Writers' Tears

Is that whiskey even any good?

Hi friends,

I’ve been thinking a lot about feelings lately, especially where they intersect with writing and publishing. Why is it so physically excruciating to sit down and write? (lol) Why is self-promotion so scary? Why are we nervous to talk about money? The answer is, of course, that we are humans, not automatons, and everything we do comes with ~~~feelings~~~. I started this newsletter (going on THREE YEARS AGO!!! OMG) to get down the nuts and bolts of publishing like how and where to find an agent and what should be in a query letter. That’s still there if and when you need it. (And more coming soon on Catapult.co about contracts.) I’ve also been thinking about how all of this intersects with my work as an agent.

The thing I hate the most about being an agent is that I can’t fix how writers feel about their book or publishing experience. I can’t make it all better, as much as I try. (Yes, this is something I should be working on in therapy. Don’t worry, I know.) I am a person who wants to fix everything, and it’s taken me a long time to realize that 90% of the time, people want you to listen more than they want you to fix it.

Except, maybe when you’re their literary agent. I mean, there are many things I can fix—contracts, editorial things, shining a light on how publishing works—but then there are the things I can’t fix. I can’t change the market. I can’t force a publisher to cough up a specific dollar amount. I can’t make someone review something. I can’t get you on the Today show. When you put it that way, most people will think of course you can’t. No client ever has said to me: Get me on the New York Times bestsellers list as a directive. If I could I would! If I could, then everyone else could, too. Yes, there are agents of varying power and influence, with friends in different kinds of high places. But the vast majority of us are just people with jobs in publishing.

Maybe this is a feelings post just for me then, to separate myself from writers’ feelings. To not feel badly when someone responds rudely to a rejection. To understand that no matter how much I want to quell my clients’ fears and anxieties, that it’s their journey, not mine, and I can only do what I can do. That what I can do is listen and advise and education and that is enough. I will always care. But I can also let go.

But also, this could be for you, too. A reminder that no one person or event or post or achievement or review or list is going to be The Thing that makes all this easier. You can hit the List and still have trouble selling your next book. You can hit the List and not earn out. You can earn out many times over and not hit the List! (Literally two of my clients who’ve earned out have hit the List, but I digress.) It’s hard for everyone, in all kinds of different ways. Maybe the pain points you experience in publishing are things you can control, like getting your butt in a chair and writing, and maybe some of them are not, like how many books sell.

Is this Zen? Is this detachment? Is this that scene in Contact where Jodie Foster unstraps herself from the shaking chair and floats peacefully in the alien spaceship? I don’t know. I’m thinking a lot about feelings. I want to write more about feelings and writing and publishing, especially long-form. Because we are not automatons. We’re writers, with tears.

OXOXOX,

Kate