One Year Book Anniversary: Traditional Gift is Paper, the Modern Gift is a Clock. Both make sense to me!

Today is my book’s first birthday, or perhaps the right term is first anniversary. STARTING WITH GOODBYE was published a year ago by University of Nevada Press. I’m so grateful to everyone who supported the book and me through a busy year.

Yesterday I had lunch with a lovely student-turned-client who is working hard to make her first book manuscript shine as brightly as possible. She asked the question I don't always know how to answer: So, what has it really been like? 

I tried to explain. These past twelve months -- during which I spent a lot of time promoting, marketing, publicizing, interviewing, and making appearances on behalf of the book, the book, the book -- well, they weren't always what I thought they'd be. Sometimes events turned out so much better than I could have hoped; people and organizations surprised me with their welcoming warmth, tangible support, and wonderful moments. Other times, well, let's just say, things played out differently. (As they do in life, not just in publishing!)

What I wanted this other writer to know is that it was a year full of extremes: excitement, exhaustion, exhilaration, eye-openers, errors, and enriching experiences. Alternately fun and frustrating, busy and not, a year of learning what to focus on and what to let go.

I learned not to watch sales numbers (so much else is crazy-making about the book journey, why find another way to worry?), not to compare my book's trajectory with any other authors', and not to assume that everything promised will actually come to pass. 

I've learned that the very best moments are not about crowds or high number of likes/shares/followers or what BookScan has to say. No, the best moments are when I am talking to a reader, one reader, who has something to tell me, some story that floats in the air between us, something that my book, my words, have invited her to share. I always want to listen. 

As a nonfiction writer who mines my own life for story fodder, I can’t think of any better response to what I've written than someone who wants to tell me their story too. It's my belief, or at least my experience, that memoir authors write the things we do, about universal experiences we all have in common, because that is how we find it easiest to connect to other human beings.

When I think about how lucky it is that my book has created these connections, I'm still a little bit stunned. There were times when I asked myself (and frankly some people asked me directly!), how readers would react to a memoir like mine. STARTING WITH GOODBYE, after all, is about the unpredictability of grief as it snaked through my life in the three years following my father’s death.

There were times I worried that readers would not want to engage with this kind of tough stuff, with a book that might seem as if it's all about sadness. I had to trust that readers would give it a chance and along the way find that it’s not all sad, that even a story that pivots on grief can also be about funny, odd, and surprising events, about wacky relatives, about the weird things people say and do around grief that make us laugh when we shouldn’t but really need to (think Chuckles the Clown’s funeral episode on the old Mary Tyler Moore show). 

Not only are readers embracing all those parts of the book, but I've had remarkable conversations about how those moments are part of grief too, lighter moments that get us through. I've been encouraged and enlightened by readers who get my larger message: that, as much as we might want to deny it, grief has visited (or will come) to us all at some time, and that if we are curious about grief, embrace it and see what we can discover from the experience, the less scary and more unifying it can be.

When I talk with readers, everything else seems to fall away -- the stress of scheduling book events, the struggle to keep the book in the public eye, the subtle background pressure to keep priming the publicity pump. 

What remains is why we write in the first place, why I write. I write because I love to read and the page is the place where I find the stories that help me understand myself and others. Sometimes I read the stories others write, sometimes I write those stories myself.

I wasn't able to articulate all of this to my client at lunch, but perhaps I didn't have to. If she's lucky and continues to work hard and takes some risks, she will have her own manuscript-to-published-book path to follow one day. I hope it is for her just as exciting, exhausting, exhilarating, eye-opening, and enriching. 

What's Next: An Excerpt from Starting with Goodbye, a Jersey Shore Visit Tonight (6/14)

Today I'm celebrating a little, as the terrific website Next Avenue (a PBS venture), has published an excerpt from Starting with Goodbye: A Daughter's Memoir of Love after Loss. 

I don't know if I'm more thrilled about the excerpt or the photo of me and Dad, taken on the morning of my wedding. You can't quite see it, but he's joking around by handing me a wad of cash. How I miss that sense of humor!

The excerpt is from an early chapter in the book, and I'm so happy that Next Avenue -- whose tagline is where grown-ups keep growing --  wanted to share this with their readers in the days just before Father's Day, a time when memories of gone fathers might be both comforting as well as painful.  

                                                                          * * * 

Meanwhile, it's time for me to hit the road (again), heading down the shore to an event tonight at BookTowne in lovely Manasquan, NJ -- the place I was when I got the call about my father's stroke (that's in Chapter 2 of the book). There, I'll be in conversation with another NJ author I've recently come to know, Laurel Davis Huber. Her book, The Velveteen Daughter, is a work of historical fiction about the artist prodigy daughter of the women who penned The Velveteen Rabbit. I read it last weekend when I needed to relax not only from the busy book promo schedule but because my wonky knee insisted on it. I couldn't have asked for a more absorbing, unusual story to have for company.

Book Birthday! Starting with Goodbye makes its official debut. Hello World!

I'm almost always awake past midnight anyway. But I'm not usually watching the clock to tick into the new day. Maybe it is a bit silly, wanting to drink in the first moments of the first day when my first book is birthed. That's okay. I'll take silly. 

When the FedEx delivery guy pulled up late yesterday afternoon, I met him at the bottom of the front steps with outstretched arms. "This is a pretty heavy box. You sure you want to carry it?" he asked. I was sure!

Tucked inside along with my author copies was a beautiful card signed by everyone on the editorial, production, and marketing team at University of Nevada Press, all those I've come to know over the last 14 months, everyone who brought the book to life with such passion. (Everyone who put up with me and my constant questions!)

They're the folks who made this gorgeous video trailer. Please take a (36 second) look!

For those who would like to read the book, you can order online from many retailers, small or large, indie or the big guys. I've gathered all the options, linked for you here. And of course, I'd love nothing more than if you wandered into your own nearby independent bookstore and asked them to stock it (or at least order you one!).

If you'd like a signed copy of Starting with Goodbye, you can do so via Watchung Booksellers, my nearest local independent book store. Simply note, "signed please" in the Order Comments box on their Checkout page. (Also specify if you want it personalized or not.) 

On our way out to a little celebratory dinner tonight, we may stop off at Watchung, where a friend spotted this: 

One day soon, I'll head over to WORDS Bookstore, a little bit further away, where a friend, out for her morning walk, reports that we're already window dressing! 

Readers who are writers, I've learned one thing well. Books take time. They take as long as they take. This one took a long time. But now that its time has come, the time merely seems right.

Thank you, blog readers, for allowing me to share my excitement with you! For staying interested in what I was doing and had to say over these past 11 years since I started this blog, way before there was any book in sight. You're the best.

Memoir Book Report, Part V: Weathering the Query & Manuscript Submission Cycle, from Confusion to Contact to Contract

Fifth in a series, following Starting with Goodbye: A Daughter’s Memoir of Love after Loss, from manuscript to published book (University of Nevada Press, May 1, 2018). Find the rest of the series here.

Once I got a publication date, other writers began to ask: How long did the submission process take? What was it like? How did you find your publisher?

The short, pithy answers: Eleven months. Hell. Not the way I thought.

That’s handy shorthand, but hardly helpful. Here’s the longer story, the one from which you might glean some helpful hints.

I first thought I might have a book percolating in 2012, when I realized that many of the essays I was getting published, might add up to…something. Quite a few were connected thematically around my father’s death, and I thought if I wrote a few more, voila -- linked essay collection. (Can I over-emphasize how common this thinking is among essayists—and how often wrong-headed?) I tried to get that one published but eventually realized it had to be transformed into a more traditional memoir. (In a future post I’ll detail the essays-to-memoir process, so let’s skip ahead to April 2016, when I had a polished memoir manuscript.)

I am a fan of traditional independent and boutique literary presses and university presses, many of which accept non-agented submissions. I had already been compiling a spreadsheet of such publishers, organized first by those I most desired (because they’d published books I admired), and those that seemed most logical (given the book’s thematic elements). 

I noted any special submission calls, possible connection/recommendation, contests and open/closed submission periods, and finally, but not incidentally, any hunches I had. Next—because I so love a spreadsheet—I cross-referenced what each required initially, usually some combination of query letter, synopsis, proposal, sample chapters, the entire manuscript, marketing plan, author bio.

From April through January, I marched down my list, garnering both lightning-fast rejections as well as several requests for chapters, and a few for the whole manuscript. Result: slower rejections. Sure, some were personal, from editors who seemed genuinely to have read and thought carefully about the work.

Still, no is no.

Over those 10 months, I scratched some publishers off my list—they shuttered operations or their lists shrunk; some seemed less likely candidates after more careful study; sometimes I simply decided they wouldn’t want my book for some random reason which now seems silly. At the same time, the list grew as I discovered new-to-me publishers. What is it that we say about hope springing?

Along the way, I tinkered with the idea of seeking an agent—mostly because the advice of a book coach I’d consulted two years before, still resonated: there was nothing to lose and quite possibly something enormous to gain. About once a week, I spent time researching agents I might query—sometime. A small list emerged, tucked into another spreadsheet.

By the end of January, my energy was flagging, but I realized I had not made enough effort querying university presses. I had at least a dozen on my list I’d be thrilled to be published by. They all wanted a full proposal or some combination of the elements of a proposal, and while I’d written one, I kept tinkering, never sure it was right. Finally, I started sending it out.

By mid-February the full manuscript was under review at two boutique publishers, a more commercial press, and one university press. I’d gotten to this stage before—and then heard no. And sent out more queries, sample chapters, hopes.

That’s when I glanced out my window late one dark, cold Thursday afternoon, and noticed the snow. So much snow. A big storm coating New England to Virginia. Suddenly all the Facebook posts I’d seen from writers cancelling trips to theAWP (Association of Writers and Writing Programs) conference in Washington, D.C, made sense.

I hadn’t planned on going. But suddenly I had a thought: all those cancellations must mean the conference headquarters hotel would have a lot of available rooms. I was only a four-hour drive from D.C., and my four-wheel-drive SUV—and I, who once lived in Syracuse—could easily handle the lingering snow in the forecast.

By 5 a.m. the next morning, I was on the New Jersey Turnpike, heading south.

Typically, when I go to a conference, I have an agenda—connect with this editor, meet that publisher, make IRL friends with Facebook writer buddies, take notes at Famous Writer’s presentation, go to Other Famous Writer’s reading. Network. Pitch. Buy discounted journals. Get books signed. I’m usually exhausted even before I put on my nametag.

As I drove, I realized I had no plan—and that felt great. I had not studied the schedule, didn’t know who would be in the exhibit hall, who was reading where or when. My only agenda was to find friends, drop in at panels that seemed promising, maybe wander the book fair.

Ah, the book fair: a cavernous space (about three football fields?) where hundreds of tables beckoned, where friendly literary folks were promoting, selling, and giving away journals and books, touting other writing conferences, offering free trials of software, sharing the virtues of MFA programs, reading series, residencies.

I spent most of my book fair time happily meandering, spontaneously connecting in person with journal and anthology editors who’d published my work, finding new things to read, tossing swag into my tote.

At some point, I realized some publishers and university presses still on my list were there. I noticed that since I wasn’t in I-Must-Complete-My-Agenda mode, my usually nervous chatter disappeared. Instead of trying to sell myself, and by extension, my manuscript, I was only making new friends in the writing world.

Several asked me to send the manuscript when I got home. Others said it wasn’t right for them. Somehow, I had the same reaction to both outcomes: okay! I simply continued wending my may through the exhibit hall.

Finally, in the last 20 minutes of the final day, vendors were packing up their booths—and my tote was swelling because they were handing out free books so as not to incur return shipping costs. I noticed a man packing up, a welcoming smile on his face. We began chatting, about how much our feet hurt. About the conference. He asked something—I can’t remember what—and I began to tell him about my manuscript. In my mind, we were just having a conversation. Two tired writing world comrades at the end of an exhausting weekend.

At some point though, when I mentioned that the story takes place partly in New Jersey, and partly in Las Vegas, he pointed to the banner above his head: University of Nevada Press. Nevada, you know, home to Las Vegas.

Justin Race, director of UNV Press, introduced himself, and invited me to send him the first few chapters when I got home. He liked what he read, and asked for the full manuscript. By March 22, I had an offer. Two hours later, one of the other publishers who had the full manuscript phoned to make an offer too.

I realize that this part of the story makes it all sound so easy—bump into someone at a conference and the rest is publishing kismet. I assure you, nothing about bringing this memoir to that point was easy.

The thing is, I was ready. The manuscript had been revised and revised and polished. I’d researched and prepared query/submission materials. My spreadsheet tells the plodding, painstaking backstory of those 11 months (and before that, the submission process of the book’s previous incarnation).

What happens when you’ve been hearing no for a long time and in one afternoon, you hear yes—twice? After the elation, I mean? You get confused, that’s what. You wish you had an agent after all…

I’ll pick up from there in the next Memoir Book Report post, sharing how, over the next week, I found an agent, weighed offers, and said—yes!

Read the restof the Memoir Book Report series here.

Images: Snow-Flickr/CreativeCommons-JimThePhotographer. All others, royalty-free clip-art.

Memoir Cover: First Peek (Happy Birthday, Dad)

Today would have been my father’s 91^st birthday. What do you give a man who, in life, said he never needed anything? How about his photo on a book cover?

I’m pleased that today of all days, I can show you the cover of Starting with Goodbye: A Daughter’s Memoir of Love after Loss.

That’s Dad strolling along the edge, doing something he loved—walking and observing the world around him. He’s on Newport Beach in Southern California, a moment captured during a 1997 trip. Everyone else—my mother, husband, and child—was elsewhere, and he’d offered to stay with me on the beach, the only place I found comfort that summer: I was pregnant and fighting off all-day nausea, vertigo, and an odd aversion to air conditioning.

I was content to sit in the sand, relief washing in on every ocean breeze, and was not in a mood to talk. Dad was typically taciturn and, as usual, only able to sit for a few minutes before he began walking, back and forth along a quarter mile of beach—but always within eyesight. I remember his glancing back every few steps to check on me.

I’m biased of course, but I think the art department at University of Nevada Press did a terrific job. I love the cover for the way it treats light and balance, color and feeling. But I also love it for the way he is halfway-off-the-frame, and in a kind of slow motion; that captures something the story inside tries to tell—about the way he proffered protection, punctuated by our mutual tendency to always be moving near one another, but never fully.

Happy Birthday, Dad. Hope you like the gift.

Memoir Book Report -- Part IV: Title Roulette

This is the fourth in a series following my memoir as it moves from manuscript to published book. You can find the other installments here.

At a conference, I gave a short presentation, "I'll Take Titles for a Thousand, Alex," about creative titles for individual essays, short memoir pieces mostly, or chapters/essays in a book of creative nonfiction. I enjoy writing titles, though I'm aware many writers would willingly shred and rewrite dozens of pages rather than deal with titles. (We each are odd in our own ways!) I purposely limited my talk to short works, because except for making suggestions for the titles of a few clients' books, that's where my expertise lay.

But now I have one notch in the book title bedpost.

My memoir—to be published in May 2018 by University of Nevada Press—has a title: 

Starting with Goodbye: A Daughter's Memoir of Love after Loss

Phew. That only took three months, a hivemind of writer friends, the pros at the publisher, my agent, and hours of my time, buckets of anxiety-induced sweat, and way too many lists scrawled on a dozen or so yellow legal sheets. 

Here's how we got to the very best title for this book.

First, following my own advice, I always have a working title for anything I’m writing. So I had one, right from the beginning. Sort of. But it's hard to say, because when did the book begin? With the first pages I wrote about what happened to me after my father's death? That essay was titled "Two Weeks in Vegas,” and told the story of the time I spent in Las Vegas with my mother, beginning the morning after Dad died. But I didn't know then that piece would lead to a book. So that wasn't the first working title for the manuscript.

Six years later, with a dozen or so additional essays in hand, I began to think it might be a book of linked essays, and I typed this working title on page one: Father Figure. I soon realized this wasn't right, perhaps implying he wasn't a real father, or that it was about someone else.

Meanwhile, woven into the evolution of the title is the larger evolution of the book itself. As a memoir-in-linked-essays, I got great feedback on the writing, but a handful of publishers, a book coach, and trusted beta readers (writer friends) all said: transform the essays into a more traditional narrative memoir. I grumbled, procrastinated, and then finally I did it. (More on this process in a future Memoir Book Report post.)

As I rewrote and began to see the narrative arc emerging, I tossed out the working title. And another. When the new manuscript was ready, I began brainstorming title ideas, and landed on yet another working title, The Father and Daughter Reunion.

Right away, I knew I needed a subtitle—common in memoir not only to lure readers, but to give readers, booksellers, librarians, and others in the book world important hints about the story.

Back to the lists, where three word groups jumped out: "a love story," "a ghost story," and "a loss story." Because my father and I have "conversations" after his death, and because I came to know and love him better then too, I wanted to incorporate these ideas. And so I came up with the subtitle Every Loss Story is a Love Story.

Many people liked this subtitle (and even suggested it as a title) because it was lyrical, slightly mysterious, with nice rhythm. It sounded familiar but also new and surprising. But there were two problems: First, it too closely echoed the title of D. T. Max's biography of David Foster Wallace: "Every Ghost Story is a Love Story,” a book I’d read with great interest. Though it’s a phrase Wallace used, it didn't originate with him (which Max detailed in a New Yorker article), many readers would link it to Wallace.

The other problem was that, taken literally, that subtitle wouldn’t resonate for readers who have had different experiences with the connection between loss and love. I knew I’d be changing it, eventually.

Yet, coupled with The Father and Daughter Reunion, that was the subtitle when the University of Nevada Press acquired the book in March of this year. Early editorial feedback mirrored my own gut feeling: we needed a new title. I was ready. Sort of.

First, I went looking for inspiration inside the manuscript, searching phrases, themes, objects, chapter titles, dialogue. Next, I looked at poems about grief. I wrote and wrote titles and subtitles, filling pages. Then I culled the lists, spent time on Amazon checking for books with too-similar titles, and on Google, checking for...well you never know what, do you?

I reached out to trusted writer friends, some who’ve published memoirs, some who hadn’t; all whip-smart and able to consider both marketing issues and literary concerns. I added friends who buy books by the boatload. And my family.

I gave them—as well as my agent—14 possible titles, and 11 potential subtitles—disconnected from one another, in random order. I wanted to see what titles they thought matched which subtitles. I also asked for original ideas, and had lots of fun—and pulled out a bunch of hair—sorting through the responses.

At the same time, the publishers’ editorial and marketing teams were shuffling possibilities too. While I was fretting and spinning, my agent—who can instantly clarify for me things I’m naturally inclined to make overly complicated—helped me see the value in considering not only the lyrical, literary, dreamy, poetic titles I tend to gravitate to, but also more straightforward options. This was good advice. The lists grew. And narrowed.

Finally, a deadline loomed, and I sent off my suggestions to the publisher—ten possible titles and seven subtitle candidates. Then I waited. And kept replaying the list in my head, questioning everything I had and had not considered, admonishing myself for not including more of the titles still on those yellow sheets. A few days later my email pinged with my final title. And I relaxed.

Right away, Starting with Goodbye: A Daughter’s Memoir of Love after Loss, felt right. It struck me, my agent, my family and friends, as intuitively on-target.

Right away, I started coaxing my fingers around the new keyboard combination, wanting to immediately get quicker at typing it, wanting to feel it flow from my fingertips, as if I’d been typing it forever.

And now I can’t imagine having anything else on the book cover. Speaking of covers…I got a glimpse of the art last week. But that’s another blog post.

Find the rest of the Memoir Book Reports here. If you're interested in seeing the slides that accompanied my presentation about titles for short works (at the HippoCamp conference), go here.

Memoir Book Report – Part III: The Pitch Session that Changed Everything (even though it was "unsuccessful")

Third in a series following my memoir as it moves from manuscript to published book (May 2018). You can find the first two installments here.

I mentioned in the last post that I'd drop back now and then to glimpse what transpired before I knew my book had found its home. A lot happened before—some of it perhaps helpful to those currently seeking a publisher for a memoir (or any book, for that matter).

Dropping back to spring of 2016, one year exactly before I signed with University of Nevada Press, I began to query small traditional publishers who accept un-agented work—boutique literary publishers, some university presses; and I entered a few book manuscript contests.

Except for the contests, this meant I needed a compelling query/cover letter. That's where my background in public relations, and experience getting assignments for freelance articles helped—and also hindered me. It's one thing to be proficient at tooting the horn of a client, as PR pros do, and landing article assignments about topics that I'm interested in but that aren't as passionately close to my heart, as my memoir. It's quite another to evaluate, position, and pitch your own work—and harder still to separate one's writing self from one's memoir manuscript.

My first query/cover letter was good, but not great; a bit too workmanlike and overly focused on literary craft. I was, perhaps, trying to follow too much differing advice: mirror the voice of the book – give the full narrative scope as you would a novel – highlight the published excerpts – focus on author background and publishing history – sell the takeaway – emphasize the emotional arc. In the first six months, I got a handful of requests for opening chapters, and was long-listed for one contest. But no requests for the full manuscript.

I had an inkling I wasn't being my own best advocate. I was too close to the work and could not really see what to do differently. Mind you, I routinely help revise and edit others' query letters and synopses (many of which have led to publishing deals), but you know what they say about doctors who treat themselves (they have a fool for a patient!).

We all have blind spots, and it would turn out mine were labeled: (1) Thinking too small. (2) Thinking too much like a writer.

I attended a writers conference in fall of 2016 and—reluctantly but thinking why not—signed up for three slots in the agent pitch sessions. Faced with a strict five minutes to interest them in my manuscript and answer their questions--across a tiny round table, with 20 other tiny round table pitching conversations happening in the room--I had to frame my story in a compelling way that cut through the noise and what I can only imagine is the mental exhaustion agents experience in such a setting.

Did I mention that I love talking to new people, listening, and learning from them?

The first two were polite and seemingly enthusiastic, asking me to send them chapters. Just as important, I was able to see—on their faces, in their body language, the way they moved their gaze from me to my pages—and to hear—in their tone of voice, pauses, inflection—which of my words, descriptions, phrasing, and focal points were resonating. And which were falling flat.

But the third agent delivered the true value of those 15 minutes. He prompted me to re-evaluate how I was thinking about my book and how I'd been positioning it when querying. He listened to my initial 45-second spiel, asked a question or two, skimmed the first few pages (we'd been instructed to bring along).

Then he said something like this: Let's assume it's a given that your work is beautifully written, well structured, highly polished. I’m not your MFA mentor; you don't have to convince me you're a good writer. I want you to tell me who your ideal reader is and why they will want to read this instead of a bunch of other books. Tell me why your book would interest someone who is not in the literary world. What might this memoir mean to someone you don't know? What's the message? Think big.

Wouldn’t most writers have wanted an hour to draft, revise, and rewrite something in response to that? But he was waiting for me to reply, then and there, across that tiny table, in that buzzing room. For maybe the first time, I allowed myself to imagine my manuscript as a finished book, one that deserved space on a bookstore shelf, a book that went way beyond little old me telling my story. A book with bigger sweep. With something to say to strangers, something of value.

After I finished talking for a minute or so (rambling, more like), he smiled and said, That's more like it. Now I'm interested.

This two-minute exchange changed everything.

It shifted my thinking back to my early PR days. Now I was the client with a product to publicize. What makes this client's product (book) not only great, but preferable to others? What—in sales terms—is the (book's) Unique Selling Proposition? Why this product (book) and not another one?

I had been thinking of, and perhaps positioning the manuscript as a creative project, entirely me-driven—which is how one must think of a manuscript while writing it—instead of a book, one of many competing for attention of readers. It now had to stand out as something completely separate from me, separate from my writing brain, my personal life, even from my reasons for writing it.

When I left the pitch session, I found a quiet spot in the hotel lobby, pulled out my computer and wrote an entirely new query letter. There would be six more months of querying, but those were dotted frequently with requests for chapters, and, in the end, five requests for the full manuscript.

Although it was an in-person unplanned meeting—during which I talked about my book—with the director of my future publisher (and not my revised query letter) that led to the offer I'd accept (I eventually had two offers), I credit that agent I met in a nerve-wracking pitch session six months before, for setting me in motion on a new track. His challenge that day changed the way I thought about, and talked about, my book. And that changed everything.

Other posts in the series – Part I (Contract signing, waiting period; working with a university press); Part II (Final manuscript revisions). 

You can find tips on preparing for pitch sessions at this post from Susan Breen. 

Images: Flickr/CreativeCommons -- Heart-shaped book pages (TimGeers); Conversation silhouette (TerenceChang/Peautlen); 

Memoir Book Report: Process, Production, Path to Publication – Part I: Sign, Wait, Hope, Think, Revise

Perhaps you already know that my memoir is under contract with University of Nevada Press for a late spring 2018 publication date. I thought it might be interesting—and could possibly help preserve my sanity—if every so often, I post a Book Report, sharing what's happening as I make my way from manuscript to published book.

Today, I'll backtrack a bit for a glimpse into the early process of working with a university-affiliated publisher.  

With a university press (in many, though not all cases), you sign a contract and then—you wait, and you hope. Yes, they want to publish your book, but it's not a completely sure thing, not just yet. I signed my contract on April 11. The next step is feedback from "peer reviewers"—respected professionals in the genre (in my case, memoir), who the press asks to read the manuscript and offer substantial feedback—pro and con.

The period of time when my book was out with the peer reviewers? Let's just say I had few fingernails left of any appreciable length. Fortunately for me, this element was fast-tracked, so it was only a month of waiting and wondering, a month of plunging and soaring emotions: They'll hate it…They might love it…I hope they at least like it. (I tried not to think about author friends whose books were dropped because of poor peer reviews; when I did think of that, I reminded myself that those books were eventually published elsewhere.)

Alas, the reviews were overall positive, and I was relieved that many of the suggested revisions aligned with my own instincts. Those weeks when I knew others were reading and judging my work? They were a chance for me to—as much as it's possible—cast a new, critical eye to my polished manuscript…and notice the places where the polish wasn't quite as bright and shiny as I'd like. I wanted to get to those revisions.

But first, the publisher's editorial board had to officially approve the project, and while it's never a rubber stamp, I was buoyed by the faith and confidence of the director of the press, who'd initially acquired my book. In advance of the board meeting, I needed to prepare a response note, referencing the reviewers' recommendations and outlining a plan for tackling revisions. I was lucky that the reviewers had given the manuscript such careful thought and made many smart suggestions, and that I had wonderful support from the press director—making the drafting of the response note into a creatively enriching endeavor for me. 

It became my revision roadmap.

Once the board said YES (on May 22), I had five weeks to revise. What followed was—except for back in early 2016 when I transformed the original linked essay collection into linear narrative—the most demanding, as well as the most gratifying part of the manuscript process.

But first I had to clear time and mental space.

I'm usually managing too much – teaching, editing, coaching, freelance assignments. I craved fewer demands, time to think clearly and creatively without the calendar as enemy. Fortunately, the academic semester had ended. I did ask some private clients to wait until I'd finished my revisions to begin working with me; fortunately they agreed. For a few others whose schedules weren't malleable, I matched them with amazing editors/coaches I know (I'm thankful for a superb literary community to call upon). Except for two small projects and some non-academic teaching, I wound up with about four weeks practically to myself.

This gave me the luxury to slow down, to think only about my book, to work when my brain was in best form instead of when I had to squeeze it in—and to do some extra research and supplemental reading I had long suspected would help enrich certain passages. I was able to "live inside the book" so to speak, to stay inside that world, deeper and longer, but without sequestering myself away. (Which led me to a new respect and desire for the benefits of artist retreats and residencies; alas, maybe next book.)

One day ahead of schedule, I hit SEND—tremendously relieved but also a bit wistful. In some small way, I wanted that concentrated deep-dive time back, more time to live inside the pages that, until then, had been mine alone. Now, those pages are moving along the production line to a time when others will enter that world—editors, art and production experts, eventually reviewers and readers. That's exciting. And a bit nerve-wracking, an odd sort of feeling.

Onward.

Update: Part II can be found here.

Stay tuned for future Books Reports about: the actual revision process (I loved it, it drove me a little nuts, I made mistakes, I learned); a look back at how I found my publisher; what key things I changed in my query before that; how I landed my agent; choosing photographs (yes, there will be pics!); permissions; and the thing that's occupying me right now: finding some fabulous titles to suggest to the publisher (did I say: publishing is collaborative?).

If there's anything you're wondering about, shoot me a question in comments and I'll try to cover in a future post.

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