reprint rights, entertaining proposals, and dealing with the likes of Ayn Rand and Ian Fleming. But the game changed with the advent of the trade paperback. Trade publishers were now keeping the reprint rights for lists of their own. And so the mass-market business changed, and some of the reprinters went to what they called “originals” — genre products like thrillers, romances and so on. You can still find good classic public-domain titles at the big paperback houses like NAL, but they’re not freely distributed as they used to be — they are mostly on educational lists so far as I can tell.
I moved over to Dial, a trade publisher, in the mid 1960s, and it was a very exciting place to be — not only because this was the Sixties but because your most creative juices were required just to keep that house in business. I was editing Mailer, James Baldwin. I published William Kennedy’s first novel, Ernest J. Gaines, Thomas Berger and a book by Joan Baez. But also a hoax called “Report From Iron Mountain,” a satirically inspired, dryly written presumed government study claiming that peace was not only unattainable but undesirable. This was during the Vietnam War, you see. The book was covered on the front page of The New York Times and hit the best-seller list.
Conglomeration — the acquisition of houses by large corporations — is the story of how things have changed. Trade publishing was never purely a business. How could it be when a house’s prime assets were the tastes of its editors? You floated the consequential books with the money you earned with the commercial things on your list. Publishing was a cottage industry. People loved to be in it and took its low salaries in return for its creative excitements. A house’s balance sheet could veer from good to dismal and back again from year to year. That’s because it didn’t offer products that were endlessly the same, like breakfast cereals or automobile tires. The hunches of its editors were very hard to quantify on a balance sheet. Now, wanting publishing to be a business like any other, the big conglomerates naturally like to increase their profit margins from one year to the next. There’s a pressure on editors to sober up and produce books that earn their keep. Oddly the conglomerates have more money to play with, and so, perversely, they may be less daring, less freewheeling. This is not true of the best of them, of course. Good books are still published with vigor and are still major acts of the culture, but the corporate ethos makes it probably not as much fun.
“He would write it for the reason he felt that all great literature, fiction and nonfiction, was written: truth comes out, in the end it always comes out. He would write it because he felt he had to.”—Stephen King, The Shining
“Anyone who marries a writer, man or woman, hasn’t married the bookkeeper next door. A writer is a writer.”—Lillian Ross, in a Nieman Lab annotation (by Elon Green) of her 1950 New Yorker profile of Ernest Hemingway
“If a painting really works down in your heart and changes the way you see, and think, and feel, you don’t think, ‘oh, I love this picture because it’s universal,’ ‘I love this painting because it speaks to all mankind.’ That’s not the reason anyone loves a piece of art. It’s a secret whisper from an alleyway. Psst, you. Hey kid. Yes you.”—This, from The Goldfinch, about art, is how I feel about books.
“There is a great freedom to it. You set your own hours and pace, you write without anyone looking over your shoulder and telling you what to do. It either happens or it doesn’t, but when it does there is an amazing sense of fulfillment to it. It’s like improvising jazz on a piano or saxophone. What comes out may have roots in something else, but you’ve made it yours.”—Michael Connelly, to The New York Times, on the best thing about being a writer
“What happens when a Canadian author receives the Nobel Prize for literature? Too much happiness, if such a thing is possible when it comes to book sales.”—The Globe & Mail’s “Alice Munro’s Book Sales Soar”