Almost all authors experience an uncomfortable realization at some point, usually between signing a contract and getting a finished copy of their book: a lot of what ended up on that cover, that back page, and possibly even that title wasn’t entirely their call. It’s not always easy to come to this realization. Sometimes it ends up in the middle of a dispute with an editor. Sometimes it comes to light years later in a gift shop when you notice that your book is still selling and realize why they were correct.
In a piece that has been circulating among writers, author and journalist Amy Stewart discussed this tension. It cuts to something that the publishing industry seldom says aloud. For decades, business consultants have used a decision matrix, which is a straightforward 2×2 grid that nearly perfectly reflects the decision-making process between authors and their publishers. Who makes the decision is one axis. Conversely, who is consulted? Additionally, the picture isn’t always what authors anticipate when it comes to book publishing.
The writing is under the author’s control. Actually, everything: the characters, the voice, the structure, the late-night rewrites, the interview decisions, and whether to conduct the research over Zoom or on a cross-country trip. They truly, clearly own that portion of the process. However, the calculation changes as soon as a manuscript is turned into a product—something that is printed, priced, distributed, and advertised. The cover, price point, subtitle, publicity budget, paper stock, and even which bookstores receive priority placement are all determined by publishers. Sometimes authors are unaware of the extent of that reach.
Stewart’s framing is so helpful because it doesn’t present it as a complaint. It resembles a map more. She contends that the editorial process is somewhere in the middle, where authors should likely make the majority of the changes and publishers will push for them. Most, but not all. Furthermore, that “should probably” is significant. Editorial recommendations are not made at random by publishers. They are using data, patterns, and years of observing which books gain and lose readers. An author’s attachment to a specific scene, phrase, or subtitle is genuine and comprehensible. However, it might also be ignorant in ways that are hidden from the author’s own manuscript.
Additionally, there is the messier area, which includes pre-publication choices like marketing copy and cover design, where authors are consulted, encouraged to provide feedback, and sometimes given close attention. However, the publisher still frequently has the last say. Because this is the visible part of the process, it’s possible that authors are more bothered by it than anything else. The world sees what’s on the cover. What a customer reads in a gift shop is the subtitle. Additionally, readers give credit or blame to the author rather than the editorial staff when they enjoy or dislike a book. There is genuine tension because of that asymmetry.
Stewart shares a compelling tale about her book Wicked Plants. A Book of Botanical Atrocities was one of her favorite subtitles. Her publisher wanted to change it to something about Lincoln through Peter Workman, the founder of Workman. When she received the call, she was getting on a plane. “Lincoln is everywhere,” she declared. “There are a million books about him right now.” Exactly, people like him, her editor said calmly. Stewart reluctantly conceded as the conversation came to an end. For a moment, she winced. The book then began to sell.
It is more instructive than most publishing advice to watch that kind of story unfold: an author making a mistake, owning up to it, and then realizing why. It has nothing to do with creative surrender or submission. It’s about realizing that there is a purpose behind the decision matrix: different decisions belong to different people because different people have different areas of expertise. Peter Workman knew what a Kansas reader would pick up from a display table. That was specific, hard-won knowledge about buyers, not conceit. Stewart recognized both her voice and her subject matter. They were both accurate. For their respective sides of the matrix, neither individual was inappropriate.
It’s the hypothetical middle category that seems to cause authors the most trouble, not the choices they obviously lose. The “we decide together” area is rarely present in real life. In a process with actual deadlines, budgets, and commercial pressures, reaching a consensus is nearly impossible, despite its democratic and equitable sound. A book must be published in the spring. The catalog needs to be published. It is not possible to wait for complete agreement on a subtitle. As a result, decisions are made, and someone must have the last say. That person is typically not the author in publishing, at least not when it comes to the product side of things.
This is difficult to hear, particularly for authors who devote years to a manuscript and have a strong sense of ownership over every aspect of it. It’s a valid emotion. However, it’s also possible that knowing where the lines truly lie facilitates rather than complicates the process. Losing that argument doesn’t feel like a betrayal if you are aware that the publisher has the final say over the cover design and that your opinions are actually taken into consideration. It seems as though it was always going to work.
Wicked Plants is still available in the National Gallery of Art’s gift shop in Washington, D.C., fifteen years after it was first published. The cover still has that Lincoln subtitle. It’s difficult to ignore what that means: the right choice, made by the right person, with knowledge that the author lacked at the time. That isn’t how every choice turns out. Publishers make mistakes in their calculations. Authors often follow their gut instincts. However, the framework is still valid, and being aware of this could spare some writers from the kind of annoyance that results from trying to reach a consensus in a process that wasn’t designed for it.
