Approximately four hours after lunching with my first real New York editor. From Harper and Row, no less. This guy wrote me a letter once, three years ago, and asked me if I had any interest in writing a novel. “No,” I wrote back. “I’m not writing one.” He was at Lippincott then. “Why?” he said. “You should.” “I will,” I said. Just like that. So a long time later, I sent him some pages. Not good stuff yet, but some pages. Now, he’s in town. I go to lunch with him and he is a bit restrained. I wait with bated breath. So he tells me that I am a good writer, that I “probably have a novel there,” but that I should be more “traditional in my form.” “Uh, oh!” I said to myself, remembering what I learned at Philip Morris yesterday about not all New York people being bright and creative. I think it also holds true for publishing.
Slow down!
Okay.
What did you learn?
1. I learned that I can articulate why I am doing my book like I am doing it. For example (the best one):
He says: “you should work in a more traditional form to keep the reader interested.”
I say: “well, the thing is, I don’t wanna write that way. It’s just boring to me. [I REALLY SAID THAT!] and I want the form to reflect/suggest the subject matter because if,” I said, “you write in a traditional novel form you are making the reader anticipate some kind of traditional conflicts and traditional solutions or wrap-ups. I don’t wanna do that. I wanna suggest from front to back that all this shit is unknown and weird to me and I don’t know the solutions. I sort of just want to raise some of the questions, you know?” He didn’t get my drift.
2. I learned that I can’t count on white male editors from New York to understand my vibe or appreciate it.
3. That I need an agent.
4. That this is gonna be hard.
5. That I better finish the mutha or no one will know what it’s about till it’s done.
6. That I better hustle.
7. That I am smarter than a lot of people in publishing, too.
Such arrogance from you! Finish the book, genius!
Okay. I will.