My feelings about the prevailing mood of the previous issues of Penguin New Writing have been borne out by the Foreword in this issue of autumn 1947, by John Lehmann himself.
‘Your Editor has had a dream. A mad, fantastic dream, not to be credited at all. [there follows a paragraph of escalating impossibilities] That Eton thought Harrow would do, and Manchester Grammar School decided to adopt top-hats out of respect to Eton?
No, none of these things. Something far more extraordinary. I dreamt that a brilliant new young writer had arisen and sent me in an MS. A funny writer.’
So there we have it. John Lehmann himself realised that the post-war issues were appallingly gloomy, and was looking for humour to leaven the weight of the post-war world in his pages. I find that very encouraging, because the sheer misery of the stories in this and the last few issues has been grim. Let us hope that Lehmann’s plea was heard, and that future issues have something funny waiting for us.
While waiting for Lawrence Durrell to discover his inner satirist, though, we shall do our duty and read some modern fiction for the good of our health. William Sansom’s ‘Various temptations’ is an assured, meticulous story of a man who strangles women he picks up, and how he does it. It’s frightening, not just because of the author’s assured use of tension, but because he expended so much effort in getting the details of this misogynist story exactly right. He’s written about murdering women in Penguin New Writing before.
Annabel Farjeon’s ‘San Spirito’ is the only piece in this issue that allows women to have opinions and not also suffer at the hands of men because of these. Though they do suffer. Two nurses in Italy with a day’s leave absentmindedly open a bottle of peach brandy while they enjoy the sunset and the peace around them. Before the brandy is finished we have learned that Hannah’s Jewish family have all died, and that Adina’s sister is in danger in Romania from their mother. At least they get to enjoy the brandy by themselves. Male authors, I venture to speculate, would invade the scene with lecherous doctors or patients and reduce the women to objects. Farjeon does not, and I am grateful for it.
William Plomer’s ‘The Naiad of Ostend, Or, A Fatal Passion’ is a sequence of delicate pastiches describing the difficult position of an early Victorian maiden at the seaside when she is consumed by a passion for swimming at all hours, and Neptune is consumed with a passion for her. Charming and dark.
James Stern’s ‘Solitaire’ tells the events that follow an Irish doctor’s ill-advised phone call to a girl he once met, and his invitation to take her out to lunch. The doctor is married, with a child, but chooses to live rather dangerously for a few hours in a New York restaurant with Stella, who knows his eight letters to her by heart and has been carrying the torch of all torches for him in all the years since they last met. A knife is waved, there is much being drunk, and one wonders why the idiot ever put himself in such a ridiculous and selfish position. Because, of course, the poor obsessed young woman gives him up all over again. She should have burnt the letters and had a life instead.
Dorothy Baker’s story ‘A little white cat’ also has an oppressed woman, the mother of Cyril, a fatherless child of the war who bullies her and his teachers and rules the roost because he knows no other way to behave. A colder, more unpleasant child I have never read. He loves a stray white cat, though, and pours all the affection of which he is capable over this oblivious animal, until he encounters a man who is tougher than he is.
Gwyn Williams’ two translated poems from medieval and Tudor Welsh are absolutely delightful.
There are two extremely long and not very interesting (to me) articles about poetry, by E Martin Browne (about whose wife’s book on wartime theatrical productions I wrote here), and Dame Helen Gardner. I ought to be more pleased to read Gardner’s writing, for she is a critical genius, but I’m not interested in Matthew Arnold at all. Sorry. Henry Reed’s essay about W H Auden in America is similarly erudite and important, I’m sure, but it’s not very readable.
Barry Hicks’ photographs of Eliot’s The Family Reunion, produced at the Mercury Theatre by Browne, are classically stagey, serious tableaux.
The photographs of productions of Mardi Gras and The Vagabonds at Sadlers’ Wells are similarly attractive for recording staging and costume.
Ghika’s pre- and post-war paintings are glorious. I think he must be the Greek artist Nikos Ghika.
‘Lieut Z’’s ‘Military Detention’ is a long piece of reportage, on being in military detention, detailing the brutality and ill-logic of the system and the men placed in command of others. I hope the War Office read this piece carefully.
Sid Chaplin’s ‘The Cage’ is a tense vignette about miners ascending from the pit, when their cage gets stuck and the strands of wire begin to fail. It’s a thriller in miniature, unbearable to read.
Jocelyn Brooke’s ‘Blackthorn winter’ is cruel and unforgiving, and hopelessly, scrupulously true to human nature. It’s wartime, and a soldier is waiting to be sent abroad, and is missing his home and garden. He offers gardening help to a woman in the village, and a relationship develops, and it is so sad, and completely believable. The subtle shift from his to her perspective twists the knife decisively.
Last week I became a company director, of the Handheld Press, because I’m going to publish books. I’ve been working flat out for several months, doing two jobs at once. Setting up a publishing company takes a lot of administration, as well as starting work, right away! on the first books. I’ve done pretty much every other job in publishing apart from actually BE a publisher, so the editing and the planning now feels entirely natural and normal. ‘Twas not always so.
On a Friday in March, a friend with whom I am editing an academic book, with me in the scary tough editor role, told me (possibly as an affectionate gibe) that I should set up my own publishing company. I spent the weekend muttering ‘nah …..’, ‘well ……’, ‘maybe ……’, ‘but what if ……..’, ‘and I could do …….’, ‘that’d’be a way to do …….’ and ‘what do you think about …..’. The consensus was clear: move ahead cautiously and see what was involved. I knew immediately what I wanted to publish (reprints with proper introductions, scholarly research passions, and science fiction), so I started talking to friends in the business, and friends in business. But the first thing to do was to work out, and then buy, the domain name.
The name Handheld Press took a few days to decide, while I was furiously busy doing other tasks. I’d write down names as they occurred to me, cross them out, take out bits and make new names, cross them all out and start again. Everyone I’ve told the name to has liked it instantly, so I hope it will work for everyone. I wanted the name to suggest tactility, because my books will be books you can hold in your hand, as well as in a handheld e-reader. It also suggests being led by the hand to new and wondrous things, and the pleasing sensation of an object big enough and the right shape for the hand, but not too big, unwieldy or ill-formed. Handheld Press was also a second choice: I really wanted Handheld Books dot co uk, but that domain name had gone, and the only trace of it online was something a little dubious. Handheld Press dot com is a small engineering business in the USA selling metal stamping gadgets. I doubt we’ll interfere with each other’s business. Handheld Press has the advantage of being a press, that can make more things than books. I began to talk to printers.
By the end of March I had added translations from Dutch to my now pleasingly eclectic set of Handheld lists, because I know a translator from Dutch who immediately sent me pages of reprint suggestions to consider, and I have a lot of Dutch and Flemish friends with their own ideas. A month later I was briefing a relation by marriage who just happens to be a typographer and brand identity specialist, because I needed a visual identity and some kind of typographical design to set up a website. Without a website I wouldn’t be able to register at Companies House, and no-one would take me seriously without one. One month and several conversations later Andrew delivered a beautiful brand identity, and I was in business. Website, Twitter, Facebook.
By May I had signed up with the Real Jobs scheme at my university’s design department, and I now have an earnest and impressively focused student designing me a book series. It’ll take time, because this commission is part of his degree portfolio, but I need the time: I have four books and their introductions to edit and proof before I can drop them into layout. (It was around this time that I began recalling everything I ever learned from the designers in English Heritage’s publications department, where I spent some very formative years.) I also have a Handheld Research title ready to publish, but for that I need a proper contract, and a letter of agreement for the reprint introductions. Time to talk to lawyers.
I’m looking for freelance designers (I have a lovely collection of beautifully designed business cards). I also need authors, and they are remarkably easy to encounter. Every conversation I have seems to yield suggestions for books, many of them definitely pursuable. I’ve set up proposal forms for Handheld Classics, Handheld Research and Handheld Translations on the website already, such has been the demand. I’m reading a novel right now by an author I met at a conference, that might be the first title in Handheld Modern.
I’m pleased with the suggestions I’ve had so far for adding to the Handheld Classics. I haven’t pushed the Translations very much yet, or the Handheld Research, because these will take more time and careful planning, though some ideas have been coming through spontaneously. But now I want to read proposals for Handheld Modern, on the modern world and the future. I want to be told about stories by and about the peoples and identities who get told ‘we’ve already got one of those’. I want to hear about feminist science fiction, memoirs of suburban love that dared not speak its name, and stories from countries I’ve never been to, that might not even exist.
New Writing, John Lehmann’s influential British literary magazine, first appeared in 1936, and fostered politically Left writers and artists. It stopped publication in 1950, with issue 40, just as Tennessee Williams and John Wain (for example) joined the contributors. I found issues 27 to 40 in an Oxfam shop, and bought them for a fiver. I’ll be reviewing each issue each week.
Issue 27 was the first issue to be published after the Second World War. The design was changed: new format, new typography, new paper, new picture-cover, new colour inset. Lehmann wrote a short but exuberant Foreword celebrating the magazine’s survival, and welcoming old and new contributors and readers. He is particularly nice about contributors’ patience, reliability and loyalty, and he is grateful to the readers who write to tell him what they liked and didn’t like. And there is a joyous outpouring of snark:
A special bouquet must go to the military gentleman (retired) who burnt us in his back garden in 1941 as German propaganda; to the German censor who refused us entry into the POW camps as Bolshevist propaganda; and to the unknown gentleman on the ‘bus who said we were the best British propaganda. Nor can we omit Mr James Agate, who obliges so unfailingly by finding us too highbrow for him, or Miss Olivia Manning of Jerusalem , who, like our little spaniel bitch Carlotta, gets her teeth into us whenever she finds us lying about.
James Agate had been a leading literary and theatrical critic for the daily and weekly press since the 1920s, so was a fixture on the scene that Lehmann couldn’t do anything about. I admire tremendously (but do not condone) the way Lehmann innocently puts ‘bitch’ and ‘Miss Olivia Manning’ into the same sentence, almost the same line.
You can see from the contents page that a great deal of the material was published in New Writing for the first time in the UK. Some were absolute standouts for me.
‘How Claeys died’, William Sansom’s dark story of an oblivious Belgian civilian touring post-war Germany, showing off his language skills. One of the many pieces in this issue that dwell on the aftermath of the war as a test of endurance, and festering tension.
‘Second-Lieutenant Lewis’, J Maclaren-Ross’s account of meeting Alun Lewis in camp, and how they maintained their friendship as writers and civilised men despite the military apparatus that regarded them with deep suspicion, since they continually broke the rules on inter-rank fraternisation.
‘Life Line’, by Jim Phelan – a remarkable Irish writer who lived a nomadic ‘tramping’ life – is a compelling but slight story, ostensibly about turf-cutting in an Irish peat bog, but is also about paternal expectations, the options for an adolescent’s escape, and the difference one child can make to a family’s economic survival.
‘Radio Critic’ reviews recent radio and media gossip from the past 6 months, and is an excellent corollary to other contemporary radio criticism, in The Listener and in Time and Tide, for example, if you’re interested in such things.
Osbert Sitwell’s long essay on Wilfred Owen is tremendous, and very Sitwellian: a rare resource for Owen scholars that apparently isn’t easy to find. I can send a pdf scan if you want it.
Roger Furse’s drawings, of ‘Newcastle Geordie’ in a sailor’s uniform, and ‘The Admiral’s Walk HMS Agincourt’: the detail of the crazy twisted staircase, the massive anchor chain and the lifeboat suspended from spindly metal arms remind me of illustrations by Mervyn Peake (Titus Groan was also published in 1946).
Sculptures by Gordon Herickx. On looking him up I see that he taught at Walsall School of Art, destroyed any of his work he considered imperfect, died the day after the opening of his first solo show, and that he was put into a poem by Louis MacNeice. There’s a LOT of scope for a thoroughly dreary masculine middlebrow novel there.
John Melville’s portrait of Henry Reed, one of the very few British poets of the war to be regularly anthologised. His ‘The naming of parts’ from Lessons of the War is a superb satire on military education and killing.
John Hampson’s Movements in the Underground 1: this is the first of a two part study on books and authors that your mother wouldn’t like, from Oscar Wilde onwards. Hampson was the author of Saturday Night at the Greyhound (1931), one of a group of Birmingham artists and writers (see also Melville and Herickx) who depicted working-class life. This survey is revealing evidence of what was considered socially and morally contentious in the 1940s, and why. Many interesting titles for the curious to research in the privacy of their own browser.
‘My right leg was Germany’ by Bernard Evslin is a compelling short story from a hospital ward full of amputees. It’s an early extract from a novel then in progress by this American author, who is now best known as a playwright and screenwriter, largely told in dialogue or first-person narrative. I see Emmet hitch himself out of bed and hump toward the latrine. He always manages to get out of the ward when Carruthers’ dressing is to be changed.
‘All this is ended’ by Norman Swallow is his first short story, an account of the obliteration of the battalion, told with a shocking combination of immediacy and neutrality, moving in an unsettling way from personal stories to impersonal reportage. Swallow became a leading documentary film-maker and editor for the BBC.
There isn’t much representation of women in this issue (I didn’t like the Farjeon story so didn’t mention it), so I’ll be keeping an eye on that, as well as looking for how the war maintained a presence in the magazine as it drew further away in time.
The continuing adventures of Sofia Khan have been much anticipated. I adored Malik’s first novel, Sofia Khan is Not Obliged, and its sequel begins very satisfyingly with the immortal words of ‘Reader, I married him’. This is of course the burning question at the end of Sofia Khan when she’s flying off to Karachi with Conall, whom she has only just realised has become a Muslim (the beard, the not drinking, the Muslim friends: none of that clicked before). Would they actually get married, or just save the world chastely together? Conall – her inscrutable, kind Irish neighbour – is all Sofia has ever truly desired, and one month into their new married life in Karachi she realises that she hardly knows him.
Malik clears that point out of the way briskly so we can carry on with their story, which is not so much the story of a marriage as learning what you’ve got once you are married. It is very pleasing to read a novel that tackles marriage as something that needs work, and that needs total honesty. Unfortunately one of this happy couple has not been wholly honest, and has to rethink some priorities in life, dragging the other partner in the marriage along to a bravely bleak ending.
Pause for a realism break. The conventions of fiction mean that a page and a half of dialogue has to stand in for the days of necessary intermittent, accumulating communication that make a marriage work. Sofia certainly talks to Conall, and he does listen. Occasionally he talks to her. But in this novel, almost every plot point and character arc depends on non-communication, the failing to divulge, and characters’ reluctance to pass on crucial information. The Other Side of Happiness depends on these non-communications for the story, and Sofia, to wind their way into your affections.
Everyone is distracted, or unnaturally reticent, or withholding information, although they know they ought to hand it over but haven’t the nerve, or don’t think it’s important, or think that it’s so flaming obvious that anyone who needs to know, will. I have rarely read a novel during which I wanted to scream TALK TO HER! so often, to so many characters, Sofia included. Again and again a massive load-bearing plot twist depends on X not having told Y the facts about Z. It gets to you after a bit. All the female characters spend their lives on social media, texting, talking in bedrooms or living-rooms, yet Things Don’t Get Told. The men are the really taciturn ones, except Conall’s brother Sean (I absolutely relate to Sean), who spends the novel asking helplessly why X hasn’t told Y the truth about Z, thus revealing Z to the grateful reader.
Meanwhile, in Sofia’s personal trajectory, she has a book launch and a wedding, and an unexpected trip to Ireland where she sings the hymns during Mass and does not comprehend Irish dialect. She becomes a publisher’s reader. She tries to work out how to write her next book, on Muslim marriage, when everything she thought she knew about it is getting tragically complicated and too bloody real. She rises, though. Our Sofe rises up, she keeps afloat, her beloved friends bob along with her, and even her mother does extraordinary things. Conall is Sofia’s problem: a more annoying, aggravating, monosyllabic, lovable lunk I have yet to read.
The Other Half of Happiness is not the fascinating, delirious page-turner that Sofia Khan was, keeping me trapped reading it on a sofa for hours. It’s deeper, it’s more serious and a lot braver, in terms of writing about marriage. It is a tear-jerker, though I also laughed out loud. The one-liners may be fewer, but they still devastate.
Ayisha Malik, The Other Half of Happiness (Bonnier Zaffre, 6 April 2017), ISBN 978 17857 607 30, £7.99
My, what an interesting range of approaches there are in the publishing world as to how they think a reviewer can be best inveigled into reading their new book.
In the interests of good relations between reviewers and the publishing industry, here are the methods that work for me, and why; some that could be risky; and a few that annoy me. This is a personal view, obviously, and probably a hardcore response. I am the world’s least persuadable potential customer. I am a nightmare for sales staff instructed to offer their unwanted help to shoppers, and my rebuttals to telephone cold-callers are failsafe (pro-tip: reply in a language different to that in which they have confidently greeted you). So, if I say a marketing approach works for me, it might work for a lot of other people too.
These Methods Work
Send a short informative email with the name of the author, the title of the book and a one-para description (this is often forgotten, but is crucial) giving the basic plot, the genre, historical period, and cultural setting(s) (for example). Say who to contact to get hold of a copy. Leave it at that.
Prove that you’ve actually researched the reviewer you’re targeting and have an idea of the kind of books they review.
Reply to response emails quickly.
When a reviewer has asked for a review copy, tell them (briefly) when a book has been posted, and then follow up to see whether it has arrived. This makes a reviewer feel that you care about the book, are keeping an eye on them, and want to see a review.
Be brave if you’re a new author. Reviewers don’t (shouldn’t) distinguish between big-name publishers and the self-published, and we don’t care two hoots if we’ve never heard of an author before. The book is what we’re interested in, not the writer. So tell us about it!
These Could Be Risky
If you employ a temp (and I do mean EMPLOY: you do pay your interns, don’t you?) to do all the publicity for a book, this is your lookout. But don’t make it glaringly obvious that you’ve delegated publicity to an anarchist school-leaver, or a cocky student who doesn’t know that they’re out of their depth. Giving them an email account to use called ‘email@example.com’, or ‘firstname.lastname@example.org’ does not inspire confidence. (Those email address prefixes exist: believe me, I’ve seen them.) Especially when we read the results of their unsupervised skills of persuasion.
Being witty. This is a risky strategy because you don’t know our senses of humour, or the humour we’re in when reading your message. Here is a real example that I’ve read: ‘It’s a rough life being a book marketer. Half of the time I’m flogging five hundred page doorstops on crusty old dudes no one’s cared about since the mid 1850s. The other half of the time I’m stuck selling the fluffiest fiction known to man.’ If we can be bothered to get past your idea of wit to the book you’re trying to market, you’ll be lucky. We’re not likely to be impressed by your comedy audition.
Being shy. New authors can be very nervous about telling the world how good their book is. We need to know about your book, not about your palpitating nerves, so please do give us the blurb in your first email. Please don’t bother being conventionally polite by asking meekly if we are interested in reading an undescribed first collection of short stories, because we will not bother to email you back unless something outstanding strikes us. Just get it out there! Tell us why you’re proud of your book, and why we will be interested, in your first contact.
Don’t tell us that your best friends and relations think your book is great: of course they will! Tell us if it won a prize, or was mentioned somewhere (positively) by an objective person you’ve never met: that will cut more ice.
Only making e-book versions of your book available. Some of us don’t do e-books, for eyesight or technical reasons, a simple preference for reading on paper, or plain Luddite stubbornness. We completely appreciate that some publishers can only publish in e-book formats, for sound economic reasons, and we would rather a book was available in e-book versions than not at all. But be aware that only making e-book versions available may lose you reviewing opportunities.
These Are Annoying
A relentless chirpy cheerful approach. This makes you sound infantile, or on drugs. You also have no idea at what time of day or in what mood the reviewer will be reading your email. Keep it calm.
A frenzied tone of urgency and drama. It’s only a book, for heaven’s sake. Keep a sense of perspective. Remember also that if you maintain this tone for all your book plugging emails, we’re not going to believe any of them.
Over-familiarity and gushing false friendliness. You probably don’t know us, we probably don’t know you: don’t pretend otherwise. Just be pleasant and polite. Assume that we might do you a favour if we’re not irritated by you, and adopt the appropriate tone.
Assuming reviewers are your own age, share the same cultural background, have the same educational level, or like what you like.
We don’t want to know what you did last night that’s making you feel so ill this morning, thank you.
Telling us what the book is not (as in ‘It’s not Fifty Shades of Grey but …’) We really could not care less what the book is not, but we would like to know what it IS.
Comparing your novel to another one in a good or bad way: how do you know that we’ve read, or even heard of this other one? Or, what if we have and do not share your opinion of it?
Trying to get our sympathy and interest by deprecating your own book in a humorous fashion. If you don’t think it’s that good, why send it out?
Trying to pique our interest by being mysterious, and withholding the facts. We won’t have the time or inclination to email you back to ask for more information if you can’t be bothered telling us in the first place. Tell us all we need to know straight out. Then we can make our minds up whether we want to read the book.
Sending a perfunctory list of your upcoming books with only their titles and prices: why would anyone be interested in that?
Sending an email that begins ‘Dear Kate NAME, We’d like to tell you about The Name of the Rose/ How Momma Bear Won a Fish / Economics for Beginners.It’s a great novel / storybook / work of economics we’re sure all your readers will love.‘ (Based on an example received within the last 2 months.) Please pay attention to what your emails look like from the recipient’s end, no matter how well you think you know mail-merging. Send yourself one first, just to check.
While reviewers know that marketing people have to create marketing emails to sell books, your emails will work better if they are businesslike, efficient and cautious rather than loopily outrageous or offensively ingratiating. (To me, at least.) Bonne chance.
The science fiction novel that moved my reading tastes from adolescent dragon wonder to feminist space opera was Sassinak (1990), by the then immensely prolific Anne McCaffrey and the fairly unknown Elizabeth Moon. I had been a teenage McCaffrey completist, but once I’d read Sassinak – an engrossing space opera about planet pirates, orphan enslavement, naval training, in-ship subversion and space heroics with the totally magnificent Commander Sassinak (her only name) – I put the Dragons of Pern into a box and moved off into space with Elizabeth Moon. It wasn’t just the fresh (to me) new subject, setting and attitude. Moon is simply a far better author than Anne McCaffrey, and I was ready for the change.
Sassinak is one of the three Planet Pirates novels, planetary romances in what the ISFDB and ESF call McCaffrey’s Ireta series (ie the name of the planet), the others being Death of Sleep (1990) by McCaffrey and Jody Lynn Nye, and Generation Warriors (1991) by McCaffrey and Moon. They were planned to overlap with McCaffrey’s earlier novels Dinosaur Planet (1978) and Dinosaur Planet Survivors (1984). The latter are among the weakest of McCaffrey’s novels, and the time gap between their publication, at a crucial plot point cliff-hanger, shows how distracted McCaffrey was at this time, juggling the development of her Dragons of Pern novels into back-story spin-offs, and writing the first of the Crystal Singer series.
These five novels take place on Ireta, a purportedly uninhabited planet that has been chosen for Federated Sentient Planet exploration by a group of mixed ‘lightweight’ (ie regular) humans and Heavyworlders. These are humans who have adapted genetically to their strong-gravitied home planet, and who labour under a resentful and politicised sense of inferiority to the ‘lightweights’. When the Heavyworlders discover the carnivorous habits of the native animals, who appear to have been seeded there aeons earlier from Earth dinosaurs, their dissident members urge the others to embrace this chance to eat fresh meat, a taboo practice now on the ‘lightweight’ human worlds. This puts the ‘lightweights’ in serious danger, not just from the theoretical possibility of the explorers being eaten, but from the rippling implications for fragile interplanetary politics. Sassinak brings her Fleet cruiser through this system in covert pursuit of pirates, and the plot thickens.
The injection of 1980s value systems – vegetarianism, feminism, environmentalism, minority rights – is not particularly subtle, but the complex action works, and the novels’ function in McCaffrey and Moon’s proliferating FSP universe contributes necessary groundwork for what Moon would later do with her two Vatta’s War and Serrano Legacy series. In short, I rate the Planet Pirates series because of what Moon would go on to do with its rich background, not for what it offers the reader on its own merits.
After Dinosaur Planet Survivors came out, McCaffrey developed different series by writing with collaborators, effectively setting up her own franchises. After the Planet Pirates, she co-wrote the Doona books with Nye (which I have not read, being put off by Death of Sleep), and the much more successful ‘Brains and Brawn’ series. This developed the feminist cyborg space-ship concept from her The Ship Who Sang of the 1960s, writing with several collaborators, almost all women (though she did co-write one of these novels with S M Sterling, a bloke). Collaboration became an important mark of McCaffrey’s brand, demonstrating her creative generosity, and her eagerness to launch new worlds and new ideas with new writers.
I asked Elizabeth Moon how her collaboration with McCaffrey came about.
Moon: My introduction to the project was my then-publisher, Jim Baen, calling me up and asking if I would consider doing a collaboration with Anne McCaffrey. I knew McCaffrey’s work and liked it, so my immediate reaction was “YES!” I did not know anything about the details during that phone call, nor which of Anne’s worlds it was, or anything else.
Later I found out that I had been asked for Sassinak because of my military background and my known appreciation of Anne’s work. I never did know who mentioned my name first; Anne herself, Jim Baen, or the series’ packager, Bill Fawcett, but clearly Anne made the final choices. Right then, several senior authors in the field were starting to do collaborations with newer writers; Anne eventually worked with quite a few.
When Anne decided to try accepting collaborators into her worlds, she worked with Bill Fawcett, whom she already knew as a fan, editor, and packager well known in the field. Collaborations were becoming popular, and different kinds of collaborations existed and continued to exist for some time. Some were between ‘equals’ (writers of equal or near-equal publishing history and status) and some, like Anne’s, were between a senior writer and a very junior one, someone with only a few books out and who would benefit from the publicity of working with a bestselling writer.
So when I was offered the chance to collaborate with Anne, the three-book package was handed out to three junior writers: Bill Fawcett’s wife Jody Lynn Nye, another writer who dropped out of the project and whose name I unfortunately don’t recall, and me. Jody’s book was the ‘prequel’: Lunzie’s life before the Dinosaur Planet books, in Death of Sleep. Mine was another semi-prequel, covering Sassinak’s early life and intersecting the second Dinosaur Planet book when Fleet arrived. The other writer was supposed to write Generation Warriors, which carried on both Sassinak’s and Lunzie’s stories into the future. These contracts were then handed to each of us, and the books were to be written simultaneously, due at the same time. I had not met any of the other people involved.
Communication was a problem. Remember, this was in the late 1980s; the books came out in 1990 and 1991. I believe (would have to call Jody or Bill to ask) that they were on GEnie, and Anne was also on GEnie [a pre-internet text service]. They could communicate by email. I had no internet (accessing GEnie meant an expensive long distance call on our landline and then a very slow dial-up connection – couldn’t afford it.) We did not get a local internet provider until 1995 (still slow dial-up, but at least not with long-distance charges. Reliable cellphone service in this area didn’t arrive until 1998-99 when they built a tower close enough. I lived over 1000 miles from Bill and Jody in the Chicago area, in a small town in Texas. I’m not sure where the third writer lived but have a vague idea it was somewhere in the northeast. Anne of course was in Ireland, accessible only by snail-mail or phone (but the phone to Ireland was even more out of my reach than the phone to Chicago.) So almost all the communication was on paper, with a few phone calls between us. The questions and rough manuscripts went from us to Anne; she was certainly one layer in the editing process as well as the writing process.
The third writer dropped out late enough in the process that neither Jody nor I could have finished the book for its original due date, and Jody had another contract she was in the middle of. So I was offered it, and started from scratch with the original notes Anne had provided. By then Anne was deep in other projects, and I had met her, so it was easier to communicate and – since she’d liked my work with Sassinak – she gave me a lot of freedom to develop some things on my own. The book required multiple point-of-view characters, and thus was a wonderful ‘stretch’ to what I understood so far.
So I wasn’t writing in daily contact with any of the others. Jody’s book and mine were separated by all of the first, and most of the second, Dinosaur Planet book – we had no real reason to compare what we were doing. Where my assignment overlapped the end of Dinosaur Planet Survivors, I just used the Lunzie as Anne had written her in that book.
It was different for Generation Warriors – and the delay in that one worked to my advantage, because I had Jody’s book, all complete, and could use all the things she had contributed to Lunzie’s history and character, to inform the Lunzie of Generation Warriors. It would’ve been very difficult to write the third without the first two already in hand. Perhaps that’s why the other writer dropped out.
Despite the difficulties inherent in communicating long-distance without internet, I found working with Anne to be a great experience. I could ask her about anything that was giving me trouble – characterization, how to make a certain kind of transition, for more background on one of her characters, and so on. She was incredibly generous with her time and attention; she never made me feel like a nuisance. And it was a master class – her answers were brief, pointed, crystal clear. (Years later, I could still ask her about problems I was having with my newer stuff, and she was just as willing to help.) She was also generous in sharing her ‘sandbox’ – letting her co-authors introduce things, including characters. I met her at the launch event for Sassinak, and after that we became friends.
The most striking example of how Moon, Nye and McCaffrey developed the same character in different ways was in the use of the Theks, floating pyramidal sentient beings of silicate origin, with enormous telepathic power, the most impressive in the Federated Sentient Planets universe. On their first appearance, in Dinosaur Planet, McCaffrey treats them with reverence and irreverence at the same time: ‘it was difficult to know a Thek elder from a rock until it spoke, but a human could perish of old age waiting for the word’. Thus there were tonal choices for developing these lifeforms, and Moon and Nye made different choices. The importance of the Theks in this universe means that their characterisation underpins the tone of the novels. By allowing divergence in their treatment, collaborative writing made the Planet Pirates novels even less likely to work together as a sequence.
Moon developed the Theks by giving them meaningful cooperative relationships with humans, showing how mutual respect breeds collaboration (much like her own relationship with McCaffrey). Her, or their, most effective elaboration of the Thek in Sassinak was to give it a sessile life stage, inert and anchored in a tank, but fully integrated with all ship systems, and a potentially crucial part of enhanced lightspeed flight modes due to Thek mathematical abilities. This sessile larval form – more like a giant coral fan than a slug – is an inspired solution to the problem of how to get Theks integrated enough into human society and into Fleet as serving officers, without floating pyramids engulfing the ships. When humans learn enough about Theks to be able to identify individuals, that signals the beginning of a healthy working relationship. In Sassinak, the sense of wonder is multiplied by Moon’s marvellous enhancement of McCaffrey’s original idea.
My thanks to Elizabeth Moon for her cooperation with this interview, and for checking the facts. The opinions expressed are my own.
Anne McCaffrey and Elizabeth Moon, Sassinak (1990)
Anne McCaffrey and Jody Lynn Nye, Death of Sleep (1990)
Anne McCaffrey and Elizabeth Moon, Generation Warriors (1991)
Over on Vulpes Libris I interviewed a Palgrave Pivot commissioning editor, as part of the Vulpes Alternative Book Publishing Thrortnight. Pivot sells itself as a way to publish your polemic or very-much-extended essay that is too long for journal publication but way too short for a book. During the interview (done by email Q&A over a few weeks in February), I decided to road-test the Pivot book proposal experience, to see if it really was as fast and as rigorous as they claim. I’m already a Palgrave author, and thus not an unknown quantity in publishing terms, which helps. I had a book proposal waiting in embryo, on literary disability, so I spent two days working it up to the Pivot requirements, filled in their submission form, and sent it in.
10 March: instant and personal acknowledgement from Palgrave (not difficult, they knew the proposal was on its way), and a promise to ‘look it over in the next couple of weeks’. That wasn’t quite as fast as I’d expected, since in the series I used to edit for a different publisher we generally sent the author a decision on whether the book proposal would go out to reviewers within a week.
13 March: OK, the Palgrave editor clearly found the time. Three days later, I had this response: ‘I’ve now looked over your proposal for the book and think that it looks very interesting, and possibly a nice fit for the list here. I’ll now share it with my Literary Disability Studies series editors and get back to you asap.’ Notice that he is being cautious, not pre-empting his external readers’ opinions, while sending reassurance and positivity. However, I was puzzled that he was now talking about what I thought was a different Palgrave series, not Pivot. I hadn’t appreciated (until he got in touch after this post was posted, and explained things more clearly) that Pivot is a format, not an imprint, and can publish books from other series as well as those only accepted for Pivot. Nonetheless, I was happy that the proposal had now left the dock.
23 March: Ten days later Palgrave email me to ask for sample chapters, as the series editors need to see this, because ‘they liked the look of the proposal a great deal’. All is now becoming clear. The editor has either decided or assumed that my book proposal was for the Literary Disability Studies series, and has forgotten or undecided that I sent the proposal in as a Pivot book. I check my book proposal again, and am relieved that I used the Pivot submissions form, which specifically doesn’t ask for sample chapters.
This is an important point for authors, and what makes Pivot different from other lists. Reading the sample chapters with a book proposal is essential for assessing how an author writes, whether they understand their subject, what standard of prose style, critical thinking, scholarly apparatus, etc, they’re using, and I would never accept a book from an author without them. They’re also essential for the author to write, as part of understanding what the book is about, how it will be structured, and how long the whole thing will take to write. However, not needing to write sample chapters (3-6 months work) before sending in the book proposal makes Pivot very attractive for the author in a hurry, because it means that for book projects that are already well-worked out in plan, and that you want to get published quickly, Pivot submissions have a time-critical edge. Two years ago, this was very important for UK academics who needed to have a monograph on their list for the round of research assessment that closed its submissions window in 2013. Now, the pressure isn’t so extreme, as we’re looking at 2019 or thereabouts, but job applications run all year round, and a book contract on a CV is as good as the finished book on the desk. Notwithstanding my own rule to always see sample chapters, I happily followed Pivot’s lure to not go through this process with my book proposal: not very wise, in hindsight. Dear reader, read on.
I sent a book chapter that had already been accepted by a different publisher, that drew on the same material I’d be using in my book. I explained that I did not have the time (true) to write sample chapters now, but had planned to do this in the summer.
23 March (half an hour later): This wasn’t acceptable, and the tone in the Palgrave emails turned slightly formal. ‘Ideally, we’d like a sample chapter and not a writing sample – can I ask when you’d expect to be able to send one on please?’ They really had not realised that the proposal was for Pivot and thus did not need a sample. I explained this formally, adding that if they were convinced that the proposal would be better considered outside Pivot, I would withdraw it, spend the summer writing sample chapters, and then resubmit the proposal.
25 March: Well that did the trick, sort of. ‘I’ve had a chat with our series editors on this and we’re happy to go ahead with the proposal and sample material provided – thanks for your patience!’ This still wasn’t telling me which series my book was going to be considered for: Literary Disability, or Pivot? Not that it mattered much.
22 April: A reply from Palgrave on what their reviewer said (who by then had been properly briefed and knew that the proposal was for Pivot): ‘As you can see, the report is mixed – while broadly positive about the idea behind the project, the reader flags up a number of issues with the proposal as currently constituted … Unfortunately, I’m unable to commission your book on the basis of this report but would be keen to look over a fleshed out proposal that takes into account the reader’s feedback and addresses the specific points raised within his/her report. Once this is in, I shall send it out to the reader again for a second look. I remain keen on this for the series and for the list more broadly, but feel that it just needs some more work before it’s ready.’
And I totally agree. Aside from some snarkiness from the reviewer about my writing style (hmmph), I agreed with their criticisms, and am completely fine about doing more work on the proposal. I’ll do as I originally planned: spend the summer writing the book as sample chapters, possibly even just write the book, period, and then resubmit it. Palgrave have since reconfirmed that they are very keen to see the revised proposal, so I will probably send it back to them, since I’d be happy for the book to go out with Pivot, or with their mainstream-length series. In the end, the length of the final book may determine the imprint, not any other factor.
I think this shows how the central selling points of the Pivot imprint – that you can get your book published really fast, and you don’t need to mess about with sample chapters to get a contract – could be a serious weakness in the quality of the books they accept, unless Palgrave are as rigorous in their gate-keeping as they showed themselves to be in my case. Palgrave are taking a risk, I think, by dropping the sample chapter requirement, and they have to be vigilant in keeping their standards as high as they would normally expect.
[addendum: the Palgrave editor got in touch after this was posted to make things clearer, so I’m posting what he said here: ‘usually I would ask for a sample chapter (at least one) but as a previously published author I know your work and your track record. Also, I should emphasise that the full MS would have gone through another round of peer review once submitted, before publication, as per our monograph programme. So it would not have been cleared without the reader seeing the full MS. I can assure you that we wouldn’t publish a project that hadn’t been peer reviewed to the rigorous standards we are accustomed to.’]
On the time taken to assess the book proposal, one month is exemplary, and I see no reason why this should not be the norm for all book proposals. Current practice in taking three to five months for two reviewers to read a proposal is completely unacceptable, and is caused by asking the wrong people to do the work (too overworked to make the time). Palgrave ‘pay’ their reviewers with cash or two books from their catalogue (twice the value of the cash offer), as do other academic publishers. Senior academics (overworked) might not be very interested in this, whereas impecunious postdocs (very recent experts in their PhD topics) most definitely are. Publishers: choose your reviewers wisely, and consider how incentives and prior obligations will affect your reviewers’ commitment to your business.