Britain’s got novels

If you wake up on Saturday morning and find that it’s wet and miserable, then going to work – or the equivalent of work – isn’t such a duff option. So I headed off to Stratford to spend the day at something called Novel Pitch with a spring in my step. If it had been dry and sunny, the concept (for the words ‘novel pitch’ were little more than that right then) might have been less of a draw.

I was one of a panel of five, and our task was to hear six novels pitched to us by six unpublished writers in the form of extracts and synopses and, gulp, to give immediate feedback. And because it was billed as a spectator sport there had to be an element of competition, so come what may a winner would be chosen – by us and, separately, by the audience.

Well, the whole thing was a bit like reading while balancing on one leg. Not conducive to thoughtful reflection, but certainly a way of keeping the mind active. And there’s nothing to make you concentrate quite like a theatre full of people hanging on your every word.

As a panel I’d say we acquitted ourselves quite honourably. We talked of strong beginnings, nice detail, good characterisation, the benefits of a good title, and the market (though this, we agreed, should be the publisher’s concern, not the writer’s). And we were able to say good things about everything we heard because the standard was undoubtedly high.

And, huddled over lunch, we picked our winner. Arguing loudly and at length was impossible: the winner had to be chosen in the time it took to eat lunch, and the writers were almost within eavesdropping distance. But despite these pressures we kept our cool and did our job.

It was 4 o’clock by the time proceedings were over. The sky was blue, the sun was shining, and it appeared that the outside world had been enjoying itself after all. But I was quite happy to have spent the day indoors and at the receiving end of some excellent writing. After a working – for which read ‘waking’ – life of being hunched over a thousand manuscripts, of reading head-down, of being alone with my thoughts, what a blessed relief to be participating in a team sport. And it seems it was good for the writers too. Writing is, after all, far lonelier than what I do – at least I have colleagues – and here were six writers given the chance to meet some opinion-spouting readers face to face.

They were an impressive bunch. So well done to Paul Gapper, who we chose as our winner for his sparkling Birth of Stars; well done to Jarred McGinnis, the audience’s thoroughly deserving champion; and well done to the four other brave and talented writers: Funmi Adewale, Jane Hayward, Dawn Rodgers and Mohini Singh. And well done to Annette Brook and the rest of the team at Spread the Word. I’ve never watched Pop Idol, but I’m sure this was just as exciting.

Juliette Mitchell,
Editor, Hamish Hamilton

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The Colophon

Lovers of colophonic artistry should immediately check out this great collection of vintage colophons – A-G here and h-z here. My personal favourite is this one for Phantom Books – what's yours?

Jeremy Ettinghausen, Digital Publisher

(vintage colophons via Nevver and Draplin.com)

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What’s in a name?

It's a truth universally acknowledged in publishing that imprints mean little to most readers. Indeed, you might be thinking as you read this, 'what's an imprint?'. Well, an imprint is the (rough) equivalent of a record label. As certain labels are known for putting out a certain kind of music, so imprints are known for publishing a certain kind of book. Penguin itself is an imprint: a paperback imprint, under which all our paperbacks – from Marian Keyes to JK Galbraith – are published (except for Penguin Classics and Modern Classics, which are imprints themselves). But we have various hardback imprints too, and these hardback imprints are known – to agents, authors, bookshops, journalists, literary editors and other publishers, if not the General Public – for different things.

In Penguin Press our hardback imprint is Allen Lane. Allen Lane is known for publishing a certain kind of high minded non-fiction, books on subjects or by authors that have to be known about, from Nassim Taleb on Black Swans to Richard Overy on the second world war. And yet we've always published books that, while close to our hearts, aren't truly on subjects that you have to know about but more on subjects that are fun to know about. These are books like Albert Jack's Pop Goes the Weasel, or Britain & Ireland's Best Wild Places by Christopher Somerville.

Last January Penguin Press had an away day and we started to think that perhaps these books deserved their own home. We thought about the qualities these books shared, and about a name and colophon (or logo) that would represent them. We talked with booksellers about other books and other publishers and imprints who publish well in this area. We asked them what they liked. And in the end we focused on the idea that these books are fun to know: the subject matter is fun to know, the voice of the author is passionate and characterful, the physical book is charming. Georgina Laycock, Editorial Director, came up with the name: Particular Books. Stefanie Posavec conceived of the origami rabbit. The name and the rabbit gave us a visual reference point
and helped us focus.

Download Particular Books

We began to talk with agents about the kind of book we hoped to publish in Particular Books, and launched the imprint at our sales conference in February, with (among other things) a presenter on the books that can be turned into a fortune teller. This year we will publish seven titles with a rabbit on their spine. The first two books are published in July: Why Is Q Always Followed by U? and The Country Alphabet by Geoffrey Grigson. Books that follow, this year and next, include books about collective nouns for animals, the history of pub names, odd words from the English language, gardening, how to build a made-to-measure bike, and more.

So why do we think imprints matter? The reasons are, I suppose, all associated with purpose. Lots of decisions get made in the process of publishing a book. An author decides to write a book or proposal, an agent decides which imprint and editor to send that to, the publishing team decides whether it wants to publish the book, the author and agent decide who to sell the book to… Once the book is bought we all make decisions about format, price, the jacket, the title and subtitle, the kind of publicity we aim for, where the book will sit in bookstores, and so on.

Of course, many things happen to a book over which we have no control, and making decisions doesn't mean we shouldn't be open to changing our minds or thinking anew. But we hope having this new imprint will help us think clearly about the decisions we make, and open our and agents' eyes to publishing opportunities we might not have seen before. An imprint helps everyone imagine what a book might be and fosters, we hope, a sense of common purpose.

Helen Conford, heading up Particular Books with Georgina Laycock

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60 ways to drive yourself mad

It is a sad thing to watch a writer go off the rails. But in these Twittered, My-Faced, Spacebooked, blog-rolled times, any meltdown is bound to be tragically public.

You may remember that at the tail end of last year author Jeff VanderMeer rashly took on the challenge of reading and reviewing Penguin's three series of Great Ideas one after the other. That's sixty books in sixty days. At the time, I questioned the wisdom of this idea. But Jeff was adamant that he, and he alone, could do it. His endeavour – his hubris? – got picked up in a few places. Suddenly the world was watching. The pressure was on.

If Jeff wasn't true to his word, he was going to find more than egg on his face.

It was going so well. The first twenty books were dispatched on schedule. In those early reviews, more like mini-essays really, Jeff filleted the classics and artfully arranged their innards so that we looked at them anew. He was producing a minimum of a thousand words every day on each review, in addition to his other projects and posts.

However, round about book 29 (How to Achieve True Greatness by Baldesar Castiglione) signs that Jeff's mental health might be suffering appeared. Jeff wrote in a footnote:

'Every time I see “[…]” in these texts I consider it a special
communication, and that there is the possibility the Penguin editors
been monitoring my reading patterns and have personalized my copy to
cut the text in just the right places for my attention span.'

A few posts later, he wrote, in a review of Hume's On Suicide (and other essays):

'Creators are a bunch of half-mad louts drunk with words, who gain power
and strength through constructive expression of their irrationalities.'

At this point I was not yet aware that the wheels were coming off the wagon.

Then in late January I began to get the emails. Jeff needed to take a break. Not because he'd recognised the signs of mental exhaustion himself. But because he had 'other commitments'. A 'teaching gig in Australia' was mentioned. He stopped at book 36 of 60, then went off line for a while. Some posts 'from Australia' duly appeared. He was due to resume but then 'deadlines' got in the way. Two books needed 'last-minute edits'. There would be further delays. February came and went. And March. He was posting again on his blog but avoiding the subject of 60 in 60.

Then on Tuesday, this post appeared on his blog (see the not-at-all-disturbing screen-grab above).

Who knows what possessed him when he wrote it? Guilt perhaps. Shame maybe. Alcohol certainly. But also there is a kind of insane defiance at work here. The 60 days have long passed. The war is over, the battle lost. Yet he's soldiering on nevertheless.

But rather than reading the remaining 24 titles, Jeff has instead read the BLURB and FIRST PAGE of each book. Instead of writing a thousand words on each book's contemporary relevance, he has written a three line poem.

Two examples serve to illustrate his feverish state of mind:

#37 – Henry David Thoreau’s Where I Lived and What I Lived For

Hippy words
Talks to trees
Dirty yellow toenails

#56 – Walter Benjamin’s The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction

Replicate me please
Replicate me please
Why all these eyes?

Jeff claims the full service will resume next week. I have my doubts, and I'm not sure where it will all end. If at all. I'm especially worried as later this year a fourth series of Great Ideas is scheduled to be published.

But let's not tell Jeff that.

Colin Brush
Senior Creative Copywriter

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And as if sticker jokes weren’t enough…

…. Whose day wouldn't be made by this? Respected editors and sensible copywriters alike flocked the corridors of power to prod and be delighted by this fantastic creature.

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Literary laughter is the best medicine

Since it's April Fool's Day, I'm in a jovial mood, and looking at what's occurring currently, we seem in need of some light spirits. In one of our meeting rooms today, I noticed some wag had put a sticker on Ernest Shackelton's Escape from the Antarctic saying, "The inspiration for the BBC's I'd Do Anything", and it made me laugh. Obviously, the original sticker came from Charles Dickens's searing indictment of child poverty, rather than the noted explorer's musical escapades in the South Pole, but it got me thinking – in this vein, which stickers would you like to see? To get the ball rolling:

1984: "The inspiration for Channel 4's hit show Big Brother"

One has to take one's laughs where one can find them.

Sam the Copywriter

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Special guest post: the Obler on Coffee

Gone is the day of the publishers’ martini lunch.  These days the Penguin offices are fuelled by a heady mix of chamomile, peppermint and green teas.  And plenty of coffee.  Walking into the staff café in the morning is like being punched in the face with a caffeine-infused glove.  To celebrate the daily grind (ho ho), and to celebrate the publication of his warming, enlivening debut novel, Javascotia, we asked coffee fanatic Benjamin Obler to talk us through the whys and wherefores, the highs and lows, of his 5 Favourite Cups of Coffee in a Day. Take it away, Benjamin.

1. The Morning Cup. 

It's so obvious, I know, but the morning cup — the first — morning cup — is like the pioneer. The self-sacrificer. Without it, there would be no others. It's the Ray Charles of coffee cups. The Aretha Franklin. The original, and still the go-to when it's got to be done right. Imagine the pressure on all those first cups in the greater DC area the morning of January 20. Three a.m., the middle of the night, people travelling to the inauguration. It's time to deliver, morning cup. It's all on you. And it delivered. You know it did.

Even on a regular day, it's a workhorse. It doesn't get savored, rather greedily slurped. It has no accompaniment — not mine, anyway, though my wife takes peanut butter toast — nothing to offset its deficiencies if there are any. It's just out there doing its job: being strong, being hot, being dark but not too dry. That's no small feat at 6:30 or 7:00. Where I live, it can be ten or twenty below zero (F) outside in the a.m., and in the kitchen, it's not much better than 55. The coffee maker is cold, the carafe is cold, the burr mill is cold, the beans are cold. Optimum extraction needs water hitting 180 F. Okay, yes, some of the burden is on the equipment, yet who's getting up to do its thing? The morning cup. Props are in order. There's been a lot of mornings, and you've been there — I won't turn my back on you now, morning cup. You da man.

2. The Fiction Hour Cup

Aesthetically, this one is my favorite. An explanation is in order, I suppose. The Fiction Hour is precisely what you might imagine: the time when all other things are dropped and writing begins. Most nights this happens around 7:00 p.m. Often what will happen is, a short nap is taken between 6 and 7. This empties the brain of daytime, practical, rational thoughts: matters pertaining to the so-called real world. Mentally, gears are shifted. Then coffee is made, and a first cup is had while coming out of a "nap-over" and writing in a journal. The fingers and mental tongue loose, a second cup is poured. Things are usually quite lucid by now, and having divested myself of the burden of recording the day's trivial matters and perhaps brainstormed about the fiction at hand, plotted a little course, I set to it. The Fiction Hour Cup comes along on this mental journey. It is the final stage booster rocket. But it's only fuel, not the vehicle. It's still up to the captain to steer towards a planet or get the vessel into a meaningful orbit. Keep water nearby and a pack of gum, set up the office near a restroom, and you'll be fine; the Fiction Hour Cup will not get the best of you, but get the best out of you.

3. The After-Luncher (a.k.a. the Après-Déjeuner)

There's nothing very poetic about this one. It's more scientific. The fact is, the body becomes sluggish after lunch, for a number of reasons to do with circadian rhythms, blood sugar spikes, and something called a homeostatic cycle. (It's all documented by a team of certified internet scientists.) These phenomena contribute to a strong desire to fall on the floor, eyes closed, and not wake for several days. But this course of action isn't too practical for folks wanting to remain gainfully employed. Enter the After-Luncher! Da da da! Regal trumpet blasts! He's the unsung hero of the coffee day! In summer, he might come in iced, or cold-pressed, form. Mmm-mmm, nothing wrong with that. At the office, he might be — gasp! — that brew made from pouches of flaky Robusta shipped in on a food service van. Gulp. Far from ideal, as in blind tastes tests, soggy loafer insoles and rained-on cardboard have been preferred. But Robusta actually has more caffeine than its classier cousin, Arabica. Sometimes it's just a matter of whatever gets the job done and keeps the chin off the chest. That is what the After-Luncher is all about. Its raison d'etre is to raise one from death.

 
4. The Great Reliever

A good cup of coffee brings many pleasures: aroma, ambiance, companionship of a sort or an aid to human companionship, flavor, calm, warmth, uplift, ritual. But one thing it has not always been lauded for, until recently, is pain relief. And again we turn to the documented science: this has been proven by studies. Serious studies by men in white coats and rimless spectacles. Though I must add that I noticed the benefits, and have relied on the effects greatly, long before it hit the internet headlines in recent years.

A Jan. 2005 article by Melvyn R. Welbach states, firstly, that caffeine acts as an amplifier to household pain pills. "In a review of 30 clinical trials involving over 10,000 patients, the authors concluded that 40% higher dosages of aspirin, acetaminophen or salicylamide would be needed if they were not given in combination with a small dose of caffeine." The same holds true for ibuprofen, which is found in my medicine cabinet. And caffeine's solo effects were tested as well: "Caffeine appeared to have an independent analgesic effect … Sixty-five milligrams of caffeine was just as effective as 648 milligrams of acetaminophen…" That's ten times as effective! Is there no end to coffee's power? Furthermore, a ScienceDaily.com headline of Jan. 10, 2007 reads: "Caffeine Cuts Post-workout Pain By Nearly 50 Percent, Study Finds."

As a recreational tennis player, or "weekend warrior," I've known about this for a while. That is why my number four favorite cup, though not a "daily" cup, is The Great Reliever: that cup that one makes after a long session, whether match or practice, of chasing down forehands, scrambling for backhands, charging the net, lunging for volleys, and leaping for overheads on the unforgiving hardcourts of public parks, which are composed of little more than concrete and paint. You can take your fluids, you can eat your chicken sandwich (protein to rebuild muscle tissue), you can get a rub-down, you can shower and rest, but until you brew The Great Reliever, and with it wash down three Advil, the sound you make descending stairs will continue to be, creak Ow, creak Ow, creak Ow.

5. The I'm-On-a-Roll Cup

Let me be clear: you have to know your limits. The I'm-on-a-Roll Cup is not for everybody. Use only as directed. Consult your physician if you have a heart condition or take blood thinners. Side effects may include insomnia, blurred vision, delusions of literary grandeur, workshop paranoia, gastrointestinal distress, and loss of editorial restraint. You have to know where your line is. You have to draw the line, and stay clear of the line.

Furthermore the IOAR Cup is by no means daily. Make it daily and you will imperil your central nervous system. In fact, your nervous system may become decentralized altogether, and that's not good, trust me.

So what is it? It's that one-too-many cup, the after-midnight cup, the Memphis-by-Dawn cup, the exam cram cup, the hyper-intense discussion, at a romantic confluence or spiritual crossroads cup, the friend-in-town-from-out-of-town cup, the In-the-Creative-Zone cup.

Like the morning cup, it's not going be th
e most lingered-over delicacy. One doesn't make it for the flavor or fineness. At this hour, in these circumstance, you're not going for an elegant presentation with trays and sugar spoons laid out handsomely. If you could, you'd mainline this one. And it is like a drip: stabilizing. The IOAR is just what you need there to keep you on track, like a guardrail. Okay, you're going to hammer out those breakup blues or finish your shift in the driver's seat until mile marker 280, or mount your story's next plot-rise. You are rolling already and have no intention of stopping just yet, but you can't just coast—that may cause a sputter. They say that in a car, you have more control accelerating through a turn. Same concept here, though to mix the metaphor: the IOAR cup is like fresh motor oil, keeping things slick and cool as you red-line it.

Benjamin Obler, author

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