This is probably well known, almost certainly self-evident, but nonetheless…

 

Do not send the entire manuscript to people unless they’ve asked for it.

 

After all, the people who form the first line of defence against unsolicited authors, the publishing industry’s immune system, are busy. They have an awful lot of stuff come in to land on their desks. Let us say that one such has a moment’s free time and thinks, “I know, I’ll pick up something completely new, something from some unheard-of hack living somewhere in the middle of nowhere, and I’ll give it a go.” They look at their desk. They have a slender, elegant submission of a few chapters; they have a huge wodge of pages that would stun a bear. Which are they likely to take up?

 

There is a small variance in taste, amongst publishers, as to what you should send in. A very, very few may take email submissions, but this is decidedly the exception. To determine what to send a given publisher, go back to stage 1. Give them a call and ask. Many of them will, in fact, rapidly volunteer the information. It is, after all, in everyone’s interests. In your Handbook or Yearbook the information may even be listed in the entry. In the last exigency, in fear and doubt and ignorance, send three chapters. That seems to be the happy medium to which most publishers, those that take unsolicited material at all, aspire.

 

Three chapters generally means the first three. Three random chapters, or chapters 14–16, will only sow confusion. Moreover, if you have only the first three written, I'd go back to an earlier post and First Write Your Book. Whilst there are such things as submissions of working drafts, fragments, treatments and the like, this is mostly Established Author Territory, and one of the main things any publisher wants to know, before trusting its weight to you, is that you can actually finish a full-length novel.

 

Now, dress your three chapters properly for their journey. Make sure they have everything they need. You are unlikely to see them again any time soon, and perhaps never again. They should be typed, on one side of the paper, in a sensible font (1).  Whilst I have nothing Gospel to say on excess ornament, I suspect that, unless the genre would normally require it, illustrations, figures and the like are not encouraged. And double-spaced.

 

Yep. Your three chapters are now as thick as six chapters, and you’re not sure why. It’s true that should you get as far as an editor, he will take the sight of those long, bare avenues of paper between the lines as a challenge, and will fill them utterly with amendments and revisions. Why the initial shieldwall of readers needs this, I am not sure. I find double-spaced text considerably harder to read myself, as my attention tends to fall into the gaps, not to mention the number of times you have to turn the page, but this is apparently industry standard: so it is, therefore so it shall be written. Possibly they’re testing your dedication by seeing how much money you’re willing to blow on postage.

 

Finally, it’s also good form to include a stamped, self-addressed envelope (3). This is so that, when your manuscript is rejected, you can eventually hear about it. The word “eventually” should be interpreted loosely. On average it would seem to mean about three months before your slightly foxed manuscript progeny, for whom no fatted calf shall be slain, slumps and shudders through the letterbox. Sometimes it may be faster than this. It may be considerably slower. I have had submissions back over a year after they were posted. Sometimes the little fellow shall disappear into the ether, never to be heard of again, although on these occasions my inner detective would certainly invite the postal service, when gathering all the suspects in one room.

 

If you get something back very quickly, it is likely to mean that either you got very, very lucky, or you picked the wrong target and the recipient either doesn’t deal with that kind of material, or has no capacity to take on anything new.

 

If you get the manuscript back at all, it’s almost certain to be bad news. This is to spare you all the little needling sparks of hope when the package, your own address in your own handwriting, wings its way home. Hope is a cruel deceiver in this game. If they liked it, they’ll most likely keep it, and just send you a letter.

 

Next: Whither agency?

 

(1)   At one point during the long desert of rejection slips I decided, in the way that desperate people everywhere adopt superstition for lack of any other source of aid, that there was obviously an official “publishing” font, and that I was not using it. Perhaps the difference between Arial and Times New Roman (2) was all that was holding me back? To the best of my knowledge this is, in fact, nonsense. Although a conspiracy of font-makers does have a certain ring. Perhaps Dan Brown should write a book about it.

 

(2)   This was me being arially retentive, obviously.

 

(3)   And take out a second mortgage while you’re at it to cover the postage implications of that.