In Samantha Haywood's recent column for Open Book Toronto/Ontario, she tackles tips for authors who want their manuscript to be as ready as possible for submission, be it to agent or publisher, and what “ready” means exactly. If you're a proactive author, you'll eat this column up and be grateful for the transparency. If you're a little more shy or superstitious, it could strike terror in your very soul, the notion that not only will you benefit from letting people hash through your work, but that publishers very, very rarely have the time or resources to go through this beautiful, heart-wrenching, gas-inducing journey with you, especially if you're a debut writer or relatively new(ish) in your career, no matter the success you've already had. 

Some authors, like Beth Powning (The Sea Captain's Wife), recently a Live-to-Chat guest of the Book Madam Book Club, are at a place in their career where they've enjoyed a longterm relationship with their ideal first reader. “I have found the relationship with my agent invaluable. She reads my first draft and gives me fantastic feedback. I am very fortunate in that she was my editor before she was my agent, so we already have that dynamic in place.” But take Camilla Gibb, for example, who in a recent article in Quill & Quire confessed that it was only with her most recent novel The Beauty of Humanity Movement that she finally felt comfortable even calling herself a writer because it was the first book in which she felt she had moved past personal experience into a whole new realm of storytelling. All to say what career authors know, that at every stage you're going to look to others to help situate you in your work and tell it to you straight. Is it ready?

With all this in mind, I approached a few authors to ask about their process. How important is that first read? Is it your agent? Your partner? Your writing circle? And how do you apply that feedback to your work? (I've listed the titles of their most recent books, but please investigate further for all their works, essays, short stories, poetry and good times.)

Sarah Selecky (This Cake Is For the Party)

Mentoring has always been so important to me as a writer. My first mentor was a YA novelist named Francesca Lia Block. She mentored me without knowing it, at first. I suspect many writers become secret mentors like this, just because they are publishing books and writers read their work and absorb it and learn from it. That is a kind of mentorship too.

I loved her writing so much, I wrote Francesca Lia Block a letter—I think I was 15 years old—and she wrote me back. She offered to edit one of my short stories. This was a wonderful gift, my first understanding of the importance of working with someone who knows more than you do. That story became my first published piece.

A mentor is working out of the love of the work, the writing. This is why it is so important and more useful than just having a friend help you with your writing. I tell my students that my goal is to be a friend to their work first, and a friend to them second.

Chad Pelley (Away from Everywhere)

There’s an Oscar Wilde quote that I live by, “A book is never finished, it is merely abandoned.” Meaning you could tweak your manuscript forever, and I do. What takes me a day to get down on paper, takes me a month of revising to be happy with. But, it gets to a point where I go numb to every scene, or I can do no more for it. Instead of assuming I’ve nailed things as best I could, or guessing what my weaknesses are as a writer, I’m trusting my writing group and finding other people with a keen editorial eye that I’ve found useful, like writer-professor extraordinaire here in St. John’s, Jessica Grant (Come, Thou Tortoise), who has kindly agreed to give my new novel a “close read.” That’s going to do a lot more for it that a 25th self-edit would.

For lack of a better analogy, sending your manuscript to an agent or publisher before you’ve gotten as much feedback as possible is sort of like brushing your teeth but skipping the super-freshening, confidence-bolstering blast of mouthwash. No writer is perfect, and they don’t need a thick skin either, because accepting, actually, wanting feedback is a crucial part of strengthening a piece of work. Praise is nice, but praise has never made anyone a better writer. Constructive criticism has.

George Murray (Glimpse: Selected Aphorisms)

When I first started writing I was part of a creative writing workshop. Largely this provided cautionary examples of what I DIDN'T want to do. But that's quite valuable. When you're young, you set yourself in league with or opposition to others: your peers, your mentors, more established contemporaries, etc. Later, you ideally extract yourself from much of that by concentrating on the practice of creating.

I had three people I considered mentors, two of whom are now dead. Don Summerhayes, a poet and friend at York University was my first. Richard Outram, perhaps our greatest native poet ever. And transplanted American Al Moritz, who taught me much while editing my third book, The Hunter, for publication.

All three relationships were invaluable and perfect for the time. I'd not be half as good or half as successful today without them.

My first reader has always been my wife, who started as a fiction writer but has since become a professor of sociology. She knows my work and mind inside out and isn't afraid to tell me when I'm kidding myself. And that's really the entire point of mentors, workshops, and literary friendships: not to enable a writer to simply write (you should be doing that already), but to make sure they don't make an ass of themselves by sending out complete dreck. If a friend or contemporary asks you to read a poem for them and it's terrible and you don't tell them, you're doing the literary version letting them walk around town with a giant hunk of broccoli between their teeth. It might be awkward to say, "Hey, you've got to go clean your mouth before you go on that date," but they will thank you for it later.

So my partner reads the ms first, then my literary friends, then a professional editor (usually a senior writer), then finally substantive and copy editors for the house. If a groaner gets by me, her, them and them and doesn't get caught, we can at least say it was a subtle one.

Jill Murray (Rhythm and Blues)

Most of my writing time is spent revising, and for the most part, I like it that way. First readers are important to me, primarily because they exist /outside my head/. As such, they are not afflicted by the same concerns, obsessions and insecurities as the voices /inside/ my head. When an early reader tells me a theme is powerful, or a chain of action unnecessary, I get a glimpse into the true potential of my manuscript—a refreshing change from the the hyper-zoom through the humid depths of my own navel that constitutes the usual view from my writing desk. Once I get past the initial flush of wrathful indignation that my raw creative output was not flawless and all-fulfulling exactly as I first spewed it (we measure this in days or weeks), I am usually filled with renewed energy and drive to improve and complete my project.

Robert Wiersema (Bedtime Story)

I've never been a joiner, and the idea of a formal writing group actually turns my stomach a bit. That might be a bit of a hold-over from my abortive CW degree-attempt, but I think it comes down to the work itself. At the time that a group would be most beneficial, it also has the most potential to be most damaging.

That being said, I do benefit greatly from my first readers, each of whom brings something entirely different to the process. The book or story goes to Cori, my wife, first. She knows, both intuitively and as a result of experience, where I'm coming from and where I want to be going, and she can pin down where it goes wrong. To the word, usually. And when she thinks it's gone right, it's right. No question about it.

James and Colin get it next. St. Jimmy's got a good eye for complexities and context, and a keen sense of balance between the literary and the commercial, while Colin has a great big picture view, where something flags, where it catches fire.

Those three get it first, and I get it back and work, and then it goes to my agent, Anne McDermid, from whom one is reminded that, no matter how good it seems, there's more work to do (and occasionally an ass-kick of realism to go with it—that's when the boozy lunches come in handy). And back to the desk I go.

By the time anything is ready to go to my editor, it's been stripped of every shred of preciousness and seeming sacredness. It's been beat-up, ripped apart, pummelled, bruised, occasionally kicked, and it's become stronger as a result. And there's still more work to do, but by that time I've developed an almost sadistic affection for further changes.

And what does "ready" mean to a self-published author? I asked A. G. Pasquella.

A. G. Pasquella (Why Not A Spider Monkey Jesus?)

When I was working on Why Not A Spider Monkey Jesus?, I was fortunate enough to receive feedback from Eli Horowitz at McSweeney's. A 30 page excerpt was published in "McSweeney’s #11." I also received feedback from some very talented writers who are also great friends: Chris Turner, author of The Geography of Hope and Iain Deans, author of Insects. Deans is my main editor. We’re good enough friends that he’s willing to rip my work to shreds. I know a work is ready to go when Deans says, “This scene is bullshit. Cut it and you’re golden.”

Thanks to all the authors who submitted advice! If you're a writer and have tips of your own, please share them in the comments!