Getting Branded

Or, I Am Whatever You Say I Am

For the last two weeks I’ve been thinking a lot about who I am. Or, more accurately, what kind of writer am I. Why, you ask? (you’re probably not asking, but I’m gonna assume it) As you read this, I’m back on submission. New novel, same hope: turn an acquiring editor on enough they make an offer. The fingers, as they say, are crossed.

This is a strange time for writers, that liminal space. Your book’s out there, on its own. Scared. Alone. You obsess over its chances. Restart that Publisher’s Marketplace sub. Scan for similar deals. Weigh options. I check my phone too much, hoping I missed a call or text from my agent. An excited voicemail where he screeches like Annie Potts in Ghostbusters.

Credit: Official Ghostbusters YouTube Channel (yes, that exists)

Experienced writers know the best remedy for this is to start the next novel. Like how you should plan a vacation as soon as you return from one. New work offers possibility, and possibility combats the dull, draining pain that grows deeper as the days slide by and your phone remains silent. Don Winslow told me once writing is a J-O-B job; get your ass in the chair. I’ve kept to this practice, and immediately started sketching a new idea. All was well, until I had a conversation with an acquiring editor that absolutely froze me:

“Every author should think of themselves as a brand.”

Makes sense, and I agree. So far, my brand has been dark, gritty, urban crime stories. At an industry conference, I told this same editor my long-term project was “to interrogate New York”. I’m a son of the city. Wore a gun and shield in its employ. For forty-two years the town shaped me. It’s in my blood. I think there’s marketable currency in that pitch, and the new novel I’d been sketching fits that mold. All good, right?

Maybe. Then again maybe not. Because there’s this voice that comes to me at night, asking the worst question a writer can hear: “What if the book doesn’t sell???”

A commonly accepted definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results. This is my second time on submission. All my novels (even the unpublishable crap) and short stories are hard crime. I have to consider an uncomfortable reality; what if the book doesn’t sell? Do I write another neo-noir? Or do I adapt to the industry? Go commercial, some high-concept idea that’s easily pitchable; e.g., Die Hard on a boat. Or do I write a genre mashup, a crime/supernatural horror story? Maybe I need a tonal shift, infuse my work with dark comedy. The old Elmore Leonard play. Or do I lean into the women that buy 80% of novels sold, and write my own Elin Hildenbrand-type book? I’ve toyed with ideas that fit all these molds, but don’t know which to write. I’ve posed “Is this any good?” pitches to my writer friends. Received excellent feedback. But I still haven’t settled on a project. That indecision is killing me.

Wait a second, you say (you aren’t, I know, but keep rolling with me, okay?). Don’t you have an incredible agent gifted with amazing industry insight? I do, thanks for asking. My agent is tremendous (despite his avid New England Patriots fandom) and offers wisdom whenever I ask. Thing is, these days? Nobody knows what types of novels will sell. He’s admitted as much. What happens if I change genre lanes, write something completely different than my prior work, and the novel that’s on sub sells? A debut labels you. I’d have to swing back into East Coast Ellroy mode, fast. And whatever I’d been working on gets backburnered. I’d rather have the next one in the chamber, ready to go. In the end, the decision comes down to time.

A solid draft takes me 8-11 months. I vomit 120K words into a document, then delete a third of them. It’s terribly inefficient, but I know no other way. Also, I’m 48 years old. Whatever premise I pursue has to, A) intrigue me enough to live with it for a year, and, B) have some hope of selling. At this point in my “career”, if I change genres, I’m changing brands. That’s a very real long-term consideration.

A writer I know recently pulled their third novel from submission after a few editors passed. That shocked me; this author has moved a lot of units. They sorted possible reasons. Their first two projects fell into different genres, and the third was another still. This author refuses to be typecast, but they can’t help but wonder if their readers—and the industry—wants them to be one, repeatable thing. A brand can be lucrative, but that’s not always what the writer wants; Lee Child didn’t like writing the Jack Reacher novels so much, he retired. To have his concerns.

Then again, who’re we kidding? Every book’s a miracle. I’d be ecstatic to get any of mine into the world.

I really want it to be the one that’s out now, though. Cause then I’ll know which to write next.