THE ONE WHERE THINGS WENT WRONG WITH THE OPTION
Remember that sub story about the person who yeeted three books onto sub at once?
Hi again, that was me. I spent over a year on sub, piling on more projects as I went, and then sold two things in two weeks, becoming a double debut. My story was a complicated one, but with a happy ending. So, you might be wondering why I’m back here.
The answer is that I have a wild story for you about trying to sell my option book.
If you aren’t familiar with the term yet, often when a publisher offers on a book, whether that be for a one book, two-book, or even three-book deal, they’ll put an “option clause” in your contract, which gives that publisher a set period of time where they have an exclusive look at the next manuscript you shop. It isn’t a guarantee that they’ll want your next book—and they don’t have to offer. But it does ensure that you can’t go wide with that next manuscript right away.
Some option clauses are broad (“the next work of fiction by author”), some are narrower (“the next YA mystery”), and some are narrowest (“the next work set in the same world or featuring the same characters”).
The upside to an option is that your editor is on a timeline. Instead of waiting months and months while your book sits in someone’s inbox, you wait (typically) four to six weeks. The downside is that on a multi-book deal, your option clock might not even start until you hand in the last book on the contract (or even after that, sometimes—never neglect to negotiate a fair option period!) and since you can’t go wide, even when you finally submit that option book or proposal, you can’t end up in an auction and you might get less great terms than you would have if you gambled and went wider. (Some authors do turn down their option offer and go wide, so that’s always an option if that’s your goal.)
My book sold in a one-book deal with a moderately limited option (next YA in my genre). Contractually, my option clock didn’t start for two months after the first book’s acceptance, but overachiever that I am, after I turned in edits on that first book, I asked my editor to hop on the phone and talk to me about what she wanted for the option. Was there any topic I should avoid? Anything she was particularly excited about seeing more of? While I did already have a proposal ready for the next book I thought might be “the one,” I am basically a pile of ideas in a trench coat. I didn’t have strong feelings about which one (the proposal book or a less developed idea) I’d write next, so I wanted to get a sense of what might spark her interest.
Some of the conversation was super helpful. They had an influx of books in a particular setting, so I made a note to put one of my ideas on the back burner.
But then the conversation drop kicked me in the gut.
“Don’t include X element,” she said. “It’s a hard sell for the team.”
Reader, X element is my calling card. It’s my brand. It is literally what I do.
I had something like 20 ideas in a Word doc…and every single one of them had X element. The book they bought already had X element.
I walked away from the call with a sinking feeling. Because I desperately wanted to work with my editor again. I really like her. She’s on top of things, smart, and gets what I’m doing. But this was starting to look like it wouldn’t be a long-term partnership. Because even if I wrote one book without X element, I didn’t think I had any more than that in me.
Still, that was a problem for Later Me. Current Me decided to pitch her the one (and only) idea in my trench coat that did not have X element (or, more accurately, could have X element scrubbed out of it).
For my option, I was required to submit a synopsis and three chapters. But I went all-in. Character bios. Back cover copy. I wrote until I found a great cliffhanger. I wrote that proposal for my editor. It had the elements she’d loved. It stayed away from X element. It was going to be the next book I sold.
My agent agreed, and we yeeted it to my editor right away.
Maybe you can guess what comes next. Because this blog isn’t sunshine stories.
I waited.
And waited.
And waited.
The publisher zoomed right past their deadline, and every day my anxiety crowded out my certainty a bit more.
Until finally an email dropped into my inbox—on the very last day of the extended deadline we granted.
The publisher wanted an R&R.
Reader, I didn’t even know you could get an R&R on a proposal. Wouldn’t they just buy the book and do the edits? They really needed me to re-work two chapters before they offered?
Apparently yes. It’s becoming more and more common for publishers to ask for R&Rs even on proposals and option books. More free labor even after you’ve already proven you can write a book (or in my case, several) and make it through edits.
Even worse than the fact that it was an R&R was this: the feedback was bananas. The main suggestion would have destroyed the core tension of the book. And none of the feedback sounded like my editor at all. I was shocked and upset.
Which is why my agent encouraged me to ask for another call and get clarity.
I want to pause here and say that it was so hard for me to take that advice. I was crushed by the R&R in a way I hadn’t been crushed by publishing in a while. I wanted to work with my editor again so badly, but I couldn’t see a way forward with the feedback. I hated the idea of getting on the phone just to confirm that they wanted me to do this thing that would wreck my book.
Eventually, people with less broken hearts (my agent, a friend) convinced me to make that call. And boy am I glad I did. Because it turns out the reason the feedback didn’t sound like my editor is that it wasn’t from my editor.
This is a thing all the “it only takes one!” tweets don’t get. A room full of people have to approve the purchase of a book. It doesn’t only take one editor. It takes a team. And your editor’s boss, the marketing team, the sales team…more than one person can shoot a book down.
The other thing I learned was this: the feedback wasn’t really about my book. Someone (or multiple someones) on that team had decided that all books in my genre needed Y. It didn’t matter that Y wouldn’t work for my concept. They weren’t going to acquire anything without Y. Which meant this book was never a fit for them.
You might not think so based on all the above, but that call was an enormous relief. Because even though I walked away with a very certain no on this book, I also walked away knowing that that no wasn’t about me. That my instincts hadn’t been off. I’d just given them a project that wasn’t for them—with no way of knowing that they would never take a book without Y.
I also walked away from that call knowing my editor still really wanted to work with me.
So, it was time for a hail Mary.
About a week later, I sent another proposal. This one less complete. Less tailored to what I thought they wanted. And with my signature X element—the one they said was a no-go.
In other words: the book I’d already written that proposal for. The one I’d thought might be “the one” before that initial conversation.
I sent it with no expectations. (Actually, no, that’s not quite correct. My expectation was that a few weeks would pass, and I’d get a polite rejection.)
I let it go and went about my business.
Two months later, an all-caps email subject hit my inbox.
OFFER.
We had an offer.
Turns out X element wasn’t actually a dealbreaker. Y element randomly was. And the absolute weirdo wtf-is-publishing-doing moral of the story here is that publishing does not know what it wants.
I’ve found this to be true with agents, who form-rejected me when I was a perfect fit for their manuscript wishlist and offered when I sent them something nowhere near their preferences. And now I’ve found it to be true with editorial teams too.
While it certainly makes my life harder, it’s also kind of hopeful news. Because you never know when the long shot, the thing they said they didn’t want, the thing you wrote just for you, will be the one that drops into your inbox with the coveted subject line.
OFFER.
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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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