On editorial letters

And letters of recommendation

This fall went by in the blink of an eye. But picture the following eye: it seems like it might be getting pink eye—the lower corner is swollen and tender and there’s some really questionable crud that looks like dried crumbs of rubber cement. Also, this eye has very short eyelashes that are singed, some red veins running around the not-so-white parts, and a general malaise to the pupil. All told, it’s a sad and weathered eye. But, it blinked, uncomfortably, and just like that, fall was over!

This fall I made some big decisions and some big decisions were (sort of) made for me. The first was that after seven years, I decided to close our booth at the farmers market. I wrote about it for the Umi newsletter, if you’re interested in the specifics, but the big picture is: I love the markets! A lot! And—they are exhausting and less and less financially viable for us. So, it was the right decision, I think, and opens our business up to new opportunities, but it was not easy to make. It threw me into many reveries of incredible and difficult days I’ve spent vending at market with and near people I adore. I spent a lot of time playing back memories as a way to let go. This process meant laying off a few staff who I care about enormously, and I found myself feeling shocked that I’ve put myself in a position where I have power over other’s livelihoods. It’s something that still doesn’t feel calm or casual to me.

The second big event of my fall was that, in September, I submitted the first draft of the book I’ve been writing for the last year and a half. It’s been a project I’ve loved, and one with plenty of discomfort and insecurity. The first draft was very rough. I had to fight all my impulses to send it to my editor without a long letter explaining all the things I knew weren’t working. But I promised myself that I would let her respond to the work on her own and not have to attend to my specific insecurities. Doing this required very firm self-talk, but it felt like the right decision. About a month later, she reached out and asked for a phone call, which made me shiver with nervousness. Why would we talk on the phone before she sent her editorial letter?

I’d been looking forward to the editorial letter since she told me what an editorial letter was during our first conversation about the process ahead of me. This letter would distill her response to the first full draft and offer suggestions for a thorough revision. What would it be like, I wondered? How many pages? How specific? How vague? How complimentary and how critical?

Sometimes late at night I would google: “examples of editorial letters.” I was hoping for something like Robert Gottlieb’s letter to Toni Morrison after she submitted her first draft of Beloved. Or, at the very least, just a real editorial letter sent to a real author I’ve read. But I could find nothing like this online. (Note: someone, please, publish a book of real editorial letters sent to real authors!) And so I continued to feel excited and uncertain about what it would feel like to receive my own.

When we talked the next day, in mid-October, my editor told me that she was moving publishers, from Milkweed Editions to a new imprint called Spiegel & Grau. This was terrifying to me! But by some miracle, my editor invited me to come with her.

Without thinking, on sheer intuition, I said yes. I love Milkweed—it was my dream publisher for so many reasons including the consistent quality and vision of the books they publish. But I wanted to work with her! I wanted to have an advocate who’d known my vision for the book from the beginning. I said yes before I knew: a) who Spiegel & Grau is; b) how the contract transition process would work; c) the substance of the editorial feedback my first draft would receive; d) almost everything else!

In theory, yes, my conscious brain made this choice, but in reality it was more like my stomach and my heart. And once the decision was made, I was faced with another one to two months of waiting for the editorial letter. Patience is not my strongest suit. The good thing was that I felt absolutely no interest in looking at my book draft during that time. Without outside feedback, I felt that anything I would do to it might be accessorizing without facing bigger structural issues. And so, I got a really long break, which was necessary, useful, and also uncomfortable and faintly maddening.

Earlier this month, I got a new contract and an editorial letter, which was as satisfying as I’d dreamed! It included very high level feedback and also some tangible ideas on how to approach the biggest structural and tonal issues of the draft. Now, I get to go back into my book with some energy and perspective. I’m still facing frustrating knots that I need to untie and retie anew. This part feels wholly different than the blank page process that came before. My book should still be released in… May 2024! I feel like my emotional pink eye may have healed for the time being. My vision is clearer.

The editorial letter was really inspiring to me. In fact, having an editor is an incredible gift—someone who holds your vision with you, helps you see your work through new eyes, encourages, clarifies, and give criticism meant to be exceedingly helpful. I found myself thinking about the editorial letter in other contexts. What would it look like to give someone the gift of an editorial letter—if they also saw it as a gift—not about their book but about something else they were pouring themselves into? Said another way, what does it look like to choose to invest your own energies in someone else’s self-expression and success? Maybe this is what it means to be an engaged parent, boss, teacher, or mentor.

Earlier this year, my friend Rachael was moving into co-op housing with her family and had decided she wanted to join the board. As part of the application process, she had to ask a friend for a letter of recommendation. Not a former boss or coworker. Not a professor or parent. A friend! And the letter was supposed to be about what kind of friend she was. Was she generous? Consistent? How did she manage conflict? Because I live somewhat communally, she asked me to write the letter.

Writing about the ways I love and know her was so satisfying. I asked our mutual friend Jordan to add a few words, and when he sent me a text about Rachael, it filled me with affection for both of them. He wrote:

She’s a champion for writers and people and students. She has the best personality and laughs easily and is so fun to be around. She has surefooted beliefs and ethics and really stands up for justice and integrity. And silliness!

Afterwards, we joked that all letters of recommendation should be written by friends.

Last month, at the memorial of his parents, my friend Raf read a letter of recommendation that someone had written for his dad after he passed. His dad had written a really significant letter of recommendation for this person, and they were repaying the favor. It was deeply moving and also playful—once again the form of a letter used unexpectedly as a way to really describe someone and their particular way of being with others. I loved it.

There is something in these letters that keeps catching my attention, something about reflection, generosity, and attentiveness that I’m still figuring out. It has to do with my role as a boss, a partner, and a roommate, and also how I’m relating to growing older without having children. It’s connected to my desperate need to feel a sense of the future, my future and others’.

I wonder: Is a New Years’ resolution an editorial letter to yourself in a condensed form?

I haven’t decided on a New Years’ Resolution. It’s starting to form. Something like: Try to figure out what lets you be curious in moments of uncertainty instead of impatient. And when you’re the most lost, write something encouraging and attentive about people who you love.