I was part of an awesome global conference on May 6th called WINSPIRATION DAY® (http://winspirationday.org). The Vancouver edition was just one of 20 simultaneous events worldwide. Winspiration connects people all over the world to empower collaborative thoughts and actions in creating a better future. Whew, that sounds heavy.
This is my artistic take on the Vancouver speakers (including me), and their main messages:
My completed memoir has been burning a hole in my laptop for about two years now. To say my publishing journey has been an exercise in frustration is an understatement of the magnitude of saying the Incredible Hulk has minor anger-management issues.
To briefly recap:
After months of trying, I finally secured an agent who loved my book and said my writing was “brilliant.” I didn’t trust his assessment, but it was encouraging to hear. Despite the “brilliance” of my book, said agent was unable to secure a publisher. No other agents are clamouring for my attention. So, as I review my dumpster fire of a writing career, I have some perspective on the ways NOT to get your book published. Here are five things NOT to do:
Write a Memoir if You’re a Privileged White Male. For non-famous people, successful memoirs are written by reformed drug addicts, cancer survivors, victims of sexual abuse, or those with horrific stories of growing up. I find this especially annoying because I am positive my story will resonate with educated, disaffected office workers, afraid to face their mid-life crises. It’s a depressing fact that if you are an adult film star and call girl to a presidential nominee who, remarkably, became president, there’s probably a seven-figure book advance in your future.
Say “Yes” to the First Agent Who Offers a Contract. I should have waited for the right agent to come along – instead, I said yes to the first one because I was flattered and in a hurry. But having an unsuccessful agent and then firing him (before he fired me) was worse than not finding an agent. I think I’m less attractive to other agents now, somehow tainted because of past failures. And since a new agent is unable to contact publishers already approached by my first agent, a new agent may be reluctant to take on a writer with a smaller pool of potential publishers.
Suck at Social Media. My agent found an editor at a large American publisher who loved my book and its message. The editor agreed with my agent there’s a huge market of middle-aged office workers, stuck in their jobs and afraid to quit. Maybe he was one of them. In any event, he passed on my book because it was impossible to get internal approval for a memoir of a debut writer unless the writer had a HUGE social media following. In essence, the publisher wouldn’t back any writer who couldn’t produce a ready-made and engaged list of buyers – a writer who could sell 30,000 copies to his social media subscribers without the help of the publishing house. Which begs the question: if the writer can sell that many books on his own, why does he need a traditional publisher?
Refuse to Self-Publish. My plan has always been to secure a “traditional” publisher. This means a publishing house like Random House or Penguin. Once signed by one of them, a writer is assisted with editing, design, marketing, and distribution until the book ends up in Chapters or Barnes & Noble. The alternative is self-publishing, which can mean either ebooks or physical books. However, the writer is in charge of everything, and won’t have his books in a bricks and mortar bookshop (they’ll languish in his basement). If I had gone this route, my book would’ve been available, at least electronically, in 2015. There is nothing wrong with self-publishing, and I may do it one day. But it has never been my dream, and I am stubbornly on a traditional path. You can see how far that’s gotten me.
Give up. Finding an agent and a traditional publisher for a new writer is a risky proposition at best. But as Wayne Gretzky famously said, “You miss 100% of the shots you don’t take.” If I give up now, there is ZERO chance I will realize my dream. So I forge ahead, contacting potential agents (needed to approach large publishers), and smaller publishing houses who take inquiries from writers directly. I have a HUGE Excel spreadsheet of everyone who has said “no” to me. Every writer has a spreadsheet, or a wall of thumbtacked rejection letters (pre-email). It goes with the territory, a badge of honour, and will make my victory taste all the sweeter. Maybe all it will take is one inspired, forward-looking agent or publisher to see my book’s potential. Or maybe another male will write a successful memoir, paving the way for mine. Maybe I’ll meet a guy playing hockey, and his wife’s sister’s ex-husband knows a guy who does the landscaping for an editor at Simon & Schuster. It may take a while, but it’ll happen. I won’t give up.
The outlook wasn’t brilliant in the publishing world this year,
Authors watched their dreams of glory slowly disappear;
And with every shuttered bookstore, and breaks they could not catch,
A pall-like silence fell upon every ink-stained wretch.
A straggling few got day jobs, in deep despair. The rest,
Clung to the hope which springs eternal in the human breast;
They thought, “If Rowling created magic with her café-writ debut,
We’ll bet our homes and marriages, that we can do it too.”
But Young Adult rules writing, unless it’s Shades of Grey,
And the former is too childish, while the latter’s quite risqué;
So upon that stricken multitude grim melancholy set,
For there seemed but little chance of winning: Publisher Roulette.
But Billy penned a memoir, to the wonderment of all,
Except his editor Colin, who was not the least enthralled;
And when the dust had lifted, and Bill wrote his seventh draft,
He realized three years wasn’t long for one to hone his craft.
From all three family members, there rose a lusty yell,
It rumbled through Lynn Valley, it rattled in the dell;
It pounded on Grouse Mountain, recoiled on West Van hovels,
For Billy, clever Billy, was ready to sell his novel.
There was ease in Billy’s manner as he wrote his book proposal,
There was calm in Billy’s bearing as it reached the waste disposal;
And when, responding to his agent, he wrote it thrice again,
No publisher could resist the pitch of Bill’s deftly wielded pen.
His Facebook friends applauded as Bill attempted the implausible,
Ten thousand blogs reminded him his dream was near impossible;
Then, when Reason said he’s doomed to fail, get off this ego trip,
Defiance flashed in Billy’s eye, a sneer curled Billy’s lip.
And now a major publisher called, a house without compare,
And Billy sat a-listening, in haughty grandeur there;
But the conversation dragged a bit….our author’s hopes were fallin’—
“Whaddya think?” asked Billy. “Not for me!” said Harper Collins.
From Bill’s kitchen, filled with loved-ones, there went up a muffled roar,
Like the beating of the storm-waves on a stern and distant shore;
“Kill him! Kill that publisher!” shouted Bill’s long-suffering wife,
And it’s likely she’d have killed him had not Billy saved his life.
With a smile of Christian charity our Billy’s visage shone,
He calmed his loving partner; he bade the game go on;
He signalled to his agent, and once more a query flew,
But M&S rejected it. His agent said, “Strike two!”
“Fraud!” cried Bill’s coffee shop pals, and echo answered “Fraud!”,
But one scornful look from Billy and the baristas were awed;
They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his temples quiver,
And they knew that Billy would make some publishing house deliver.
The sneer is gone from Billy’s lip, his teeth are clenched so tight,
He mails his last proposal to a house which should be right;
And now the author’s waiting, he trembles with his spouse,
And now the air is crackling with a call from Random House.
Oh, somewhere in this favoured land the sun is shining bright,
The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light;
And somewhere men are laughing, and children play en masse,
But there is no joy in North Van—Random took a pass.
(With Apologies to Ernest Lawrence Thayer)
I’m featured on “The Art of Non-Conformity,” a website for people with unconventional ideas about work and happiness. It was started by Chris Guillebeau, a New York Times bestselling author. The website has 100,000 subscribers. Check out what he said about me (some of it true): http://chrisguillebeau.com/william-crow/. Special shout out to my friend Sharka Stuyt who plays a role in the story.
I had some good news last week concerning my memoir, provisionally entitled The Next Trapeze.
In past posts I described the “query” process, by which an author sends a jaw-dropping, one-page letter to a literary agent who will beg to have the honour of fielding the seven-figure offers from the big New York publishers. If you’re not Stephen King, or if your book isn’t fifty shades of S&M fantasy, your experience may be different. Here’s the regular, painful process:
1. You research a literary agent through their website.
2. The agent won’t respond to telephone inquiries. If you have a question, tough.
3. The agent won’t allow visitors to their office. If you want to meet the agent before requesting representation, tough.
4. You tailor your query letter to the exact requirements of the agent’s website and send by email. Any deviation ensures rejection.
5. The agent’s website warns you won’t receive confirmation your email was ever received.
6. The agent’s website states they will review your query letter within TWELVE weeks of receiving it.
7. The agent won’t respond to emails or calls requesting a status update.
8. The agent will only contact you if they want to see part of your manuscript. If they don’t like your query, you’ll hear nothing. Which means you’ll wait for 12 weeks, and never be sure if anyone even looked at your letter.
In the business world, I was used to people acknowledging I existed, phoning me back, treating me with courtesy. You know, human stuff. To be fair, agents receive thousands of query letters every year, and accept two or three new clients. I wasn’t prepared to be ignored, but I imagine everyone else in the arts knows what that feels like. A smattering of agents were nice enough to send polite, “no thanks…but seriously, what were you thinking?” emails. I wasn’t depressed, just frustrated.
But…here comes the good news…one enlightened, Toronto agent saw something in my book the others missed, actually PHONED ME and offered to represent me. I signed his contract before he could change his mind.
Now it’s up to my agent and me to prepare a book proposal so mind-bogglingly clever and enticing that publishers will fight over the chance to publish it. Or something like that.
So watch out, publishers, I have an agent, and I’m not afraid to use him!