Posted by Brian Hotchkiss on Tue, May 25, 2010
Some publishing people dread a book's final pre-press phase—especially those book packagers who produce illustrated publications. While every book follows its own organic process step by step, it's this last phase where the carefully arranged dominos seem just to tremble in anticipation of tumbling into each other. A glance at the book development process helps understand why this phase can become frantic, and when late-stage rewriting enters the picture, all bets are off.
When we embark on a new project, the first step is the careful preparation of a timeline that entails each step of the process. Everything we can predict, we do—holidays, blocks of author downtime, the printer's availability, and lead time for ordering paper are just a few elements we consider. Because nearly every project begins with a fixed endpoint, we work backward to find the start date. With any luck, it is pretty close to when the author plans to complete the first-pass manuscript (MS).
A production schedule diagram resembles a funnel: The wider top develops because more time is needed up front (writing, MS development, editing, and creating the design concept). Once the editorial phase is complete, however, everything starts to speed up, and here's where compression usually occurs (i.e., the funnel tapers sharply). The ultimate deadline hasn't changed, but if the book is now two months behind where it needs to be, something's gotta give.
Typically, a book develops from idea to manuscript to layout before being transmitted to the printer. The writer's gestation and research period can last years. Once she begins writing, a minimum of several months and usually a year or more of intense work lay ahead of her. Next, the newborn first-draft receives editorial attention for anywhere from one or two months to half a year or longer.
Chances are the design concept is in progress during the editorial phase so the edited MS, once reviewed by its author, can quickly move along to typesetting. By this point, what began as a deceptively "leisurely" process has gained its own pace and inexorable momentum.
Production events occur fast and furious: The MS is typeset, then conveyed to the layout artist, who prepares each page, incorporating images in synch with design specs and complying with the panoply of standard publication requirements. The author and others review the layout while the proofreader reads it. Everyone's eagle eyes search for different problems and issues—typos, style points, factual and/or grammatical errors, accuracy of running heads and page numbers, consecutive page numbering, etc.
Then the author returns her marked-up layouts, and lo and behold they've sprouted all kinds of emendations: "move two ¶s from page 49 to page 37"; "insert these 3 new ¶s here"; "wrong picture, new one in mail"; "couldn't find reference, so cut entire passage." And on and on.
An editor sets about compiling all the participants' changes into a single set of proofs, making certain that no change skews the content or goes against style. The layout person uses the editor's compilation to make type changes, and the (now 40-percent new) layout goes off to the indexer, who has a ridiculously short time to whip together what must become the "authority" for locating names and subjects in the final book.
Gasp! Pant, pant.... Whew!
So, it should be quite evident why rewriting at laid-out-page stage is a bad idea. Not only does it mean more work for all involved, this is a crucial domino in the array, and its tipping causes a nasty chain reaction. Moving two paragraphs here or inserting a new picture there result in repagination for the balance of the chapter, if not the rest of the book. Cross references directing the reader elsewhere must be located and their page numbers corrected. A variant spelling requires global searches of each electronic layout file. A "simple" style-point revision can lead to changes in numerous passages throughout the book, not all of which are evident or easily located. It is particularly important to remember that each substantive change—the dreaded "aa," or author's alteration—racks up an additional charge for the client (as opposed to the author). This is never a "good thing."
Don't get me wrong! This by no means is a recommendation to do away with layout review, which is crucial for catching typos and errors and generally cleaning up unforeseen troubles. Scrutinizing the layout allows reconsideration of facts and figures; problems missed earlier during the MS work can be remedied. And I am the first to acknowledge that seeing laid-out type for the first time can completely change a person's perception of the text. But every contributor should understand that the time and place for reconsidering the book's broader strokes fell away a while ago, during the writing, editing, and reviewing phases.
(Photo of dominos © 2010 Sean Gwizdak. All rights reserved.)
Posted by Brian Hotchkiss on Wed, Apr 14, 2010
Part of the bedrock of the publishing industry's business model has always included the realization that, to stay afloat, sufficiently healthy sales are required to underwrite the cost of operation and reap profit. Meeting requisite sales levels entails publishing titles that enough people find sufficiently appealing (or necessary) to move them to fork over the cover price.
So how do publishers—and the book producers who work with them—arrive at the attitudes and approaches that define and satisfy audiences? How does one go about determining who will want to read a given title? And what will they expect to accomplish by reading the book? Enter the "general audience"—the nonfiction gold standard for a majority of trade publishers (as well as numerous university and academic presses).
This entity admits of no one definition, of course. Different houses understand general audience to mean different things, but a broad-based consideration leads to something along the lines of "readers who share a sufficiently serious interest in a topic to want to read about it, but may not be equipped and/or willing to take on the technical or difficult prose used to address it."
What do the author's, or manuscript editor's, or publisher's toolboxes need to hold in order to prepare intelligent, challenging works of nonfiction that will satisfy both Everyreader and the Scholar? (Surprisingly, this is a fairly recent distinction that seems to have sprung, in large part, from the technologically driven entertainment culture in which most of us now live. But that's a springboard to a totally different blog.) Numerous notches in my editorial belt have been carved by books intended to span the specialist-generalist divide, and they have given rise to a few ideas.
First, a healthy sense of humility. This applies to both sides of the table—author and reader alike. The scholar is called upon to recognize that few share her/his depth of knowledge and understanding of the material. If reaching out to readers other than initiates in the field is at all desirable to the author, s/he should step back far enough to gain perspective about what needs to be discussed, and how it needs to be presented. Including a bibliography, glossary, and similar reader's aids can go a long way toward helping the less-than-expert grasp the material. That said, the interested reader, whether generalist or specialist, must be willing to take on some of the burden of getting up to speed by becoming versed in those resources that will help answer questions that may arise or flesh out information that is only glancingly mentioned. It should be no surprise that jargon fits neither bill.
Next there is clarity. The writing and, in particular, substantive editing must be called into service to establish and work from an ideal overall vantage point for the subject matter. With that point of departure adopted, the content is more likely to fall into place. If it does not, however, the editor should be prepared to work carefully with the author and provide the needed perspective in order to hone the text appropriately. This is no place for inflated egos (on either contributor's part), nor does it call for infantilization of the audience. The editor should be well versed in the generalist's requirements and able to make unobtrusive suggestions that will assist generalist readers with filling in their own particular blanks.
Finally, acuity and realism. Here is where the book producer and publisher need to contribute accurate comprehension of the book's audience, understanding who these readers are and how best to let them know that the book is intended for them, too. Again, talking down is a sure way to alienate everyone, regardless of background. But overreaching can be just as disastrous. And remember, the sales and marketing functions are apt to take their cue from publisher and editor—rather than the author—so presenting the book in an accurate, realistic light will go a long way toward appropriate and well-targeted representation to the media, academia, and booksellers.
Posted by Peter Blaiwas on Wed, Mar 24, 2010
The last thing any organization's harried communications director needs is to go through the complicated process of hiring a design firm/marketing firm/advertising agency to produce their history only to be met with: "We are ready to start, when will you send us the text, art, research, interviews, manuscript, and everything else?"
An annual report, for example, can easily reach book-length proportions. However, it's reasonable to expect that an annual report will begin with an overview of the previous year and end with lists of officers and board members. Moreover, altering the report's form would do little to enhance the content within and is even likely to make it more difficult to use.
A history that includes pictures, while nonfiction, is still a story, and integrating the ways both pictures and text drive that story is integral to creating an engaging illustrated book.
The design of an illustrated history benefits from a close relationship between author, editor, and designer. Even a history as rudimentary as a chronological time-line will do more to engage the reader if each benchmark is carefully considered, reflecting the preceding entry and informing the subsequent.
As an illustrated-book producer, I have had the good fortune to be involved in the "building" of an illustrated book. The editor and I met with the book's two authors and its photographer (who documented the entire project) for a series of weekly brainstorming meetings on how to portray the way architect Frank Gehry's astonishing Stata Center came to be, from concept through design, execution, construction, and implementation.
Each week we would meet and discuss the many issues that needed to be addressed. The following week we returned with our various contributions, such as rough manuscript or rough layouts (sometimes both). These inspired further discussion of how to expand and develop the story.
I've experienced very few projects that have developed as organically as this one. It confirmed my concern that when a designer is handed all the components of a history and told to put them together, he or she could easily miss any number of opportunities to bring the story to life. For example, I have seen countless designers roll their eyes at the art they receive for a project, never considering what they could do to improve both the art and the project overall.
My partner, the editorial "wing" of our company, and I provide our clients with a simple, unique service that seems to be little known outside of the publishing world. When we receive a manuscript, we can furnish the client with an "art manuscript": we simply annotate the text with suggestions for photographs, art, or artifacts that enhance the story's progression. We offer this service whether we are developing a new manuscript with the author, editing a client's completed manuscript, or have received both edited manuscript and art program from a client. Our suggestions are always well received, but never more so than when a client's "photo research staff" is actually an overworked manager who had too much to do before the project landed on her desk. Such circumstances rarely foster inspiration. In fact, our art manuscripts have often inspired researchers to track down illustrations above and beyond our suggestions.
I have never considered the elements of graphic design as a collection of discrete components that need to be balanced and arranged. When words and pictures work side by side, they elevate even the most unlikely subject and bring its story to life. A client need never apologize for bringing what others might consider a "prosaic" topic to the table. Our goal is to reinvigorate the client—and the ultimate reader— to consider a familiar story with their own fresh, excited eyes.
Posted by Brian Hotchkiss on Tue, Feb 23, 2010
While Vern Associates seldom hires a writer, we frequently are called upon to recommend one (or more) to a client. Briefly, this process calls for us to review our author database in search of writers with appropriate background and experience for the job at hand. We may also launch into further research to find additional candidates to fit the bill. We compile dossiers of text samples and CVs, prepare a précis of our selection to spell out strengths—perhaps weaknesses—of the exemplars, then pass all this information along to our client. Once they have reviewed the material, we confer with them to help choose just the right writer for the publication.
Pretty straightforward, isn't it? Actually, no. Each step entails its own peculiar balancing act. If only it were as simple as matching writer with subject. Instead, at each juncture we must negotiate the twists and turns that typically intervene. Up to a point, you could compare what we do to the work of a matchmaker of yore. Dolly Levi had to sense the presence of a "chemistry" that would propel a couple into matrimony. Our kind of matchmaking may not be geared toward such a long-lasting pairing, but at least one of the partners (our client) had better be completely at ease with their new, albeit temporary, mate. So let's look at the considerations we face.
First, selecting candidates from our writer database can be a tricky game of maybe-yes/maybe-no. Even though this resource is searchable by subject area, that's only one of the parameters we need to match. Every publication (and/or client) dictates its own peculiar set of writing qualities. For example, Art Book A may be pitched to readers who demand a refined prose style, while Corporate History B may be better suited to writing that features a just-the-facts concision. I recall a project that called for both a fair amount of polish and wide-based research. We had just the person for the former, but her portfolio held nothing that demonstrated what she could do in terms of in-depth research. On top of that, subject-wise all her samples were diametrically opposed to that of the manuscript-to-be. What to do? Present this writer's clips, explain why we consider her a good fit, and hope our client will see our point (rather than wonder if we really "got" the project)? Or pass her over for another writer with subject expertise and research abilities whose lack of literary flair was likely to entail significant editorial intervention?
The Internet has made finding potential writers infinitely easier than it was a few years ago. But the "embarrassment of riches" it offers is exceedingly complex and time consuming to navigate. Locating candidates with suitable credentials is the easy part; then the vetting begins. Have they ever written—can they handle—book-length manuscripts? Someone with dozens of magazine and journal articles to his or her credit may not possess the organizational skill needed to structure a long-form manuscript or the staying power to complete it on schedule. The reverse could be true of the author of books asked to prepare an essay. I recall (anything but fondly) receiving a 42,000-word manuscript for what were to have been two essays totaling 17,500 words. The author delivered it one week past deadline on his way to board the plane that would whisk him off to China, where he would be incommunicado for three weeks. Upon his return, he was anything but pleased with the "trim" I had no choice but to perform.
Finally, it may be next to impossible to determine up front what sort of personality and work habits a hitherto unknown writer brings to her work, but it must be carefully considered in order for the blend of client, author, and book producer to gel. It is a bonus for an editor to work with a relatively low-maintenance author, of course, and even editorial relationships with "difficult" writers can be comfortably managed. But it is crucial is that the client feels fully comfortable with the match, even though they may not have much direct interaction with the writer. This is, after all, their book, and it is our client—much more than the writer—who must live and work with the results over the long haul. Recently, for example, I heard about a project in which a corporate client insisted on switching writers in midstream because it didn't hold with what it discovered about the writer's political affiliations. Free speech and similar considerations aside, it would have been best for all concerned to have known about such issues up front, before the courtship began.