publishing

Contracts, Edits, & Acknowledgements: In Which I Sweat the Small Stuff

It’s been almost two years since the giddy phone call when Jaynie Royal and Regal House said yes to Just Maria, and I said yes to Jaynie and Regal House.  At the conclusion of the call, Jaynie said she would send along a book contract for my review.  She encouraged me to have my lawyer look at it, but even as she spoke those words, I’m sure she knew the truth:  I don’t have a lawyer.  I don’t know anybody who has a lawyer.  I know lawyers, sure, and I know where to find one if I ever need one, but I would never consider them mine.  My lawyer?  Who in my income bracket has a lawyer?

I understand the word my here is not a possessive in the traditional sense.  Rather, it refers to a tradesperson you use with enough frequency to think of them as yours.  So, sure, I talk about my barber, my mechanic, and my firewood guy.   But my lawyer?  I’m afraid not.  I am not wealthy, nefarious, or criminal enough to need a lawyer on a regular basis.

So while Jaynie and I both knew I could ask around and find an entertainment lawyer, she and I both knew I would not.  I did take the contract to my friend Allan Wolf, a published children’s author with a drawer full of similar contracts.  His advice?  Just sign it.

Oh sure, he looked through it, noted a few ways it looked different from his own contracts, but we agreed that it was largely boilerplate, and if there were provisions in there that were going to jump up and bite me in the butt, both of us were too dense to know what they might be.  Just sign it, he said.  And I did.

(Disclaimer:  If you are reading this blog for legal advice, please stop.)

From there commenced the two-year process of bringing Just Maria to print.  That might seem a long time, but this is standard in the book trade.  Indeed, Allan told me it was a good sign it would take so long to get the book published—evidence that I had landed with a reputable press, in line with industry standards and serious enough about their work to schedule things years in advance.

The editorial process was new to me, by turns exhilarating and mystifying, and punctuated by long bouts of nothing at all.  Though frustrating in places, I heeded the advice of my friend Jake Morrill.  “Enjoy it,” he said.  “You might publish another book, and you might not.  Enjoy the ride.”

First I had to clean up my manuscript, to get it ready for the Regal House editors, following the rules of the Chicago Manual of Style.  I had to ensure that my indents all lined up, that my apostrophes were turned and tucked in the proper direction, that my em-dashes and hyphens were consistent and distinct.  I raked through the manuscript with a fine-toothed comb, and sent it off for review.

My next task was to compose my Acknowledgments and Dedication.  I suspect all writers find these tasks to be rewarding and intimidating in equal measure.  For the Acknowledgements, of course, you want to thank all those who helped without leaving out anyone out, all with the appropriate mix of modesty and gratitude, while also keeping it short.  Writing the Acknowledgements Page is surely an art form in itself, with its own rules, expectations, and etiquette, but it’s a forgiving one:  while I’ve read Acknowledgements pages that interested me more than others, I’ve yet to run across one that I thought was bad.  It takes someone with a pinched and small perspective to criticize another’s gratitude.

Harder was the Dedication.  I knew it would go to Nita, my wife, who is the love of my life and has supported me from Day One.  She batted not an eye when I told her I wanted to try my hand at writing, even if it meant we’d be poorer than we might otherwise be.  She also led me into the profession that I have truly loved and that provided the source material for Just Maria:  the education of children with blindness and visual impairments.  How to capture that in a few short words?  I spent as long on my six-word dedication as I had on whole pages of my book.  This is what I wrote:

To Nita:  Pathfinder, Cloudlifter, Hiking Buddy.

I don’t know if she has seen it yet.

Once those were submitted, we started the back and forth of editorial review.  My editor at Regal House was Pam Van Dyk, and she read with a sharp eye and keen instincts.   Contrary to my imagination, we did not send drafts back and forth, marked up with red ink and wrapped up with parcel paper and twine.  This was 2021, after all.  We used a shared Microsoft Word document, with comments and track changes turned on.  Pam had a comment or suggestion on almost every page, and it took me weeks to read, consider, and respond to them all, making changes where changes were due.  Most were minor – a word here, a comma there – but some were more substantive, as we explored the characters’ motivations, inclinations, and means of expression.  I have never in my life had anyone read a piece of my writing as closely as Pam read Just Maria.  And while I did not take every recommendation she made, it was gratifying to be part of such an intimate exchange about the words I had written, what they meant, and how they might be better.  We settled on a final draft and pronounced it ready to publish.

Next came typesetting, galleys, and final proofs, as we poured over the manuscript to spot any stray errors that had escaped our notice on previous readings.  I found this to be the most tedious of the entire process.  By that time, I had read the words in Just Maria so many times that they ceased to hold meaning for me.  I could scarcely focus for a paragraph, let alone a page or chapter.  I read as close as I could, but not close enough.  There are at least two typos in the final copy:  you might catch them, I did not.

Then came the waiting.  I was set for a Fall 2021 publication date, and when they set up the release calendar, I landed on the back end: January 7, 2022.  That’s next week, if you hadn’t noticed.

It’s been seven years since I started Just Maria, three years since I finished it, and almost two years since I signed the contract with Regal House.

In four days, it hits the shelf.

Giddyap.

Next post: Confessions of a Reluctant Pitchman

By Jay Hardwig, ago

How I Found a Publisher

Five years, five thousand miles, and at least five drafts later, I had finished Just Maria.  

My wife liked it.  My mom did too.  But I didn’t want them to be the only ones to read it.

It was time to get published. 

A longshot, I knew.  I had never published a book, and had published precious little at all in the last twenty years.  The field is crowded.  Words proliferate.  But I had to give it a shot. 

I could have published it myself, easy, with a few bucks and some chutzpah.  There are plenty of ways to self-publish these days, from print-on-demand services to the so-called “vanity presses” that will turn your words into a book for a fee.  Many writers use these services, and walk away satisfied. 

But that’s not what I wanted.

I wanted a book, in print, from an established publisher.  I wanted a physical object to have and to hold, to place upon my shelf (and yours, too, if you weren’t looking).   I wanted my name on the spine, my bio on the back, the whole mess.  But more than that, I wanted someone to say yes to Just Maria. 

I wanted a gatekeeper.

When I was younger, I felt different about the gatekeepers.  They were the ones who kept telling me no, after all, and that was a tiring word to hear.  Then along came the Internet, the barriers to publication fell, and all of the sudden there were more gates than keepers.  Anyone with half a notion could post their words online, for free or close to it.  Many, many people have.  Some of it is great, some middling, and some dreadful, but you have to appreciate the egalitarian spirit of it all.

(I do.  This site, this blog, these words you are reading right now depend upon it.  No gatekeeper, no oversight, no editor.  Just a few bucks a month to a web-hosting service, and voila!: I have my own little corner of the Internet.)

So, sure, I could have posted Just Maria online, in less than a day’s work.  But as I said, I wanted someone other than my Mom to tell me it was good.  Someone I didn’t know, who didn’t know me and didn’t care about my feelings. Someone in the field who saw in Just Maria enough promise to want to publish it, to use their own time and money to see this little book to print.  I wanted a gatekeeper.

Of course, I’d wanted that before.  And like I had with previous books, I set a Rejection Goal.  For Just Maria, that goal was 20:  if I could just get 20 rejections, I could shelve the project without remorse, and get on with my life.  At least I tried. 

I was doing good, too, piling up rejections at an impressive clip.  Two, five, ten, twelve.

I was sending Just Maria to agents and small presses, to people whose names I found online. Some responded and some didn’t, and those that did mostly offered the perfunctory pro forma kindness of the standard rejection letter:  doesn’t meet our needs, not the project for me, best of luck.  A few included some gentle words of encouragement to soften the blow.  Every writer recognizes this as standard operating procedure.   No offense was meant, and none was taken.

Then came Query #14.  On November 12, 2019, I submitted a cover letter, synopsis, and fifty-page writing sample to Regal House Publishing, via their online platform.  I paid a $5 processing fee and moved on.  I expected nothing, save another rejection.

Seven days later I received the following email from Jaynie Royal of Regal House Publishing:

Thank you for your recent submission. We enjoyed your excerpt and would like to read the entire manuscript if it is still available.

(Still available?  Why yes, yes it is!)

I sent the full manuscript.

Then, on December 2, 2019:

Thank you for sending a hard copy of your manuscript to our office. I have now completed my read of Just Maria and found it deftly written and utterly engaging. I would like to discuss next steps regarding our upcoming acquisitions meeting – if publication with RHP and Fitzroy Books remains of interest to you.

(Does publication remain of interest to me?  Why yes, yes it does!)

Jaynie sent a longer questionnaire for me to complete prior to the acquisitions meeting—biography, marketing strategy, comparable titles, and the like—and told me they would meet on January 15th.  I sent her my pitch and waited.  January 15th came and went, without a word.

Then, a few days later, I got the phone call I’d been waiting to hear since I was a much younger man: we want to publish your book.

I don’t remember the details of that phone call, but I do remember the feeling:  incredulous, cautious, and a little bewildered, sure, but most of all I was thrilled.  Happy.  Downright giddy.

I’m sure I asked a few questions, perhaps even relevant ones, but my response, in a nutshell:

Where do I sign?

Next post:  Contracts, Edits, & Acknowledgements: In Which I Sweat the Small Stuff

By Jay Hardwig, ago

I Made Other Things, Too: A Writing History

I did.  I made other things too.  I’ve been writing my whole life, give or take.  Progress reports, postcards, and stray doggerel, sure, but also essays, poems, and novels.

I don’t mean that to sound obnoxious.  Lots of people write.  Many of them write more than I do, and better.  You should read their stuff.  But the fact is, time and again, when faced with a little free time, a dull patch in life, or just a small spark of inspiration, I’ve used that as an excuse to string a few words together. 

I’ve had some modest success along the way.  I’ve seen my name in print, often, and sometimes even gotten paid for it. You can find more about my published work on my Writing tab.  But most of my work never got past the slush pile.  Countless hours, countless words, most of them forgotten, forlorn, and largely unread.  I won’t belabor this point.  Every writer has a collection of these sad guppies in their drawers.  It’s part of the deal. Most of my unpublished work got that way on merit:  it’s not worth publishing.

I got started with creative writing, for real, after college.  In my twenties, I wrote a coming-of-age novel, titled As One Familiar and Well-Beloved.  Surprisingly enough, it featured a college-aged boy from Knoxville who left home and discovered loneliness, nostalgia, and cheap beer in equal measure.  It wasn’t very good.  I sent it out anyway.  Despite a few friendly responses from agents, not one of them took the bait.

Next I considered an MFA in creative writing, a default option for liberal arts graduates of my era.  I applied to two programs, got accepted to one, and sat in on a graduate fiction workshop trying to imagine that life.  It was collegial and quixotic, boring and brutal.  I passed.

After that I set my sights on ephemera.  I wrote music reviews, essays, and humor for a succession of alt-weeklies and trade rags, honing my craft at a dime a word.  Every journalist will tell you:  the best writing teachers are regular work, firm deadlines, and word limits (with the last of these most important of all).  Some would say I had lowered my sights, but I disagree.  I did some of my best writing in those years.  It was a great gig, but it ran its course.  Once I found myself writing album reviews that had more to do with my own state of mind than the music itself, I knew it was time to get out of that game.

Next I tried my hand at creative nonfiction, writing a few essays and a book proposal about my first year as a teacher at the Texas School for the Blind and Visually Impaired.  It had a great title, courtesy of one of my favorite students:  Love Sounds Like a Two-Stroke Engine.  Still, I didn’t get a bite.

I wrote another book, a comic road novel in which a pair of laconic Cajuns travel through the Southeast, sampling food from local greasy spoons while chasing a woman on the lam who is either a schizophrenic drifter or a child of God. (I know, I know.)   The title was Me and Fat Eddie. It was ludicrous in places, confused in others, and it borrowed way too much in both tone and substance from Charles Portis’ classic Dog of the South.  Looking back at it, I find it equal parts amusing and abysmal, but when I finished it, I was proud.  My goal in my twenties had been to write a novel before I died, and now I had written two.  They were unpublished, unread, and unloved, true, but they were mine. 

When Me and Fat Eddie failed to ignite bidding wars in the New York publishing industry, I turned to children’s poetry.  I was victim of the notion that befalls many parents when they start to read bedtime books to their kids:  I could do that.  It turns out I couldn’t.  There were some good poems in the batch – some I’m still proud of today – but editors saw right through them, dismissing them as derivative and mundane, the work of a dilettante.  The world of children’s poetry is filled with work that rises above, books of true power and beauty and awe.  All I had were a few clever rhymes.

(Speaking of derivative and mundane, I lifted that phrase straight from Bobby Bare Jr.  No one likes a plagiarist, but sometimes I can’t help myself.)

So there I was, aged 42, with a whole bunch of words behind me.  Millions of them, surely.  I’d sold some smaller stuff, but had no such luck with my bigger, more ambitious projects.  I had a few good clips, a few extra bucks, and a basement full of promo CDs from my time as a music critic.  Like I said, it was a good run, but it was time to stop writing words no one would ever read.  I had surveyed the land and found my chances wanting.  I decided to pack it in.

Next post: Ambition and Indolence in Middle Age

By Jay Hardwig, ago