Why I commissioned... THE COURT PAINTER'S APPRENTICE

Twitter-style summary: When court painter, Hugo spots young Johann's talent for painting a true likeness, he doesn't realise the true scope of his protege's power.

Why did I commission this book?

It's perfect.

What? You mean I have to write more than that in order to give people a true sense of how my editorial brain works? Oh. Right, erm...

The thing is, sometimes it's that simple.

Let's set the scene: January 2010, I've returned after a long winter break to an ever-growing slushpile and made the heart-wrenching decision to close my inbox to unsolicited submissions (here's why). I pick one from the top because I find myself inexplicably short of lunch time reading and scan the covering letter - it's short, professional and contains no gimmicks. This is the kind of cover letter I like. I completely by-pass the synopsis and go straight to the real writing. (Read between the lines: spend the time on your book, not the synopsis. We editors and agents all know they're hard to write and suck the heart out of your story like a half-starved zombie. Rarely has a submission been dismissed on the weakness of its synopsis. [NB synopsis is not to be confused with plot. Weak plots may well be rejected. {And never use multiples brackets the way I'm doing right now, either.}])

Anyway, where was I? Right. I was reading: 'Ooh,' says my brain. 'Me likey.' Or something more articulate, because I am an editor and words are my thing. I read the synopsis and think the me likey thoughts again. Sandwich finished, I pick up the phone ask to speak to Richard Knight and ask him to send over the rest of the manuscript. Turns out me likey the rest of the book too. LOTS.

What did I like?

The effortlessness of the narrative. Richard has an incredibly light touch when it comes to conveying historical detail, yet I came away with a very strong sense of time and place. (Please note my grasp of European geography and history is hazy at best, so this is an impressive feat on the writer's behalf.)

The characters. Johann is not my typical fall-for hero, he's both lighter and darker than other characters I've adored. Naive, yet ambitious, insecure but assured: he's what you want him to be - and what you don't. The surrounding cast are carefully drawn, their own hopes and dreams, beliefs and shortcomings are secrets to be shared with the discerning reader but not each other.

The philosophical question at the heart of what could just have been a straight tale of the perils of being talented. This is about how art can change perceptions, just by presenting you with want you what to see, somehow seeing it, believing it, can make what it portrays true. But Richard doesn't just stop with the nature of truth, he's going to push this further so that the metaphysical questions becomes the moral ones...

But this is what I took from the story - the joy of this book is that there's so many ways it can be interpreted, it can spin you off on a thousand different thought tangents, all the while rooted in great storytelling. Had I read this as a child, it would still be on my shelf and in my mind.

Basically, for me, it's perfect on every level.

Pitch perfect

Book fairs are a lot like speed dates between editors and agents: you have thirty minutes face time to impress 3-2-1 GO! (There isn’t actually a buzzer at the end – but I would like to state for the record that there really should be, I’m sure it would facilitate better time keeping.)

You’ve really got to make these meetings at London or Bologna count since they may be your only opportunity to actually see the people with whom you hope to build a lasting (professional) relationship. At each appointment, you've got to strike a balance between talking about yourself and listening to the person(s) opposite.

Sometimes I get frustrated at the sound of my own voice telling people how many books we publish; what kind (reissues, buy-ins, one picture book, one YA and everything else in between); what I’m looking for. Then I remind myself that it's extremely important to give agents an idea of my tastes, my passions, my editorial proclivities. If I don't give them a clear impression of who I am as an editor, how can I expect them to send me the right kind of material?

So then it’s time for me to listen. As I do so, I’m thinking one thing:

Am I really in the market for this project?

Sometimes I stop a pitch before it gets going. I would never want to appear rude but since there’s only me at Catnip, if I don’t think something will fit, then there’s no one to disagree with me further down the line when the submission is sent over. Agents are busy people and I don’t want to waste their time chasing me in three months time for an answer I can give now.

Obviously if there’s even the slightest chance of a ‘yes’ to my question I’ll ask to see the submission. (Reviewing my meeting notes I see that I won’t have much time for sleeping over the next few months...)

But it's important to remember that although fairs are exciting and pitches might promise the world, it’s the writing that’ll deliver it. And I won't get to see that until I actually open the document.

Right, my thirty minutes is up. Time to move on to the next blog post.

Death of a slush pile?

Over a year ago Catnip stopped accepting submissions. There were a number of reasons why:

• A member of staff had just left
  
• I was pregnant and had to prepare for maternity leave
• There were too many coming in

Obviously all those reasons are, in fact, one reason: I didn't have time. My excuse is that we're a small company of, erm, one. Larger publishing houses rarely accept unsolicited submissions either, but they do get offered those budget-busting Next Big Things before the agents look to us little ’uns.

With that in mind, perhaps the indies should keep the back door open for unsoliciteds to wander in off the street?

The thing is, so many are unsuitable that it can be disheartening. Not only did I find myself spending hours reading wholly unsuitable material (even rejecting takes time), I felt like I was brutally dashing hopes with every polite but impersonal rejection I sent out. Dream stomping leaves a bitter taste in my mouth because I’m firmly of the opinion that if you love writing, you should keep doing it. (There’s a subtext there, but in case you missed it: do not write because you want to get published.)

In spite of the practicalities, I do believe in the dream. Only a few days after we changed the website to say that Catnip no longer accepted submissions, I picked up a manuscript from the backlog that I promised myself I’d clear…

The Court Painter’s Apprentice by Richard Knight will be published early 2012 and despite being commissioned right off the slush pile, it’s needed minimal editing.

So, although it’s not perceived as being financially viable, and despite the fact that at least 99% of submissions are unsuitable, I do intend, one (far distant) day, to re-open Catnip to submissions, if only to keep a flicker of that dream alive.