by Neil Gaiman
Someone on The Well asked. Why don’t writers just edit their own books, kinda like musicians who produce themselves?
And the answer to that, Bill Clintonlike, is probably, it depends what you mean by Edit. Edit means so many things. Editors do so many things.
In the US they like to get more involved. This can be a good thing or a bad thing. Michael Korda once told me it all dated back to Jacqueline Susanne, who wrote books that were readable, but all typed in upper case in something that didn’t have a lot to do with English; so editors began getting their feet wet and getting involved in the writing process, making suggestions for things to cut, rewriting where they had to, and so on.
It’s certainly true that UK editors tend much more to look at a manuscript, ask themselves “is this publishable?” and if the answer’s yes, they publish it.
(In my case, the best thing an editor can do while I’m writing something is to keep cheerful and encouraging, say nice things, and keep getting words out of me by hook or by crook. I’ll sort out the problems for the second draft.)
Then there are copyeditors. Most editors now are too busy to actually spend 30 plus hours reading a manuscript with a blue pencil scrutinising each wayward comma. But, they figure, somebody has to do it.
In each case, the main thing an editor is meant to do when they do their jobs is to make you look good. I think the analogy is much less a musician producing her own records, and a lot more like an actor doing his own make-up and wigs, or an actor in a one man show doing her own lighting. Sure, you can do it yourself, but it’s much easier, and you’ll get a better look, if you get another pair of eyes and hands in to do it.
Editors make you look good. That’s their job. Whether it’s by pointing out that the relationship between the lead character and his father was never satisfyingly resolved, or by pointing out you’ve changed the spelling of the name of the landlady between her two appearances. Like the lighting guy, they are another pair of eyes.
And I always like another pair of eyes. If I’m writing a short story I’ll send the first draft out to a bunch of friends for feedback; they may see things I’ve missed, or point out places I thought I’d got away with something that I hadn’t. Or tell me the title is crap. Or whatever. I listen, because it’s in my best interests to listen. I may listen and then decide that, no, I like my title, and the relationship between the protagonist and his father is just what I want it to be, or whatever, but I’ll still listen.
(Something I learned ages ago. When people tell you there’s something wrong with a story, they’re almost always right. When they tell what it is that’s wrong and how it can be fixed, they’re almost always wrong.)
Of course, there are authors out there who are not edited. This is not necessarily a good thing. I read a bestselling book by a bestselling one of them. He had a flashback scene in which one of the neighborhood kids was wandering around, twelve years before he was born. An editor would have put a pencil mark beside it and said “Do you mean this?” and the embarrassed author would have admitted that, no, he wasn’t thinking, he just mentally thought of the names of some of the kids and forgot that one of them would have been minus twelve in that scene, and fixed it. So I don’t plan to become one of the great unedited.
I would say that when you find a good editor, you stick with them; and when you find a good copyeditor you stick with them as best you can.
(Often, in the US, they won’t tell you who the copyeditor is. They are more anonymous than taxmen. Apparently, there have been too many occasions in the history of publishing of overstressed authors ringing up copyeditors at 2:00am and screaming “I’m going to kill you, you bastard – how dare you change my noble and beautiful forgot to an inspid and lustreless forgotten?” that you are actively discouraged from talking to them before, during or after the copyediting process. This makes it hard to know when you got a good one, and harder still to keep them when you did.). . .
And, whew.posted by Neil Gaiman 2:38 PM
* * *
Tuesday, March 27, 2001
So we’re edging from the editing (and copy editing) process into the promotional process here. This is the third stage of getting a book published. (The first stage is writing it. The second is editing the manuscript. The third is promoting the book to the trade. The fourth is promoting the book to the public. The fifth is having a good sit down when it’s all over and contemplating a nice restful career as a lion tamer or a steeplejack.) (Which reminds me, I’ve still not yet written about the day of being photographed for the author photos. One day soon.)
And I know this (that we’re moving into promoting the book to the trade) because this weekend I shall be in Las Vegas, talking to Borders Books people — store managers and suchlike I guess, — and telling them. . . actually I have no idea what I’m meant to be talking to them about — whether I’m ‘giving a talk’ or making a speech, or just getting up there and affably winging it (something I quite enjoy doing from time to time). But I imagine that at the end of whatever it is we’re going to be doing, they’ll all know that American Gods exists.
They’ll all have copies of the American Gods missing-the-last- galleys as well, and I’ll probably sign them. All I really hope is that they read them when they get home — or give them to the people who work in the stores who want to read them — rather than just stick them out on e-bay, unread.posted by Neil Gaiman 5:13 PM
* * *
APRIL
Wednesday, April 11, 2001
I have been asked to give some dos and don’ts for people coming to signings. And although I’ve written do’s and don’t’s and suggestions for stores before (and may possibly reprint them here, for contrast), I don’t think I’ve ever written any suggestions for the people who actually make the signings possible.
If you’ve never been to any kind of signing with me, the first thing you should know is, wherever possible it’ll start with a reading and a question and answer session. Then you’ll be herded into lines (or, the first 50 people will be called, just like at a deli counter) and I’ll start signing stuff for people. And that will go on until everyone’s done, and happy, and out the door.
So here you go. . . Some dos and don’ts in no particular order. . .
1) It can be a good idea to call the store first and find out if they have any specific ground rules. Some do, some don’t. Will they be handing out numbers? Will you have to buy a copy of American Gods from them in hardback to get prime place in the line or will it be first come first served? What about books you bought somewhere else? Can you bring your ferret?
2) Get there reasonably early if you can. I’ll always try and make sure that anyone in line during the posted signing times gets stuff signed. At evening signings I’ll always stay and make sure everyone goes away happy, but on this tour there will be several places where I’ll need to go from a signing to another signing, so don’t cut it fine.
3) You may own everything I’ve ever written. I’m very grateful. I’m probably not going to sign it all, so you had better simply pick out your favourite thing and bring that along.
4) As a rule, I tend to tell stores I’ll sign 3 things people bring with them – plus any copies of the new book you buy (if you have six brothers or sisters and buy one each, I’ll sign them all). But stores may have their own policies – and we may wind up changing the rules as we go in order to make sure that everyone gets stuff signed.
5) Eat first. I’m not kidding. If it’s a night-time signing of the kind that can go on for a long time, bring sandwiches or something to nibble (some signings with numbers handed out may make it possible for you to go out and eat and come back. Or you may be first in line. But plan for a worst case scenario of several hours of standing and shuffling your way slowly around a store). (If it’s a daytime signing somewhere that a line may snake out of a store into the hot sun, bring something to drink. I always feel guilty when people pass out.)
6) You may be in that line for a while, so talk to the
people around you. You never know, you could make a new friend. I’ve signed books for kids whose parents met in signing lines (although to the best of my knowledge none of them were actually conceived there). And while we’re on the subject, bring something to read while waiting. Or buy something to read – you’ll be in a book shop, after all.
7) Don’t worry. You won’t say anything stupid. It’ll be fine. My heart tends to go out to people who’ve stood in line for hours trying to think of the single brilliant witty erudite thing that they can say when they get to the front of the line, and when it finally happens they put their books in front of me and go blank, or make a complete mess of whatever they were trying to say. If you have anything you want to ask or say, just ask, or say it, and if you get a blank look from me it’s probably because I’m slightly brain dead after signing several thousand things that day.
8) The only people who ever get short shrift from me are the people who turn up with tape recorders who try and tape interviews during signings. I won’t do them – it’s unfair on the other people in the line, and unfair on me (and I was as curt with the guy from the LA Times who tried it as I am to people who decide on the spur of the moment to try and tape something for their college paper). If you want to do an interview, ask the bookstore who you should talk to in order to set it up.
9) Take things out of plastic bags before you reach me. Firstly, it speeds things up. Secondly, I once ripped the back off a $200 comic taking it out of a plastic bag, when the back of the comic caught on the tape. The person who owned it was very sweet about it, but tears glistened in his eyes as I signed, and I could hear him wailing softly as he walked away.
10) Yes, I’ll happily personalize the stuff I sign, to you, or to friends. If it’s a birthday or wedding present, tell me.
11) Remember your name. Know how to spell it, even under pressure, such as being asked.
[If you have a nice simple name, like Bob or Dave or Jennifer, don’t be surprised if I ask you how to spell it. I’ve encountered too many Bhob’s, Daev’s and even, once, a Jeniffer to take any spelling for granted.]
12) No, I probably won’t do a drawing for you, because there are 300 people behind you, and if I had to draw for everyone we’d be finishing at 4.00am – on the other hand, if you’re prepared to wait patiently until the end, I may do it then, if my hand still works.
13) If it means a lot to you, yes, I’ll sign your lunchbox/skin/guitar/leather jacket/wings – but if it’s something strange you may want to make sure you have a pen that writes on strange surfaces legibly. I’ll have lots of pens, but they may not write on feathers.
14) At the start of the tour the answer to “Doesn’t your hand hurt?” Is “No.”
By the end of the tour, it’s probably going to be “Yes.”
15) Yes, you can take my picture, and yes, of course you can be in the photo, that’s the point isn’t it? There’s always someone near the front of the line who will take your photo.
16) I do my best to read all the letters I’m given and not lose all the presents I’m given. Sometimes I’ll read letters on the plane to the next place. But given the sheer volume of letters and gifts, you probably won’t get a reply, unless you do. (On one previous tour I tried to write postcards to everyone who gave me something at the last stop on postcards at the next hotel. Never again.) If you’re after a reply or to have me read something, you’re much better off not giving it to me on a tour. Post it to me care of DreamHaven books in Minneapolis.
(And although things people give me get posted back, on the last tour FedEx lost one box of notes and gifts, and on the tour before that hotel staff lost or stole another box. So smaller things I can put into a suitcase are going to be more popular than four-foot high paintings done on slabs of beechwood.)
17) No, I probably won’t have dinner/a beer/sushi with you after the signing. If it’s a daytime signing I’ll be on my way to the next signing; and if it’s an evening signing I’ll be heading back to my hotel room because I’ll be getting up at six A.M. to fly to the next city. If there actually is any spare time on the tour it’ll’ve been given to journalists, and if there’s any time on top of that old friends will have started e-mailing me two or three months before the tour started to say “You’ll be in the Paphlagonian Barnes and Noble on the 23rd. That’s just a short yak-hop from my yurt. We must get together,” and would have got themselves put on the schedule. (Still, it never hurts to ask.)
18) If you can’t read what I wrote, just ask me. After a couple of hours of signing my handwriting can get pretty weird.
19) If I sign it in silver or gold, give it a minute or so to dry before putting it back in its bag or closing the cover, otherwise you’ll soon have a gold or silver smudge and nothing more.
posted by Neil Gaiman 7:03 PM
* * *
Monday, April 16, 2001
The whole process of getting and giving blurbs is an odd one.
(Minor side note. If memory serves, BLURB as a word was created by American humorist Gelett Burgess (who also wrote the ‘Purple Cow’ poem). It means, basically, the puff stuff on the back of a book that tells you you ought to read it. The other word Gelett Burgess tried to introduce was “huzzlecoo” meaning, I think, to schmooze. It failed to catch on.)
I’ve met people who assumed that the whole blurb-giving process was one that authors were paid to do. Not so.
Generally blurbs mean one of two things; either the person giving the blurb really liked the book, or that complex networks of favour and obligation have been called into play.
It’s seldom simple logrolling — normally the reason why two authors say nice things about each other’s stuff is that they like each other’s stuff. But the process of getting something read, and of getting a quote can mean anything. It could mean that you have the same editor or agent or film producer as the book author, and they pressed you to read it. It could mean that the author is someone who did you a good turn once. And normally the favour is in getting the book read — anything after that depends mostly on whether or not the reader liked the book.
A very few blurbs make a difference. Clive Barker’s career was given a huge leg up by Stephen King’s “I have seen the future of horror and it is Clive Barker”, and I think Sandman was given a huger boost than I ever realised from the Norman Mailer quote (although, oddly enough, DC has never run that on anything except SEASON OF MISTS). I doubt that they actually changed anything for either of us; they might have sped up processes that would have happened anyway, though.
Most of them probably don’t do a thing. But in book publishing (as with movies) nobody knows anything. So they put them on the book jackets anyway and they hope.
Most successful authors could make a life’s profession simply reading books and giving blurbs — in any given week I get two or three books arriving with nice pleas from editors to read their book and say nice things about it. Also I get a couple of things from authors.
As to what I blurb. . . It depends a lot on what gets read, what I have time to read, whether it’s something portable and booksized or a huge heap of paper, sometimes even if there’s anything I have to say after reading something. It also depends a lot on whether or not I liked it once I have read it, if I did read it.
Sometimes I wind up reading something long after it’s come out in paperback and just feeling faintly guilty, especially if I did like it a lot. But there is only so much time, and there’s stuff I buy to read I never get time to settle down with. . .
It is good blurb etiquette, as an author, to say, if you cannot give a blurb, “I am sorry, I am too busy.” This could mean that you are too busy to look at it, or that you looked at it and wish you hadn’t.
It is not good blurb etiquette to do as an unnamed comics genius — oh, what the hell, it was R. Crumb — did when sent a reading copy of GOOD OMENS, over a decade ago, which is to write a several page letter to the publisher telling them not only how much you hated it but also imploring them not to pub
lish it. (Or so my editor said. She didn’t send me the letter, which I thought a pity, nor did she run it on the back cover, which I thought might have been fun.)
It is good blurb etiquette if you’re hoping someone will blurb your book to send it to them (or have your editor send it to them) and then not to bug them, unless you’re heading for the deadline and you want to politely point out to them that unless you get a blurb from them soon it won’t be used even if they did like it.
It’s lousy blurb etiquette to bug an author. Saying things like “Well, why don’t you read a and if that’s okay write something nice — one , one lousy solitary , is that asking so much?,” and “Hey, no problem, if you’re that busy I’ll write the blurb, you can just put your name to it” are not usually ways to endear yourself to an author. (And yes, I’ve had both of them, and yes, I said no thank you.)
Because you’re asking for two things — you’re asking for time, and you’re asking for some kind of endorsement. Mostly in an attempt to try and tell people what kind of book something is, in a kind of abbreviated word of mouth — “Gee. Maurice X. Boggs thinks this is an amazing book and Maurice X. Boggs is my favourite author, I should pick it up”. This works best, I think, as a kind of positioning — Stephen King tends mostly to give blurbs to things that adjectives like “Gripping. Relentless” can be applied to. He might enjoy reading a heartwarming novel about a funny skunk named Zonko and how he melts the heart of a crusty old widower. . . but publishers are unlikely to send him that book with a begging letter asking him to read it and to say something nice about it.