How I Came To Work In Publishing

Well. Hello! Oh excuse me while I dust off the layers of dust that have settled over this blog. Dear me, how long has it been since I’ve written anything substantive? Wait, don’t answer that; it’s really embarrassing.

Anyway, I promise I haven’t dropped off the face of the planet, although I’ve been submerged in a flood of work, both at the office and outside of it. I have had plenty of things I’ve wanted to discuss with you, but life has looked a lot like this ever since BEA:

For those who haven't seen it--GO WATCH SHAUN OF THE DEAD RIGHT NOW.

Whoever said summer was a slow time in publishing was a LIAR. A nasty, filthy, disgusting liar. And while I still have a myriad of things to do, I’m going to take some time out of my busy schedule to answer a question I have gotten a million times over (and inspired by this post by agent Jennifer Laughran):

How did you get into publishing?

When I probe a little further, the majority of these questions seem to be about how I got into editorial, which is what most people seem to think of when they think of The Industry. (Within the confines of my blog and my insular little world, The Industry is publishing, not Hollywood.) There are many components to working in publishing: from marketing to publicity to sales to production, but what people are the most curious about is how I got on the editorial path.

I will be candid: luck. Luck and nepotism. (Well, sort of nepotism. Just about, anyway.)

Right? Seems totally unfair, doesn’t it? It is, and I don’t deny it. I am lucky; I managed to stumble into a job that is perfectly suited for me. I wasn’t the sort of English major who knew she would be sitting at an editor’s desk one day–in fact, I didn’t know publishing was even a viable option. I had the sort of square, stodgy middle-class upbringing that led me to think the only career paths in life included medicine, law, or finance–or if I were really daring, engineering. My parents worked in finance, my mother’s relatives were all lawyers or doctors, and my dad’s relatives are engineers for the most part. Because it became increasingly clear as I grew older that math and I were never meant to be friends, it was simply assumed I would become a lawyer. After all, I got a degree in English; it would be only natural I would take that English degree and get my juris doctorate.

So I worked in corporate law as a legal assistant as my first post-college gig.

My parents, ever pragmatic and ever ruthless, told me in no uncertain terms that The Bank of Mum and Dad would be closed three months after I graduated. I was 20 years old, living in the dining nook of a Chelsea apartment, with a degree in English Literature and a few half-hearted PR internships under my belt, and no marketable skills except the ability to write a good sentence and read faster than the speed of light. (My only super power.) I applied to every possible job under the sun, and got offered several legal assistant positions. (Why, I’m not sure.) They paid rather well and I thought, “Why not give a try?”

I lasted four months.

Here’s the thing about corporate law: it ruins your life. My apologies to anyone wanting to pursue said field, but it pretty much ruined mine. Sure, I might have been making 6-figures in my first job out of college, but I was also working 100 hours a week, suffering from vitamin D deficiency (I never saw the light of day in the four months I worked there–quite literally, as I also had an inner office with NO WINDOWS), sleep deprivation, and nutritional collapse. Law is also a profession that stifles, rather than encourages creativity: everything is set on precedent. Everything. EVERYTHING. I’m not someone who easily fits into the mold–not that I’m intentionally rebellious–but it takes a lot of effort for me to conform to a safe, stodgy standard. I’m not by nature a people pleaser.

I knew it was the beginning of the end when HR called me into the office to chastise me for my outfit. I was conservatively dressed (or so I thought) in a black pencil skirt, a white button-down, a burgundy cardigan, and heels. And to set it off, I decided to wear a little fashion scarf about my neck. A little touch of me. Nothing too outrageous, but just a little something–anything–to set me apart.

“Please put that scarf away,” said the HR lady.

I hastily complied, not wanting to get in trouble, but couldn’t resist a little lip. “Why?”

“Personality might have mattered in college,” she said in a clipped voice, “but not here.”

And so I was out.

Naturally, my parents were concerned when I told them I would never again consider law as a viable profession.

“But what do you want to do?” they asked. “What can you?”

What could I do? I could read. And write. I read and read and read and read and read and I wrote and wrote and wrote and wrote. I loved books more than I loved nearly anything in the world.

So I got a job in private wealth management instead.

Why? Partially because of the skills I obtained in corporate finance were apparently useful in a finance field, but it was also due to the fact that I temped there and then got a full-time job. At this point in my life, I rather knew that I didn’t want to be in corporate America, but I still had no idea what else I wanted to do. Except read. And write.

It was at this point I had joined a small writing group and met one of my future roommates, who worked at a literary agency. Soon we were exchanging bits of our writing, and I began to learn a little bit about the actual process of getting published, but more than that, I began to learn how to critique, how to edit, how to help someone shape a book, and how to look at a book–not as a writer, but as an editor. And I loved it.

But still the thought of pursuing publishing as a career never crossed my mind. I was well-acquainted with what publishing calls a “living wage” (ha!), and at that time I was paying $1100 for the privilege of sharing a living room (my bed was in one corner and my roommate’s in the other) in Manhattan. Could I give up a decent salary and stay in a dull job, or would I be willing to sacrifice my standard of living for the joy of doing what I really loved?

In the end, my decision was made for me. My job went the way of the economy at the end of 2008 and I was suddenly faced with an opportunity, of possibly making a lateral career move. And this is where nepotism comes into play. What did I do? I called the director of the Writers House intern program, to whom I had been introduced when my writing partners and I read at his Kettle of Fish reading series. He gave me a position. It was that simple.

It wasn’t so straightforward, of course. I had to audition, like any other potential intern–I read a manuscript and wrote an editorial letter. Soon, I was interning for Al Zuckerman, writing readers reports and editorial letters. And here’s where luck came in. I was lucky; I worked for Al, who set me to reading and writing, who took me out for lunches to discuss my career, who encouraged me and supported me, who called me “brilliant”, and who sent my editorial thoughts to his clients. He could have just as easily set me to photocopying and making his coffee. He didn’t. He chose to mentor me.

The internship ended, and I was again faced with the prospect of job searching. There were no open positions at Writers House, and it was universally acknowledged that it was a tough time to be breaking into publishing, what with editors getting laid off left and right, and the industry apparently imploding on itself. And by now I had finally discovered what it was I wanted to do. I wanted to work with books–in any way, shape, or form–be it writing, selling, agenting, or editing.

So I tried and tried and tried and failed and failed and failed to land a job in publishing. I applied to every position at every house, even for positions I wasn’t even remotely qualified for. I applied for designer jobs, for production jobs, for publicity jobs, for sales jobs, for jobs in academic houses, for jobs in magazine editorial–everything. Not a single bite. For five months and tried and failed and tried and failed. And I could only give on the grace of someone’s else tax dollars for so long.

My parents, bless them, were supportive in their own way. They knew I loved books and respected that I wanted to work in publishing, although my father kept suggesting jobs as a business writer (to which he had connections) and my mother kept dropping hints about me getting an M.F.A. in Illustration and/or Design. But just as I was about to give up and throw in the towel, to apply for another temp agency, and find another job as a desk jockey in corporate America, I got a break. Cap’n Sweet Valley was looking for an assistant, and Writers House put my name forward (among others). The assistant position just happened to be in editorial. Out of the six candidates he interviewed, he picked me.

And here I am.

Do I have the most typical path to publishing? Probably not, although you’ll find that most people in the industry started out as a lowly intern somewhere. Was I luckier than some? Absolutely. Did I have my foot in the door? Of course. But that did that I mean I didn’t try? Of course not. I tried. And failed. So many times. And I’m not the only one who did. More than luck, more than nepotism, I was persistent. I wanted it, so I kept trying.

So my advice to people seeking to break in this industry if to keep trying. Keep applying to internships. Build connections with people, try to get your foot in the door (as much as I hate to admit it, it’s kind of crucial). Read and read and read and read, and maybe even try your hand a little at writing. But don’t give up. If you give up, then you’ll never get there. No one’s going to walk by and drop a publishing job in your lap.

So keep trying. Keep failing. But never, ever give up.

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