Publishers Wrote the Book on Torture : CRAIG BROUDE

Norman Mailer’s editor has just read the author’s latest manuscript.

“Great story, Norm. Loved it! But instead of calling it ‘Harlot’s Ghost,’ we want to go with “Murder Most Foul at the CIA.”

“Put more sex in it,” advises John Updike’s editor after looking over the new novel. “Oh, and John, we need a pen name for this. Something like Lola LaBlue?”

Ridiculous? Only if you’re up there with Norman and John in the literary stratosphere. For the vast majority of America’s novelists--the ones who write mass-market paperbacks--suggestions like these are routine. And you’d better not be a prima donna if you want to see your work published.

As a battle-scarred paperback writer, I’d like to share some insights into what publishing a book--an excruciating process that makes writing one look easy--is like.

Take my espionage novel, “The Lion of Berlin.”

“Lion” is about an American diplomat who smuggles refugees out of East Berlin during the Cold War. He falls in love with his consular attache but must hide his secret from her. State Department officers aren’t supposed to violate host nations’ laws, and he could end up in Leavenworth if discovered.

A Publisher Buys the Book

There are two ways an author can sell a book to a publisher. The first is via an outline. Since I had a track record with previously published novels, that’s how I sold “Lion.”

New writers must usually write the entire novel to get a contract. That is because when editors get together for drinks, their main topic of morose conversation is the advances they paid to new writers who never completed their books.

After my agent negotiated my contract, I signed it, promising to deliver “Lion” in eight months. I then received half my $15,000 advance against royalties. I got the other half when I handed in the manuscript--10 months later.

Writers aren’t expected to be right on time. After “Catch-22,” Joseph Heller’s editors at Knopf kept expecting the new book--and expecting and expecting. Finally, “Something Happened” arrived more than a decade late. (There are limits, however, for us less stellar writers.)

Editing

Once the manuscript is in-house, the editor suggests revisions. “Can you beef up the motivation in Chapter 5?” Or, “Tighten the dialogue in the action scene.”

Or the editor may decide there’s a whole other book inside the book you wrote. When I turned in “Lion of Berlin,” my editor and I had a conversation something like this:

“What a wonderful espionage novel.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“But you know, Craig, most of your successes have been with love stories.”

“Well, yeah, but. . . . “

“And I do see a love story in here.”

“Well, yeah, but. . . . “

“I have an idea. Why don’t we emphasize the love story and play down the spy story?”

At this point, a veteran mass-market writer like myself will wish he were Updike or Mailer or Heller and say something like: “Gee, why didn’t I think of that?”

Copy Editing

Next, the copy editor gets into the act. This is the one charged with the task of changing who to whom in all your dialogue.

Copy editors do serve a useful function, ensuring that your facts are accurate and continuity intact. But book copy editors can get carried away regarding grammar. One wanted to change all my character-establishing street speech to the King’s English.

“Hey, gotta light?” would have become: “Pardon me, have you any matches?”

I discovered the word stet. This is publisher’s parlance for “let it stand” and is written next to any section of the manuscript you don’t want editors to “fix.”

My friend Robert, who writes science fiction, goes even further. While I find copy editors well-meaning, he considers them messengers of Satan. He created a rubber stamp that he uses with bright red ink. It reads: “STET, TURKEY.” Turkey being publisher’s parlance for “turkey.”

Galleys

After copy editing, “Lion” went to press. Printing involves three or four stages, with each set of galley proofs being progressively freer of typos.

At least, that’s the theory. In a love scene in the final published version of one of my earlier novels, my hero “lovingly stroked her beasts.”

Artwork

While “Lion” was being printed, the picture was drawn for the cover. Cover art is a truly depressing subject for writers who are at the mercy of artists. Studies show that mass-market readers buy books based on the cover.

On the cover of my fourth novel, “The Sacrifice,” the artist’s pale, red-nosed hero appeared to have the flu. The book was well written and, based on sales of my other novels, should have sold at least 50,000 copies. Instead, it sold five copies. I bought one. My mom bought four. Actually, sales reached 23,000. I’m convinced the artist cost me $10,000 in lost sales.

After that, I insisted my agent put into my contracts that I have the right of consultation before cover art is finalized. It was a hard-fought battle, but we won.

“Right of consultation” means the publisher must show me rough art, and when I protest that it looks like the cover for an embalming manual, they say: “Thank you, you’ve been consulted” and go ahead with the cover as planned.

But I happily admit the art on “Lion of Berlin” is excellent. It shows an attractive hero in front of a famous Berlin landmark, the Gedachtinskirche.

The Title

The final title is often different from your original one and can be suggested by your editor for marketing reasons. “Lion of Berlin” became “Love’s Hour of Danger.” When it was reprinted in Brazil and Italy, the original title was restored. Go figure.

At this stage, an author may be asked to adopt a pen name in some genres. My friend Patricia writes action-adventure novels. When told she’d have to write under a pseudonym, she didn’t go halfway. Meet action novelist Rock Manley.

The author of “Lion of Berlin,” turned “Love’s Hour of Danger,” is Lisa Lenore.

Dummies

While the books are being printed, final covers are placed around blank pages. Salesmen use these “dummies” to show bookstores what the novel will look like. When I was a young writer, I didn’t know this. So when my editor sent me the dummy of my first novel, I took one look and called her in panic, yelling: “They forgot the words.”

At Last: the Book

The finished book is finally sent to bookstores. Timing is critical. Shipping departments are expert at making sure your book arrives at least a month after your talk-show appearances. Any earlier and some vestige of reader interest may remain.

If your publisher’s subsidiary rights director is good and lucky, a movie sale will result--the revenues of which the author must split 50-50 with the publisher. This doesn’t seem fair? As my editor says, “You want fair? Go to Pomona.”

But I don’t mind. My royalties from “Lion of Berlin” exceeded $45,000. And it doesn’t even bother me that my books aren’t considered great literature.

As Robert Benchley put it: “It took me years to discover I had no talent for writing. But I couldn’t give it up by then because I was making too much money at it.”