“Why do I need business cards?” some writers ask. “I do almost all of my business via email, phone, and occasionally snail mail. If someone wants my contact information, I can email it to them. It’s not like there’s something magic about business cards.”

Wrong. There is something magic about business cards. It works like this: if you give someone your contact information in an email, or in a voice mail, or on a piece of paper, most of the time they’ll lose or misplace it. But if you give them a business card, most of the time they’ll save it. This isn’t logical or fair, but it’s how things work: people keep business cards and lose everything else.

Some folks even have special filing systems just for keeping other people’s business cards. Others, like me, file them in old-style rolodexes.

So if someone asks you for detailed contact information, don’t just give it to them. Also mail them three copies of your business card. This is one of a few ways in which snail mail is actually superior to electronic communication.

I’ve gotten at least $50,000 worth of additional business just because I have simple business cards and give them out when the situation warrants it.

Do you have a story of how your business card increased your income or advanced your writing career? Or do you have a story of how not having a business card hurt you professionally?

This shocks and surprises some people, especially if they’re from the south or midwest. To them, calling a stranger by their first name seems pushy and even rude—a bit like offering unsolicited details on your finances or sex life.

But publishing—or, rather, the book, magazine, newspaper, and other industries that make up what we call publishing—is an informal business. Few men wear ties; few women wear business suits. I’ve never had anyone in publishing try to impress me with their car, jewelry, briefcase, or trophy partner. And if someone did try, it wouldn’t work; I’d note their vanity, nor their high-end stuff.

If you do address someone in publishing as Mr. or Ms., you immediately identify yourself as an outsider—and, perhaps, as an amateur. So if you’re uncomfortable with publishing’s high level of informality, get over it. Being too formal or proper could hurt you.

In my 35+ years in this business, I have only once had someone object to my calling them by their first name. That was 14 years ago, and the objection was mild—a small, polite correction added at the end of a cordial letter.

Have you ever riled up someone in publishing by calling them by the first name? Or, more likely, have you ever shut yourself out by not using a first name?

But perhaps 10% of publishers are actively exploitive. They don’t just want a good deal; they want to take everything they can from you and, if possible, give you nothing. Your needs and concerns—as well as any ethical issues—don’t even appear on their radar screens. These organizations act much like people with narcissistic or antisocial personality disorders.

Such publishers typically offer contracts full of unreasonable terms. When writers attempt to negotiate better terms, these publishers either break off all contact or try to get their way through abuse and intimidation. (“That’s the most unprofessional and ignorant request I’ve gotten in over three decades of publishing.”)

When faced with such coercive tactics, the right thing to do is walk away and not look back. Any attempt to work with this organization will only bring you more of the same abuse.

When have you come up against an exploitive publisher, had the presence of mind to walk away, and been glad you did? Would you share your story of integrity and survival here?

But often there is room to move—if you firmly but politely push.

Editor: We’ve never done that before.
You: Fine, but is there some reason why you absolutely can’t do it this time?
Editor: I can’t make that kind of decision. I’d have to go to my boss.
You: Okay, please ask her.
Editor: She’s out of the office until Thursday.
You: No problem. Run it past her at the end of the week, once she’s back.
Editor: Well, okay, but I don’t think she’s going to let me revise our policy.
You: I don’t expect you to revise any policy. I’d just like to make this one change, this one time.

Editor: We don’t normally work that way.
You: Are you saying you’ve never done it any other way for anyone else?
Editor: Well, maybe once or twice, for some well-known people…
You: Okay, then let’s do it one more time.

Editor: This is our standard contract.
You: I know. I’d like to make a few changes, though.
Editor: Most people just sign and return it.
You: They’re welcome to do that. But I have some changes I’d like.
Editor: I hope there aren’t many.
You: I don’t like to belabor contracts, either. Here’s what I’ll do. I’ll email you my wish list of changes. Let me know which ones are fine as is and which ones won’t fly under any circumstances. We can quickly discuss whatever changes are left, and finish this deal.

Have you ever pushed back against an editor’s implied “no” and gotten a better deal as a result? If so, would you share the details with this blog’s readers?

Many years ago, I wrote a short-short story that made fun of the space-aliens-invade-Earth theme. I sent it to one of the two leading science fiction magazines of the time. The editor wrote back the following note: “Why are you wasting my time—and your own—with this crap?” I immediately sent the story to the magazine’s competitor, which published it and paid me well.

Now that Julie and Julia is in theaters, we writers would do well to remember what one editor told Julia Child when he rejected Mastering the Art of French Cooking: “It…might well prove formidable to the American housewife. She might easily clip one of these recipes out of a magazine but be frightened by the book as a whole.” The book did indeed prove formidable—according to the French, not the English, definition of the word.

Have you ever written a piece that was panned by an editor, writing instructor, or critic—and then published (or performed) and praised? Would you tell us about it?

Most editors, most of the time, are overburdened and overwhelmed. They’ll rarely have the time or energy to even consider your request, let alone respond to it. As a result, much of the time you’ll get no answer—and now you’re in a bind of your own making. Since you asked for permission, you can’t in good conscience move ahead without it.

Alternatively, some editors may respond to a perfectly reasonable request the same way that a mom with six crying kids will respond to the seventh child’s request for a drink of water: “No! Not now!”

Some years ago, one of my clients wrote a piece that she felt was perfect for a regional magazine she’d written for in the past. But instead of sending it to the editor, she queried him, described the piece, and asked if he’d look at it. He replied, “No, thanks. It doesn’t sound very interesting.” Even though she felt strongly that he’d like it, she was stuck. She couldn’t send it to him with a note saying, “I know you asked me not to send this, but here it is anyway”; that would be rude, arrogant, unprofessional, and a little weird.

About a year later, she was in the editor’s office, talking with him about another piece she’d written for his magazine. A comment he made caused her to say, “You know, what you just said makes me think you’ll adore the piece I wrote you about last year. Frankly, I’m amazed you didn’t want to see it.” He shrugged and said, “Okay, if you think it’s such a perfect match, try me with it.” She did, and he bought and published it.

When have you succeeded as a writer by not asking permission, but simply moving ahead with confidence and integrity?

Often this negotiation will be simple—e.g., the editor offers $1000, you ask for $1500, and you settle on $1250. Just as often, though, a workable compromise will require some creativity on your part. (Although editors and publishers often agree to such compromises, they rarely suggest them.)

One of the biggest dilemmas I’ve faced as an agent involved the co-authors of a bestselling nonfiction book. Both wanted to publish an updated edition. However, only one had the time to create this revised version—yet the other was unwilling to take less than 50% of the new edition’s earnings. This impasse lasted for years—until I suggested that the two split the earnings equally and that the writer who did the lion’s share of the revising receive 2200 free copies of the new edition. She could then sell these at the retail price for a total of about $40,000 additional income. Eventually I got the publisher on board with this plan as well, and the deal was made.

In your own dealings with editors and publishers, when have you made—or saved—a publishing deal by offering a creative compromise? Would you tell the story of that compromise here?

It amazes me how he was able to go through and teach all that he did in only a few hours!

I’ve never experienced anything quite like it and I’ve been to a lot of workshops of one kind and another, even run a few of my own.

Scott is extremely generous with his energy, person, knowledge and affirmation. He is also non-judgmental, incisive, creative, wise, egoless, sensitive, intuitive, and skillful.

The day was definitely about us.

He was able to respond to everyone with exactly what they needed.

He was so articulate and organized that I DID experience a deep shift in getting to know myself in a way that was unprecedented.

An excellent teacher.

Carole Kastigar

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Do you have an experience you wish to share?  Perhaps a great success story about a book you got published?  Use the “Contact Scott” form above and your submission could make it on the site!

Significant as these factors are, you can’t affect, change, or accurately predict almost any of them. What you can do, though, is get your work out to lots and lots of editors, which greatly improves your chances of having things line up in your favor, and often makes the difference between success and failure.

One of the most successful books I’ve agented is Steve Hagen’s Buddhism Plain and Simple, which has sold over 270,000 copies in North America and been translated into Spanish, Dutch, Korean, German, Polish, and Portuguese. The book was turned down by every large publisher I approached—and I approached a lot of them. It eventually found a home at Tuttle, a small specialty house. The book’s publication was delayed for a few months when the company was sold; as a result, the book was published on the same week that Buddhism was the cover story in Time and the secondary story in Newsweek. The movie Kundun was released two months later.

Some of writers’ most inspiring success stories involve just such exquisite timing, when multiple events and decisions aligned in just the right way. Do you have a story of perfect timing—either deliberate or unwitting—that led to some writing or publishing success?