Death By a Thousand Alphabet Books

There are editors of adult books in my publishing company. Sometimes they refer manuscripts to us that they think are "for kids". I'm sure they're very good at their jobs, so this is meant in the most respectful way possible: They're morons.

Because this week, "for kids" applies to an illustrated alphabet book of B-list 1970s sitcom actors. Because it's an alphabet book.

I've been the recipient of scores--perhaps hundreds--of utterly unmarketable alphabet book submissions, and I think it's time to address this problem.


There is a particularly pernicious myth in the common psyche that the most basic, fundamental book for children is an alphabet book. That might have been true once upon a time... a hundred years ago. When there were essentially no children's books.

"But children still need to learn the alphabet, don't they?" say the people at conferences who are trying to make me have an embolism. For them, two diagrams:

Of course some --even many-- published alphabet books are not about teaching the alphabet. The alphabet is simply used as a structure for conveying other information. (A structure so overused as to be a publishing cliche.)

And some alphabet books do this well. But most alphabet book submissions are not alphabet books out of clever new ideas, but out of laziness.

Want to be published more than you want to do work? Know a bunch of words that start with the various letters of the alphabet? You're all set! Rant over. Thank you for listening.

Put Another Slush on the Fire, Babe, and Come and Tell Me Why You're Leaving Me

I really enjoyed your Kitchen Full of Slush post. I’m curious as to what happens to the piles of slush? Specifically, how do you keep them and respond in chronological order? With that many submissions it seems insurmountable.

That would be telling.
Different houses, different methods, of course.

Perhaps the editorial staff sits down Friday afternoons for a concentrated hour or so of reading, while they pass a flask around.

Perhaps the publisher gets a freelance reader (or readers) to address some (or all) of the slush and pass the good stuff to the editorial assistant, who doles it out among editors according to topic and taste.

Perhaps the interns shovel it into a smallish, forgotten room (whose original use is now lost to memory), and take turns jumping into the pile like school children into autumn leaves.

Or perhaps it's stacked tidily, labeled with the date, and tied with twine into turfs, to await April 31st.


(Ok, I feel the need to explain my title line, for those of you who aren't inveterate muppet fans.)

All the Answers Are No

As we've been discussing, the slush inspires some mixed feelings. For some people (persistant, talented people), it pays off. And for other people it's hay-baling time.

So at the risk of aiming a post at people who don't read this blog, I'd like to point out some instances of slush-related correspondence in which the answer is no:

• You found a typo on page 76, and here's the corrected page. Could we just replace it in the manuscript you sent us last week? No.
  

• Whoops, you moved. Two months ago you sent us a manuscript, and here's your new address. Could we just tuck this notice in with your previous package? No.


• You air-mailed your aged grandmother to the slush (her rocker was too big for the envelope), and you're starting to worry that she might expire while she waits to be evaluated. Could we give her this bottle of water and kit of emergency rations? No.

I think we've established that hunting through the slush is a dubiously productive activity at the best of times (look, two-month-old chocolate!).

But hunting through the slush just to fix some small thing for you is the kind of pointless that makes old editors look back on their lives and weep bitter tears for their wasted youth. Even considering that it would be editorial assistants and interns doing the hunting, it makes me weep bitter tears for the time they could be spending writing my catalog copy or requesting my contracts.

The occasional typo we don't care about.
New address? Submit again.
Grandmother? Our submission guidelines clearly state that we are not responsible for the health or longevity of any materials sent to us.

There are a few editors and a number of ex-slush readers who seem to read this blog (for companionship, I think). Would anyone like to start a list of the stranger things they've found in slush? I'll start:

• a crate of tangerines
• a wool stocking full of jellybeans
• a hand-made hand puppet that really farted (mini whoopee cushion)

The Fiery Furnaces of Slush

How did I just discover this?

I empathize so strongly with this writing, I can't tell you. I, too, have hardened myself in the furnaces of editorial assistant-ship, and the slush is just what this writer describes. And the phone calls.

But god, how did I never think of the editor-who-doesn't-exist? Brilliant!

**However, I must note that I never became as down on writers as this columnist seems to have. I saw myself headed down that road, and Took Steps to prevent the impending catastrophe. You can't think writers are consistently batshit and still work collaboratively with them. Some people go through the fire of slush and come out a cinder. Thank Heavens that wasn't me.

If I Had a Hammer, I'd Hammer This Message Into You

Depressed, North Wind confided in his Siblings; “I was blowing around my favorite places on Earth and looked down, I mean really looked; she’s sick you guys, and it’s frightening, we have to think of a way to help heal our precious Planet Earth, what would we do without her; there is nowhere else to go?
Annie, a young girl, made from recyclable trash is a creation of the Winds because of their worry over the many environmental illnesses Earth is suffering from. Their plan: have Annie come to Earth and visit schools around the world to teach the children about these issues and how to tackle them one at a time; but which problem should they tackle first?

Which problem should we tackle first, indeed.
Children are just like unformed pieces of wood, aren't they? Just waiting for the chisels and planes and hammers and nails of the well-meaning adults around them? Or maybe they're like those pedal-operated trash cans: just step on a lever, their heads pop open, and a sign reads "Dispense Knowledge Here."

Except wait. That's almost the exact opposite of what I think.

Here's what I think: Children are people. They aren't people-in-training. Isn't it adorable the way they think they have minds of their own? No, it isn't. They do have minds of their own.

People (of any age) do not appreciate the funnel-to-gullet method of learning a lesson. Which is why I am firmly of the school of telling a story because you love the story, rather than loving the lesson that's carrying the story around like emotional baggage.

I would recommend you take a big step back from this message. No one here--no one!--is going to argue that it isn't a good and important message. I'd just argue that you'll catch more flies with honey than with a sledgehammer.

The Biggest Mistake Would-Be Writers Make

Underestimating the slush.

Really, I shouldn't term this a "mistake," singular. The fundamental lack of understanding about how much slush there is feeds many, many of the most commonly made mistakes writers make--mistakes that hurt their chances of getting published, and often hurt their morale. Some of those mistakes are below; but first, a visualization excercise:

First, you need to realize that you do not know what a pile of 15,000 manuscripts looks like.

Let's say you have a table that seats four. Imagine that in your kitchen at home. 1,000 manuscripts would cover that table in piles that would teeter. Tall piles. Take a moment to picture that.

Now fill the floorspace underneath and around the table with 4,000 more manuscripts. There is no room for chairs anymore. You can't reach the manuscripts in the middle of the table.

1,000 manuscripts fill your counter space; another 2,000 stuffs all your cupboards and shelf space. There is no longer any room for the coffeemaker or toaster; all of your food and crockery has been displaced to the living room. You cannot close the doors on your cupboards because of all the manuscripts spilling out of them. The kitchen is no longer about eating or cooking or anything but manuscripts.

The remaining 7,000 manuscripts cover all the remaining floor space in thigh-deep drifts. You cannot enter the room now. You can only reach those manuscripts at the doorway. Your kitchen is now less a "room" than a tank of paper.

Good. Keep that image in mind. Now imagine that you read 15,000 manuscripts last year, and a good 50% were so inappropriate, illiterate, or crazy that thoughts of the hard work you did in college and the enormous debt you're still carrying from attending that schmancy institution made you nigh-suicidal. The cause of literature seemed futile and meaningless. You might as well hole up in a shack in Montana, awaiting the end of western civilization and stockpiling Joyce.

Now imagine that another 47% were just poorly-written, or aimed at the wrong age level, or derivative of much better (and better-known) writers, as well as having several concept/plotting/arc issues. If asked to say what was wrong with any of these, you would first have to think hard about how to prioritize the problems you saw, and then think hard about how to put them nicely. (Editors are picky, critical people, but they're also nice people. They don't want to hurt your feelings.)

The last 3% were nice, but manuscripts that no consumer was going to spend her money on when she's got so many other choices.

Which left you with 0.02% --3 manuscripts from 15,000-- that were worth publishing and ended up paying you back for the time it took to read them. (As well as, of course, the tens of thousands of dollars it took to publish them. Let's not forget about that.)

Did those 3 manuscripts pay you back for the time it took you to read the 14,997 other manuscripts in slush? No. Why do you have to read another 15,000 this year, when you have more than enough work to do (and agented manuscripts to acquire) to completely fill your 50-hour work weeks?

That's a good question.

And yet we do keep reading. Maybe it's 'hope springs eternal,' maybe it's the thrill of the chase. Maybe we're nuts.


Now see if you can answer some of these commonly asked questions yourself:

1. "Why is it so hard to get published?"

2. "Why are decline letters so impersonal?"

3. "How can some publishers decide not to reply at all unless they're interested in acquiring?"

4. "Why does every publisher have to have a different set of submission guidelines?"

5. "Why are they so slavishly attached to their submission guidelines?"

6. "How can they be so perfunctory about something that means so much to me?"