About six months before my friend David finished writing his dissertation, the editor in chief at a good university press asked his adviser if he had any promising students. The adviser recommended David. The editor solicited a book proposal, and David sent one in. The editor then passed the project along to another editor. The subject is a case study that opens out into big and trending issues; David was a star graduate student. It didn’t surprise me that a press would be interested in his thesis, which his adviser had encouraged him to think about from the inception as a book.
The adviser had hoped to announce an offer of publication for the dissertation just before the defense. That might have been a bit unseemly—disrespectful to the work of the other committee members who had not yet had a chance to weigh in—but something for David’s friends and family to whoop about. Soon after the defense David made minor revisions to his manuscript and shipped it off to the editor, who said he would send it out for peer review.
When David went on the job market, he had a short list of jobs he was qualified for and interested in. He was unwilling to move very far; he has a family and lives in a place he loves. So when he struck out on the academic job market and landed a great alt-ac position, he took it. David isn’t sure he wants to pursue an academic job again, but he’s keeping his options open and would like to publish the book. No one needs to feel sorry for him. Except I do.
He still hasn’t heard back from the university press. It’s been a year and a half since he submitted his revised manuscript. He’s pretty sanguine about this, but I feel a weird combination of sympathy for him, anger at the peer reviewers, disappointment with the acquisitions editor, and sadness about the way this publishing process can go so wrong.
David has the confidence of someone who has gotten most of the things he wants in life. He believes he’s capable of learning anything and often goes, untutored and unintimidated, into new realms. But when we talk about the status of his manuscript, I see someone I don’t recognize.
Each of the few times I’ve visited him in the last year I’ve encouraged him to drop a line to the editor to ask about what’s going on. He does, and each time the editor says he hopes to be able to get back to him soon. And then many more months go by.
I know what it’s like to be that editor. I can see his desk—and perhaps his floor—thick with manuscripts that still need to be screened before they are rejected or sent out to readers. More manuscripts wait to be brought before the advisory board, and a bunch need to be readied for production. Budgets have to be figured and contracts drawn. The editor has to meet with the sales and marketing folks and also has to hit the road, go out hustling for more manuscripts to try to acquire. I know all of this because I did it for years, and I know how things can get away from you. I know the editor handling David’s manuscript will recognize himself in this column, and that a dozen other editors will wonder if I’m writing about them.
For advice about how to deal with this situation, I turned to a handful of friends in publishing, at all editorial ranks, from a diverse range of presses. Each felt the ouch of David’s situation, and all confessed that they’d been in that editor’s position. Usually the problem was readers. They noted how hard it is to find good and available peer reviewers, especially in specialized fields. You give the reviewers a due date, they agree, and then you hope they will keep their word. You send them reminders and inquiries, and eventually they respond. Usually they promise, “Soon.”
All of the publishing professionals I talked with stressed the importance of writers talking honestly with their editors. David’s approach is laid-back; he’d told the editor there was no rush. But at a certain point (like after six months with no word!), he should have asked if the editor had, in fact, sent the manuscript out to readers. I remember with a pang of shame how often manuscripts came in and, even if I had solicited them, languished while I worked on other things. A phone call from the author usually nudged me into action.
When, finally, the editor told David the readers were the problem, I wanted more information. Had he sent the manuscript to two people at once? Were they both (unbelievably, unconscionably) delinquent, or was he waiting to get a positive report from the first before he sent it to a second? Had he given the reviewers a timeline? Were they past due (a year and a half!)? Did he give them a new deadline? Did the editor need more suggestions for possible reviewers? All of the editors I talked to advised David to ask polite questions.
And all of the editors said the same thing: David needed to submit the manuscript elsewhere. While many presses claim they don’t consider multiple submissions, one editor said, “Editors cannot be responsible for authors’ career concerns, but life is short. If an author has not received a review in six months, I would argue that the publisher has forfeited any right to exclusivity.” If David opted to tell the editor he was going to submit to another press, the right thing to do would be to assure him he wouldn’t accept an offer without giving that editor a chance to make one of his own.
A longtime press director said, “It’s sad that the power is so stacked against authors in these situations. Authors need to consider, among other things, responsiveness and enthusiasm from a press when they approach. A ‘lesser’ press might ultimately be far better than trying for a prestigious one if the author feels a real difference in an editor’s enthusiasm on first contact.”
For David, the path to submission had been easy. He hadn’t had to do much except send in a book proposal. He’d been under the protective wing of his adviser, who was now nearing retirement. Starting all over with a new press felt intimidating. He didn’t have contacts and would have to submit cold. He was reluctant, he said, to “threaten” the editor and tell him he was submitting elsewhere. Instead, he backed down when the editor said he’d write a letter for David to include with his job applications saying the manuscript was “in the final stages of review.” To me, that doesn’t mean much. Without readers’ reports and a response from the press’s editorial board, there’s no way to know how things will end.
I agree with my editorial colleagues and think David should submit to other presses. At this point, he’s had time to think more and harder about the project. He’d be able to suggest a lengthy list of readers, outline all the changes he has made to the manuscript, and describe even more ways to broaden its scope. The submission would be stronger. But so far, he’s decided to hold off.
Most university-press editors are good and generous people, and the system works fairly well—except when it doesn’t. One editor said, “We want to work with authors to make the process as smooth and positive as possible. It’s usually just as frustrating for us to see a manuscript languishing out for review (which means it’s something we really believe in and are interested in publishing) and deal with the frustrations of readers who (usually for understandable reasons of illness, family situations, increased teaching loads, deadlines on their own work) do not return reports on time.”
Nice people, with the best intentions, often agree to do things that they don’t actually have time to do. But any readers who have a manuscript on their desk that’s been there for more than a few months need to send it back with apologies. Now.
David’s editor should have realized how much time had elapsed and done something about it ages ago. At the very least, he should have stopped promising to have something “soon.” And David needed to be more active in lobbying on his own behalf. A couple of phone calls, rather than polite, trying-hard-to-be-friendly emails, might have stirred some human compassion, empathy, or at least, guilt. And then he should have submitted to other publishers—something he might still have to do, especially since I just saw a notice that his editor is taking a new job at another university press. The editor has yet to notify David.
In a recent essay titled, “Limbo University Press,” an associate professor wrote about waiting more than a year to hear back from his press after he submitted his final manuscript. Even after the contract is issued and signed and the manuscript polished and delivered, the wait can still be long.
These ordeals remind me how helpless prospective authors can feel. Arrogant, squeaky wheels demand a lot of attention; nice, respectful people can get overlooked. Be nice and respectful, but for heaven’s sake, don’t jeopardize your career just because you don’t want to be viewed as a pest.
