At bookstore events, there is a specific type of conversation that takes place, usually by the wine table, where a writer explains, with complete conviction, why their manuscript didn’t sell. Rarely is it “the book wasn’t ready.” Instead, it’s almost always something more significant, something outside of the author’s control. Books about the South are disliked by editors. Books written by men are not desired by editors. These days, editors only want short books. There are many theories, but the majority of them are untenable.
It’s worth taking a moment to consider that South Alabama tale. A few hours from Harper Lee’s hometown, in a bookstore filled with Forrest Gump, and across the street from a novelist who had just won her second National Book Award, a writer who had recently moved close to Mobile insists that New York editors have a regional bias, seemingly oblivious to the fact that he is saying this. Making such a claim from that specific location is peculiar. On the contrary, the location suggests that the area has produced some of the nation’s most renowned fiction.
Since these theories seldom emerge out of nowhere, it is worthwhile to inquire as to where they truly originate. In this instance, it was traced back to a freelance editor who had charged a writer a hefty fee and required an explanation for the failure of the investment. It’s easier to blame a nebulous, anonymous “New York publishing bias” than to acknowledge that the manuscript hasn’t arrived yet. Everyone’s emotions are safeguarded. It simply isn’t accurate.
Compared to what most authors believe, editors reject books for less ideological and more complex reasons. Unscientific as it may sound, one editor at a major imprint allegedly told agents that a manuscript just “didn’t capture my heart,” demonstrating the greater influence of personal taste than people like to acknowledge. Even when an editor is in love with a book, they may still reject it because they don’t see a market for it or because it doesn’t align with their brand. That has nothing to do with the author’s politics, geography, or gender. It has to do with fit, timing, and taste—all of which are infamously unpredictable.
A closer examination of the theory that publishers steer clear of books written by young white men is also warranted, primarily due to how quickly it gained traction after Joyce Carol Oates proposed it a few years ago. The assertion is unsupported by sales figures or bestseller lists, but it is worth noting that some literary awards and fellowships—the kind that help establish a young writer’s reputation—have shifted away from straight white male millennials in particular. Over the past ten years, that group has not produced a single finalist for the Center for Fiction’s First Novel Prize. It’s a real pattern. Simply put, it’s not the same as publishers declining to purchase their books, and the theory seems to break down when the two are confused.
Not much better is the short-book theory. It stems from a widely circulated opinion piece that makes the case that short novels are appropriate for a distracted culture. This claim is based on scant evidence, including a personal story, a single quote from Claire Keegan, and a few examples that are decades old. Actual publishing data, however, presents a different picture. At about 136,000 words, Rebecca Yarros’ Onyx Storm became one of the fastest-selling books in 20 years. There are roughly 300,000 copies of Ron Chernow’s Mark Twain. The market hasn’t received the message if editors are secretly starving for conciseness.
The simplest explanation seems to be more difficult to articulate: occasionally the book wasn’t ready, the market shifted, or a hundred other manuscripts happened to be stronger that season. Seldom do authors aim for that version of events. It makes sense—rejection hurts, and it’s easier to point the finger at prejudice, a fad, or an unjust system than to say, “Maybe it needed another draft.” However, holding onto the incorrect explanation doesn’t only make you feel horrible. It has the potential to subtly undermine the subsequent submission, edit cycle, and actual attempt.
For this, athletes have a saying that authors could use: “We played well, they played better.” It’s not overly dramatic. It doesn’t call for conspiracy or place blame. It simply acknowledges that, like most competitive industries, publishing does not immediately reward talent in an equitable or fair manner. It’s difficult to ignore how much easier it is for writers to deal with rejection year after year once they start asking what the manuscript still needs instead of blaming others.
