Auctions scare me.

I offer more than I would otherwise, then wake up with a cold sweat in fear of actually paying that much for a project. Of course, I only bid on books I believe in, but still, it’s always a gamble, especially with a big advance that could—unless the book becomes the breakout you hope it will be—lead to overpaying. 

If I were a gambler or a big spender in my personal life, maybe I would have more fun with literary auctions. But professionally, I think they make me show my hand a bit too early in the game. 

On the other hand, I bet that agents and authors love auctions. It gives them the upper hand. It means that their book is hot—desired by multiple houses—and will command a competitive price. (Competitive in the sense that multiple editors from multiple houses are competing for the same book.)

The biggest pressure-cooker is a “best bids” situation. This is a setup wherein, on a certain date, the editor must present her best offer. No chance later for increasing the advance, adding a royalty escalator later, frontloading the payments, or even bumping up the author copies. No, this is the situation where if one’s initial figures aren’t up to snuff, they’ll walk away. Straight into the arms of another publisher.

For authors and agents, this is the best of both worlds. Not only do bids start higher than they would otherwise, but also bidding wars can start when the two highest bidders have been identified. (This happens when the two highest offers are quite close.) Essentially, it’s like the auctioneer leading with a pie-in-the-sky figure, and the two high-rollers in sunglasses and earpieces taking it from there.

But are editors really high-rollers? Can we trade our black plastic glasses for reflective shades when the time comes? Of course we can. These are books—beautiful, meaningful books—but it’s also capitalism.

So far, I’ve won more auctions than I’ve lost. And don’t get me wrong, I’ve gotten some fabulous books that bring a lot of new ideas and fresh blood to the list. But sometimes, after an auction, even though I may have “won,” I find myself wondering whether it’s really only an author or agent who truly wins an auction.

Therefore, my advice for authors is: Get an agent. Build the buzz. Have a hot proposal. Then have a best bids auction if you’ve got simultaneous interest. For authors, it’s the way to get the winning hand. If you’re agent, know this: editors do respond to auctions, but we also respond well to personal discussions where it feels like a relationship is being built in a way that respects our time and editorial process. To quote the creepy kid from League of Their Own: “Can’t we do both?”

If a great book starts with a great platform, then will people with a great platform make great authors?

Or more actively, should an acquiring editor approach people with great platforms and work with them to make a book idea?

My sense is, that rarely works out—and it’s a lot of effort for such a long shot.

Conversely, part of the reason blogs are such popular fodder for book topics is because they not only provide a decent platform, but they are written proof that the “author” has an idea and can get it down on paper.

So is trolling the Internet akin to going on a book-project shopping spree?

In point: is it a better idea to find people with truly strong platforms, and turn them into authors? Or is it easier to find authors online (bloggers) who already have planted the seed—but might ultimately produce a less authoritative, helpful book?

In the end, it’s still best to use the book industry’s “personal shoppers,” or literary agents. There’s a level of quality control and thought to market positioning (not to mention positioning within a house’s specific list) that has already been done.

Of course, now literary agents are starting to shop blog-based books, so all bets are off.

More and more, publishing folks are plagued by the Internet. Not because of e-books or apps, but because much of the authoritative information that could previously only be found in books is now easily (and instantaneously) accessible online.

One of the most important questions an acquisitions editor asks herself is, Can I find the information in this proposal online?

The second one is, Will the audience for this book look online for this information first?

So before you submit that book proposal on social networking for teens, think about whether teens are a demographic that already accesses that information online. If the answer is yes, ask yourself:

How can I reframe my domain expertise in a way that will be appropriate for the format of a book?

A few options for doing so:

• Skew the audience or proposed buyer older (although this is becoming less of an option as all generations are becoming more tech-savvy).
• Come up with an argument—with a unique point or view or well-developed arc—that is sustained throughout the book  (and thus deserves the book format).
• Make the argument that you’ve done the work—collating, organizing—for the reader by collecting all the information in one place. (This one only works if the information is extremely onerous for web-searchers to collect online, or if the author’s organization of the information adds an extra value or level of authority.)
• Make it a gift. This only works well for certain subject matter—but part of what makes books unique and valuable is their fetishized worth as objects. Objects that can be given as gifts to those interested or even peripherally involved in that topic. (This is why silly books that should be emails or websites sometimes sell well: you can’t give a website link as a gift.)

If you have a book idea, great. Just make sure you can defend why it should be a book.

When someone succeeds in one medium, naturally, their publishing (or other media) team brainstorms about what to do next.

But will the success translate? Success in every sense of the word, not just financial?

Take Paul Guest. He’s an amazing poet, and part of why people are drawn to his poetry is because of the ghostlike personal story behind it.

Now he has a memoir coming out. People who love his poetry will be interested in hearing the stories of his life—it’s partly why we care about his poetry. I’m one of the people who will read the memoir, attend his book tour reading (either in person, or, as is becoming more common, online), and so on. Sure.

But part of me worries that hearing his life story will make his poems less magical. Instead of the mysterious red-haired woman who floats in and out of various memories, will I be faced with the actual woman, and the actual facts of her life—or at least of her relationship with the author?

So there’s the conundrum: will the memoir add a new facet to our collective imagination? Or will it detract from the colors of that imagination, in terms of his poetry and the stance we take towards it? (Poetic stance, I would argue, is more impressionistic than the nonfictive stance.)

Certainly, choosing to transfer the following of a poet from books of poetry to memoirs is a smart move on the part of the publisher. Indeed, maybe they’re hoping that Paul Guest’s memoir will lead new readership to his poetry. But does the crossover have literary merit? Or might his memoir be like his poetry, just too long and with the words all squashed together?

I think part of the transition can be seen in the shift in book titles, from the poetry book’s more edgy My Index of Slightly Horrifying Knowledge to the memoir’s meaningful, yet more vanilla One More Theory about Happiness.

Does Paul Guest’s haunting index really need a theory to bring it all together? Will his audience benefit from the resulting amalgam of fact and fiction? Will his poetry receive even more detailed autobiographical analyses? And will there be some purists who avoid the memoir in order to keep Guest firmly upon his foggy, evanescent pedestal?

Next time you realize you’re the world’s greatest expert in something, pause.

I know, I know: you want to write THE book on the subject. You’re the best person (say it…author!) for the job.

But before you launch into writing a bible, think about what religion you are. In other words:

WHAT’S YOUR HOOK?

That, my friends, is the butter on an acquisitions editor’s bread. It’s deliciously fattening, it’s salty and gooey, and it’s what’s going to make people want to eat that dried up ol’ piece of toast. Starting with me, the editor.

If a category of book, the subject-matter if you will, is the bread—the substance—then the hook is the butter. It’s what makes the bread flavorful. It’s what makes it enticing to the toast-crazed breakfast-eater, er, reader.

Give your poor acquisitions editor a hook. It’s what she needs to justify adding a new book to an already crowded shelf. It’s going to be her answer to everyone around the acquisitions meeting table—because, in turn, it’s going to be their answer to book reps, who are answering to book buyers, who are stocking the shelves in the hopes that your hook will jump out to bookstore browsers.

So, what makes a good hook?

1. It’s new (or new-sounding).

2. It’s a unique take on an established subject.

3. There are people who’d be interested in that focused topic (aka the market).

4. It’s easy to “get.” If you can explain what makes it special—what makes it different from all the books that came before it—in one sentence, you’re golden.

5. It has to relate to the other books in the category. None of this, “My book is the only book like it! I can’t compare it to anything!” I’m an editor, not a snake-oil addict.

HOOK me, and my attention’s all yours.