Enduring the Desert: Surviving the Life of a Writer

“Look at all the fun we’re having, being lonely and wild out here in the world.” Sometimes we are lying. But for writers, lying isn’t an act of will. It’s finding another way to look at the story.

Publishing is a curious business, and, first and foremost, a people business.

I recently received a letter from a writer I don’t know well asking why I have not accepted her manuscript.

Do you hate me? she wrote.

I do not hate her. I don’t hate any writers; I don’t hate anyone. I just am not sure if we are the right publisher for her book.

I have a poem in my last book that is titled “I’m worried about who hates me.” The crisis of being a writer, for many of us, is that we spend a lot of time alone. We spend substantial time in our heads, and they may be unhealthy places. Research suggests that of all the creative arts, writers tend to have the most looming mental health issues. Dancers, theater people, film people, and even artists work in tribes. We, writers, are alone.

I try to keep the number of people I hate to a minimum. I think that’s healthy. I even try to keep the people I’m afraid of to a minimum. I walk quietly in the world, choosing to amplify the voices of other writers, but it never feels like enough.

Random House publishes 15,000 print titles a year. The University of California publishes between 175 and 200 books yearly. Sourcebooks, a woman-owned publisher and the fastest-growing trade publisher, publishes 400 titles a year.

Red Hen Press publishes 25 books a year, and each book, with limited exceptions, is agreed on by not only the Editorial team but also the Media and Marketing staff. At the core of each acquisition, we must feel that we can sell the book and work well with the author.

But given how tight our list is, we have to feel that an author’s book fits with Red Hen’s editorial vision if we want to spend a couple of years working with them.

Last night, I met with a group of publishing students. Most of them want to be editors. I am always amazed at how many people want to do this. The reality of editing at a small press is that much of the lengthy work—like reading through manuscripts and completing developmental edits—is unpaid. I edit every weekend. Sometimes, it’s Friday evening, and I want to go to a movie, and the whole time I am at the movies, I feel guilty for not editing. On Saturday morning, as I walk my dogs and make publishing calls, I’m guilty that I’m not editing, but I get to it when I get home. My associate also does their editing at home. When Lisa Lucas was fired at Random House, she said she regretted working that weekend. I thought, right on, girl, I hear you.

I want to be fair to every writer who sends work to Red Hen. I want to give a full read, provide comments and feedback, and for the books we don’t take, maybe to offer suggestions, but I don’t have time, and haven’t had it since we were at the micro-press stage.

In the beginning, I only had to choose a book I liked. There were two of us running the show, and our sales were small. But if Red Hen is going to survive, we have to build the business and find our way to sales numbers comparable to Europa Editions, which means we have to choose books that we can market. We’re still learning what will bring us to our goal. It may mean taking on more fantasy, like Madeleine Nakamura’s queer fantasy series, Cursebreakers. It may mean more detective books like A Shadow of Jaguars by D.C. Frost, which features my favorite character, a detective with a dog called Evidence.

We plan to continue to publish poetry. We are currently raising money for a poetry fund that we hope will ensure the sustainability of our poetry catalog for years to come. But we can’t choose books based on who we like. It’s a business, and at the end of the day, we need to sell books.

I admire writers who aren’t super famous but have written work that carries me along. Right now, I’m reading Sarah Manguso, and I love the rhythm of her language. I like Judith Freeman and Lisa Teasley. I’m big on women writers, maybe because I am outside of the party of the famous male writers often at the core of the literary conversation, and I started Red Hen for other writers who are too.

Vonnegut famously said, “Talent is extremely common. What is rare is the willingness to endure the life of the writer.”

The life of a writer is different for different people. For those who go to fancy schools and have resources to do nothing but write, I imagine it’s pleasant, rewarding, a dream come true.

For my tribe, it’s eating in the desert, suffocating in the strip malls, moving along tiny shores of indifference and saying to ourselves, “Look at all the fun we’re having, being lonely and wild out here in the world.” Sometimes we are lying. But for writers, lying isn’t an act of will. It’s writing fiction. It’s finding another way to look at the story.

If, like me, you were not born on third base, it’s a lot more work. Many of us work several jobs because we can never settle on a “real” job. Some of us are carrying a community, too.

I’ve always thought of Red Hen as publishing authors with dirty boots, those who are walking actively through the world. These writers matter more than ever. We are in the collapse of democracy. The White House is in ruins, our country is considered a rogue nation, and we need storytellers to hold us accountable, help us escape, and give words to the crisis.

Even as Red Hen pivots to focusing on upmarket books that can sell more, we still hold the pulse of the stories that matter most to us, that carried us here. I feel energized by our upcoming event at the Ebell Theater with Brendan Constantine, Rebecca Chace, and Luke Goebel, all of whom have written gritty, important narratives finding their way through the dark of living, of America.

To endure the life of a writer and publisher, I am working on my self-talk. We form ourselves by how we talk to ourselves. “You climb out of the well,” I tell myself. “Look up, that’s the sky. That’s the moon. Keep climbing.”