THE ONE WHERE PUBLISHING BROKE ITS PROMISE
Category/genre: YA Fantasy
In the summer of 2020, publishing low-key felt white guilt, so naturally, they took to social media and told us: Black voices matter. Well, duh. Of course Black voices matter, but at the time, the publishing industry was applauded by many for stating the obvious. And while this collective act of ‘allyship’ had positive ripples across social media, many Black authors remained skeptical of publishing’s promise to uplift Black authors and Black stories.
I got my agent, a genuine ally, that summer, and we spent 2.5 months editing my manuscript. As I revised my little heart out, I had worries about going on submission. Before getting an agent, I educated myself on the process. I listened to podcasts, read industry articles and author blog posts, and watched YouTube videos. By the end, I was terrified out of my ever-loving mind. A feeling I locked away so I could just focus on getting my foot in the door. Fast forward a year later, I was agented and about to go on sub, so that terrified feeling jumped me like a gang of 7th graders after school.
However, publishing’s BVM pledges—naively—gave me a sense of hope. I didn’t want or expect a queue-hopper pass to the front of the submission line; I only wanted a publisher that genuinely meant what they said that summer.
I went on sub in the fall, which was perfect because I had a dark fantasy book. We subbed to 25 editors, many of whom requested the full within a couple of days. This gave me hope that publishing did want to follow through on its pledge to Black authors.
Annoyingly, the presidential election pulled focus not long after we subbed, so perfect timing became not-so-perfect timing, and as the country’s collective anxiety went haywire over recounts and voting scandals, the first passes trickled in throughout November and December.
Too adult. Too mature. Too old. The worldbuilding was too this or that. These “too adult/mature/old” passes triggered me a lot. Society views and treats Black kids as mature and adult, stripping away their youth. My main character was no different than a morally gray white YA protagonist. She did all the things readers love to see white teen MCs do in SFF, but according to publishing, she was too mature to be considered equal to them.
At first, I gaslit myself. I kept telling myself to stop overreacting—to stop turning these passes into something they weren’t. But then I reached out to other Black authors (subbing & established) and their submission stories mirrored mine. Their passes (pre and post-BVM pledges) mirrored mine.
Why?
Because publishing made those BVM pledges then used all-white editors, second reads, and acquisitions teams to weigh the worth of Black stories based on how they’d appeal to a white audience. As if “Black voices matter” really meant “Black voices marketable to white consumers matter.”
To essentially be told my Black YA story wasn’t appropriate for YA readers ripped me apart. I was upset at publishing and their empty promises, but I was angrier at myself for hoping they were true.
Though I was in my feelings, I also recognized that maybe, the choices behind the passes—and the choice of words—were due to a poor understanding of what the weight of those reasons and words meant to a Black author.
When you work in an overwhelmingly white industry that serves an overwhelmingly white audience and you yourself are white, you measure BIPOC stories against your knowledge of those identities, or use those stories to educate yourself and bridge the gaps. Books that do not match what media taught you or books that do not educate you (because you aren’t the target audience) become books that are passed on. And when you work in these white spaces, you oftentimes find yourself doing the labor of serving this gap in ways you never intended.
That’s how white supremacy is upheld. Which leads to gatekeeping Black authors by adultifying Black YA characters that don’t fit the mold of—what white publishing considers—an “average teen.”
After receiving assurance that those adultifying passes were common amongst Black authors, I went to my agent with my concerns. They agreed with me and we came up with a plan on how to address those passes moving forward. We also constructed a message to send to editors to educate them on the harmfulness behind that specific feedback to Black YA authors.
A few more passes trickled in over the holidays. Luckily, they were typical ones. Worldbuilding confusing. Pacing isn’t good. Then after the new year rolled in, all I heard was crickets for a month which, in all honesty, gave me much relief. For the first time since I went on sub, I felt at peace. I felt like a writer again, not a punching bag.
And I was ready to move onto a different project.
One of the editors who passed on my book had expressed interest in working with me on a different story, so I decided to work on a proposal for them instead. And since being on sub took such a toll on my mental health, I went to my agent and said I was ready to trunk the book.
We agreed to set a deadline to pull it from submission and gave editors six weeks to read it. Then as that deadline neared, we had another pass or two come in, followed by another three come D-day. Six editors were ghosts.
At that point, I didn’t even care anymore.
I was fully invested in working on my book proposal.
Until not one but two editors emailed my agent asking for an extension.
That relief I felt? Poof! Gone! Anxiety had me in its grip now.
Then the very next day I got an email from my agent. Editor #24 passed.
I was devastated. I had already gone through my stages of grief writing this book and now it was giving me grief. I cried for two days straight because, once again, I let publishing give me a sense of hope that my story could end up in a Black teen’s hands.
Then three days after my deadline, I got another email. Editor #25 took the book to acquisitions and everyone loved it. I was absolutely freaking shocked. The very last editor on our submission list wanted to buy my book.
I was in my car and swerved into a parking lot to compose myself, but I couldn’t stop screaming and dancing. (Also, to the older couple that was parked beside me, I’m so sorry you had to witness that.)
My agent and I spoke on the phone the following week. I vomited all kinds of questions at them. We both felt very good about the deal. They said they’d negotiate better terms on some things, but emphasized that it was a strong offer. Later that same week, I spoke to the editor. As cliché as this sounds, after this nightmarish journey, speaking to an editor that wanted my book felt like a dream.
It’s been several months since then. I regularly keep an eye on Black YA book announcements. This year is nearly at its end and with 40+ YA imprints, there’ve been less than 90 Black YA books acquired in 2021. Which is nowhere near enough. The number of back-pats publishing got for their BVM promises shouldn’t outweigh the number of promises they actually kept to Black authors.
In addition, the number of Black YA debut authors don’t even equal half of white YA debuts acquired within the last year.
The math’s not mathing, publishing.
On the surface, it seems my journey has a happy ending, but it’s more complicated than that. Yes, one day soon my book will end up in the hands of Black teens like I’ve always dreamed, but will the journey of every book I write result in a battle with publishing to preserve my identity and authenticity?
Only time will tell, but I promise I will not lose this fight.
And unlike publishing, I keep my promises.
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The stories on this blog are posted anonymously so that authors can speak candidly about their experience. If you have a sub story you’d like to share, drop me an email at: katedylanbooks@gmail.com
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