Is Delusion Compatible with the Thriller form: A Look at Tarryn Fisher’s The Wives

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Spoilers abound. This article is a would-be writer’s look at a popular thriller novel.

Adding a single ingredient, like mental illness or drug abuse, can transform a run-of-the-mill mystery into a psychological thriller.

For instance, Paula Hawkins’ The Girl on the Train uses an unreliable alcoholic protagonist to narrate a basic mystery novel. Likewise, A. J. Finn’s The Woman in the Window uses agoraphobia, only to a far lesser effect. Neither the alcoholism nor the agoraphobia is strictly necessary for the novels’ plots. In the case of The Girl on the Train, the protagonist’s drinking problem causes blackouts in her memory, thus delaying the unraveling of the mystery. Agoraphobia in The Woman in the Window serves primarily to create a debilitated/ reluctant hero. Again, the device is used to delay the novel’s progression.

And then there are thrillers that don’t use such gimmicks at all. They simply play with and undermine tropes. Gillian Flynn’s Gone Girl and du Maurier’s Rebecca come to mind as examples.

Tarryn Fisher in The Wives, however, goes the first route; only she uses paranoid disorder as a twist. Whereas alcoholism and agoraphobia are part of the status quo of Hawkins’ and Finns’ novels, respectively, Fisher only introduces mental illness in the second half of her novel. Ultimately, delusion serves not to delay the plot but to explore the breakdown of a marriage.

The chief issue is whether using delusion as a narrative device is compatible with the thriller as a genre.

To answer that, let’s look at the book more closely.

Suspicion is the novel’s starting point

The Wives is a psychological thriller that reads like an old-fashioned domestic noir novel. Indeed, if it weren’t for the ubiquitous presence of cell phones, you could easily imagine the story taking place mid-last-century, especially with the regressive notions about marriage and wifedom.

(I know all that stuff is still alive and kicking.)

The novel is about a polygamous marriage. A woman named Thursday shares her husband, Seth, with two other women. As a joke between them, they nickname the two other wives, Monday and Tuesday. The purpose of this polygamy is both cultural and practical. Seth comes from a polygamist family settled in Utah, where such arrangements aren’t unheard of. The second reason is that Seth wants children, while his career-oriented first wife, Tuesday, doesn’t. As a compromise, Tuesday and Seth agree he will divorce Tuesday and marry Thursday, but he will also continue his relationship with his first wife, whom he still loves. As part of the agreement, neither wife will meet the other; their sole connection will be through Seth. It’s all very mature and adult.

The new, shiny, youthful third wife, Monday, comes into the picture when Thursday suffers a traumatizing miscarriage that requires a hysterectomy. Monday will now be the uterus in this polygamist affair. At the start of the novel, we learn Monday is already pregnant.

That’s the basic setup to the story: three women married to one man. Thursday, the novel’s protagonist and now the middle wife, feels that her place in Seth’s life is precarious. She doesn’t have the allure of the first wife, who has the longest history with Seth, is youthful, despite her age, and a bit glamorous. Nor is Thursday actually young like the second wife.

The novel’s inciting incident occurs when Thursday discovers Monday’s identity from a hospital bill she finds in Seth’s pocket. Monday’s actual name is Hannah, and she lives two hours away in Portland, Oregon. After a little internet stalking, Thursday comes across her picture. Hannah isn’t the blonde surfer girl she imagined, but has Nordic supermodel beauty. This inflames Thursday’s growing insecurity: she grows jealous and a little obsessed. Thursday tracks Monday/ Hannah to a beautiful, well-kept house that suggests a Norman Rockwell happy union, which is yet another stab to Thursday’s ego. But Thursday also sees cracks and fault lines. There are no pictures of Seth and Hannah in the house, and tiny bruises cover Monday’s arms. Thursday’s mind jumps to the conclusion that Seth is abusing Monday. In a sick way, this scant evidence of unhappiness gives her hope that she can gain a firmer/ more dominant foothold in the wife hierarchy. Soon after, Thursday’s growing obsession extends to the first wife, a successful lawyer named Regina. Because Regina has an online dating profile, Thursday catfishes her to get evidence that she’s cheating on Seth.

The novel’s second half gives way to paranoia

About halfway through The Wives, a major narrative twist occurs. Thursday finds herself locked away in a mental institution after she confronts Seth with her suspicions of spousal abuse. During her stay in the asylum, the doctor suggests that Thursday has been hospitalized in the psych ward before, which comes as news to both us, the reader, and the character. Why doesn’t she remember this? There are two possibilities: either the doctor and Seth are gaslighting Thursday or she is delusional. I immediately started thinking of novels like The Woman in White, in which the asylum plays a huge part of patriarchal control. As Fisher is more interested in creating a character study, she goes down the second route. The second half of the novel is in some sense pure fantasy: a paranoid delusion that illuminates Thursday’s psychology.

Drawbacks to writing a thriller around a delusional character

One aspect of the thriller genre is that they are semi-mysteries, but unlike regular mysteries, thriller novels progress through action packed scenes or, in the case of psychological thrillers like The Wives, through twists and turns in the narrative. Fisher carries on with the thriller elements well into the third act of the novel. After Thursday is released from the psych ward, she concocts a theory that her husband is a sick individual who gets off on impregnating his wives and then slipping them an abortifacient that causes the women to miscarry. This is based on the memory of Seth giving her an herbal tea just before her miscarriage. We later learn that Regina also suffered a miscarriage and that Seth had given her the same tea.

In the fourth act, during a confrontation between Seth and his three wives, is when Thursday suddenly remembers reality: (1) that she is not married to Seth, but is actually his mistress, (2) that she owns the house Monday lives in, and (3) that she was picked up at the hospital, not by her husband, but by her father.

This is the point when many readers will throw up their hands in frustration. As I mentioned above, thrillers are a little like mystery novels and therefore rely on facts; thus, using a delusional character undermines the genre. We don’t know what we can and cannot believe. In fact, Thursday could be sitting in a psych ward just imaging everything. Delusion robs fiction of reality and therefore impact. We tend not to care about things that aren’t real.

What’s more is that delusions feel like a cheat ending in thrillers: a sign of a novelist who can’t come up with a proper ending.

The Final Twist

Delusions, however, can serve as an excellent means to study a character’s imagination. And this is why The Wives is brilliant.

The final twist of The Wives is that it’s not a thriller at all, but a character study of a woman who was dumped by her husband after she lost her child. After the final confrontation scene between the husbands and wives- during which Thursday cripples Seth by shooting him in the spine, Thursday returns to the psych ward for further treatment. Thursday doesn’t get criminally charged because her lawyer makes the case that (1) Thursday is crazy and (2) Regina, the first wife, tricked Thursday into believing Seth slipped both Regina and Thursday an abortifacient.

In the last pages, Regina visits Thursday in the asylum. Thursday says, “I’m glad we both got away from him,” to which Regina replies, “This isn’t a little club. I’m not like you. You’re crazy.”

After that, Thursday goes off the rails and attacks Regina, smashing her forehead into Regina’s nose. “Help,” someone screams. “She’s going to kill her!”

Thursday thinks: “I am helping. I’m helping myself.”

And that may be the final twist of the novel. Regina and Thursday are the same person- the first wife who becomes the mistress, and that by destroying Regina, Thursday is freeing herself of Seth.

The story isn’t about paranoid delusion at all, but about a split personality.

Note: (Parallels to du Maurier’s Rebecca) In terms of both subject and theme, the book mirrors Daphne du Maurier’s classic gothic novel, Rebecca, which is also a book about a second wife and feelings of jealousy. The thematic similarity was so great that I actually guessed the ending to The Wives. I knew some calamity would befall Seth, and since there was no Manderley to burn down, I guessed he would end up crippled, a la Mr. Rochester. I even guessed Seth would end up wheelchair-bound.

Why You Should Take Part in #Pitmad (What I Learned)

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Hollywood rules commercial fiction publishing.

Don’t believe me? Just go look for advice on plotting a novel, and you’ll inevitably come into contact with a book called Save the Cat, a primer on writing screenplays. These days, books are novelizations before they are ever novels. Hence, it should surprise no one that when it comes to choosing books for publication, the publishing industry has adopted the Hollywood-style elevator pitch.

In recent years, elevator pitches have moved out of the elevator and onto Twitter. During a quarterly manuscript pitching party (called #Pitmad), an aspiring author can now pitch- in 280 character (including spaces)- their finished works out into the internet ether with the hope that an industry insider will discover them.

Note that not all agents take part in this pitch party, and some find the quarterly event, which for some reason is always held on a Thursday when many aspiring authors are tethered to their day jobs, an unproductive means to find new writers. “One-hundred and forty characters should never be enough to properly describe your book,” says Jessica Faust of BookEnds Literary Agency.

Still, if you have the time and a finished book, I think it’s worth taking part in #Pitmad. There’s also a lot you can learn.

Being an agent is hard

This was one takeaway from the experience. Not only did I participate by pitching my recently completed book, I also followed the hashtag throughout the day (sporadically as I was working), reading the pitches as they came up in my Twitter feed. As I read and retweeted, I became a quasi-agent for a day.

The above-mentioned agent is right: it is difficult to tell anything about a novel in a 280-character tweet. All of them read like entries in Plotto or Plots Unlimited. Things likes:

Carol, a struggling waitress, finds a magic lamp in a dumpster behind the restaurant. She rubs it and out comes Jack, a Djinni. (660a) (713) (1024)

That story could be boring. It could be great. So much of everything depends on execution. Just how does an agent decide?

The other aspect of pitching is throwing out comp titles. This isn’t required, but I noticed that the pitches using them often got many more retweets, especially if the comp title was incredibly popular.

I assume things like number of retweets can catch an agent’s eyes. I didn’t add comp titles to my pitch. So that’s another lesson learned about pitching.

Do a close reading of the rules for #Pitmad

This was my first go at this rodeo. I hadn’t really heard of #Pitmad before, which just shows you how new to Twitter I am. I first became aware of the event two weeks ago, when fellow writers I follow on Twitter started talking about polishing their pitches. I really wanted to put my recently completed manuscript out there in as many ways as possible. So I got to work.

Naturally, I went to the #Pitmad webpage for more information, but I stupidly skimmed the text. I didn’t read the part about being able to pitch three times during the day. As a result, I only prepared one pitch, and that pitch was of the Carol and Jack variety.

If I had to do it again, and I can on June 3rd, I would make three different pitches. One would be of the Carol and Jack variety and another would hit hard on comp titles. I’m not yet sure how to frame the third one I’d post. I guess I have time to figure it out.

I have no Twitter game

Another thing I learned is that I have no Twitter game. I use the app only for belonging to a writing community, one that is often helpful, I might add. The problem is that I kind of find Twitter really boring. I don’t think I spend more than fifteen minutes a day on the app, and when I do, I’m mostly searching for Tweets from authors seeking advice or encouragement. When it comes to getting retweets of your pitch, however, this kind of limited engagement is a handicap.

Indeed, none of the writers who follow me retweeted my pitch. Almost all my retweets were from strangers.

My pitch received only 9 retweets in total

The bulk of these came in soon after I tweeted my pitch, which is why writing three pitches and posting them throughout the day is much better for getting engagement. Pitches in the internet ether have a short half-life.

Still, I got nine retweets. That doesn’t seem like a lot, but in hindsight, getting even that many retweets of my pitch turned out to be the best aspect of the #Pitmad experience.

When it comes to writing, I always feel unsure if I’m treading the correct path, especially when it comes to knowing if the kinds of books I write are marketable. Are other people interested in the type of storytelling I’m interested in? Are my tastes just too odd or idiosyncratic? Am I just too unique? Maybe even a mad genius before their time? A visionary?

Thankfully, the answer is a resounding No!

Strangers retweeting my pitch tells me that there is an audience out there, however big or small.

And then there were the coveted likes. I received one from a developmental editor trying to drum up business. I checked out their website and learned that for a grand sum of $6,500 dollars I can have the full publishing experience- developmental, copy, and line editing as well as a final proofread. Too bad they were barking up the wrong tree. I’m too poor for that.

Two more likes came from people who probably don’t know about #Pitmad and its rules. It was yet another confirmation to me that readers might be interested in the book I wrote.

The fourth like came from an agent. I should be jumping up and down. Unfortunately, neither the agent nor the agency they work for shows up on QueryTracker. And though the agency’s website looks legit, when I clicked on the list of authors they represent, I quickly realized that none of them have a book deal. Also, the agent’s manuscript wish list indicates that they don’t really represent the genre I work in. Because of this, I’m on the fence about querying them.

So that was my #Pitmad experience. It was pitiful but also insightful and reassuring. I glimpsed a potential audience for my work out there. For look, I also got this comment on my pitch:

And that comment made my day.

Let me know in the comments what you think about #Pitmad or if you participated last week. Should I query the agent who liked my tweet? All advice will be greatly appreciated.

Also, want to know when I post something new? Follow me here or on Twitter.

What My Literary Agent Got Me

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Why would an agent ghost a client?

Now there’s a baffling question.

Aren’t we always told (in no uncertain terms) that a literary agent and a writer are business partners? And if so, shouldn’t open communication be a part of this relationship?

Still, in recent weeks, there’s been some hubbub over the fraught relationship between literary agents and the authors they represent.

In fact, ghosting was just one accusation leveled against superstar literary agent, Brooks Sherman. In a now deleted post on Querytracker, a former client alleges that Sherman stopped responding to their e-mails once their novel wasn’t picked-up by a publisher. When the writer attempted to sever their “working” relationship, Sherman never responded.

The allegations against Sherman, however, didn’t stop there. There was another, more chilling one posted on QueryTracker. Here, the anonymous denouncer mentions how Brooks Sherman lied about submitting manuscripts, lied about submitting for foreign rights, failed to give editorial feedback, and even neglected to read client manuscripts.

I suspect this is only the tip of the iceberg as far as Brooks Sherman is concerned. But the truth is, most of it will remain secret, or spoken about in whisper networks.

The reason I’ve been following this closely is because I queried Mr. Sherman at the beginning of February. In fact, the second allegation I mentioned was already in the comments. Thinking back, why hadn’t I stopped to consider it? Why did it not give me pause before I went ahead and queried the guy?

Probably because agents are the gatekeepers to traditional publishing. In fact, they are the first of many you’ll encounter on that journey. This gives an agent power. It even creates a power imbalance between the agent and his or her client. Any such partnership will be an unequal one, especially at the beginning. Which explains why all the allegations have been anonymous. Power can silence people.

It’s no surprise then that many publishing industry insiders have just swept this scandal under the rug. We’ve been warned many a time that there are agents and there are schmagents. I call this the bad apple defense of the publishing industry. Just take out the few bad ones before the whole barrel goes bad, and everything will be fine.

But I think Brooks Sherman is too high profile to be considered a mere schmagent. From what I can tell, he’s an agent to some and a schmagent to others. This isn’t too surprising for someone like me who comes from academia. We all know that some Ph.D. advisors are mentors and some are schmentors. And most are like Brooks Sherman: mentors to some; schmentors to others.

But why would an agent even behave in this way? What do they get out of it?

I have no idea. My guess is that they think they’ve found you, and therefore have some claim over you- on the off chance you create something truly marketable. It’s kind of like a conquistador sticking a flag in a continent. They don’t know exactly what’s there, but by God, they own it.

But that’s just a guess.

What I’ve really been pondering is what the agent- writer relationship is really like. Is it what people say? Is it a partnership?

An Agent Represent a Writer

While on Twitter, I came across a tweet thread posted by romance writer, Courtney Milan. It really spoke to me because I’m just the silly sort of writer she’s describing. I believe “A bad agent is better than no agent.”

Courtney Milan on agents and the writers they represent

My logic: having an agent means at least you’re in the game.

Milan then goes ahead and demolishes that line of thinking. I believe she is a lawyer, which explains why she’s so amazing at constructing arguments.

But towards the end, her tweet thread becomes even more interesting. She writes:

“One of the most painful things that agents do is treat the publisher as if they are the client, and themselves as talent scouts. This person might get you a deal, but it will bite you.

The agent who thinks that their relationship with a publisher is more important than their relationship with an author is not functioning as an agent.

Your agent represents YOU. Period.”

How sure that “Period” is!

But is this true? Does an agent represent you, the writer, and not the publishing house? As I said, Milan is a lawyer, and lawyers represent their clients. In fact, they have no relationship with the entity opposing you in a case. It’s possible Milan thinks that the relationship between an agent and a writer is similar. It makes sense. The more money an agent can bring in to his client, the more money they themselves make. Win-win.

But is this how agenting really works? I mean, we may want it to work that way. The actual truth, however, may be something different.

In fact, I’ve always considered an agent an adjunct to the publishing house. Once upon a time, publishers read their own slush piles. Nowadays, this is outsourced, and an agent mines this mountain of manuscripts and extracts whatever gold they can.

What I think is that literary agents are more like estate agents. Sure, estate agents drive clients around and help them find their dream homes, but in reality, they work for the property seller. Of course, this analogy doesn’t work either. If we overlay this analogy atop of the writer-agent-publisher scenario, the writer is both the client looking for the new house and the house/ property itself.

And boy, wouldn’t that be twisted.

What Publishers Paid Me

We may, however, not want to believe agent’s relationships to publishing is stronger than it is with their clients. And who know? Possibly, it’s not. I’ve never traditionally published a thing. I also suspect I never will.

But my free associating mind made me think of that Twitter hashtag: what publishers paid me.

This hashtag brought to light the large discrepancies between advances given out to white and non-white writers.

What really struck me is that no one blamed their agent.

Why wasn’t the rallying cry, “#Whatmyagentgotme”? Surely, it’s the agent who negotiates the advance (and everything else).

But that’s probably because everyone knows that the publisher has the real power. And the agent is his man.

Let me know what you think about all this in the comments below.

Also, want to know when I post something new? Follow me here or on Twitter.

Who’s Marketing that Book?

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Looking back at the Authors Guild’s 2018 Author Income Survey, one thing is clear: people who traditionally publish do better income-wise than self-published authors.

While some authors are doing better self-publishing than they could be through traditional publishing, our survey shows that the overall median income for self-published authors averages 50–58% less than for traditionally published ones.” 

The question is, why does this disparity exist?

The simple answer is marketing. Traditional publishers have greater market reach. It’s also why traditionally published authors take a pittance of the royalties even though they do most of the work to produce a book. Such writers expect to make up their losses with higher-volume selling.

So, does marketing begin and end with publishers?

Over the last year, I’ve read many a blog post on the role authors themselves play in marketing. There’s a sameness to this content, and they’re almost all invariably written in a finger wagging tone. “Authors must market their own books!” So, who’s being admonished, you might ask. Well, it’s you, the author. The thesis is always: traditional publishing does very little marketing for its writers. “You have to stop being a precious wallflower and put yourself out there!

But is this true? Thought of in another way, if the above premise is correct, then very successful authors must be masters of marketing and self-promotion.

Common points raised in such “how to market” articles include:

1: have your own website

2: be active on Facebook

3: tweet a little everyday

4: create a mailing list

But is this enough? While these things are essential for a self-published writer, are they necessary for a traditionally published one?

Thinking like a reader

I approached this question by considering how I find books to read.

First, I have to confess: I only read traditionally published books. The reason behind this is structural. About a decade ago, I received an e-reader as a gift, only that e-reader was a Nook. This has effectively cut me off from indie publishing, most of which occurs on the KDP platform. (While I don’t want to have two e-readers in my life, I’m currently saving up to buy a Kindle at some point. Until I do, my reading will be mostly restricted to traditionally published books.)

So, just how do I find books?

First off, unless I’m doing research for this blog, I almost never visit author websites, check out their Facebook pages, follow them on twitter, or sign-up for their mailing lists. The principal reason for this is that I find the content boring and I’m not a fan of getting mail. In my case, the role of author-centric marketing in my reading choices is limited.

Where I do find new books and new authors is the bookstore. Before the pandemic, weekly visits to my local Barnes and Nobles were common. I’d buy a cup of coffee and wander through the aisles, thinking about what to read next. Unfortunately, the pandemic has curtailed this activity. As a workaround, I’ve been using GoodReads, which allows you to scroll through new releases not only under the general category, fiction, but also by genre.

Besides this, I read professional reviews for fun, and I find a lot of new books through “book hauls” and “TBRs” featured on BookTube.

Therefore, if I make a representative case study for the average reader, none of my reading choices come from direct marketing from the writer him/herself.

So, who controls the means of marketing?

Well, publishing does, obviously. Most of these are structural.

The chief means of marketing is book availability in bookstores- something that is negotiated between booksellers and the publishing industry. In fact, all the lovely covers act as the book’s main advertising- not unlike a billboard, which is why cover art is so important.

Besides this fundamental form of marketing, publishing can do a lot of extras like arranging for someone to review your book. And while most publications say that they chose books independently of the publishing industry, I’ve never quite believed it. I’m sure at least some nudging is involved. The publishing industry also sends out copies for review to book influencers and for placement on BookTuber “book hauls”.

Another form of marketing is making a novel book club friendly by providing a reader discussion guide at the back of the book. A traditional publisher can also get a book placed in subscription services like Book of the Month. Once again, these are all structural forms of marketing that don’t require direct author participation.

Beyond that, there’s publicity: the flashy form of marketing. This is rarer and also in the hands of publishers.

One form of this is giving out enormous advances, which naturally raise interest in both reviewers and readers. They find themselves asking just what about that book deserves a $400,000 advance? Usually nothing, I suspect. It’s just publishers backing their horse. Tipping the scales.

Publishers can also arrange for you to appear in other media: radio, television, magazines. They might even foot the bill for a book tour or an appearance at one of the large Cons.

As you can see, not only is traditional publishing tied to marketing at its most basic level (physical books in stores), it also promotes and publicizes books (often in a genre appropriate fashion). But if this is the case, why do so many people say publishing does no marketing?

Big author marketing and little author marketing

I suspect this occurs because when people think of book marketing, they think only of media and event appearances. Sometimes, I even see people grumbling about this online: “I never got a book tour” is a big complaint. But I’d argue that this type of flashy marketing is really low impact for a consumer like me: one who doesn’t go to Cons or book signings or readings at the local bookstore. For the vast majority of readers, this is also out of reach due to finances or geography.

A spot in a magazine or a radio/TV appearance is a more democratic way of reaching a reader. But most of these spots are reserved for big name authors and only for a certain type of book.

So, what can a writer do as far as marketing and self-promotion?

The real question is what structural platforms are available. Well, there’s Twitter, Facebook, personal websites, etc. But don’t be surprised if this is not enough. And worse, don’t flog yourself because your presence on these platforms wasn’t sufficient to sell your book. It rarely ever is.

What maybe more impactful on marketing is writing a great book that readers want to read. After that, word of mouth will take care of the rest.

Hopefully.

Let me know in the comments how you find new books to read.

Also, want to know when I post something new? Follow me here or on Twitter.

Authors Have Meltdowns. Sometimes Collectively.

(How to Avoid Making an Arse Out of Yourself.)

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“This review makes me wish I’d never been born.”

This was author Elin Hilderbrand’s reaction to a negative review posted on Instagram. It’s strangely over the top for someone with a two-decade long writing career. Not to mention, a little lacking in perspective.

Unfortunately, this sort of thing is nothing new. Every few months I hear tell of a similar author meltdown. This occurs primarily on Twitter. But as someone who only uses that platform for writing advice and as a means of belonging to a writerly community (few other options where I live), I often miss a lot of the drama.

For a while now, I’ve been keeping up to date on author meltdowns by watching a feature on BookTube called Bookcommunitea (Jess Owen), a weekly update on book-related drama. To be sure, it’s never ending. Sometimes what’s presented is eye opening; but most of the time, I can’t be bothered to care. I mean, there’re bigger problems in the world. Still, the videos are a great window to the fraught world of fiction.

Around the same time as the Elin Hilderbrand meltdown, there was a collective author meltdown over negative reviews in general. Authors piled on a Booktuber who tweeted a link to a video of his worst reads of 2020, a kind of video that is de rigueur on the platform. Authors who were not even mentioned in the video flocked together to state how hurtful negative reviews are.

And if you think these kinds of author meltdowns are reactions to what appears on informal review sites like YouTube and Instagram, you’d be wrong. Back in the day, I remember Jennifer Weiner complaining about receiving a negative review from Jane Smiley in The Philadelphia Inquirer, a newspaper Weiner used to work for. I can’t find Weiner’s blog post about it, but I remember her mentioning how she’d read the review on some special personal occasion and how the review had ruined her day. Here’s even a link in which Weiner goes as far as to imply there was something anti-Semitic in Smiley’s review.

But how bad was the review, you might ask? The title was, “Weiner is Talented Enough to Aim Higher”. In other words, not terrible.

So why all the meltdowns then? Surely, all authors know that books aren’t universally admired. I doubt that they themselves universally admire all books.

But if behavior is indicative of anything- and it’s certainly more indicative than the things we say (words are wind, after all)- it’s clear authors don’t know this.

While I am a writer, I am first and foremost a reader. And as a reader, let me tell you something you, the writer, might not know: reviews don’t mean anything.

A simple understanding of this fact will prevent you from having any such meltdown in the future.

All reviews are meaningless

Years ago, when BookTube was in its infancy, I used to watch channels indiscriminately. I’d click play and then go about my house work while I listened to the book chatter. One thing that came up a lot was objectivity in book reviews. I remember one BookTuber stating that reviews can be objective- that aspects of the novel, whether they be plot, character, or world building can be objectively good. This attitude may even be widespread on the platform. In fact, many reviewers on BookTube dissect books and organize their reviews in this way. Part 1: Did they like the story? Part 2: Was the hero or heroine believable? Part 3: Was the world really cool?

This is an anatomical approach. It’s kind of like Olympics figure skating or gymnastics scoring. There are points for technical performance (important) and points for artistry (less important).

The problem here is that in writing, technically good is anchored in the artist’s thematic intention, which in turn informs the choices he or she makes in what to include in their composition. This means that unless you first define what a book’s themes are, you cannot say whether the artist’s narrative choices, characters, or even their world building are effective. In fact, without themes, all your likes and dislikes are arbitrary/ idiosyncratic to the reviewer. And while most reviewers are quick to comment on the story or characters, they almost never touch on a book’s themes.

This lack of interest in themes isn’t really the book reviewer’s fault either. Sometimes a novel has no theme. Other times, the writer deploys thematic double speak by which they simultaneously explore and undermine their novel’s themes. In fact, I’d argue that themelessness is more the norm for most fictions published today (and probably yesteryear too). There’s a reason why a showrunner of the super successful Game of Thrones television series said, “Themes are for eighth-grade book reports.” Literary products manufactured in this way are generally conservative with a progressive veneer, a combination that creates a semi-neutral work of art- one that is beyond criticism.

Essentially, the book/ author leaves it to the reader to decide what to take away from the novel- if anything.

Indeed, a look at informal reader reviews will corroborate this. When I scan GoodReads reviews, all I really get is a list of what people liked and didn’t like in a given book. The plot was good, or such-and-such a character was unlikable. We hear about how the reader “hates hates hates” love triangles- “ALL” love triangles. There’s very little effort put into thinking about why the writer selected any of the elements of the book. It’s also equally likely that the author him or herself put little thought into it as well.

In short, reviews are about what do I, as the customer, want in the fiction that I enjoy.

Looked at another way, reading reviews on GoodReads or Instagram or Twitter essentially amounts to listening to a focus group. Such groups exist not for the artist to make better art, but for marketing purposes and maximizing profits. A negative review is merely saying I, the consumer, haven’t gotten what I wanted.

It’s nothing personal.

And certainly nothing to have a meltdown over.

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Querying in Batches: Is there an advantage?

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When it comes to querying, do you dip your toe into the chilly waters or do you wade right in?

After you have scoured AgentQuery, Manuscript Wish List, and Twitter for names of agents representing your genre, written an exciting hook for your novel along with a writer’s biography and a sales pitch that includes a comparison title, the next step is putting your query out there. If you’re like me, a compulsive reader of writer’s blogs about writing, you’ll already know there are many blog posts devoted to this process. That shouldn’t surprise anyone: there’s advice out there for just about every aspect of publishing.

Some of it good. Some of it dubious.

One common bit of advice I’ve seen is to query in batches, a strategy that entails sending out only seven to ten queries at a time. But is batch querying the right choice for you?

The testing the waters

First, sending queries in batches can be a strategy for success.

The big idea here is that each batch acts as an experiment that tests whether the query is any good. If you end up with no requests for either a partial or a full manuscript, then you can tweak your query hook and resend the updated query letter to a new batch of agents. In theory, you can rinse and repeat this strategy until you have exhausted your agent list.

At first, I found this advice exciting. It seemed sensible. In fact, it was better than sensible. It was a plan. The problem, however, is that the strategy seems impractical. Testing a query hook requires that your agent list contains a large number of agents with quick response times. While there are a few highly organized agents who respond the next day- sometimes the same day, these are few and far between. You’d at least need to have a small group of agents that respond within a two to four-week period. This might be likely if you’re looking for an agent that represents a perennially popular genre like mystery, but if your work is more niche, you’ll find your supply of guinea pig agents sorely lacking.

Another major issue with this strategy is that you have no way of knowing what an agent liked or didn’t like about your query hook. Most rejection letters are nicely worded form letters, and often times, the reason for the rejection is vague. The most common one I’ve received is that the book doesn’t fit their list. Knowing that can’t possibly help you tweak your query letter.

On top of that, an agent can pass on your book for a myriad or reasons unrelated to the hook, including word count, subject matter, character gender or ethnicity, etc. There’s a reason why a common refrain in rejection letters is how the business is subjective. Going back to tweak the hook in these cases would be fruitless, like spinning your wheels. You might even end up harming your well-written query hook.

What I suspect is that the benefits of batch querying are psychological. It gives a hopeful author a semblance of control in a situation where they have none.

Manage feelings of rejection

In fact, another touted advantage to batch querying is psychological (see here). In the article I linked to, there’s no tweaking of query hooks. You merely send out queries in batches, then wait for responses. When one comes back negative, you merely send out the next one.

At first, I thought, okay- it’s a little like gardening. Anyone who grows vegetables during the summer knows that you have to keep sowing seeds to replenish anything you harvest, and by doing so systematically, you can guarantee yourself a supply of lettuce all summer long.

But what are you guaranteeing yourself here? I suspect what you are sowing is hope- keeping it alive, but why you’d want to is puzzling. The obverse of sowing hope in this manner is having a prolonged period of rejection letters. And who wants that? I mean, isn’t it better to know right away if the industry isn’t interested in your project so that you can psychologically move on to your next project?

So, should you send your queries in batches? It all depends on your psychological makeup. Do you gently tug at a Band-Aid or just tear it off? I remember watching a fluff piece on morning television about groups of speedo-clad men bathing in the Baltic. They rushed headlong into the chilly water. No toe-dipping for them. And that seemed to work best.

That said, happy querying.

Let me know in the comments if you’ve queried in batches and found it useful. I’m on the fence about it.

Also, want to know when I post something new? Follow me here or on Twitter.

Why you can’t self-publish everything

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“If I can’t get an agent, I’ll self-publish on Amazon.”

That’s what a writer friend of mine always says.

It’s a good mindset to have- one in which a writer has a choice between traditional publishing and self-publishing- but is it a smart strategy?

Most of the arguments for or against taking one route over another focus on tradeoffs. If you traditionally publish, you lose authorial control over publishing rights, book titles, and cover images. The upside, however, is that you gain a team of experts. Not just an editor, but also professional cover artists, book formatters, and various other industry experts who understand how to market books.

But by far, the greatest appeal to self-publishing is the lure of higher royalties. Blog post after blog post, each with some variation of the title “Why I Choose to Self Publish”, emphasizes this aspect of self-publishing. This isn’t surprising. Many writers going down this path say that self-publishing is akin to starting up a small business. One in which you the writer must take charge of editing, cover design, and marketing. And if that doesn’t seem burdensome enough, you must also take the financial risk as well.

So let’s say you have written a book you love, have money to burn, and are willing to spend the time marketing your product.  Should you then plunge into self-publishing. Well, according to the writing chatterati, it’s your choice. You have to weigh the pros and cons and determine what’s best for you.

But I disagree. I say the choice is an illusion.

And if you’re wondering why, it’s because self-publishing and traditional publishing are two different markets that service two different kinds of readers.

Self-Publishing: the new pulp fiction

When we think of pulp, we think of noir mysteries. But pulp is a much wider field than that. At its most basic, pulp refers to price point. Pulp novels were hastily written, quickly published, and cheaply priced. As an art form, they were written to be enjoyed and then disposed of. To be pulped.

Back in the day, pulp represented a wide range of genres including mysteries, adventure stories, Westerns, and romance. These days, if you walk into your local Target or grocery store, the pulp fiction selection is much smaller. There are only a handful of truly pulp works available, and most of these are romance.

But pulp hasn’t disappeared. It’s only migrated to the eReader. The truth is indie-publishing is the new pulp fiction.

This means that writers who want to break out in self-publishing have to think like a pulp publisher of yore. Understand the genre they are writing. Know what is essential and what can be experimented with. After all, readers shelling out their hard-earned $1.99 or $4.99 for a book will come with expectations, and those expectations have to be met. A novel with a bare-chested dude on the cover ought to have a small amount of erotica even if it’s totally vanilla. Likewise, such a book must also end with a happily ever after. Failing to meet these kinds of genre expectations will only lead to obscurity.

So, what does this mean for the writer sitting at their dining room table, typing away at their novel? The kind of book they always wanted to read.

Well, that book you’ve been longing for better be pulp fiction.

Traditional publishing

Of course, an aspiring author can take the other path. Traditional publishing.

A while back, I sampled the first chapter of Donald Maass’ book, Writing 21st Century Fiction. Maass, who is a New York based literary agent, is an industry insider of some repute. His book suggests that there’s been a shift in publishing. Bestselling fiction is no longer just about plot; it’s also literary in style. He envisions “the death of genre” in favor of authorial voice. Books have to “rise above category”, “transcend” genre, maybe even “blend” them. It’s not hard to see that here is the path for writers whose books don’t meet pulp expectations.

Here is also, I suppose, a challenge to self-publishing. As the pulp market slowly slips away from trad publishing’s control, the industry has to focus on quality. Since most agents barely read sample pages submitted during the querying process, traditional publishing also leans towards books with high concept premises.

So you better have that or you’ll be traveling up the creek without a paddle.