A complete list of publishing scams and schemes would fill a small book. Here, however, are the six most common ones:

Vanity presses masquerading as royalty (i.e., real) publishers. Vanity publishers make money not by selling books, but by taking money from writers. There’s nothing wrong with selling writers services such as editing, book design, printing, binding, warehousing, publicity, etc. But when a company misleads writers—or lets them mislead themselves—into thinking they’re being published by an outfit that’s selective in what it publishes, has a sales force, and is capable of selling thousands of copies of each book, it’s a form of slight-of-hand. If someone tells you any of the following lies (and they are indeed lies, though the speaker may actually believe them), they work for a vanity press:
• It’s normal to pay to publish your first book.
• This is how publishing works in the 21st century.
• Without a track record, you can’t get published by a royalty press.
• The big publishers aren’t interested in you unless you’re already famous. (Actually, there’s some truth to this. But what’s wrong with dealing with small or midsize royalty presses?)
• Once you publish your first book—even if you foot the bill for it—it will be much easier to publish your next.

Manuscript critics posing as agents. Anyone can declare themselves a literary agent by setting up a website and printing stationery. However, legitimate book agents make their money by selling books and earning commissions of 15% (TV and film agents earn 10%). A handful of so-called agents make their money otherwise: they require you to buy a critique of your manuscript, for which you will also get the “privilege” of being considered for representation. These ostensible agents rarely make any actual publishing (or film or TV) deals.

Literary agents who charge fees. Any agent who wants money from you to read or submit your manuscript is very likely a scammer. The one exception is an agent who asks you to reimburse them for small, reasonable business expenses, such as the cost of photocopying manuscripts.

Agent/editor scams. The scam goes like this: Wanda declares herself an agent, creates a website and some stationery, and gets listed in some writers’ reference books and/or online agent databases. Her friend Bill, who has some minor editing skills, sets up shop as a freelance editor or “book doctor.” Wanda then encourages new writers to send her their work. She responds with great enthusiasm to each manuscript she receives, telling its author that the book might be a bestseller—and, perhaps, a blockbuster movie starring George Clooney and Julia Roberts. All it needs is some editing, Wanda explains, and she knows just the person: Bill. Wanda urges the writer to get the book edited as quickly as possible, so she can get it swiftly into the hands of editors and film producers. Hopeful and excited, the writer contacts Bill, who offers to do the editing for the special bargain price of $3000 (or $4000 or $5000). Bill does a minor editing job on the book—what a more principled editor might do for about $500. Giddy with dreams of fortune and fame, the writer rushes the book back to Wanda. Wanda responds with a brief, sad email explaining that she won’t be able to represent the book after all; during the few weeks that the editor was at work on the book, the market completely changed. In an even cheesier version of this scam, Wanda doesn’t even bother to do this, but simply refuses delivery of the edited book.

Writing contests with entry fees. Many of these contests are little or nothing more than sponsors’ way of lining their own pockets. Entering a particular contest may be worth your while, IF: entry fees go to partially subsidize the full-fledged publication, promotion, and publicizing of a book; and you’ve got a project that’s a perfect fit for the contest; and the entry fee isn’t exorbitant. But many writing contests offer winners nothing more than small cash prizes—and the losers get only condolence emails. You’re almost always far better off simply submitting your work for publication; this costs you nothing, and puts you in a situation where there are many winners (i.e., everyone whose work is published), not just one or two.

Anthologies of short poems. Dozens of legitimate poetry anthologies are published each year. So are dozens that are built around the following scheme: someone (we’ll call him Hubert) creates a company with a name like The American Society of Poetic Excellence. Hubert places some ads in writers’ websites and magazines that announce the upcoming publication of an anthology with a title such as America’s Finest Poets. The ad encourages writers to submit their work. Hubert responds to every poem (except those that are highly pornographic or violent) with a congratulatory letter or email, explaining that the writer’s poem will be included; that they will not receive any payment or free copies; but they can purchase copies of the anthology at the special pre-publication price of $45 (or $50 or $60) each. Hubert does in fact print and bind this anthology, which contains 3400 short poems printed in tiny type. Most of these poems are terrible. Typically, the anthology isn’t available in any bookstore or other retail outlet, and it doesn’t even have an ISBN or a bar code. Its only purchasers are the contributors themselves.

How can you identify such a scheme? The dead giveaway is that your poem must be no longer than 20 (or 30 or 40) lines. (After all, in order to maximize Hubert’s profits, each poem must take up as little space as possible.) If the call for submissions appears in a display ad rather than in the “Manuscripts Wanted” section of a publication or website, that’s also a sign that this scheme is probably at work.

Caveat scriptor. (Let the writer beware.)

We Americans are obsessive optimists. We think we can achieve anything, if only we learn the right technique, study the right role models, get to know the right people, wear the right clothes, and maintain the right attitude. We imagine there’s a recipe, formula, or step-by-step process for achieving everything.

But it’s a delusion. Were there a simple formula for writing a bestseller, I’d have used it long ago. Ditto for getting on Oprah.

Sure, being an energetic, persistent, and convincing marketer (a la Walt Whitman) will help. But sometimes a book becomes a bestseller in spite of itself. Herman Melville never told anyone about his book Billy Budd, and in fact hid it in a tin breadbox. It was discovered and published only after his death. Then it sold hundreds of thousands of copies, and was made into a movie, three television productions, and a very popular opera. (Melville died before finishing the book, and it reads that way: in my opinion, it needs work.)

There is a tried-and-true system for making a book a bestseller on amazon.com. I learned it myself in a popular class, and I’ve seen it work. But it requires hundreds of hours of planning and labor; it usually drives your book to the top of its category on amazon.com, not to the top of the entire list; it typically does so for only 1-4 days; it normally yields a total of $500-$2000 in added income; and it usually has little or no effect on sales outside of amazon.com.

Is there a reliable method for making the national bestseller lists? Actually, there is: marry a celebrity and then write a book. Of course, this method is simpler to explain than it is to execute.

The closest thing to a formula for creating a book that makes the New York Times or Publishers Weekly bestseller list was developed by Wendy Stehling in the early 1980s. Stehling wasn’t a writer; she was a marketer who decided to apply the principles of marketing household products to book publishing. Stehling knew that the people who bought the most books were middle-class women in their 20s through 50s. So she put together a focus group of these women and asked them, What do you most want in your life? Their most common answer: thin thighs. She also asked, How much time are you willing to spend in pursuit of this goal? The most common answer: 30 days.

Stehling then set to work creating a book (actually a 64-page pamphlet) called Thin Thighs in 30 Days, which Bantam published in 1982. It was a huge and immediate bestseller, selling hundreds of thousands of copies.

Three years later, Stehling published another book, How to Find a Husband in 30 Days. I don’t know if she used the same formula to create it, but it certainly seems as if she did. Unfortunately, Stehling’s second book didn’t do as well as her first. Her own proven, tried-and-true formula wasn’t especially effective the second time around.

As an agent, I’ve represented two bestsellers. Neither book was an attempt to write a bestseller; in fact, in both cases the authors envisioned relatively modest sales in niche markets. Publishers had the same view: all the big houses turned down both books. Each book was ultimately published by a specialty press (i.e., one that publishes books on one or two specific topics) in a small print run. But soon both books took off, selling hundreds of thousands of copies. Today both continue to sell very strongly; ultimately, each will do far better than Thin Thighs in 30 Days. As people in the industry say, both these books have legs.

Most writers (and most readers) imagine that  acquisition editors decide which manuscripts to turn down and which ones to offer to publish. This isn’t so. Instead, their job is to decide which manuscripts to turn down and which ones to propose to their colleagues.

At 98% of book publishers, no one person has the power to decide what to publish—though any editor can decide what to reject. Final acquisition decisions are made by a group, usually known as an editorial board or publishing board (and routinely shortened to ed board or pub board).

This board typically includes the heads of sales and marketing; the person in charge of subsidiary rights; the person with the title of publisher; and one or more editors. At some publishing houses, other people—the associate publisher, the art director, regional sales directors, etc.—may also be involved.

If an acquisition editor likes your book and wants to publish it, that’s great—but unless they can get a clear consensus from their ed board that the book is a smart buy, it will be rejected. As a result, it’s quite common for writers to get rejection letters that say, “I loved this project and really wanted to do it. Unfortunately, not all of my colleagues felt the same way.”

In practice, this means that:

• If an editor wants to acquire your book, the odds of getting an offer of publication from that editor are about 15%.
• The fate of your book hinges partly on the ability of the editor to convince their colleagues of its merit and profitability. A good acquisitions editor is also a good persuader.
• The people in sales and marketing almost invariably have unilateral veto power. After all, if they feel that a book won’t sell, their lack of enthusiasm will translate into half-hearted efforts to sell the book, which in turn will usually translate into poor sales. They will then point to these poor sales and say, “We told you so.”

Since each book needs to make a profit, the editor championing your book will put together a financial document called a P&L (short for profit and loss statement), which projects the book’s sales, costs, and profit through its first year or two after publication. (The term profit and loss statement is a misnomer, since no editor is going to create projections that show a loss. The Brits, more accurately, call a P&L a costing.)

The somewhat dirty secret behind a typical P&L is that the most important number in it—projected sales for a book’s first year or two after publication—is largely guesswork. Unless the book will be part of an established series or brand, no one really knows how many copies it will sell. In fact, sometimes an editor will put together a P&L for a book, realize that the profit is too small, and bump up the projected sales numbers so that the book looks like a better investment. The numbers in a P&L also partly determine how much of an advance the publisher will offer.

The principle of group decision-making sometimes extends well beyond ed boards. Some smaller publishers don’t have their own retail sales forces, but are instead distributed by larger presses, or by national distributors such as National Book Network or Publishers Group West. Editors at these smaller presses will sometimes go to key people at their distributors and say, “We’re thinking of acquiring this book. Take a look and let us know if you think we should take it on.” It’s not uncommon for publishers of all sizes to do the same thing with buyers at the big bookstore chains such as Barnes & Noble and Books-a-Million.

What about very small publishers—those that are family owned, or that have only a handful of staff people? Generally, the ed board is smaller, but the same principles apply. Even when the editor who likes your book owns the company, they are not likely to overrule their own sales and marketing folks—and they, too, may run prospective acquisitions past their distributors and/or chain-store buyers.

What does all this mean for you in terms of strategy? Three things:

• First, don’t get too excited when you learn that an editor wants to do your book. Until and unless they present a formal offer, all they’ve really said is, “I like what you’ve written.”
• Second, don’t feel too crestfallen if an editor’s interest doesn’t morph into an offer of publication. That transformation only happens about 15% of the time.
• Third, play the percentages. Get your book out to lots and lots and lots of publishers or agents. If, say, one out of ten editors will want to publish your book, and one out of six of those editors will be able to make an offer, then you’re far more likely to succeed if you send out 50 copies than if you send out 20.

The slush pile is a holding pen for manuscripts that look particularly unpromising. These include pieces that are handwritten, or typed in a strange font or color, or full of exclamation points, or riddled with basic errors in grammar, spelling, or syntax. The slush pile is also the temporary resting place for manuscripts with cover letters that are arrogant (“I’m the next Stephen King, and you can be the lucky editor to discover me”) or bizarre (“Have you ever wondered why people never name their pets Mary or Howard or Craig? So do my protagonists”) or pathetic (“I have had the manuscript edited by two beloved English teachers”). It’s also a dumping ground for work with terrible opening paragraphs (“Melinda breathed in the whispery air of Denmark and closed her eyes. Her mind drifted off to her encounter with the unemployed clown six days earlier…”), and for work that is wildly inappropriate (“Dear Editors of Ms.: I’m pleased to enclose my new cooking feature, ‘Meals to Make Your Man Smile’”).

Unfortunately, lots of good work by talented writers also ends up in slush piles for a very different reason—the writers don’t send their work to the proper editors.

Although this error takes multiple forms, in all cases editors come to the same conclusion: the writer is an outsider or amateur who hasn’t done their basic homework.

The most common error is sending work to a title (e.g., Fiction Editor, Travel Editor, Poetry Editor, etc.) rather than to a person (e.g., Lindy Hough, Jan Johnson, etc.). This is a bit like addressing a letter to The Junior Senator from Vermont or ordering takeout by saying, “Greetings, restaurant employee! Here’s what I would like.” Think of the last time you got a letter addressed to Occupant or Current Resident; how much attention did you give it?

Hang on! you might be thinking. I’ve seen market notices in lots of writers’ reference books, magazines, and websites that specifically tell me to send my work to Lifestyles Editor or Manuscript Editor or Submission Coordinator. In fact, some publications say this on their own websites. They do indeed. And the main reason they do is to keep amateurs and outsiders out.

Which brings us to the most important unwritten rule in publishing (and film, TV, and stage production): always, without exception, send your work to the proper editor—by name, not by title. Insiders know this and live by it.

Why do publishers deliberately mislead writers in this way? To manage the flood of manuscripts they receive. Do they miss out on some good work by doing this? Yes—but they’d rather ignore a small amount of good material than wade through 20 times as much bad stuff.

Your work can also end up in the slush pile if you address your work to:

—An editor who has left the publication

—An editor who does not handle that department, area, or type of material

—An editor who is too high up in the editorial pecking order

How do you deal with all this? When it comes to editors’ names, don’t believe what you read in market notices, writers’ websites and magazines, and most writers’ reference books. Instead, for each publication you plan to approach, do a little sleuthing for editors:

—For a print magazine or newsletter, look at a copy of the current issue in a bookstore, newsstand, or library (use inter-library loan if necessary). Search for the masthead—a list of key staff people—which should be printed near the table of contents.

—For a print newspaper, look closely at the editorial pages for a masthead; also look at the first page of each relevant section.

—For book publishers, look at the most recent edition of the book Jeff Herman’s Guide to Book Publishers, Editors, and Literary Agents, which is published annually in October. Also consult the Deals, Members, and Contacts section of the excellent website publishersmarketplace.com. This costs $20 per month, but it’s fine to subscribe for just one month.

—For television and film production companies, get the most recent edition of the book Hollywood Creative Directory, which is published three times a year, or buy the online version at hcdonline.com for about $20 per month. It’s fine to subscribe for only one month.

—For online publications, see the paragraph below.

Some other techniques that often work:

—Carefully browse the publication’s website. Often its key people will be listed, but not in an obvious or easy-to-find place. Start with the “about us” and “contact us” pages, and/or with the menu at the bottom of the home page; often, however, you may need to dive deeper into the site. (Sometimes the “Submit a manuscript” or “For authors” or “Want to publish with us?” page will be legitimate, but it can also be a booby trap.)

—Google the name of the publication and the word “editor.”

—Call the publication’s switchboard and ask, “Can you tell me the editor in charge of the ______ department for (name of publication)?” Most of the time, you’ll be brushed off or told to send your work to the manuscript coordinator, but about 25% of the time you’ll get the correct editor’s name. A more effective approach is to dig up the name of any editor at the publication, or its parent company. Let’s say you’ve found the name Bruce Marx. When you call, say, “I’ve got a letter about to go out to the editor in charge of the ________ department for (name of publication). Is that still Bruce Marx?” Usually the switchboard operator will say, “No, Bruce doesn’t handle that department at all; you want __________.”

If you’ve gotten an editor’s name from a reference book, it’s a good idea to confirm that they are still with that publication. You can do this by Googling their name and the name of the publication—or by calling the publication, finding the editor’s name on its voice mail menu, and hanging up before getting connected.

Earlier I noted the danger of approaching an editor who is too high up in a publication’s pecking order. Normally it’s best to send your work to the appropriate department, section, or topic editor. But if a publication is large or prestigious enough to have, say, a fiction editor and an assistant fiction editor, or a travel editor and an associate travel editor, send your work to the person with the lesser title. Usually this is the person who reads unsolicited material, while their boss typically only reads the work of writers they’ve worked with before, or know by reputation.

Some publications don’t have department editors at all, but simply an editor-in-chief and, perhaps, a managing editor, one or more senior editors, and one or more associate or assistant editors. Here are some useful rules of thumb:

—If the publication appears to be a one-person operation, send your work to the publisher.

—If it has an editor-in-chief but no other editors, get your work to the editor-in-chief.

—If it has multiple editors, approach an assistant editor, associate editor, or senior editor. (Generally avoid managing editors, who oversee the daily editorial operations but often don’t read unsolicited manuscripts.)

All of this may sound daunting and complicated at first, but it really isn’t. With practice, it becomes just another part of running your writing business, like paying bills, buying office supplies, and writing emails. Unlike those tasks, however, finding the right editors for your work can pay off hugely—in more publications, more money, and more success.

Forging such a compromise often involves each party asking the other in a non-confrontational way, “What’s your main concern here?” or “Why is this so important to you?” When both sides understand the reasons behind each other‘s position, it becomes much easier to create a solution that addresses everyone’s concerns.

For example, suppose a magazine offers you $1000 for one of your essays. The fee seems reasonable enough, but your editor insists on buying first world English-language rights, even though the magazine is published only in North America. You ask your editor, “Do you have plans to begin publishing in other countries?” “We’re not sure,” he says, “but we’re talking about doing a British edition. That’s why we want to secure those rights—in case we go down that road.” You might then say, “Fine, but let’s add two stipulations: first, if and when you do decide to publish my piece in a British edition, you’ll pay me an additional $500; and, second, if you haven’t published my piece in the U.K. within a year, all foreign rights revert to me.”

Or maybe a small book publisher wants to publish your short story collection. It offers you a small advance and reasonable royalties, but wants to buy world rights—i.e., all the rights to the book in all media, languages, and territories. It will split all subsidiary rights income with you 50/50, which is standard for most small and midsize book publishers, but you don’t know how well it will market those rights. So you ask your editor, “Why do you want world rights?” She answers, “We do a pretty brisk business in foreign rights. We think we can sell the rights to your book in at least three or four countries, in both print and ebook form.” You might then say, “All right, then. Why don’t I give you worldwide print and ebook rights? I’ll keep all non-print rights, such as audio, film, TV, and so on. And I’d like to be able to reclaim any unexercised and unlicensed rights three years after the book’s first publication.”

In short, publishers often ask for more rights than they want or need. However, they will usually let you keep any rights they don’t care much about—if you ask.

It’s wise to go into any negotiation knowing what you can and cannot live with. This gives you the clarity and confidence to push for what you want; to settle for what you need, if you have to; and to walk away from the deal if the publisher can’t or won’t meet your basic terms.

As the rights director of a large book publisher once told me, “You know you’ve struck a fair deal when both sides sign a contract but feel mildly pissed off. If the other side is happy, you probably gave away too much. If you’re happy, the other side wimped out. I know I’ve done my job when I close a deal that neither side is wild about, but both sides can live with.”

* * * * * * *

Congratulations! But pay close attention to the terms HM offers you—and if it wants to pay you on publication, don’t agree to it.

Publishers often try to pay writers on publication—or, as we say in the business, on pub—for the same reason that many of us don’t buy winter coats until late fall. We don’t want to spend money on something that’s going to sit around unused for weeks or months. We’d rather hang onto the money until we can turn it into something of immediate value.

But agreeing to payment on publication can create big problems for you. If a publisher hangs onto your piece for weeks, months, or even years without publishing it—regardless of the reason for the delay—it owes you nothing. Meanwhile, if the publication has acquired first rights (i.e., the right to publish it before anyone else), your piece is legally tied up, even as it languishes in inventory. Worse, if the publisher eventually changes its mind and chooses not to publish your piece at all—perhaps after sitting on it for many months—it owes you nothing but the return of your rights.

In short, being paid on publication can be a setup for exploitation and disappointment.

What can you do about this? Plenty.

First, you can ask to be paid on acceptance—i.e., within 60 days after you deliver the piece and the editor accepts it for publication. Many publishers that initially offer payment on publication will pay you on acceptance if you ask. This can mean getting paid weeks, months, or even a year sooner.

If your editor says, “Sorry, we can’t do that” or “We have a strict policy of always paying on publication,” you still have a good bargaining position. Say, “Well, when do you plan to publish my piece?” If the answer is, “In four to six months,” respond this way: “Fine. Let’s do payment on publication or within six months, whichever comes first.” The great majority of editors will happily agree to this arrangement.

This simple change completely alters the publication’s legal obligations to you—from paying you if and when it publishes your piece to paying you by a specified deadline, whether or not it publishes your piece at all.

What is a reasonable deadline? For newspapers and websites, 4-6 months out; for magazines, 6-10 months; for books, 8-12 months.

If the publication is buying first rights, your contract should also specify a second deadline—the date by which it must publish your piece, and after which it loses the right to do so. Without such a deadline, your piece could get stuck in unpublished limbo indefinitely.

If your contract doesn’t have such a provision, ask to add one. Typical publication deadlines are 6 months for newspapers and websites, 9-12 months for magazines, and 12-18 months for books.

What if there’s no formal written agreement, but only a simple oral understanding (“We can offer one-time nonexclusive rights for $400; will that work for you?”)? Follow the advice above, but also send the editor an email confirming the terms. For example, “This email confirms the oral agreement we made earlier today. Hypothetical Magazine will buy one-time nonexclusive rights to publish my piece, ‘The Good Example,’ in print periodical form. HM will pay me $400 on publication or within six months, whichever comes first. If you agree to these terms, please send me a very brief email confirming that this outlines our agreement.”

Publishing your work is a good thing. Getting paid for it is better. And getting paid sooner rather than later (or not at all) is a very worthy goal.

***

In this newsletter I will get much more practical and specific. Let’s begin with the most basic question: How can you tell that someone is trying to exploit you?

Odds are good that someone is trying to take you for a ride if:

• They want all rights to your work, in perpetuity, in exchange for little or no money.
• Although the publisher or publication is well known, its editor offers you a “standard contract” that doesn’t even mention payment to you.
• The editor gets angry or offended in response to any attempt you make to improve their offer.
• The editor accuses you of being unprofessional.

A surprising number of well-known and well-respected publishers initially offer such crummy deals, especially to writers who haven’t published much before. This doesn’t mean that you always need to walk away from such situations. In my experience, when an editor or publisher offers me an unreasonable deal and I respond politely but firmly with a reasonable counteroffer, about half the time we’re able to come to terms.

The other half of the time when I make a reasonable counteroffer, the editor or publisher quickly disappears (in some cases, after first calling me unreasonable or unprofessional). Their quick disappearance only confirms that they never wanted or envisioned a win-win partnership in the first place. If this happens to you, don’t berate yourself for losing a deal; instead, congratulate yourself for standing firm in the face of potential exploitation—and be glad for all the trouble and heartache you’ve saved yourself.

If you have worries, doubts, or concerns about a particular publisher or publication, check it out on Writer Beware at http://www.sfwa.org/Beware and/or Preditors & Editors at http://anotherealm.com/prededitors/ especially its Warnings page. Both sites are sponsored by science fiction writers’ organizations, but both cover editors and publications of all types. FYI, the word “preditors” is not a misspelling of “predators,” but a sniglet meaning predatory editors.

If you’ve written material for film or TV, you can and should take the precaution of registering each script, treatment, outline, or concept with the professional association of television and film writers, The Writers Guild of America. The WGA has two branches: WGA West, in Los Angeles, and WGA East, in New York. Both offer similar registration services; the cost is $10 per item for members, $20-22 per item for nonmembers. Because film and TV producers are, in general, less honest than print and online publishers (and play producers), I strongly recommend registering your TV and film material with the WGA before putting it into producers’ or agents’ hands. However, it is neither necessary nor cost-effective to use this service for books, short prose pieces, poems, stage plays, or any other material not for film or television, even though such registrations are permitted.

Here are some other things you don’t need to do to protect your work:

• Copyright it before sending it out. (It’s neither necessary nor helpful to copyright a piece until it has been published or performed. At that point it should be registered with the Copyright Office; however, with rare exceptions, your publisher will automatically do this.)
• Type a copyright notice on your manuscript. Editors are well aware that your work belongs to you—and that copyright law applies to it.
• Indicate on the manuscript what rights are available. (You’ll have a chance to negotiate rights once an editor offers to publish your work.)
• Email or snail mail a copy to yourself. (I’m not sure how people came to believe that this is necessary or helpful, but it’s neither.)

Is the business of writing a jungle? Yes, but no more a jungle than most retail, manufacturing, or service businesses. It’s important to protect your interests and be wary of scam artists and exploitation—but don’t assume that everyone is out to get you, either. Employ the same level of care, attention, and confidence that you would in crossing a busy street, and you’ll probably do fine in the long run.

“If you’ve written a nonfiction book or book proposal, you need to write a detailed sales document to accompany it. Explain who will buy your book and why; what makes it different from its competition, including a book-by-book analysis of similar books; what you will do to publicize, promote, market, and sell it; and why you’re the right person to write it.”

I’ve read variants of this advice in many writers’ books, magazines, and websites, and I’ve heard editors deliver it in person at writers’ conferences. But it’s 50% wrong. Here’s why:

With rare exceptions, each book of prose falls into one of three categories:

• A work of fiction that tells a story;
• A work of nonfiction that tells a story; or
• A work of nonfiction that instructs, informs, and/or inspires.

There’s no need to create a sales document to accompany a novel or a collection of stories, because few people buy fiction based on content. “I’d like to read a novel set in nineteenth century France featuring a young woman who works in a hotel. Do you have something like that?” In fiction, people just look for a great read — and this greatness can’t be quantified. Publishers thus have to rely on their guts and guesses to anticipate what readers will buy.

Readers generally buy nonfiction that tells a story — memoir, biography, history, journalism, and 95% of what’s dubbed creative nonfiction — for the same reason they buy novels: They want a great read. And, as you know, this greatness can’t be quantified. Nonfiction that tells a story has far more in common with fiction than it does with diet books, Dummies guides, and Let’s Go Mexico.

In contrast, a nonfiction book that instructs, informs, and/or inspires rarely sells because of its sparkling prose or compelling voice. “You’ve got to read Alternative Cures for Diabetes. It’s brilliantly written, with great imagery and wonderful inventiveness. I couldn’t put it down.” Instead, people buy it because it teaches them a skill, deepens their knowledge or perspective, addresses a need, solves a problem, helps them feel better, or inspires them to act.

This sort of book should be supported with a detailed sales document, so that editors can learn why the book is valuable and viable, whom to sell it to, how it can best be promoted and sold, and what competition it will face.

Unfortunately, editors and agents typically crunch down all the information I just gave you into the following half-wrong shorthand: “Nonfiction needs to be supported with a detailed sales document. Fiction doesn’t.”

Not true. Nonfiction that instructs, informs, or inspires needs to be supported with a detailed sales document; nonfiction that tells a story doesn’t. (One exception: if you’re writing about a specific subject that’s been widely covered before — 9/11, for example — then you also need to explain why your book is unique.)

If your own nonfiction book tells a story, don’t waste your time — and drive yourself crazy — trying to create a useless sales document to “support” your book. Instead, let your work stand or fall on its own merits, just like any other story worth telling.

In publishing lingo, a query is an email (or letter or phone call) to an editor that describes a manuscript you’ve completed and asks if they are interested in looking at it. This is distinct from—though in practice often confused with—the following:

A cover letter (sometimes called a pitch letter). This is an email or letter that accompanies and introduces an unsolicited manuscript. A good cover letter is both useful and necessary.

An assignment pitch. This is an email or letter that describes a nonfiction piece you would like to write for the editor and asks if they will assign (i.e., commission) you to write it. Many nonfiction pieces are sold this way, in advance of their creation and on the basis of their central concepts. Assignment pitches are useful, and often essential, for many writers.

But queries to editors are normally useless, if not highly counterproductive. Here’s why:

In general, editors are miserably overworked, often to the point of physical or mental illness. Most editors deal with this by blowing off anything that isn’t urgent or high priority. And where do unsolicited queries rank on editors’ priority lists? Usually at or near the bottom. The result: in practice, about 60% of queries to editors get ignored.

Your much wiser alternative is to not ask permission. Simply send your full manuscript with a cover letter.

By “full manuscript,” I mean the entire project. If it’s a 700-page book, send all 700 pages. Don’t build interim steps into the process—e.g., don’t initially send only the first 50 or 100 pages, to see if the editor is interested. This only gives the editor an extra opportunity to say no—and no opportunity to read the project from beginning to end without interruption.

But wait. What about all those large book publishers and prestigious magazines that clearly state, on websites and in reference books, “No unsolicited manuscripts” or “Query first”?

About two-thirds of the time, this is a lie-—though not a malicious one. The truth is that most editors eventually read most of the unsolicited manuscripts they receive—although they may be slow about it.

By saying “Query first” or “No unsolicited manuscripts,” publishers are usually just trying to keep down the number of manuscripts they receive. If they publicly say, “Come one, come all,” within a month they’ll be buried under unmanageable mountains of manuscripts.

Here’s another twist: Even when a publisher does have a firm official policy not to read unsolicited work, all editors nevertheless have the right to read whatever manuscripts they please. So if you identify the right editor and send an unsolicited but intriguing project, there’s a good chance it will be read, no matter what the official policy declares.

Less than 10% of the time, when publishers say, “Query first,” they genuinely mean it. In these relatively rare cases, how will editors respond to your unsolicited material? You may hear nothing at all, or you may receive a note explaining that your manuscript wasn’t read and that you absolutely must send a query. In these cases (and these cases only), you can then query the editor—or, if you prefer, you can simply shrug your shoulders and forget about them.

Now let’s turn from editors to literary agents—a turn of 180 degrees. With literary agents, the best way to begin is with a query, sent simultaneously by email and snail mail (with a note at the end explaining that you are sending your query through both methods). Once an agent asks to see your book, proposal, or script, only then should you send the full project. (Again, don’t build in interim steps. If the agent responds to your query by asking for the first three chapters or 50 pages by email, send a brief cover email, a file containing those early pages, and a second file containing the rest of the book, so they can keep reading if the project is interesting.)

If you do send agents an unsolicited manuscript with a cover letter rather than a query, 50% to 60% of the time your work and your pitch will be ignored and recycled.

The bottom line: Queries to agents are useful and important, but queries to editors are generally pointless.

Yes, this is a blatant contradiction—but it’s how things have evolved in the industry. For whatever reason, agents are much better at responding to queries—and much worse at responding to unsolicited manuscripts—than editors.

No one has yet offered a convincing explanation for why this is so-—but if you’ve got one, I’d be happy to hear it.

I take issue with this idea — not because it isn’t true, but because it’s a truth that’s ultimately useless. Here’s why:

Most publishers are extremely short sighted. With rare (and brave) exceptions, they’re not interested in what might attract attention in the future. They’re interested in what’s attracting a lot of attention right now.

As a result, publishers — and all the media — tend to be reactive, not proactive. They look over their shoulders to see what other publishers, and other media, are doing; then they use the information gleaned from this incestuous loop to chart their own courses.

Most publishers are also very risk averse. This combination of short-sightedness, reactivity, and risk aversion typically leads publishers to collectively turn their backs on things that are about to burst into flame. Until something is clearly and obviously very hot, they wait in the wings, unwilling to commit themselves. When they finally do feel confident that something is sufficiently popular, it is often already past its peak. Add to this the lead time required to write, design, and publish material on the subject, and you can see why publishers are consistently behind the curve.

Given this reality, how in the world do you time the market? If you’ve got a keen eye for what’s heating up — or what’s just about to explode — you’ll consistently approach publishers too soon to get them interested. Instead, you’ll be told, over and over, “We’re not convinced there’s an audience for this,” even though you can see that, three months from now, the whole world will want it — and even though you’ll turn out to be right 90 days later.

How do you deal with this? Get in the way of your own vision? Force yourself to be less perceptive? Teach yourself to be short sighted, reactive, and risk averse?

No. Paradoxically, because the market for writing is based less on reality than it is on publishers’ attitudes and perceptions, you can’t time it at all. It’s like trying to time the stock market (which, interestingly, is based less on reality than it is on stockholders’ attitudes and perceptions). That’s why any experienced investment advisor will tell you, “Don’t try to time the market.”

The same is true of the market for the written word. Write what you feel moved to write; then do your best to find a good home for each piece you create. Don’t try to control what you can’t. Instead, focus on what you can control: getting your work into the hands of lots and lots of appropriate editors.