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“ This book is a delicious treat. But if you read a little deeper, it's got a lot of anger in it too.
Bestseller (Olivia Goldsmith) is quite a send-up of the publishing industry, and it hits most of the genres as it goes.
We have an aging so-so writer of emotional women's fiction (think Danielle Steele); we have a mother whose child committed suicide and left behind a great work (think Confederacy of Dunces); we've got a husband-and-wife team writing true crime from the criminal's perspective, only it turns out his definition of team is to have her do all the work while he takes all the credit; We have a lovely little E.M. Forster type book written by a lovely unassuming English expat living in Italy.
And starting for the other team...
The main archetypes of the publishing world: The vain and snooty publisher of a Simon and Schuster-type house, who has become accustomed to a certain number of sales to fit his lifestyle; the bitchy editor who's gotten used to picking winners and has forgotten what to do if she doesn't; the quietly brilliant assistant editor who represents emerging talent. The too-cool agent who takes his star writer for granted and doesn't have the time of day for an unknown; the emerging-talent agent who has nothing but time for the unknowns.
Here's something else that becomes fairly obvious: men don't do very well in this book. With only a few exceptions, men have the dubious honor of being the lying, desperate, cowardly, tyrannical cheats of this book. And with the exception of Pam the bitchy editor, the women slog along, talented and ridiculed, only to throw off the chains of the oppressor through published vindication. Perhaps that's how Goldsmith came up in the world. She certainly can write a nicely, paced and lively story, full of amusing vignettes. And she certainly is no dummy.
Goldsmith took some care with this book: each chapter has a quote about publishing or editing or writing--some real, some made up according to the characters. and it also says a whole lot of really truthful, hardhitting things about what's wrong with publishing. Here is my favorite:
Publishers were always looking for the next new success, while virtually
none of them accepted or read new writers' work. Publishers depended on agents'
submissions, but agents only received 10 or 15% of a writer's income, so they
tried to limit their stables to writers who would earn huge advances. And most
of the agents didn't take on new clients. So how was a new writer to get
published, and how were publishers going to find the next new thing?
Oh how right she is. And with all this going for it, it's unfortunate that Goldsmith's copy editor didn't come through for her --the book has many obvious typos, which I found ironic. It also veers toward slapstick, one of those books where the villains are so villainous, they might as well wear an eyepatch and carry a parrot on their shoulders. But if this is what it takes...I have to admit that Goldsmith gets her point across. (Now if only she had tackled the concept of remainders, which has got to be the most backward practice in business today.)
Goldsmith wrote 14 books, the first of which, First Wives Club, made her famous. But it seems she had a little too much in common with at least one of her protagonists. I recently came across an article about Goldsmith's death from complications during cosmetic surgery.
Death of Olivia Goldsmith
Well. But don't let that take away from the very smart things she did and thought. Here's another:
'We don't accept unsolicited--'
The old woman was nodding her head. 'I know that dear. Believe me, I know.
You can't get an agent unless you've already been published. You can't be
published unless you've already been published. And you can't be considered for
publication if you don't have an agent.'
But Olivia Goldsmith isn't too hard on us. She makes everything work out [almost too peachily, perhaps] in the end. And she leaves us with this thought about reading:
It wasn't an alternative to an experience or an escape from
it....Reading was the only way we could transcend our own experience and
deeply engage in that of another.
Yes, that I can agree with. For anyone who's ever played an assistant or low-on-the-totem-pole role in publishing, devour this book. You won't be able to help yourself.
And good night. But tell me this, readers. Is the restaurant she decribes, Flor de Mayo, the same restaurant in Double Fault, on Upper Broadway where they eat cuban style rice and beans and barbecued pork for a reasonable price? I'm going to check this out when next I am in Manhattan. ”