Quick, before Apple Records gets around to shutting it down or suing the artist (dj BC), check out The Beastles, nine fabulous mash-ups of Beatles and Beastie Boys songs (link via BoingBoing).
Perhaps it’s just because I prefer the Beastie Boys to Jay-Z, but in my book, this album beats The Grey Album, hands down (though that album is also amazing, so do check that out too if you haven’t already). These mash-ups are getting addictive …
I’ve just started an official work blog, hosted by the blogging service that my employer provides as part of its its online publishing arm.
Though you’ll find my first post vaguely familiar, I do not intend to duplicate content across these two sites in the future. My O’Reilly Network blog will be the exclusive repository for all explicitly job-related topics. Please continue to visit The Olive Press for literary musings, miscellaneous ramblings, knitting updates, the occasional cat photo, etc.
Though it’s been out of print for years, I’d like to submit that Dear Scott/Dear Max: The Fitzgerald-Perkins Correspondence should be required reading for every editor and every author (or anyone else interested in learning how the publishing industry works) who can get their hands on it. It’s a real shame that it’s out of print; I would love to send a copy to every new author I sign.
I originally read it a few years ago, but I’m dipping back into it again now (I’ve been buying up used copies when they’ve cropped up on eBay, Alibris, and Amazon’s used book department). The collected letters between F. Scott Fitzgerald and his editor, Maxwell Perkins (editor par excellence to Edith Wharton, Thomas Wolfe, Henry James, and Ernest Hemingway, just to name a few), illustrate the various aspects, intricacies, tensions, and ultimate value of the ideal editor/author relationship. Every conceivable aspect of this relationship is detailed in the book, and there’s gold on almost every page.
This behind-the-scenes look at the crafting and delivery of content as a collaboration between editor and author is priceless for the access it offers. (It’s also quite interesting to learn that Fitzgerald couldn’t spell or punctuate grammatically correct sentences by himself to save his life. All errors in the quotes in this post are sic.) Take, for example, this passage from Fitzgerald regarding the title for the book he was working on at the time:
I have now decided to stick to the title I put on the book [Trimalchio in West Egg]. The only other titles that seem to fit it are Trimalchio and On the Road to West Egg. I had two others Gold-hatted Gatsby and The High-bouncing Lover but they seemed to light.
This note came in response to the following suggestion, gently offered by Perkins:
I always thought that “The Great Gatsby” was a suggestive and effective title, — with only the vaguest knowledge of the book, of course. But anyway, the last thing we want to do is divert you to any degree, from your actual writing, and if you let matters rest just as they are now, we shall be perfectly satisfied. The book is the thing, and all the rest is inconsiderable beside it.
In the end, we know who won this battle, but Fitzgerald stuck to his guns, even as the book was going to press:
I wired you on a chance about the title — I wanted to change back to Gold-hatted Gasby but I don’t suppose it would matter. That’s the one flaw in the book — I feel Trimalchio might have been best after all.
The title of Fitzgerald’s first book with Maxwell Perkins (and Scribner’s) also underwent a title change, though Fitzgerald suggested this switch. Perkins actually thought that “The Education of a Personage … strikes us as an excellent title,” but Fitzgerald bluntly changes his own mind in his follow-up letter on the subject:
The title has been changed to This Side of Paradise from those lines of Richard Brookes: “… Well, this side of paradise/ There’s little comfort in the wise.”
These exchanges are perhaps the juiciest, and the most fun with the benefit of hindsight, but the interesting and substantive parts of their letters begin from Fitzgerald’s very first contact with Perkins, in which, even before the editor has even seen a bit of the book or expressed any interest in signing it, the author is already trying to dictate the precise month in which the book should be released:
Now what I want to ask you is this — if I send you the book by August 20th and you decide you could risk its publication (I am blatantly confident that you will) would it be brought out in October, say, or just what would decide its date of publication?
Perkins’ response captures perfectly how the needs of the publisher to have sufficient time to adequately sell the book to buyers make this timeline impossible (a conversation I’ve had with more than a couple authors myself):
But there is one thing certain: no publisher could publish this book in October without greatly injuring its chances; for the canvasing of the trade for the fall season began several months ago, and would now order grudgingly, and in much lesser quantities than they would at the beginning of the season.
Of course, even in the face of a well-articulated business reality, the author always reserves the right to still be upset and to make bizarre, passive-aggressive, guilt-inducing statements regarding the personal nature of his disappointment:
Both last week & this noon at lunch I tried to say this but both times couldn’t get started because you personally have always been so good to me — but Mr. Perkins I really am very upset about my book not coming out next month. I explained to you the reasons financial, sentimental & domestic but more than any of these its for the psychological effect on me.
Once Perkins expresses early interest in the book that would become This Side of Paradise, he immediately gets down to business. One great voyeuristic insight offered by the book is its peek into the specific terms of Fitzgerald’s publishing contracts:
As for terms, we shall be glad to pay a royalty of 10% on the first five thousand copies and of 15% thereafter, — which by the way, means more today than it used to now that retail prices upon which the percentage is calculated, have so much advanced.
It seems that in almost every other letter, Fitzgerald is asking for another advance to get him through, which Perkins usually ends up giving him. Fitzgerald’s gratitude for this understanding brings him to request a smaller advance on his next book. Not knowing this is the cause for Fitzgerald’s changed terms, Perkins responds:
Why do you ask for a lower royalty on this than you had on the last book where it changed from 15% to 17 1/2% after 20,000 and to 20% after 40,000? Did you do it in order to give us a better margin for advertising? We shall advertise very energetically anyhow and if you stick to the old terms you will sooner overcome the advance. Naturally we should like the ones you suggest better, but there is no reason you should get less on this than you did on the other.
Fitzgerald sees the reasoning behind Max’s interest on his behalf and decides to revise his original request for terms with this compromise:
I made the royalty smaller because I wanted to make up for all the money you’ve advanced these two years by letting it pay a sort of interest on it. But I see by calculating I made it too small — a difference of 2000 dollars. Let us call it 15% up to 40,000 and 20% after that. That’s a fair contract all around.
Of course, once the terms have all been settled, the content has been finished, and the book is actually in print, Fitzgerald questions and bemoans his book’s sales:
I thank you very much for the $1500. I thought as there have been 41,000 printed the sales would be more than 33,796, but I suppose there are about five thousand in stock and two thousand given away or sold at cost.
I could go on and on with gems from this book (I’m not exaggerating when I say there’s something amazingly relevant on almost every page of the book), as their discussions cover marketing, promotion, cover design, reviews, proofs and galleys, and just about everything else I discuss with my authors on a daily basis (including actual book content), but I leave you to check out all the gory details for yourselves, if you are so inclined (and I do hope you are).
I hope I’m not giving away the ending to anyone by pointing out the result: a successful and respected editor and a happy author, who, through all of his editor’s feedback and guidance, was able to say, “I feel I’ve certainly been lucky to find a publisher who seems so interested generally in his authors.”
Oh yeah, and more than a few pretty good books. 
How cool is this (link courtesy of Ben Hammersley):
As you type into the search box, Google Suggest guesses what you’re typing and offers suggestions in real time. This is similar to Google’s “Did you mean?” feature that offers alternative spellings for your query after you search, except that it works in real time. For example, if you type “bass,” Google Suggest might offer a list of refinements that include “bass fishing” or “bass guitar.” Similarly, if you type in only part of a word, like “progr,” Google Suggest might offer you refinements like “programming,” “programming languages,” “progesterone,” or “progressive.” You can choose one by scrolling upor down the list with the arrow keys or mouse.
Here’s what a search for yours truly looks like:
Though this isn’t covered in the book (on account of the fact that it’s already gone to print), look for stuff even cooler than this in the second edition of Google Hacks, in stores just around Christmas (sorry, couldn’t help the plug .
Years after reading The Great Gatsby, this beautiful passage, especially the penultimate paragraph, continues to haunt me with its multilayered observations. I think A Bona-Fide Piece of Printed Matter would be a great title for a book.
A stout, middle-aged man, with enormous owl-eyed spectacles, was sitting somewhat drunk on the edge of a great table, staring with unsteady concentration at the shelves of books. As we entered he wheeled excitedly around and examined Jordan from head to foot.”What do you think?” he demanded impetuously.
“About what?” He waved his hand toward the book-shelves.
“About that. As a matter of fact you needn’t bother to ascertain. I ascertained. They’re real.”
“The books?”
He nodded.
“Absolutely real–have pages and everything. I thought they’d be a nice durable cardboard. Matter of fact, they’re absolutely real. Pages and–Here! Lemme show you.”
Taking our scepticism for granted, he rushed to the bookcases and returned with Volume One of the “Stoddard Lectures.”
“See!” he cried triumphantly. “It’s a bona-fide piece of printed matter. It fooled me. This fella’s a regular Belasco. It’s a triumph. What thoroughness! What realism! Knew when to stop, too–didn’t cut the pages. But what do you want? What do you expect?”
He snatched the book from me and replaced it hastily on its shelf, muttering that if one brick was removed the whole library was liable to collapse.
You sir, are brilliant.
Thanks for the paper topic.
how does this passage qualify as the greatest passage? what is its significance to the lost moral values in the novel?
@anon: It’s the greatest passage because it’s the one that I love the most. The rest is up to you, because I wrote my last term paper years ago and don’t plan to write another. (Perhaps you should ask commenter @God for help.)
Though the resemblance is eerily striking, this is not a picture of my cat:
This picture hangs in the cubicle of a coworker of mine, who has no clue regarding its origins, other than his mother saw it somewhere, thought it was funny, and sent it to him.
My cat actually poses like this sometimes (sans beer or remote), which makes the picture that much creepier. Then again, we did adopt Yeti when he was eight months old, so perhaps this photo documents his early upbringing, which would actually shed a bit of light on his unique personality.
I finally finished the baby blanket (only six weeks past the deadline I set myself):
For those of you who haven’t kept up with my knitting projects, here’s an archive.
Anonymous is discussing. 
anon, and 
God are discussing. 
Anonymous 5:17 pm on December 13, 2004 Permalink |
Nice post, Brian. I started out thinking “why would I want to read that?” and by the end decided that it would be interesting, after all.
And, I have to add that I sense more than a bit of the same gentle persuasion and other techniques in your own working style. Good show.
–Gordon
Brian 3:27 pm on December 14, 2004 Permalink |
Thanks for stopping by and leaving such a kind note, Gordon. This post started out as a thread I sent around to O’Reilly’s editors list. It received a good response, so we’ve decided to add it to the “From the Editors List” section of oreilly.com. The only concern anyone expressed regarding that decision was that some authors might see it as hostile toward them, which it most defnitely is not. I have the utmost respect for my authors, and it’s great to hear when they think I’m doing a good job too.
To everyone else reading this comment, Gordon is what I’d call a model author. He never requires more than “gentle pursuasion,” and his work is always delivered in excellent and timely fashion.