And no, I won’t autograph penises, but I went to the hospital, which was as dim and quiet as any hospital at that hour. The kid had long, black Trent Reznor hair—otherwise he was pretty well wrapped up in plaster and bandages. His mother sat at his bedside. He didn’t die; in fact, I saw him on a later tour, grown up. He’d cut his hair.
As I came in and took a seat and started to make small talk with her son, his mom went out in the hallway where I could still hear her crying.
A Couple of Surefire
Strategies for Selling
Books to Americans
If you were my student I’d know what you’d want: a guaranteed formula for success.
That, I would love to give you, but then everyone would use it, and…Chick Lit was such a breakout golden ticket. From Sex and the City to Bridget Jones’s Diary, it sold so reliably publishing switched its terminology. Historically SF had meant “science fiction,” but after the success of books like Confessions of a Shopaholic and The Devil Wears Prada, SF came to stand for “shopping & fucking.” Every hopeful author and editor rushed to market with a pink-covered project, some not as good as the groundbreaking classics, some just plain terrible but hoping to ride the wave, and the flooded Chick Lit market drowned and died.
In short, if I told you a surefire formula, it would fail from overuse.
That said, I will whisper a couple tried-and-true patterns that American readers always seem to embrace. Let’s call these “Tropes for Dopes,” shall we?
The first is that the classic American bestseller tends to depict three main characters. One character follows orders, is shy and agreeable, a general all-round good girl or boy. The second character is largely the opposite: a rebel who bullies and breaks the rules, always brashly hogging the spotlight. And the third is quiet, thoughtful, and acts as the narrator, relating the story to the reader.
The passive character commits suicide in some way.
The rebel is executed in some way.
And the thoughtful witness leaves the circumstances of the story, wiser for having seen the fate of the other two characters, and is ready to relay this cautionary tale to the world.
Don’t laugh. Arguably the bestselling American books of the twentieth century have followed this formula.
In Gone with the Wind the unassuming Melanie Wilkes knows that she’ll likely die if she tries to bear a second child. However, as she says so raptly, “But Ashley always did want a big family…” So guess who dies in childbirth? In Valley of the Dolls the beautiful, obedient Jennifer North is a showgirl, for the most part a walking piece of lovely scenery who sends her income home to her domineering mother. When breast cancer threatens to change her looks, she takes an overdose of barbiturates. In Rosemary’s Baby, Terry Gionoffrio leaps from a high window, and the truth-telling Edward Hutchins is murdered by the coven of witches.
Note: Edward “Hutch” Hutchins is also the “gun” of the novel. He’s kept alive, off-screen, largely forgotten in a coma, and regains consciousness for a moment to deliver key information before dying. His information sets in motion the discovery process in the third act. A little clumsy, yes, but it plays.
In each case, the suicide of the passive character prompts the execution of the rebel.
Sometimes, not a literal execution. Especially in the case of female characters. Scarlett O’Hara finds herself shunned, an exile despised by her husband, family, and community. Her child is dead, and she’s cast out in her despair. Likewise, Neely O’Hara, a fictional character who’s named herself after her favorite fictional character (very meta, Ms. J. Susann), also finds herself ostracized. All her husbands have rejected her, as have Hollywood and Broadway. She’s a drug- and drink-addled has-been who strove to gain the love of the entire world, but ends up despised by all.
Also consider The Dead Poets Society, where the obedient doctor’s son shoots himself. The unorthodox teacher is exiled, and the quiet, watchful student is left to testify to both lessons.
In Cuckoo’s Nest the narrator is mute through much of the book, only watching, then escaping the asylum to tell the tale. Rhett Butler exits the messy lives of the O’Hara clan, returning to Charleston. The witnessing Anne Welles in Dolls, so placid and eager to learn, abandons New York for the New England she was trying so hard to escape—at least in the movie. And Nick Carraway leaves the land of Long Island for his own childhood Midwest.
And don’t imagine I’d ever pass up such a crowd-pleasing structure. Fight Club might appear to have only two main characters, Tyler and the narrator. But the good-boy narrator still commits suicide. And the bad-boy rebel is still executed. And both acts integrate the two to create the third, the wise witness left to tell us what happened.
The lesson? Don’t be too passive. And don’t be too pushy. Watch and learn from the extremes of other people. That’s our favorite American sermon. And boy howdy does it sell books!
The second sure-shot formula is somewhat more…delicate…to discuss.
Americans are nothing if not voyeuristic. A nation of peeping Toms, we particularly love seeing the misery of other people. Especially if our ogling makes us think we’re doing a good deed. And we need to believe that our increased awareness isn’t just turning human misery into entertainment, but actually improving the lot of humankind.
Years back, my editor put me in touch with an editor at Harper’s magazine. That’s what a good editor does: try to
