by Gene Wolfe
“My problem is that it looks as though Vol. III will run 450 to 500 pp. Cutting it will mean taking out at least 100 pp. That seems like an awful lot of work to waste, and I’m afraid it will leave some ghastly gaps in the story.
“Letting it go more or less as it is—say 450 pp—means having a very thick third volume. It would be about 112,500 words, or roughly 20% longer than the first two.
“As you’ve probably already guessed by now, I am flirting with the idea of splitting Vol. III into two books by adding about 150 more pages to each half. My procedure would probably be to give (the present) Vol. III a rough second draft, building up sections wherever that seems called for in order to find out more accurately just how much material I have. At that point it should be 500 + pp. I would then go back to Vol. I, give that its final draft, send it off to you, give Vols. III & IV another draft that would bring them up to length, do the final draft of Vol. II, then do final drafts of III & IV.
“All this shouldn’t delay the delivery of Vol. I much, but it will obviously delay the delivery of Vol. II by at least three months and perhaps longer. More important, it will mean a four-volume series, which may be more difficult to place—you are the best judge of that.
“And of course if the package doesn’t sell at all, I will have wasted still more work, and the total is already three years or so.s
Virginia replied: “I did give the question you raised very serious consideration—although I knew instantly what I thought my answer would be … and my opinion did not change as I carefully considered every implication and ramification I could summon up.
“Then I called Dave Hartwell and laid out the situation for him. His immediate reaction was exactly mine:
“There is no impediment whatever in a marketing sense to the trilogy’s becoming a tetralogy. He was even more emphatic than I was in my initial—negative—reaction to any thought whatever of leaving it as it is, with the third volume noticeably longer than the first two. The method you propose, of splitting Volume Three into two books, is the only sensible way (in a commercial sense) to handle the problem—and will present you with no problems that I can foresee other than those dear to a craftsman’s heart.
“You are bound to no delivery schedule whatsoever at this point, so there’s really nothing to worry about. I swear I could practically see Dave slavering in anticipation, and I could certainly hear the eagerness in his voice, so I think your paragraph on top of page two, ‘And of course if the package doesn’t sell at all, I will have wasted still more work, and the total is already three years or so,’ is just ritual propitiation of the gods, as far as my instincts tell me—and they can be relied upon!
“The rather long spell with very little published is actually not as much of a negative factor as it would be if you had been churning out a book a year and suddenly went silent for three years, oddly enough.
“And, in any event, I have it pretty well planned out—I think—how we will establish a publishing rhythm for you by means of the one collection from Putnam’s or H&R; the other collection from Doubleday; and the first volume of The Book of the New Sun right on the heels of one or the other or both of the collections … . And thereafter at least a book a year—or a little oftener—for some years to come, while you are busily at work on your next. (Or taking a well-earned vacation for a while from writing, first, who knows?)
“In any event: proceed to finish the tetralogy in the way that seems best and most comfortable (in all senses) to you.”
On June 5, Virginia called to relay an offer from David G. Hartwell to buy the first book of the tetralogy (The Shadow of the Torturer) and the collection The Island of Doctor Death and Other Stories and Other Stories. David had not yet seen Shadow—he was making his offer, as is customary under these circumstances, subject to the delivery of a “satisfactory manuscript.” When a publisher makes an offer of this type, what he is really saying is that he will pay the price stipulated if he wants the book; and that he anticipates that he will. Such offers are considered complimentary to the author, since the publisher is putting himself in an embarrassing position if it turns out that he does not take the book. I told Virginia that I would accept the offer, meaning that I was willing to sell if David (representing Putnam) was willing to buy.
On July 24 I got a postcard from Virginia: “I just joggled Dave, saying we want a contract. I’m not sure whether he has spoken to you or not; has he—or have I—asked you to supply him with some text … either the two chapters we had copyrighted [for a reading, see below—GW], or (better yet) a partial from volume one of the tetralogy? I think he really does need something so that he can wave it about and say to his higher-ups ‘I have here in my hand …’ I know this is contrary to your instincts, but it would help.”
Churlishly, I replied: “Your postcard was quite a disappointment to me—I had assumed that by this time you were negotiating the contract.
“No, Dave has not contacted me, and neither of you have asked me for a sample of the manuscript.
“As of now, I have the first three books in second draft, and 105 pp of the second draft of the fourth. If I were to stop work entirely on the fourth book and then try to pick it up later, I think it would have a very bad effect on the work. (I did something much like that when I got those two chapters from the second book ready to read at MidAmeriCon.) Tomorrow I am going to try dividing what I snickeringly call my ‘work day.’ I’ll devote about half of it to the second draft of the fourth book, and the other to a final draft of the opening chapters of the first. If it works, I should have a worthwhile amount—say about 75 pp—accumulated in a month or so. If it doesn’t we’ll just have to wait until I have the fourth book in second draft, which will be around the end of September.”
Virginia replied (July 31): “Well, actually, Dave and I seem to have talked Dave out of waiting for a sample (hell, he knows as well as we do how you write, and how well you write; he doesn’t need samples) and apparently he has convinced his higher-ups to trust his judgment.
“Viz, ibid, q.e.d., and hey presto: the contracts, herewith, for your signature.”
I replied: “As I told you on the phone yesterday [unfortunately, I kept no record of this telephone conversation—GW], I’m just back from San Francisco. I had dinner there with Terry and Carol Carr Wednesday night; Terry didn’t seem to be feeling too well, and now I appear to have picked up Golden Gate Grippe or whatever it was he had. So if I am even harder to get along with than usual, lay it to that.
“The contracts are enclosed. I have signed both copies on the last page and initialed Clause XI of each. I’m not clear as to whether my signature is supposed to be witnessed. Possibly the initial space is provided just in case there are two authors. If they want a witness, no doubt they’ll tell us … .
“Please change the contract to reflect the fact that The Book of the New Sun is to be an umbrella title for the series. The four books will be: I. The Shadow of the Torturer; II. The Claw of the Conciliator; III. The Sword of the Lictor; IV. The Citadel of the Autarch.”
Perhaps I should explain here that the three dots indicate omitted material about The Island of Doctor Death and Other Stories and Other Stories, which was covered by the same contract.
Within a few weeks, rumors began to surface to the effect that David Hartwell was quitting Putnam/Berkley. I had been through this sort of thing before with other editors; sometimes the rumors had proved true and sometimes they had not. But it was hard to keep from being uneasy. When the editor who bought a book leaves his publishing house before the book appears, the book is liable to become a stepchild, a property without an advocate.
Then on October 25, Virginia wrote: “Well, the fat is in the fire, the cat is out of the bag, to say nothing of the fact that—at Berkley—the sky has fallen. Dave is leaving at the end of this week, as I understand it. When Victor Temkin got back from the Frankfurt Book Fair, he made a general announcement.
“Since that time, David has called me for a lo
ng, long conversation; John Silbersack [David Hartwell’s assistant when this was written] has called me for a short one; Peter Israel (whose eminence I could not begin to describe to you—he’s just back from twelve or is it sixteen years in Paris to resume as editor-in-chief on the hardcover side); and, this morning, Victor Temkin.
“John was concerned to let me know that the sf program would continue, and as long as he had the running of it, he assured me that he would do his absolute best for my people. Peter Israel will take over with Ursula’s mainstream novel, and plans to go out to the coast and see her. [“Ursula” is of course Ursula K. Le Guin; I believe the novel referred to here is Malafrena—GW] Victor Temkin wanted to soothe me if I needed soothing, consult with me as to Dave’s successor (I recommended Victoria Schochet—which might have been a dirty trick, because I know Dave would like to hire her as his second in command at Pocket Books—but he would also like to see her get an editorial chair of her own, surely—and my endorsement may not make all that much difference; I also put in a good word for John, but Temkin made it clear that he wants a name as impressive as David’s to replace him. There is no one of that calibre available).
“Then we discussed the really delicate subject: those authors who will insist on going where David is. I brought your name up first and foremost. Apparently David had already explored the proprieties of buying your contract. Temkin was on me like a badger immediately. He said fervently that he did not want to lose you; it did not matter that you have not yet ‘made it big’; he said that’s just the author we want to keep, the one whose NEXT book may be the big one. I forbore to explain to him that this is not a one-book gamble but a five-book gamble that he is committing himself to, because I wanted to get back to you first.”
Virginia’s next was dated November 3: “Dave Hartwell called me today, just before leaving for a much-needed vacation (which he is going to spend in Pine Mountain, Georgia, so he and Pat will get to see Mike and Jeri while relaxing) to tell me all his latest news.
“Victoria Schochet got the job; John Silbersack is staying on—probably as her assistant, perhaps as her mentor and guide, at least at first.
“Dave starts with Pocket Books as of next Thursday, i.e., November 9th. He is really happy about it.
“He told me that his parting gift from Berkley was being told that he could take you over to Pocket Books/Simon & Schuster with him. The mechanics are these: Pocket Books will issue a new contract, same amount, same terms, and I will buy the contract back from Berkley. I have had similar situations in the past, where the payment was from publisher to publisher. It is an even wash, either way. It does not have to be considered income for you, in case that was worrying you.
“Are your worries somewhat allayed? I anticipate that it will all go smoothly enough. And I can’t wait to read Volume One.”
The Mike and Jeri referred to in the first paragraph of this letter are Mr. and Mrs. Michael Bishop. “Pat” is Mrs. Hartwell. I would have been a good deal less worried, when I heard that David Hartwell might leave Berkley, if I had known that Victoria Schochet would replace him; she was the editor who brought my novel Peace to Buz Wyeth’s attention at Harper and Row.
Before the end of the month, I got a letter from John Silbersack canceling my contract with Berkley. After conferring with Virginia by phone, I signed and returned it.
Early in December, a letter came from Virginia saying: “The news is good. Dave will let me have translations back entire, though he wants to hang on to British (since he expects to make very strong ties in Britain on a trip in the near future) which is okay with me
… and he is offering an additional thousand dollars for The Book of the New Sun. I am well satisfied …
“He would like very much to have a delivery schedule—as approximate as you like—on the tetralogy, so that he can begin the complex process of slotting it … and talking it up to the sales force.”
In book publishing today, North America (meaning the U.S. and Canada, but not Mexico) constitutes about 50% of the market; the British Commonwealth (including English language books in places like India and the Union of South Africa, as well as Australia and New Zealand) is another 25%; translation rights make up the remaining 25%, with France, Germany, and Japan being the highest-paying countries. The dream of every publisher is that someday the U.S.S.R. may be open to U.S. books; if it ever happens, publishers and even authors will get rich, and publishing stocks will go through the roof—but it probably never will.
I answered Virginia: “Yes, that is all good news. For the first time in a couple of months I am feeling happy about this deal. I’m looking forward to seeing the new contracts.
“But aren’t I being whipsawed a bit on this delivery schedule? A while back you told me publishers wouldn’t take more than one book a year in such a series. Or do you mean Volume I when you say”the tetralogy”? I think I can have Vol. I, The Shadow of the Torturer, ready to go to you for your criticisms and corrections by about March 1. I would guess that it will take us a couple of months to work out the kinks, so it might be ready to go to Dave by about May 1.
“If you really do mean the whole tetralogy, I could probably supply the other three books at six-month intervals. Volume II around November 1, Vol. III around May 1, 1980, and so on. Of course I won’t turn them in that fast unless they want them that fast.”
The contracts arrived around Christmas time, with a cover letter from Virginia; “Herewith, I am pleased to send the Pocket Books contract (new form) for The Island of Doctor Death and Other Stories and Other Stories and Volume I of The Book of the New Sun …
“Please read them over closely. And please don’t approach them with a sense of distrust—they are not the Pocket Books contract that caused so much consternation in SFWA, but rather a new form that Dave Hartwell had a hand in shaping. (He’s currently working with the Contracts Department to improve it still further; it is currently, as far as I can tell, on a par with most such documents, and better than some.)
“If you have any misgivings, please list them (not marking directly on the contract) and I will do my best to obtain alterations. If there are any points you must have changed, I will of course have to be firm. But it will be in the interest of speed (the quicker to get Berkley paid off and that chapter finished) if you can sign and return the documents to me as soon as possible … .
“No, what it was was: since you were willing to let go of Book One (or close to it) I made the mistake of thinking you were all done with all four except for retyping. You will note that the completion date is well within the realm of the possible on the novel, and that no mention at all is made of due dates on the volumes under option. You get to state your completion times, not me. If it is feasible, Dave may well want to bring out Volume Two of the series before the collection. If not, not. But it would be to your advantage to have it done that way, so far as justifying barely-possible hardcovers for the collection would be concerned.”
The first section of omitted material in this letter deals with detailed contract provisions and would be unintelligible to anyone without the contract. The second concerned Pocket’s publicity form. Filling out such things is one of the least pleasant tasks of authorship. The Publicity Department wants to know if the writer is an Elk, what his book is about in 100 words or less (they mean fewer, and they leave space for about 25), if he is the bosom friend of some nationally syndicated columnist, and so on and so forth, sometimes for eight or ten pages of legal-sized paper.
I responded with several quibbles about provisions concerning the collection (the boiler-plate wording specified a typed manuscript, although one book was to be filled with reprinted material; and the deadline was impractically early) and the suggestion that the word title be struck from a list of things to be controlled by the publisher. With that letter I returned the signed contracts. (Signed by me, that is. Publishers never seem to sign until a long, long time after you do.)
Virginia wrote again on December 29, among man
y other things saying: “I see no difficulty in taking the word title out of 7b and putting it into 7a so that it would read, ‘Publisher may not make any changes in the manuscript or title of the Work without the consent of the Author …’”
Lawyers, not Virginia, were responsible for the funny capitalization, by the way. A few hundred years ago, all nouns were capitalized in English, as they still are, I believe, in German. Gradually it became customary to capitalize only the more important nouns—as here—until at last only proper names (and a few exceptions, such as God) were capitalized. The Profession of Law preserves a great many old usages, not because of any inherent conservative cast of mind among lawyers, but because innovation is liable to be contrary to the client’s interests.
On January 3, 1979, I answered Virginia’s letter: “Shifting title from 7b to 7a would be fine. I think you know me well enough to understand that I would not be unreasonable about title changes provided Dave (or whoever) were willing to talk to me about it and did not saddle me with something like Starmaster, But I think we have a good title for the tetralogy, and it matches the volume titles—how would it look if we had The Book of the New Sun, The Shadow of the Torturer, The Claw of the Conciliator, Planet-Breaker, and The Citadel of the Autarch?”
In the event, there have been no requests for title changes so far. Knock wood. Maybe I should explain that some publishers believe that some readers are unable to recognize science fiction unless the word star (or planet) appears in the title. Andy Porter, who is one of those publishers, changed the name of his superfanzine Algol to Starship to increase newsstand sales, but I don’t know if it worked. To my mind, the ideal fanzine title belongs to Mike Glicksohn’s (and the late Susan Wood’s) Energumen.