Fedore Writer

As I’ve watched “American Idol,” I’ve felt a pang of recognition in the artists’ commitment to creating something that’s authentic to their style yet having to adapt to industry standards of success. These vocalists and musicians are quite raw in the beginning of the season, but with coaching, coiffing, and cajoling rise as stars.

I’m endeared to what Katy, Lionel, and Luke call “true artists” and love to witness American Idols following their passion since they were toddlers, though many artists give up a little bit of their “true art” to succeed in a competitive market.

Do successfully published authors need to give up a little bit of their true art, too?

About three years ago, I began exploring the business of books, raw with my authentic style, naïve about what it takes to get published. I thought I could start writing at the beginning of a story, let the characters take over, finish with The End, and get published.

That was before I learned about a high-concept novel. If you and I had talked a few years ago about writing a breakout novel, I would have thought I was selling out, betraying my art to market a product. I would have asked: was I writing a literary novel or commercial fiction?

At a writer’s retreat a year-and-a-half ago, I sat with a facilitator and shared a plot summary about high school juniors in an AP Club who discover the power of being scholars and helping friends. It was fun for me to write the manuscript, so surely it would be fun for teenagers to read. How very naïve I was.

“It’s too quiet,” the retreat facilitator said. “Where’s the overarching conflict?” He explained that to publish a high-concept novel, I needed to be able to recite a one-sentence pitch that would make publishers and readers want to read the first page and then keep reading. “It’s called your elevator pitch,” he said. To describe my AP Club story back then, the elevator would’ve had to climb fifty floors.

Dejected, I returned to the coffee shop couch, and opened my laptop to store my AP Club manuscript in a desktop folder and craft a high-concept plot synopsis from another idea of mine. I pondered an inciting incident––a situation that kicks off the story––plot twists, conflict, and a satisfying resolution.

Since then, I’ve been revising my AP Club story so that it has more conflict and resolution. In doing so, it’s blossoming into a better novel––both literary and commercial. My primary regret is the time I’ve spent revising . . . and revising.

To gather as many writing tools as possible––and save myself months with the next novel––I recently completed a Reedsy novel-writing course. I sharpened or learned additional techniques with a facilitator who cajoled and coached participants’ burgeoning talent into marketability to increase our chances of attracting agents, publishers, and readers.

As I grapple with the pugnacious pull between being literary and creating something people will buy, I find comfort in knowing that I’m like an American Idol “true artist.” Since I was young, I’ve loved blending words and forming poems and stories. I still have fun writing, getting lost in the joy of it and am mindful of industry standards. If I happen to successfully publish novels? All the better.