MUSE FOR HIRE

Once upon a time, the writer had a friend. S/he was called an editor; said editor worked for a publishing house (or alternately, a magazine). This editor, by turns, edited the writer, suggested new ideas, helped solve puzzling psychological crises, arranged for rental of writing retreats, and explained inexplicably poor reviews to the writer.

In some cases, the editor came to occupy the position of muse: a delicate blend of unconditional love and an unerring eye. It was enough to internalize this figure (no more psychobabble after this, I swear) in order to write well on any given day – witness John Steinbeck writing his new novel (what would eventually become East of Eden). Each day Steinbeck would begin his writing session with a letter to his editor at Viking, Pascal Covici; these letters were written on the left hand side of an oversize notebook, where the first draft of the novel was written on the right-hand side.

It didn’t matter that Covici wouldn’t read the letters until months later, when the entire notebook was turned over to him with the complete first draft. The letters are in themselves proof of what every writer needs: a witness, a dimension, another soul out there in the void who can motivate you by both knowing what is good and knowing you can produce it.

Fast forward three or four decades in our iconoclastic survey—editors are now the literary equivalent of the public defender: well-intentioned, overburdened, and underpaid. With the increased consolidation of the publishing industry, the bottom line is king; the patient, nurturing role once played by editors is now viewed as an indulgence. Editors now risk several lashes with a wet noodle if they don’t spread themselves incredibly thin to sell their books—or worse yet, a trip back to graduate school.

Where does the writer now turn? To the literary agents, who have been around since the beginning of our tale, but only in the last twenty years or so have been forced into the role of psychological mirror. “Some of my best friends are agents…” It’s true – and I know for a fact they are a species designed to kill; like the shark, their efficiency goes up when their blood temperature goes down. God bless them, we all need one. But the ones I know that I really like don’t want to have a 90 minute conversation about the spacing between passages if it’s the same character-narrator’s point-of-view, but we’re switching from 3 rd person to 1 st person… for example.

Out of this situation has evolved another role in the publishing industry, a new niche attracting those with expertise to offer and a suitable temperament. By what name shall we call this 4 th estate? To add to the author, the editor, the agent, there is…chaos. Book doctor, ghostwriter, collaborator, co-writer, writing consultant, writing coach, freelance editor—all are names for individuals who perform a variety of overlapping services including developmental editing, fiction critiques, and the preparation of non-fiction book proposals.

In our company we figured, if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em, and came up with our own term: book architect…with the requisite tag line that we don’t just diagnose what’s wrong, but help you express your vision from first draft to sale. It’s hard enough working in a profession that doesn’t have a name (imagine going to the phone book to get your driveway plowed and finding only the Swedish words for snow.) It’s bad enough that people don’t know quality help is available out there for reasonable prices. But now come the slurs.

Book doctors are charlatans! Ambulance chasers! Wannabes! Book doctors work with literary agents to bilk unsuspecting writers out of their money, and then kick some of that money back to the agent. The possibility of a scam is what most sacrosanct members of the literary world have fastened on to, to reject our upstart calling outright. At ENTITY, we decided we had had enough of this—could there really be more instances of abuse in the manuscript assistance firm than in, say, the medical profession, or among plumbing contractors?

We surveyed 346 literary agents, and (of those responding) less than one-third were personally aware of a collusive scheme between literary agents and book doctors. Tell me there wouldn’t be a higher percentage of lawyers or waiters who could say the same about improprieties in their profession. Some of the other results were equally surprising: 53% of agents said that yes, bringing in a book doctor to work on a project, had made the difference between making a sale or not. Yet only 26% said they regularly recommend book doctors.

Are we driven by the bottom line or not? Why are the rules different all of a sudden, when it comes to protecting a piece of the pie? Aren’t there plenty of pies in the case? One agent said he didn’t offer recommendations because “then we are guaranteeing that book doctor’s expertise.” That’s ridiculous; I call that overprotective parenting (sorry psychobabble slip). The same agent said, “Our profession has been tarnish by those in our own profession…” (Good thing this guy isn’t a copywriter). “Why should we take on more baggage by legitimizing someone else’s (profession)?”

Because it is our profession. Aren’t we all working towards the same goal—to liberate unique voices and allow them to be heard? This role is too crucial a part of the writer’s process to be squeezed out due to cost considerations.

Like all inchoate economies, ours is faced with its share of obstacles to overcome, including resistance and disorganization. The tide is shifting, however, and respected authors, publishers and agents have come to recognize that success frequently comes as a result of tapping into the collective talents of capable people. Despite the solitary image of the cloistered writer, it is this support network that often makes the difference between a good book and a great one.