Pat Rice here:
Suffering the summer doldrums and reaching into Ye Olde Wench Question Box. Madelaine Culp has come up with a question my tired brain might be able to handle, and I owe her a recent Patricia Rice book of her choice.
“I’d love to know how these authors submit their books to publishers now that they have a fan base and following—full manuscript? Partial? Proposal? Or just write me a book by Christmas order? Since everything is now governed by computers, do these authors still use paper and snail mail, or electronics? And how so? Hey, maybe their agents call and say ‘So-and –so house needs a book by Monday. Whatcha’ got?’”
Oh, such a lovely, wonderful world that you live in Madelaine! Would that I could go there. Maybe, once upon a long time ago, or twenty-five years, whichever comes first, selling by Christmas order might 
have been possible. Some of my early proposals were sold simply because my editor told me she had an opening in next year’s schedule if I could fill it. Maybe some authors still do this today. Not me. (And never, ever by Monday! It takes roughly six months from a finished, approved manuscript to produce a copyedited, printed book and sell it into the stores. We won't go into how long it takes to produce that ms!).
Today, a very basic process of obtaining a new contract for established authors such as the wenches would be:
(a) submitting a proposal of roughly 50 pages to editor/agent
(b) submitting a “concept” to an established editor who agrees to go to contract based on the idea but expects a proposal later.
Of course, many of us have multi-book contracts, so we might just talk about the next book of the contract with our editors, then begin refining the idea, and the process generates from there. The hardcovers and trade editions that the Susans are writing tend to be single book contracts, and they require much toing-and-froing between agent/author/editor until the topic is nailed, a proposal is approved, and a contract generated. It can, indeed, be a hair-pulling process.
And should we decide we’d like to dabble our toes in a different genre than we’re currently writing (oh, the horror!), the business is set up to crush our frail egos (I promise, they’re frail!). First, we must consult with our agents to be certain writing Frankenstein meets Bo Peep won’t kill our current careers, destroy our sales numbers on the computers, insult our editors, and require a complete change
of name. Once we’ve been patted on the head and assured that the world is waiting breathlessly for Bo Peep’s fate, we then have to research our premise, write at least fifty pages plus a summary of what happens next, and—heart in throat—hand our newborn infant to our agent. Who may laugh herself silly and say forget it, we’ll ruin our numbers, insult our editors, etc. Really, business people lack our imagination. They can’t know these things until we turn in an actual product.
But should Bo Peep really fill a perceived niche in the market, our agents then send the baby out to be admired. Up until recently, this was still done the old way by killing trees and keeping couriers and post offices employed. But mail costs and slow speed and just the general foolishness of sticking to paper proposals has dragged most of the business into the electronic age. Both my editor and my agent now agree to even receive the whole book electronically, as of last year. See how modern publishing is? So Bo Peep can be sent to several interested editors with one punch of a computer key, or she can be sent exclusively to a preferred editor.
And then we chew our fingernails to the knuckles, dye our rapidly graying hairs, punch windows in our walls with our heads, and wait. And wait. Because—despite the speed of electronics—editors still read at the speed of molasses in January. I know, I know, they’re covered up in work these days, and reading proposals is something they do while watching holes sprout in walls. Even after they've read it, the proposal is usually submitted to a committee of naysayers for more argument. At this point, anything beyond “Oh, isn’t this baby adorable!” is agony.
Of course, even after re-doing our walls and hair, if the baby is rejected, the agony is a thousand times worse than waiting. By now, most of the wenches are well aware that we can write, and that any
rejection is a result of market conditions, but… Rejection hurts. We wouldn’t have proposed a new book if we weren’t a hundred percent confident that the book will sell, but publishing has become a numbers game. If the Bo Peep market is only half the size of our historical audience, it’s not practical to pay us for a year’s worth of work. Or maybe the editor just bought a Dracula meets Bo Peep book and doesn’t want two authors in that niche. Or maybe marketing says Bo Peep is getting old and their money is on Little Red Riding Hood this month. And even though Bo Peep is a fantastic book, there just isn’t room in next year’s schedule for her. It’s enough to make one want to eat their babies, except megabytes aren’t very filling.
Does anyone else have any illusions they’d like shattered? My sledgehammer is ready.