Topic 7: Wrestling with Endings

Facing a month with five Tuesdays, we were very fortunate to have our much-admired colleague Jane Yolen offer to choose a topic for us and lead off. 

Response 1: Jane Yolen

“Endings,” the conference director directed. “Talk about endings.” She was assuming that after almost 300 published books I had some idea of how to make an ending. Assuming that elves don’t sneak in at midnight to finish each and every book for me. Assuming that the editor doesn’t write all my final pages. Assuming that I have more to say than just: “A good ending is one that is both inevitable and surprising,” which is really all that you have to know.

        

Besides, how can I talk about endings without first saying a word about beginnings? They are the poles of a book, story, even an essay. They balance one another out. If the beginning holds the DNA of the story, the ending has to be able to prove that.

        

The traditional ending solves the problem, dilemma, or conflict of the main character. The loose bits all tied up. Usually (especially in children’s books) the ending is happy or at least satisfying. Once Max is home his supper is still hot; once Charlie gets to live in the Chocolate Factory his life is good; once the LittlePrincess finds her father, the book is done. Finished. Over.

        

But think of this: The ending without the beginning is simply a block, a stoppage, a single bookend, one side of an equation, omega without an alpha.

        

I am better at beginnings. Can write them all day—and I do. I can show you a file cabinet full of beginnings. Nowhere do I have even a small folder of endings. Most authors don’t write endings to start a book. But it is the endings that people leave the books with, so in some ways the endings are the most important part.

        

As I thought about endings—and being a lover of fairy tales—I knew immediately that the deeply rooted last line in folk stories, “And they lived happily ever after,” is the core of what we think we know about endings. We hear it always in our hindbrain because it’s the last line most of us in the West have grown up with. That line stops the story at the point of greatest happiness. The wedding, the homecoming, the mystery unraveled, the villain disposed of, families reunited, babies born. If we went on in the story Cinderella, she might be whispered about in court: after all, her manners are not impeccable, she always has smudges of ash on her nose, and no one can trace her bloodline back enough generations. Perhaps she has grown fat eating all that rich food in the castle, and the prince’s eye has strayed.

        

If we went on in The Three Little Pigs, the brother who builds with bricks will have kicked the other two layabouts out of his house, or hired them to run his successful company and they—angry at their lower status—would plot to kill him. But, having little imagination, they would do it the only way they know how, by trying to boil him in the pot that still holds the memory of the wolf’s demise, so of course the brick-building pig would find them out. 

        

But modern books pose a different problem. They present harder choices. It’s no longer fairy-tale endings we are talking about, but the other stuff, more realistic, stronger, difficult, and maybe not happy-ever-after stuff.

The biggest three problems for me about endings are:

        

         1. I don’t know how to plot, and how do you have an ending without a plot? 

        

         2. You have to get over the great wall of Middle to get there, and I hate Middles.

          

         3. What happens if the character insists on a different road than the one you

         thought you had planned?

Whether I think I know the ending before I start, or think I really know it halfway through the book, the right ending always surprises me as much as any reader. And what surprises me the most is how inevitable the ending really is. Even if I hadn’t known how things were supposed to go, the story had known it all the time.

        

When I wrote the historical novel The Gift of Sarah Barker—“Romeo and Juliet in a Shaker community” is what I called it to myself—I expected the boy Abel and the girl Sarah to fall in love, which they did. Have adventures, which (in a way) they did. And leave the Shaker community, which they certainly did, because the Shakers did not believe in any boy/girl or man/woman (and certainly no homosexual) pairings at all. Shakers were meant to be as asexual, as innocent, as angels. But I also expected that the two would get married, have a child, and Abel would go off to fight and die in the Civil War, leaving Sarah to return to the Shaker community with her baby, there to become her baby’s “sister” as her own mother had done with her. It was a perfect arc for the novel. In the beginning is the ending. But it was not the arc my novel wanted to take. When I reached the end, I so loved my characters and what they had gone through to earn their love, I knew the book couldn’t turn into tragedy. Not even a Cold Mountain kind of transcendent love tragedy. Sometimes a book earns a powerful tragic ending. But not this one, it needed a positive ending. Actually, it insisted on such an ending. So Abel lived a long, good life with Sarah, helped raise their child, not only because I couldn’t bear to kill him young, and not only because I knew that Sarah would never go back to the Shakers dragging a child with her, but because the story wouldn’t allow it. So I discovered the ending as I began to write it, as it turned away from tragedy into the proper love story it was meant to be all along.

        

So perhaps one way to look at endings is a process of discovering what the book itself wants and needs, and in that way also finding the ending that you—the author—wants. Maybe the moral of this is that sometimes you have to write the wrong ending many times till finally, by a process of elimination or sheer fatigue, the right one gets written.

I want my novels to end with what I call “the getting of wisdom.” Authors have major themes in their lives that they tend to hit over and over again, even when they don’t realize that’s the story they’re telling. So Hannah/Chaya comes home to the future with an understanding of the past in The Devil’s Arithmetic. Young Merlin at the end of *The Young Merlin Trilogy knows that he has a destiny, and a child to care for, though he is barely out of childhood himself. Marina and Jed in Armageddon Summer find out that they have to and can make choices for themselves, and not get carried willy-nilly into their parents’ craziness ever again. The getting of wisdom for the characters—and I must admit, for this author as well.

        

Because make no mistake about endings: though in real life they are final, and we have no do-overs, in fictional life this may not truly be The End. Especially not when the publisher waves a rather large check in your direction, and promises much marketing. . .

Here are three things that you should NOT do when you get to that END:

1. No deus ex machina ending. No glorious messenger arriving with the king’s pardon out of the blue. Your characters, and what they have done throughout the book, must be the ones to have set in motion what happens at the end.

2. No changing horses or plot or conflict in midstream in order to make things more exciting at the end. You have to have everything grow organically to earn the ending.

         3. Don’t give us 300+ pages of a book in which we are totally invested in the

         story, only to give us the climax offstage. Because after that, no ending will seem worth the hard ride.

Here are three things you SHOULD do when you get to that END:

1. Deliver what you promised. This means you must be true and logical to what has gone on before. The last page, the last line is not where you give us a Glasgow kiss. (That’s a head butt, for those of you who don’t do Things Scottish.)

2. If the book is meant to be really and truly over (not just a set-up for books 2–7) tie up the loose ends, offer the explanations, and then leave.

3. Brevity in an ending is to be desired. Not forty more damned pages while you let us know what EVERY SINGLE CHARACTER will be doing for the rest of their lives, not to mention their children and grandchildren.

Oh and that last line: the kicker, the killer. Make it sing. Make it memorable. Let it rise to the numinous. Have it break out into the ether.

         From Where the Wild Things Are: Max gets home, finds his dinner waiting—And it was still hot.

From George Orwell’s Animal Farm: The creatures outside looked from pig to man, and from man to pig, and from pig to man again; but already it was impossible to say which was which. 

         From Orwell’s 1984: He loved Big Brother.

From Charlotte’s Web: It is not often that someone comes along who is a true friend and a good writer. Charlotte was both. (Okay, I cheated on the last as it’s two lines.) But that’s what you aim for. THAT kind of last line.

Response 2:  Sandy

“Hear!  Hear!” I say to Jane Yolen’s comments about endings. “I agree!” “Ditto!” And “What she said!”

Her advice on what endings must do and be is so insightful, I have to admit she left me wondering what I might add. “Hold on,” I told myself, “this is a blog about personal experiences in the writing trade, and nobody else—not even Jane Yolen—has had a single one of your personal experiences.” 

“True enough,” I answered myself, and proceeded to recall my personal experience of the wrestling match known as finding the right ending. The first thing that came to mind is a common plaint I hear when I speak to groups of very young aspiring writers: “I’ve been writing this story and it just goes on and on and on and I don’t know how to end it.” 

“Take a look at these three ingredients of a story,” I suggest. “Character. Problem. Resolution. Who is your main character? What does she want? What’s standing in her way? What does she do about that? How does it all turn out? It’s that simple. When you know what your main character wants, you know your ending. Either she gets it or she doesn’t. The middle is all about when and where and how and why.”

Okay, it’s not exactly “that simple.” But it is simpler than writing incident after incident after incident of a never-ending saga. In theory, anyway. The right ending grows organically out of the right beginning and the right middle. In practice, things can get complicated again.

So here I sit with twenty-five early drafts of Here Comes Gosling!, an eventually published picture book. Ten of these drafts have completely different endings from one another and from the final version. The story, in brief:  Froggie and Rabbit eagerly prepare for the arrival of guests—Goose, Gander, and especially new baby Gosling. Froggie can hardly wait to meet her! But babies rarely respond as anticipated. Froggie’s enthusiastic greeting inspires horrendous honks of discontent. Froggie retreats, discouraged, while the others try in vain to placate Gosling. Now Froggie is perfectly content to wait as long as the honking persists. While he waits, he hums . . . and then sings . . . and then dances. A captivated Gosling stops her honking to watch, and their friendship begins. The visit culminates happily with a picnic, a story, and a sleepy farewell.

Basically, it’s a story about waiting. How hard it is to do. How what you’re expecting isn’t always what you get. How patience can eventually pay off.

In my first draft, there wasn’t even a Gosling. Instead, Froggie and Rabbit needed to head out of town to meet a new baby bunny. After some frustrating preparation and much delay, they arrive. Froggie announces his gift for the bunny is a story he will read to her himself. Last line: And he did. Yes, the beginning and middle were just as dull flat. It was a story about waiting, all right. 

I tried again, with basically the same beginning and middle about getting ready to leave town. Beginning: “I’m taking a trip, Froggie,” Rabbit said. “Would you like to join me?” Well, that’s not too bad. Trips promise fun. Of course, Froggie says yes. Middle: Again, there’s much tidying up and packing and fussing about. The ending? (Please forgive me. I usually don’t share this dreadful stuff with others.) “Let’s go!”  

They never even get to leave town, let alone meet the new bunny! A clear case of a hopeful beginning defeated by a nonexistent middle that then leads to a flop of an ending that’s trying way too hard to convince the reader something exciting is going on here.

I hope you’ve forgiven me. I forgave myself and pushed on. Many times.  Eventually, the bunny disappeared, the trip was abandoned, the geese showed up at Rabbit’s house instead, and the honking began. All very nice, but this time I got myself tangled up in a fancy-schmancy, quasi-poetic beginning: The sun was still half asleep when Froggie heard a tap-tappity-tapping at his door. In spite of everything else finally falling into place, that beginning eventually trapped me in another deadly ending: The sun was already half-asleep when they all headed home. “Shhhhh,” Froggie said.

The sun is not—and should not be!—a character in this story!

It was never a matter of just reworking the ending. The whole story needed to be revised and revised and revised until it flowed. Until everything it needed to flow was included and everything that kept it from flowing was gone. And when it flowed, it flowed right from the beginning through the middle to the ending it couldn’t live without. As Froggie progresses from eager anticipation to confused disappointment to renewed enchantment, Gosling also changes. When we first meet her, her honk of dismay is loud and frightening. Then, as she comes to enjoy Froggie’s antics, her honk becomes “a soft, sweet sound.” And finally, the last line, the only possible last line after a long, hectic, hard-won happy day comes as Froggie finishes reading her a story: And the new baby Gosling snored a goosey snore, “HonKKKKkkkkKKKKkkkk . . .”

And on that quiet note, David, I hand wrestling with endings over to you.

Response 3: David

Thank you, Jane and Sandy, for bringing so much wisdom and practical advice to this month’s subject. Sandy, you lamented following Jane’s grand opening. How do you think I feel following both of you?

But name me one writer who doesn’t have an opinion about writing and I’ll show you where he’s buried. You want good endings, how about the one in Barbara Robinson’s fabulous story, The Best Christmas Pageant Ever? In the beginning we meet the six Herdman kids, who lie and steal and smoke cigars and disrupt school and traumatize kids, parents, and teachers alike. They take over the annual Christmas pageant at school and threaten to wreck it.

But things change in surprising ways. The last sentence in the book could only be uttered by a Herdman, and you wouldn’t “get it” if you hadn’t just witnessed a remarkable transformation in Gladys Herdman, who stands there yelling at the audience, “Hey! Unto you a child is born!” I’ve read that book a number of times. Every time I get goose bumps and tear up with joy. That’s what a good ending can do.

Jane and Sandy, you both give good examples of how authors struggle to find just the right way to end a story. Part of the mystery of writing is that we don’t always see the whole vision when we set out. It’s like working a jigsaw puzzle and getting down to the last, odd-shaped hole in the picture, before the final piece, the ending, falls into place.

Jane spoke about novels and Sandy brought in picture books. I don’t write novels but occasionally write long nonfiction books. I think in my next response it might be fun to talk about endings to nonfiction books and maybe even poetry. But this time I’ll pick up on Sandy’s comments about picture books.

Sandy, I think what makes the ending of a picture book important is that it can trigger the reaction in the young listener that authors love to hear: “Read it again!” Some endings are sad but as Jane points out, children’s literature abounds with happy endings, or at least ones that seem fair and fulfilling and maybe inspiring. I loved Pat Brisson’s book, Wanda’s Roses. Her heroine cleans up a junky lot and enlists the help of the adults she meets, all of whom know that the thorn bush Wanda keeps calling a rosebush will never bloom no matter how hard she tries to encourage it.

In the end, Wanda’s enthusiasm and trust inspire the adults to do more than help clean up. The last sentence says it all. And later that summer the whole lot was filled with the biggest, most beautiful, sweetest-smelling roses that anyone had ever seen—just as Wanda had always said it would be. With such a satisfying ending, the only thing left for a child to say is, “Read it again!”

I remember other books like that, stories that left our daughter Robin and her brother Jeff begging for another reading, and another. What a great way to expand vocabulary and engage thinking and imagination in children. Of course the whole story has to be good but the ending matters hugely.

The thirtieth thing I wrote, in 1967, was a picture book called Little Turtle’s Big Adventure. A small turtle loses its home by a pond when a road is built through it and must set off in search of another place to live. The journey is long and lonely and sad. Eventually a pond is discovered and the turtle settles into its new life. I knew all that would happen before I started writing. What I didn’t know was how I would end the story. At the end of the first draft I still didn’t know. I don’t remember how many drafts it took before the final piece of the puzzle revealed itself but, eventually, it did, and it seemed totally inevitable and right. He closed his eyes and took a nice long nap in the warm sun. It was a happy conclusion to a desperate adventure that ended well. Captain Kangaroo read the story on his show.

Sandy, Jane, have you ever used the kind of ending that I call, for lack of a better term, the boomerang? The beginning returns as the ending. The first sentence in When Cows Come Home begins, When cows come home/At the end of the day. The last sentence is, Farmer winks/And milks away/When cows come home/At the end of the day. Between the first and last lines the cows go off on a rambunctious holiday behind the farmer’s back but, in the end, I needed to bring them back to reality, back to the barn, home to be milked. I tried all sorts of endings before I realized that what I was trying to say is that some things don’t change. No matter what, cows come home at the end of the day. I think young readers and listeners feel reassured when they can count on the day ending the way it should.

Okay, dear Sandy, back to you for your second hitch at this wrestling business. 

Response 4: Sandy

Yes!  David, I couldn’t agree with you more about the sheer perfection of Barbara Robinson’s last line in The Best Christmas Pageant Ever. It’s the perfect ending to a perfect book. Tears of joy, indeed.

In fact, I ran downstairs—okay, limped downstairs with my recently bashed knee—to my autographed-copy bookshelf to read it again. Then I remembered I’d lent it to a friend. (I really need two copies of that book, one to lend and one to keep in case the other never gets returned.) But here’s what I was looking for: Is that unexpected but totally appropriate shout of “Hey! Unto you a child is born!” really the last line? Don’t the other characters react? Doesn’t Barbara want to say a few words about the religious and social significance of that line? To me, that line in that context has its traditional meaning, but it also applies to our need to wake up and pay attention to all children, including the very challenging Herdmans of this world.

Nope. There is nothing after that line. There is no reaction from the other characters. There is no speech from the author. It’s not surprising to learn that Barbara Robinson has a theater background. She knows that when the problem is solved (the pageant is uniquely saved), the tension of the story drops and there’s only one thing left to do—get off the stage! By doing so without so much as a backward glance, Barbara accomplishes exactly what you’ve advised, David: Want to think more deeply about what the other characters’ reactions might be? Want to explore the meaning of the story further? Read the book again!

Oh, my. You really sat us down at the feet of a master, David. Now there’s an even longer line of wise words for me to follow. What can I possibly add?

Well, I can answer your question about the boomerang ending. Yes, absolutely, I’ve done it before and I’ll do it again. For example, there’s my second book about Rabbit and Froggie, What a Party! My original title for that book was What a Day!, and I wish the marketing folks hadn’t messed with it. (But that’s another topic we can take up later.) For me, this is a story about the fullness of a day. Froggie wakes up in his comfy bed in his cozy home, wildly excited about attending his grandfather’s birthday party. Off he goes, and, indeed, he has a wonderful time. But the party ends. Everyone’s tired. It’s time to go home. Froggie doesn’t want to leave—ever! Eventually, he does go home, as we all must, and rediscovers the comfort and coziness waiting for him there. It’s a fine place to be at the start and at the end of a lovely day. If the reader wants to linger a bit longer at Grandpa’s party, of course, he or she can read the book again.

Since you’re moving on to nonfiction and poetry endings in your next post, David, I think I’ll say a bit more about plays. In fact, I’ll talk about boomerang endings AND plays. Right now, I’m working on a new script called Walking Toward America. It’s based on my dear friend Ilga’s experiences in Europe during World War II. When Ilga was between the ages of 10 and 17, she and her family fled their home in Riga, Latvia; spent time in a forced labor camp in Germany; walked over 500 miles in two wintry months; spent several years in Displaced Persons camps; and finally sailed to America through the worst Atlantic storm in many years. Ilga has written about these events in a series of short stories and also in a longer essay for a community life story project. So I have plenty of material to draw from. More than enough, as you’ll see.

After much thought and shifting around of those jigsaw puzzle pieces you mention, David, I’ve decided to start the play with Ilga on the ship; then, as the storm is at its worst, cut back to a joyful time in Riga; go through the labor camp and the long, treacherous walk westward; and finally cut back to the ship again as the storm ends and Ilga and her family arrive in New York harbor. The end. That leaves out about six years in DP camps. It also leaves out Ilga’s delightful story about her family’s final destination of Oak Lawn, IL, where they’re introduced to the wonder of Wonder Bread. 

Why omit such rich material? Believe me, it hasn’t been an easy choice. But even though there were challenges in those DP camps (two or more families to a room, for instance) and great humor in that loaf of Wonder Bread, at those points, the family is safe. And “safe” means a drop in the story’s tension. Recognizing that, I feel I have to stick with the high-tension moments, mention the DP camps in passing, then get her to America, and get her off the stage. By using “the boomerang ending,” I’m able to do that. No P.S. about the Wonder Bread, just as there’s no P.S. after Barbara Robinson’s final line. 

That said, I’ll get off the stage myself. And that’s your cue, David.

Response 5: David

Sandy, you and Jane have covered endings of fiction very well. For my second go at the subject, I’ve decided to tackle endings for nonfiction and poetry. These share much in common with fiction but there are differences.

My most recent nonfiction title, Mammoth Bones and Broken Stones, tells of the archaeological quest to identity the first people to migrate to the North American continent. One advantage of writing nonfiction is that we frequently know how our narrative will end before we begin. In my case, the answer was that we still don’t know with certainty who the original settlers were, which means that we also can’t be sure of where they came from or how and when they arrived. Swell! So how, I wondered, can I end a book for a quest that hasn’t yet succeeded?

Sandy? Jane? You publish nonfiction too. How do you handle this situation? If it were fiction, I might introduce the character(s) and the situation; struggle through various efforts to resolve, improve, or accept it; and look for a perfectly timed, dynamite ending. As a reader I figure I deserve a reward at the end, something to keep me thinking about what I just read.

I decided to treat the beginning and ending of Mammoth Bones like bookends, sandwiching the story of the search between them. I went back to my beginning and strengthened early statements about how hard it would be for scientists to ever determine the absolute, irrefutable answer. That set up my ending scenario, at least in my head, long before I got to it. Once there, instead of ending with one memorable sentence—sorry, Jane, I really tried!—I went with a cluster of concluding thoughts:

            

Who were North America’s first people? We still don’t know. It may have taken thousands of years and wave after wave of new arrivals from different locations to finally settle here. Whether they came on foot or by boat, they came. Our quest goes on.

Do you ever tear up during the closing scene of a movie or play? I do. Sometimes I need a minute or two before trying to speak. A good ending gets me every time. This goes for poetry too. I want to mention poetic endings before wrapping up. Poems that end memorably tend to be the ones we go back to reread. Poems in rhyme and meter can be harder to manipulate than poems in free verse, but even so it’s always good for readers to feel that the poet left them at the right place and time.

Sandy, I know that you and Jane can quote great examples from your own work but here are three examples. One is mine; the other two are not bad either. (Me winking.)

            1. From “Introduction to Poetry,” in Sailing Alone Across the Room by Billy

            Collins

            Subject: How to enjoy a poem.

            Ending: They begin beating it with a hose

            to find out what it really means.

            2. From “On the Road,” in Delights and Shadows by Ted Kooser

            Subject: Picking up a pebble on the road

            Ending: Put it back, something told me,

            put it back and keep walking.

            3. From “Making Ready,” in Pirates by David L. Harrison

            Subject: Pirate captain watching green recruits loading ship

            Ending: They’ll learn soon enough to be pirates,

            for now let ’em count and dream.

Perfect endings are rare and good ones are hard to come by in any genre. They can’t all be blue ribbon winners. Whether delivering a speech, writing a picture book, finishing a novel, creating a play, or composing a song, writers sweat more over beginnings and endings than anywhere else in their work. In the end, it’s worth it.

Jane, thanks for bringing this one to the table. Sandy, as always, it has been a pleasure.

David

Topic 6: Pros and Cons of Having an Agent

Response 1: David

Sandy, I know that writers with agents are asked why they have one and writers without are asked why they don’t. I don’t so I’ll go first.

That’s not quite accurate. I share a fine agent—Wendy Schmalz—when I work with you. Wendy has represented you, and therefore me, on Dude, the collection of stories, plays, and poems for boy readers that we did with Dutton.

Nor can I say I’ve never had an agent of my own because somewhere in the dim past, twenty-five or thirty years ago, I tried an agent for about a year. We weren’t a good mix and went our separate ways. More about that shortly.

There are certainly pros to having a good agent. Many publishers don’t want to look at manuscripts from authors they don’t know. Dealing with agents cuts down on the mass of unsolicited submissions to read and in these days of bare bones staffing, an agent who sends quality material might be more of an asset than ever. So yes, an agent can open doors.

But I’m pretty sure an agent can’t sell pap. I still shake my head remembering some of my early manuscripts. I was writing short stories still so protoplasmic they sort of flopped about from page to page in search of a backbone, a beginning, an ending. I didn’t get that, of course. I was in my twenties, convinced that each story was original and issued from my soul.

I don’t remember why I didn’t seek an agent in the beginning. I’m not sure I knew to consider the idea. I wonder if most writers these days automatically start the search for an agent before they’ve written more than one or two manuscripts. I’ve heard that finding a good agent is roughly the equivalent of getting published without one, but maybe that’s because agents have to plow through a lot of unpolished manuscripts. Again, I’m guessing.

On my own I soon developed the habit of grinding out one masterpiece after another and setting them off in all directions like cheap roman candles. By the time I sold my first story, I had been winging it for six years, the no-agent habit was established, and I had managed to acquire a modicum of writing skills the hard way.

Years and books later, my muse took early retirement. Nothing for the ages was emanating from my trusty soul. Obviously, I needed an agent! Given that I was well published, I found one soon enough. The problem was that in a twelve-month period he placed one manuscript, a picture book that I had presold before we met.

Bad agent? Maybe, but probably not. I wasn’t writing well and knew it. I didn’t blame the guy for being unable to place stories that weren’t my best work. We split ways, I coaxed my muse out of retirement, and I’ve been placing my own work ever since.

Sandy, you have far more experience with agents than I do so I look forward to your comments. I hope we’ll hear from agents and authors willing to share their own thoughts and experiences.

Back to you.

David

Response 2: Sandy

Experience with agents? Yessiree! I’ve had six of them over the years, including, most recently, the aforementioned and mighty fine Wendy Schmalz. And the dear, departed Claire M. Smith, whom I’ve quoted more than once. And Craig Tenney, who took over my contracts at Harold Ober and Associates when Wendy left to form her own agency. And three others, who shall remain nameless.

But more about that in a moment.

Like you, David, I’ve placed a lot of my work on my own—all of my plays as well as the articles, short stories, and poems that have appeared in magazines. Back in the day, there wasn’t the pressure for children’s authors to get an agent that writers feel now. Children’s book editors were open to reading unsolicited manuscripts, advances weren’t big enough to attract many agents, and contracts were maybe a single generation away from a trustworthy handshake. There were no corporate lawyers involved; no electronic rights, either. I think my first book contract was maybe four or five pages long. Contracts for a three-page picture book these days might easily run to twenty single-spaced pages of legal gobbledygook, including references to means of communication not yet invented. (Books by telepathic distribution, anyone? Buy your subscription now!)

My first agent, later quite successful, was at the time of our meeting as much a beginner as I was. A friend of mine had published an adult novel and found an agent for himself. That agent had a new associate who wanted to handle books for young readers. That new associate took me on, on the strength of my magazine and play publications. For a year she tried to sell early drafts of Daughters of the Law and various incarnations of my picture book ideas and failed. Finally, she informed me—gently, but honestly—that we were not doing one another any good, and she recommended a more experienced agent.

That one also took me on—and placed me in the very last stall of her very large stable of authors, some of them impressively rich and famous. She rarely visited my stall. She rarely answered my phone calls or my letters. No e-mail in those days, but I strongly suspect she would not have answered my e-mails, either. Looking back, I suppose her theory was that I showed promise and eventually I'd send her something she could easily sell. No hurry. When that time came, she'd trot me out to the starting gate.

In the meantime, I sent her manuscripts—revisions of Daughters of the Law and a string of those ever-hopeful picture books. As far as I know, she never submitted a single one of them to publishers. Two years passed. I grew so angry, frustrated, and sick at heart, I stopped writing. The woman was, for some of her clients, wildly successful, and for others, like me, toxic. I finally called her secretary and said, "Gather up everything you can find and mail it back to me. Whatever this relationship is, it's over."

At about that time, my brother-in-law had hopped onto a low rung of the publishing ladder as an editorial assistant. He had also written a novel. He decided he could be an agent on the side and peddle both of our manuscripts. A year passed, he rose quickly through the publishing ranks as an editor, but couldn't sell either of our books, disproving once and for all the myth that it helps to know someone in the business. He knew himself in the business, and it didn't make a bit of difference!

If a manuscript is not marketable, it's not marketable.

But he did meet Claire Smith, and finally suggested he send both of our books to her. A few months later, Claire accepted me as a client and eventually sold my first novel, not Daughters of the Law—that was still one draft away from ready—but Summer Begins—after five or six revisions and the same number of rejections.

As you supposed, David, an agent cannot sell a book before it’s ready. Even with an agent—and a good one; she was Judy Blume's agent as well—there are still rejections.

Lesson learned: Finding an agent does not mean living happily ever after. Any more than getting married means living happily ever after. Neither relationship is guaranteed to solve all your problems. In fact, each can present you with a whole new set of problems! And both work out most happily when you're really ready and you find someone you can respect and work with comfortably.

Next time, I’ll talk about why I’m glad I have an agent and how we’ve worked together. But now, David, I’m eager to hear more about how you’ve managed so beautifully on your own!

COMMENT POSTED BY JANE YOLEN TO SANDY’S ARTICLE:

Ten years ago—maybe even five years ago—I was still telling my students that a GOOD agent was wonderful to have but not necessary. Now I am saying just the opposite, all due to the change in the marketplace.

Unlike Sandy, I have had the same agency (though two agents since my last agent died and her assistant took over) for all but my first five books. I bless the day I joined forces with Curtis Brown Ltd. I couldn’t possibly have produced as many books as I have without them. I can concentrate (mostly) on writing and they on the business side of things, especially in this ever-changing market. Though I am still very aware of changes, always read my contracts, and ask a lot of questions.

That’s the important thing to remember. Having an agent is like having a doctor. You still have to take responsibility for keeping up on what is affecting your health—personally and professionally.

Jane

Response 3: David

If you read Sandy’s response last week, she ended by asking me to describe how I’ve gotten along without an agent all these years. Jane Yolen supplied her position, which is that having an agent has played a key role in her ability to stay on task writing and not have to worry as much about placing her work. Good points well made.

Gulp. Where do I start? I’m going to start with the way I started. I was a pharmacologist working in a laboratory. My job was science. I brought home journals to read at night. I published and presented at conferences years before I knew what NCTE or IRA or ALA stood for. When I sat down to work on a fiction story, it always came late in a long day. I was nearly always tired and sleepy.

I was young, uninformed about writing, and knew no one who could mentor me. I read in a Writer’s Market how to write query and cover letters, how to type a manuscript, how to submit a story. That was my education. I almost stumbled into a vanity press offer on a novel I wrote and couldn’t place. I agonized over the pros and cons of spending the $1,200 it would cost me to see my book in print. This at a time when my salary with a master’s degree was under $6,000.

Could I have used an agent? Probably. Could I have obtained one? Probably not. I didn’t try. Sandy and Jane, I bet you were better writers at an early stage than I was in the infancy of mine. I went on sending out stories. I’ve always been a record keeper. I count things. As I write this, four crows in our hackberry tree are eyeing the fresh birdseed in our feeders. Part of my job in the lab was to keep records. By night at my desk in the bedroom I kept records about my fruitless writing efforts—word count, where submitted, cost of postage.

My first story, “From Day to Day,” was 5,600 words long and cost 16 cents to mail to Atlantic Monthly in 1959. I also sent it to The Virginia Quarterly Review and Arizona Quarterly, both in 1961, before I gave up on it.

Seven years later I sold something (to The Young Crusader). I put a star by the title in my record book (“Jule Learns to Ride”), the amount I received ($5.03), and went on with the business of representing myself.

One year later I sold my first picture book, The Boy with a Drum.

A year after that Random House accepted Little Turtle, which was read on national television (Captain Kangaroo).

When an editor in Chicago expressed interest in a nonfiction book I proposed, I bought a plane ticket to Chicago. The meeting resulted in The Book of American Caves.

The following year I flew to New York for the first time to meet with an editor at American Heritage Press. We agreed that I would write a picture book with three stories about giants. The Book of Giant Stories was out in 1972 and won a Christopher Award.

Over the 39 years since then I’ve made numerous trips to New York City to meet with editors with whom I’ve worked or hope to work. I spend part of nearly every day exchanging e-notes with editors. These are generally business-related exchanges. Editors know I won’t waste time, theirs or mine. When I have questions about a contract, I ask for clarification. If I don’t like something, I point it out and we discuss it. Sometimes I win the point, but not always. On occasion I’ve negotiated bigger advances, higher royalty percentages, and improved escalation clauses.

Am I better off representing myself? I don’t know. I don’t begrudge what an agent earns for his or her efforts on a writer’s behalf. Undoubtedly an agent can open doors and a good one can reach hard-to-reach editors at major houses. I know that Jane is right. Doing it on my own takes time away from my work. My way is just my way. It’s how I got started. It feels natural. I keep doing it. Now I have confessed all.

Sandy my friend, back to you.

David

Response 4: Sandy

David, I remain in awe of your perfectly matched skills as writer and businessman. I had to smile at your admitting to your lifelong numbering of things. You always know exactly how many topics we’ve covered and which response we’re up to. My number set consists of one, a couple, a few, quite a few, a whole lot, and a gazillion. Not really useful for negotiating purposes.

True story: Some years ago, the artistic director of what was then the Emmy Gifford Theatre in Omaha, NE, took me out to dinner. He’d produced a couple of my plays and had invited me to town to see one of them, A Woman Called Truth. A lovely, totally professional production. The restaurant was lovely, too. After our meal, this gentleman informed me that he wanted to commission a new play for his company. “What would you like to write about?” he asked.

Now this is not a common occurrence, at least not for me. Most of the time, I write and then hope I can find someone who wants to produce or publish what I’ve written. Here was the highly respected artistic director of a first-rate professional theater telling me he was hiring me to create whatever I liked—before I’d even thought of it, let alone written a single word! In an attempt to slow my racing heart, I looked down—and happened to see the medallion on my necklace, a wolf howling at the moon. I’ve been a wolf enthusiast ever since reading Jean Craighead George’s Julie of the Wolves, a book that also influenced my future as a YA novelist. “Wolves,” I said. “I’d like to write a play about wolves.”

“Fine,” came the reply. “How much do you think you’ll need?”

Brace yourselves, David and friends. You’re about to be bowled over by my incredibly poor business acumen. “Um. I don’t know,” I said. (Wait. It gets worse.)

“Well,” he said, “my dream is to support playwrights so they can do their best work without worrying about money. So how about $8,000?”

Eight? Thousand? Dollars? That was a lot of money in those days; in playwriting terms, it’s still a lot of money. My response? (Here it comes, folks.) “Why would you pay me so much money to do something I’d be happy to do for free?”

Clearly, I need an agent to protect me from myself. If this tale isn’t enough to convince you, just ask my husband. I do what I do because I love doing it, because I can’t NOT do it. After 40+ years in this business, it’s still hard for me to believe others are supposed to pay me to do it, are EXPECTING to pay me, even ENJOY paying me. After 40+ years of marriage, it’s still hard for my husband to believe I’m wired this way. He doesn’t seem to find it endearing.

So having an agent is as important to my marriage as it is to my career. I’m free to write; someone else worries about the money. Someone else bugs publishers when checks don’t show up. Someone else untangles snafus about subsidiary rights. Someone else keeps an eye on which editors are looking for what I do best, and which will never be interested in anything I do. Someone else keeps track of the numbers.

Yes, she takes a percentage of what I earn. She’s well worth it. And, yes, she’s not a guarantee of eternal success. There have been manuscripts she’s felt weren’t ready to submit and therefore would not submit. She has a reputation to protect, too. And there have been manuscripts she hasn’t been able to sell, even when we’ve both believed in them.

There have also been times when she’s successfully placed a book with a publisher I’ve found myself and suggested to her. And there have been times when I’ve sold books myself, directly to an editor. That was the case when I approached Benchmark about writing for a nonfiction series. When either of those scenarios occur, I still want her handling the contract. I owe her that, for all the good she’s done me and for all the hard knocks she’s weathered with me. And also because...well, see the true story above for another good reason.

On more true story: On a later trip to Omaha, I gave a copy of my first picture book, Princess Bee and the Royal Goodnight Story, to the young daughter of the above-mentioned artistic director. When I came back for the premiere of The Wolf and Its Shadows, exactly one year later, he greeted me with the report that he’d read that book 365 times since last we’d met. “She’s asked for it every single night,” he said.

Really, people, can you believe we get paid money for this, too? 

And here’s a flashback to our first topic, “The Care and Feeding of Ideas,” from our friend and colleague Patricia Hermes. We hope this serves as a reminder to other authors to feel free to jump in at any time with your personal thoughts on topics old and new, including those we haven’t even thought of yet!

Where do you get your ideas? I think kids ask me that more often than any other question: Where do your ideas come from? Well, my honest answer is this: I don’t know!  It just happens. But I know this: I have to be quiet. I have to listen for the voices inside my head. Some people think hearing voices is a sign of insanity, but for authors, it is not. It is, rather, a crucial part of our lives. So I’m quiet, and I hear the voice of a character speaking to me. It’s most often a girl, probably because I am a girl, but sometimes my main character is a boy. (I have one daughter, but I also have four sons, so I know quite a bit of what boys are all about.) And so the character in my head begins to come to life for me. You might find me, during my writing time, staring out a window. I do that a lot! But I am not simply staring. I am creating, writing, or maybe it’s better called “pre-writing.” I daydream. I listen for that voice. What is she trying to tell me? What’s she concerned about? What kind of kid is she? Because you see, you can’t write a story with plot, until you know what the characters are like. If she’s spunky and noisy, then the plot probably won’t concern a kid who lives quietly in an attic reading books, or talking to her pet mouse. 

And now, as I am writing this, I think: There’s an idea for a story! It just came to me. Maybe I should write about a kid with a pet mouse. Now what will I call her?  Why does she have a pet mouse? Does the mouse have a name? Does she have any other friends besides her pet mouse? Where does she live? Does she really live in an attic? Why? Hmm. Does she have a mom, a dad, any siblings?  Maybe she’s poor. Or maybe she’s sickly. 

Ah! Now comes a little bit of truth to the story: When I was a child, I was sick frequently. I had something wrong with my heart, and I spent a long time in a hospital. Maybe my child with the mouse has been sick and isn’t allowed to run and play. (I wasn’t allowed to run and play because of my weak heart.) So I know how sad my pretend character feels at times. 

Hmm. Good start. 

But now, I’m thinking: Now that, is a stupid story line. Who wants to read about a sick kid with a pet mouse? Forget that idea, that voice.

But I can’t. I’m stuck with her. Every time I sit down at the computer—and yes, I write on the computer—she comes back to me. I can even begin to see her now.  I think she’s wearing white, a long white dress, or maybe it’s a nightgown. She always wears white, and . . .

So do you see how story ideas develop? My newest venture is a series of books called Emma Dilemma. Emma gets into all sorts of mischief and trouble, though she’s a good kid at heart. Emma is very much like I was as a child. She loves animals. She has a gazillion pets. And sometimes those pets cause trouble. Sometimes, Emma causes trouble, too! My newest book will be called Emma Dilemma and the Best Horse Ever—because Emma is trying to persuade her parents to buy her a horse. They won’t. But Emma has her own plans for getting this wonderful horse Rooney. 

And...?

Patricia Hermes is the author of almost fifty books for readers from early middle grades through young adult, as well as two nonfiction books for adults. Her books have won many awards and recognitions: American Library Association Best Book, Smithsonian Notable Book, C.S. Lewis Honor Book, IRA Children’s Choice, as well as many state awards, four of them for the novel You Shouldn’t Have to Say Goodbye.

Topic 5: The Perils and Joys of Writing in Many Genres

Response 1: Sandy

When I chose this topic for our next conversation, David, I thought I’d devote my first entry to all the perils of writing in many genres and use my second turn to focus on the joys. Then I realized I could think of only one peril! Maybe you’ll come up with more, but mine is a very short list. The one and only peril, as I see it, is that writing in a variety of genres is no way to get rich and famous. And, really, that’s only a peril if riches and fame are your primary goals. 

David, you’ve heard me say this before, but I think you’ll agree it bears repeating. The road to riches and fame is a direct one: Do one thing, do it well, and do it over and over. This applies to almost any field. There are always exceptions to the rule, of course, but when you think about the rich and famous, do you have doubts about what you expect of each of them? I think not. Oprah is Oprah every day. Her fans count on it; her sponsors bank on it. Riches and fame depend on building a huge fan base, and that’s done by delivering the goods so consistently that folks can and do keep coming back for more, bringing their friends and relations with them. 

The same holds true if your forte is hamburgers, ice cream, or a particular kind of writing. When readers pull up in front of a familiar name at a bookstore or library, they don’t want to find chocolate fudge ripple when their mouths are watering for another juicy hamburger! 

I like Oprah. I also like great hamburgers and premium ice cream. And when I reach for Jane Austen, I’m in no mood for Ernest Hemingway. And vice versa. So I’m not putting down anyone who can do something well and do it time and time again. It takes talent, hard work, discipline, and something I can’t even define let alone pull off myself. A strong personality, maybe, one that permeates the product, whatever that product happens to be. In children’s books, I’m thinking A.A. Milne. Dr. Seuss. Judy Blume. Each one is a mighty fine writer in his or her own unique, recognizable way. So I’ve concluded the road to riches and fame is traveled best by the mighty fine who also happen to be unique and recognizable.

My road, on the other hand, has zigzagged all over the place. I’ve published plays for adults, children, and teens; poetry for adults and children; short stories and articles for various ages in magazines and journals, nonfiction books for all ages, YA novels, middle-grade novels, beginning chapter books, and picture books. Oh, and I’ve edited five anthologies. Forty-plus years into this writing business, I show no signs of reduced zig or lagging zag. In fact, I’ve just recently added blogging to the mix! 

Why do I do it, when I know every bend in the road makes riches and fame less likely? Am I determined to sabotage myself? I don’t think so. It’s just that I write best when I’m deeply interested in what I’m writing about, and I’m rarely interested in the same thing twice in a row. Also, I like setting up and conquering new challenges: Can I write convincingly from a male point of view? (Been there.) Can I write a sonnet good enough to be published? (Done that.) Can I write an effective full-length play for a solo actor? (Working on it right now.) And then there are the assignments: I’ve been lucky enough to be asked to write things I never would’ve thought of myself but, once invited, happily can’t turn down. (More about this when I get to “the joys” next time.)

Finally, most ideas seem to dictate the way they want to come into this world: This story’s shaping up as a novel. That one absolutely begs to be acted out onstage. And the feeling behind this other one over here is so intense, it’s exploding into a poem. That’s the way it is for me, anyway. Is that true for you, too, David? Or for anybody else out there? I’d like to know!

Back to that looming peril: Anyone who enjoys a helping of my ice cream and stops by for another scoop may be disappointed to find me flipping hamburgers.  That’s no small thing. It does make some readers unhappy, and it makes editors and marketing people unhappy, too. But as far as I can tell, David, it’s the ONLY peril. And I don’t seem to have much choice in the matter. For better or worse, I write the way I write because I am the way I am.

Don’t we all?

David, I’m eager to hear your take on this, perils and joys alike.

Response 2:  David

Hi, Sandy. Thanks a lot for saying everything I wanted to say in your sterling piece last week. I gave some thought to cutting and pasting your comments here and sticking my name on them. But I guess I’m stuck with my own thoughts on the matter of the peril(s) of writing in many genres. Here goes.

First, I am in total sympathy with you and anyone else who feels compelled to stray off the path, any path, to write what needs to be written the way it wants to be written. I’ve gone so far as to take the same idea and write it as nonfiction and fiction to see which approach was a better fit. Sandy, do you think the tendency to write in more than one genre reflects, in some cases, how a writer developed in the beginning? My first success as a children’s author was with picture books: The Boy with a Drum (1969) and Little Turtle’s Big Adventure (1969). I stuck with what was working. The Book of Giant Stories (1972) won a Christopher Award. BUT . . . 

Then my manuscripts started coming back. Failure brought more failure. Talk about a short career! I think I lacked that strong, singular voice; the consistent point of view; the familiar theme that characterizes so many writers who succeed in a single genre over time. I didn’t stand for anything. I felt like Dumbo without his magic feather. If my picture books had continued selling, maybe I would have stuck with them. BUT . . .

An editor who knew of my science background invited me to write a nonfiction chapter on anatomy and physiology for a new edition of a Childcraft book: About Me (1969). I was flying again thanks to a different kind of feather. I followed with other books of nonfiction: The World of American Caves (1970); Children Everywhere (1973); What Do You Know! (1981). Sandy, I worked hard on each one, but they were all different: geology, anthropology, questions/answers. It was a scattergun approach that reflected my range of interests rather than an ability to find a niche and stick with it. What was missing was a cohesive plan to pursue a specific track. Oh, I sold books, BUT . . .

There came a time in the mid-80s when neither genre was taking me where I wanted to go. Once again a new form came to my rescue. Over an eight-year period I produced only one picture book of merit (Wake Up, Sun! has sold more than 1,000,000 copies) but I discovered my love of poetry. At this point I’ve published more than a dozen poetry titles, but even here I can’t stay stuck. My work vacillates from verse to free verse, humorous to reflective, nature to pirates to . . .

I started out to say that if one genre had worked for me, and I could have controlled my wanderlust, I might have remained faithful to that one forever. Maybe I would be rich and famous for my picture books about cows by now. But something about the way my mind works seems to need a change once in a while. I think my muse gets bored or arthritic or needs more sleep than I give it. Whatever it is, I know I’ve had a lot of books published, BUT . . .

Not even I can define what I do. Or exactly why. Or worry about it. Sandy, I pass the baton back to you. Let’s spread a little joy!

 

Response 3: Sandy

Hi, David. You posed a question and a challenge in your last post on this intriguing topic of writing in many genres. The question was, “Sandy, do you think the tendency to write in more than one genre reflects, in some cases, how a writer developed in the beginning?” And the challenge was, “Let’s spread a little joy!”

In my case, the two are closely related. Starting way back in childhood, when it came to things literary or stageworthy, I’ve always wanted to be part of whatever was going on. Need a volunteer to pretend to be a tree, or choose-a-card-any-card, or be hypnotized and eat a lemon as if it were an apple? Here I am! I’ll do it! Choose me! In the market for a newspaper, yearbook, senior play? Yo! I’m your girl! I was always restless as an onlooker. If fun was being had, I wanted to be out there or up there or over there having it. And as recently as this past October, in a gypsy cave in Spain, when volunteers were called for to join the flamenco dancers, my far more retiring husband just sighed, reached over without a word, and took my purse so I could stand up. 

So, yes, the tendency to write in more than one genre reflects the way I developed in the beginning. And yes, jumping right in there and trying new things that look like great fun has certainly brought me joy. As it was with the flamenco dancers, so it is with my fellow writers. I read, see, or hear something fresh and exciting, and it sure looks like fun to me. I can’t resist giving it a try. My first play for children was written after I attended a delightful show in which an actor friend was performing. My first successful YA novel followed readings of Are You There, God? It’s Me, Margaret and Julie of the Wolves. I never planned on having a blog, but when I read a few by friends that I really enjoyed, yours included, I began wondering what I could blog about. Et voila! Writers at Work. And, David, ever since your poetry-writing adventures began, I’ve been wanting to come up with a topic around which I could write a cycle of poems. Haven’t done it on my own yet, but I did write half the poems that eventually became the play Jesse and Grace: A Best Friends Story. And wasn’t that fun?

Is this being a copycat or indulging in a mild form of plagiarism? Not at all. It’s finding inspiration, and I thank you, David, and many other colleagues for pointing me toward new paths.

But, yes, some of my many switches in direction were matters of chance and/or sheer necessity. For years, I thought of myself as a “short distance runner,” publishing poems, stories, and articles in magazines as well as short plays. Then an editor asked for and accepted a nonfiction book proposal and I discovered I could write longer forms. When the YA market dried up (for me, anyway), I took a chance on pulling together anthologies. And when everything seemed to be slowing down at once, I inquired about a nonfiction series and signed on for books about China and Mexico. 

Some of those changes were made in tough times. But you’ve got to admit, David, that even then there’s a bit of joy in knowing you can adapt. 

Uh-oh. All this thinking back has uncovered a couple more perils: When you start down a path you’ve never taken before, you eventually have to figure out how to keep going. It may be a lark at first, but before long, it becomes work. Hard work. Harder than work you already know how to do. Also, when we launch ourselves into a genre we’ve never tried before, there’s absolutely no guarantee we’ll be able to pull it off. No track record. We may not be afraid of hard work, but can we do this particular kind of hard work? Who knows? We’ve never done it before!

I’ve often compared starting a new project to taking a bungee jump without knowing whether anyone’s bothered to place the protective band around my ankles. Never is this image more clear and terrifying than when I’m attempting something in an as-yet-unexplored genre. Yet I go on taking those plunges. Like the little girl of long ago, hoping to be chosen to come on up and pose as a tree, far preferring that to sitting around watching someone else pose as a tree, I tend to ignore the perils. I think I know why. More often than not, when I’ve put in the required effort, I’m rewarded with the joy of finding out once again that whatever strange and wondrous new thing it is, I can, indeed, do it!

And now, my multitalented and inspirational friend, back to you . . .

Response 4: David

And here we are on the final response to our fifth topic. If I’m counting right, Sandy, this will be the 21st episode of WRITERS AT WORK. Plus, there have been a number of comments and longer work shared by readers who have added significantly to our conversation.

So here I go with the joys of writing in many genres. For one, I share your sense of frightened exhilaration when an editor suggests something I’ve never tried and I hear those five familiar, crazy words flying from my mouth: “Sure, I can do that.” The closest sensation I can think of is that slight pause at the top of a roller coaster an instant before your car goes screaming down a slope you can’t possibly survive.

Jane Yolen says that writing is the more precious because we have to steal time to get it done. I offer a corollary: Writing in a new genre is the more invigorating because you have to survive to get it done. Such is the lure of the unknown and the chance to prove oneself (again) that draws writers toward the flame. Sandy, I can’t decide if I have that much confidence in myself or simply need to add that survival word—no—to my vocabulary: You’ve accused me of that before but it takes one to spot a fellow sufferer.

Back to the subject. I began as a short-story writer. But in my heart I knew that I could handle nonfiction. Thinking about that possibility gave me pleasure. I knew something that no one else knew. Lurking beneath my fiction writer veneer was a yet to be discovered writer of nonfiction. When I eventually found my wish coming true, I was very proud, but I had already enjoyed the idea for a long time before the fact.

But by then I was sure that beneath the nonfiction writer beat the heart of a poet. I knew I could write poetry. I thought about it, read about it, planned to do it, for a quarter of a century. I think of that long incubation period with its growing sense of anticipation as a joyful experience. It was a secret locked inside, exhilarating because I knew the day was coming when I would be done with putting it off. The day was coming when I was going to do it!

Sandy, do you have similar secret goals that you just simply know you can achieve when you get around to doing it? As you know, I’m a big fan of your plays and have been privileged to work with you twice on projects that have now been published and produced on stage. You’ve even offered to work with me on one of the plays. I couldn’t do it then, and perhaps I’ll never try, but I have long thought I could write a play. Who knows? I think I could be a sculptor, too, and a surgeon and an architect and a marine biologist. Maybe one day . . .

Until then, I will continue to find pleasure in the dreaming and joy when a dream comes true. Sandy, this has been a good topic. I’m eager to tackle the next one to be announced shortly.

The floor remains open for comments and other opinions.

David

Topic 4: Dealing with Editorial Suggestions

Response 1: David

If an emerging writer sends out enough manuscripts, sooner or later an editor may jot a brief note on the rejection slip. Hopefully, it will be a helpful note even if it’s nothing more than, “Keep trying us,” or “Better,” or “If you rework this for more action, I would read it again.”

Harry Mark Petrakis taught the art of the short story one summer when I attended his workshop at Indiana University in Bloomington. He told us about his early days when he set his sights on getting a story accepted by Atlantic Monthly. He submitted one story after another for years and every one came back without comment. At some point when he was growing discouraged, a brief editorial comment re-energized him and kept him going. I think the comment was, “This one is better,” or maybe it was, “Don’t give up.” Anyway, he went on to publish numerous stories with Atlantic Monthly and elsewhere and loved to recall how much that editor’s note helped him along the way.

But let’s get back to the type of comment that offers specific suggestions. I’m not talking about editorial direction given after a contract is signed. Sandy or I will deal with that scenario later. For now I’m sticking with the kind of free advice that comes back with a rejection. What if the comment you receive suggests that your masterpiece is too long or too short or needs more dialogue or the second chapter needs to be thrown out entirely and a new one written? What if this person you don’t know, sitting at a desk in an office you’ve never visited, offers advice that requires you to rethink your basic premise or essentially rework your entire piece without any assurance that you’ll be accepted when you’ve finished?

Such dilemmas happen. If it hasn’t happened to you already, your turn may be coming. What should you do? How much should you trust this stranger who seems to mean well and takes the time to tell you how to make your script more acceptable, at least to that house? Other authors may respond to this differently, but my rule was always simple. If an editor opens the door the barest crack, go for the light. If you have a real, live person on the other end willing to give you some advice, take it. Not out the window. Not if it’s something you simply find too repugnant to do. Not if it goes against everything you stand for and you would lose sleep over it and feel compromised. Not if standing on pride is more important to you than getting published. I don’t remember ever suffering from any of those objections. I figured it was an opportunity to be published and I had nothing to lose but a few more hours and a few more words.

My position was that I knew more about myself than the editor but the editor knew more about my manuscript’s chances for being published than I did. If you follow the same practice that Sandy and I have suggested in earlier segments of WRITERS AT WORK and keep a list of houses where you’ll send your manuscript if it comes back from its current reading, then you may decide to ignore the helpful editor’s advice long enough to try a few more houses. Or you may choose to jump at the chance to work with the editor before she or he moves on to other projects and becomes too bogged down to get back to you again before your hair turns gray(er).

Remember that not all editors are equal and not all houses look for the same kind of work to publish. Before you agree to give your story a complete overhaul, it will pay to seek a bit more assurance that this editor of yours is fairly serious about the free advice you keep holding in your hand and biting your lip over. But as a general rule, I prefer to have a positive relationship with that person at that desk in that office. Many of my books have developed because of such relationships. I say go for the light.

Sandy, over to you.

David

Response 2: Sandy

Ah, yes, David, those sometimes thoughtful, often cryptic messages that editors tack onto rejection slips. Those are the rejection slips I save, because those editors have noticed me and I may just want to notice them back.

I talked a bit in our last go-round about how to interpret those comments and suggestions. But that was all about reading between THEIR lines and figuring out what THEY’RE trying to say. There’s also the challenge of reading between my own lines and making sure I know exactly what I’m trying to say. Then I can decide whether those particular comments and suggestions are going to help me clarify what I’ve written, or discover I really should be writing something else (it happens!), or mess up what I want to say entirely.

I realized long ago that a story is only half written when I’ve put it down on paper; the other half is created out of what each reader brings to it from his or her personality, tastes, and life experience. Sometimes what a reader brings, even a highly experienced reader, is not helpful. Sometimes it’s very helpful. I’ve learned that I need to be the judge of that.

True stories that illustrate my point: The first has to do with a YA novel I was writing just about the time the bottom fell out of the YA market. Editors were becoming very cautious and, for the first time in my experience, were insisting that even established authors do considerable revision before a contract could be offered. In fact, the contract often didn’t arrive even after the considerable revision. (Sad to say, though the YA bottom has been in good repair of late, this is a trend that has not gone away.)

My novel centered on a young teenager dealing with an aging dog while also mourning the loss of her mother and adjusting to the changes in her sister and her father. Over time, the manuscript went to several editors. Each saw enough strength in it to offer detailed suggestions and an invitation to resubmit. One liked the mourning strand of the story, but disliked the dog strand. Another wept copious tears over the dog, but didn’t care for the sister and father situations. A third related strongly to the father but not to the sister or the dog...You get the picture. Eager for publication in hard times, I revised. And I revised. And I revised. Until I could no longer remember what the story had meant to me in the first place. Though there was one more “If you revise, I’d like another look” editorial letter, I didn’t have the heart or the will to go on. The manuscript has long been buried in my basement. R.I.P.

The other story makes me smile to this day. It’s about the genesis of Too Many Frogs!, possibly my most successful book ever. As required by contract, my agent submitted the manuscript to the editor who’d done my previous picture book, Stella’s Dancing Days. She liked it. Not enough to offer a contract right off, but she saw room for improvement. I agreed with her suggestions and rewrote accordingly. Yes, she felt it was better, but not quite “there” yet. Still in agreement, I rewrote again. Yes, yes, much improved, but maybe...? Sure, why not, said I, and went at it once again.

The Surprise Ending: Yes, yes, yes, it was improved, and it was good. But it just “wasn’t for her.” Can’t argue with that. So my agent sent the manuscript off to Philomel, where editor Michael Green snapped it up. Some time later, I was in New York City and stopped by his office to say hello. “You know,” he said, “this is the first time I’ve ever received a manuscript that didn’t require any editing or revision.”

I didn’t say a word. Just smiled. Smiling still.

Which brings me to one last word, David, about that list of publishers appropriate to each manuscript. In this era of multiple submissions, it’s tempting to send the story to everyone at once. I say, “Resist that temptation!” One or two or maybe three at a time are enough. That way, if Editor A or B or C writes a really helpful comment on a rejection slip, a comment bound to do your story—and your heart—good, you can use that insight to revise and impress Editor D!

Response 3: David

Hi, Sandy. I liked your closing advice last week about not sending to everyone on our list before we’ve given ourselves a chance to benefit from editorial comments and suggestions that might improve our story and our chances. I don’t know about you, but one way I can tell that I’ve grown more patient and open over the years is that I’m more willing now to think carefully about the pros and cons of advice from an editor (or anyone else for that matter).

One of my writer friends questions the merit of attending writers’ conferences. I think it’s always a good idea to put ourselves in places where we have opportunities to visit with editors and hear more about what they seek in a manuscript. I bet at one time or another we’ve all been guilty of sending a story to an editor who is not in that market. Or an editor who just recently published a similar story. Or an editor who simply doesn’t like animals that talk. Remarks from editors who are basically not interested are likely to be short and to the point, and not necessarily aimed at improving our work.

On the other hand, when I go to New York each year to make appointments with editors with whom I’m working on a project, I always come away with a clearer sense of what is going on in their world. Once I have a contract on a book, things change from general comments to specific ones. At this point I’m even more likely to follow advice when I’m working with my editor-partner. Recently I completed a manuscript, submitted it, and received my editor’s suggestions.

His general comment was filled with enough praise to send me strutting around the house for a few minutes feeling the rush. Then I opened the attachment and took a long look at those specific and inevitable critical suggestions. Why that! Who does he...How? No I can’t do that!...Impossible! Hmmm. This makes me so...Hmmm. Well that makes sense. I’ll be darned. Oh come on! Hmmm. I do like that better. Huh. Oookay, let’s start at the beginning.

Sandy, I don’t know what percentage of the editor’s ideas I eventually adapt into the revised manuscript. It’s a significant number. And not all of the good ideas come from the editor. One time I wrote a poem about a ladybug with a beard and made the crack that I could tell it was no lady bug. The copy editor sweetly reminded me that some women do indeed sport quite a lot of hair and that her hirsute daughter was sometimes teased by the boys. I apologized for my thoughtlessness and insensitivity and wrote a different poem.

I guess the issue of how we respond to suggestions about our work—whether from an editor, a spouse, or writing buddy—boils down to this: Does the suggestion make sense to me? Will I like the work better after making the change? And do I think the quality of the story will benefit?

Back to you to wrap up.

Response 4: Sandy

Editorial suggestions AFTER the contract is signed? Who knew?

We all thought that after “yes” came “and they lived happily ever after.” Right?

Uh...’fraid not.

David, you described that head-spinning response to editorial communication so well—euphoria (She loves it!), disbelief (She wants me to change it?), and slow realization (Well, maybe she does have a point there...or two...or three...).

My personal favorite example is a four-page, single-spaced letter I received from Bebe Willoughby, the editor who worked with me on Just Like Jenny and many other books back in the days when such letters were delivered by snail. I still carry the letter with me to show around at workshops. Just Like Jenny was my third YA novel, but it was Different. Or so I thought. It inspired a bit of an auction among publishers, a head-swelling, once-in-a-lifetime situation that led me to believe the book was already as perfect as perfect could be. The first page of Bebe’s letter confirmed that it was, indeed, pretty darn good. The next three pages (single-spaced, remember) were filled with questions and suggestions for rethinking and revising it.

I went ballistic. “What is wrong with these people? They said they loved the book! They gave me a two-book contract! And now they want me to change the whole thing? That’s crazy! I can’t do it! I won’t do it!”

My agent, the late, great Claire Smith, heard me out and firmly instructed me to calm down, reread my manuscript, and then reread the letter. So I did. And slowly but surely, I came to understand that Bebe wasn’t forcing me to make a wrong manuscript right. She was helping me to make a good manuscript better. As only a totally objective, experienced, knowledgeable reader—not a friend, teacher, spouse, or neighbor, not even a colleague—can do.

So now when editors are busier than ever and not always able to give each and every manuscript their full attention, I worry. I’d rather have an editor call my attention to problems before publication than have a critic or, worse yet, reader catch me out later. I’ve learned to cherish that objective response, not just the opening love letter, but the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, every single-spaced page of it.

That doesn’t mean I follow every directive slavishly, or even willingly and joyfully. I tend to adore the ones that turn on spotlights in my head, illuminating quick and easy fixes that make the story amazingly better. I tend to balk and grow sullen over the ones that show me something’s got to be done but leave me in the dark, trying to figure out exactly what and how all by myself. (Have I mentioned earlier in these chats that I’m basically lazy?)

I’ve also been known to defend my words, politely, against suggestions that make no sense to me at all. If I can make a good enough argument as to why not, the editor will usually accept my preference. An example: In my picture book Stella’s Dancing Days, Stella starts off as a kitten who loves to dance. Time passes, she grows up, gets busy with other things, and dances less. The human beings in her life miss her dancing days. But, I wrote, “Stella did not miss her dancing days.” The editor asked me to revise that sentence so that Stella would miss her dancing days, too, because not missing them sounded harsh. I thought about it, as I do all editorial insights. Finally, I said, “No. First of all, Stella is a cat and cats are not nostalgic about their kittenhoods. They live in the moment. Second of all, Stella represents her young readers, who are not nostalgic about their babyhoods. They won’t find it harsh that Stella doesn’t miss her dancing days. They’ll understand she’s simply far more interested in growing up—just as they are.”

The editor understood. The children understood. And Stella eventually has six kittens—three boys and three girls—who all love to dance.

Speaking of dancing, David, it’s my turn to lead! If you agree, I’ll tackle “The Perils and Joys of Writing in Different Genres” next.

Topic 3: The Reality of Rejection

What I Love about Rejections

by guest Mara Rockliff

Okay, nobody really loves rejections.

But when that storm cloud of rejection drives its icy needles down my neck and soaks my socks, here are the hints of silver lining that I spy:

Rejections are fun!

Okay, not always. But sometimes they can be pretty hilarious, like the time I sent out a picture book story and it was rejected—two and a half years later. (With a form rejection!) Or the agent who turned me down, saying she didn’t think she could sell my manuscript—even though I’d told her I already had an offer on it from a major publisher.

Rejections are educational!

Think of a rejection letter as a free bit of professional advice. Six editors say the same thing? If it’s “the plot is thin,” maybe you should consider working on the plot. Six editors say six different things? No point revising now, unless one of the comments really clicks. Otherwise, keep submitting. Even a form rejection tells you something: that whoever sent it wasn’t interested enough to spend much time. Twenty form rejections is a good hint that your manuscript needs lots of work—or that it should be put aside while you move on to something else.

Rejections are terrific practice—for rejection.

Every aspiring writer dreams of that magic moment when a manuscript is accepted for publication. Break out the bonbons! You’re a real writer now! You’ll never be rejected and ignored again!

Then months go by with no word from your editor. Or years. Or she calls to tell you that the illustrator they were hoping for turned down the project. In fact, every illustrator on the planet has turned down the project. Your editor points out cheerfully that scientists may still discover life—and illustration talent—on Jupiter’s moons.

Your book is published, but no one reviews it. Or it’s reviewed, and the reviewers hate it. Or reviewers love it, but the big chain bookstores decide not to carry it. Or they carry it, but no one buys it, so the books get sent back to the publisher and eventually shredded to a pulp.

Luckily, you’ve learned how to deal with rejection! So you don’t waste time dwelling on these setbacks. You go straight back to your writing desk. After all, the sooner you finish another manuscript, the sooner your mailbox will start filling up again with more fun, educational rejection letters.

Rejections are The Way.

As Lao Tzu pointed out, there can be no light without dark. (I’m pretty sure he said that when the twenty-third editor finally called with an offer on the Tao Te Ching.) And if you eat nothing but ice cream, it loses its taste. So as you choke down those bitter rejections, just think: without them, the good news you’re waiting for could never be so sweet.

Mara Rockliff’s recent titles include Get Real: What Kind of World Are You Buying? (Running Press Teens) and the picture book The Busiest Street in Town (Knopf). Visit her online at www.mararockliff.com.