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The market for books is weirdly open and weirdly opaque, both at the same time.

It’s open in the sense that you can walk into a bookshop and see which books are being heavily promoted (front of store, price discounted), which books are being merely sold (round the side of the store, spines out), and which books – too often your own – aren’t being sold at all.

You can also pick up any book to get a rough measure as to critical acclaim and any sales records the book may have. On Amazon, you can go one better and get an actual sales rank, brought up to date every hour.

It’s really easy to get captured by these things. “So-and-So’s Book X is doing really well, so I should make mine more like that.” “Famous Author Y always writes along these particular lines, so I should do the same.”

But those conclusions are dangerous and often completely misleading. So, to mention just a few issues:

1. A book may have pride of place on a bookstore’s sales table, simply because a publisher has paid for it to be there. The book may be selling badly and be actively loss-making and be generating despondent “where did we go wrong?” type meetings at the publisher.
   
   
2. A book may become a bestseller, simply because enough supermarkets have bought and then discounted the title. Those supermarkets have the sales power to create a bestseller – footfall is the single most potent sales tool there is – but the retail buyers making the acquisition probably never read the book before buying it. So, what you’re looking at is not much more than a random effect. (That said, you do probably need to have sold your novel to a Big 5 house, via an agent, even to place a stake at that particular roulette table – so in that sense, it’s very not random.)
   
   
3. Amazon sales rankings are hugely responsive to quite small changes in sales. So, for a book to gain or lose 10,000 places in a day is common. For books with lower sales, a shift of 100,000 places may well signify extremely little in practice.
   
   
4. Critical acclaim can be carefully manufactured by a publisher. That and sales outcomes are two very different things and in most cases publishers will only care about the latter. And critical comments are very carefully culled. An ambivalent piece with a single strikingly positive phrase will be clipped down to that phrase alone. Additionally, by the time a consensus builds, critics are nervous to do their job. So, for example, Kazuo Ishiguro is obviously a terrific novelist… but it’s also obvious that his Dark Ages novel, The Buried Giant, is kinda awful. No one ever dared say so, though.
   
   
5. A US bestseller can flunk in the UK and vice versa. People often try to analyse what it is about US tastes that differ so much from UK tastes – but a big point here is that outcomes in traditional publishing have a large component of pure, random luck. I’d say a really strong title matters. And no book becomes a lasting bestseller unless it has some genuine merit. But plenty of good books flunk. If your title is bought by the US and the UK, then great: you get a seat at both roulette tables. But the spins are separate and outcomes are only weakly correlated.
   
   
6. A book that does amazingly well online may never find any meaningful print sales at all. I can think of a UK crime author whose digital sales (via a digital publisher) ran very quickly into seven figures. A print deal soon followed, and it was assumed at the time of signing that a big print bestseller was the natural outcome. But it wasn’t. The print book did OK, but it was nothing like the runaway success of the digital one.
   
   
7. A famous author doing very well at his/her game may not mean anything at all about whether that particular market is a good one for you. So, let’s say that you notice a new Dan Brown or John Grisham novel making headlines and grabbing sales slots. You might think that producing weirdly written novels about secret codes is a good game to get into – or that the world badly needs another legal thriller. But the point is that DB / JG have now created their own genres: people who like Dan Brown / John Grisham books. The JG reader may well read no other legal thrillers and certainly not be desperate to find new authors in that niche. You essentially can’t tell anything at all from the current sales history of more established authors.

So, what do you do? How are you meant to navigate?

One piece of advice – widely offered – is just to write to please yourself. I think that’s wrong. I think it’s foolish. Yes, you need to please yourself. And yes, you need to find joy and satisfaction and meaning in what you write. But you also need to make sure that there’s a market for what you write. Opaque as the books market is, you do still need to interrogate it for whatever lessons you can learn.

Here are some rules which are, I think, dependable.

Look at recent debuts. The books that are making their debuts today are books that were acquired by publishers (roughly) 12-18 months ago. Without being a literary agent, you can’t know much about more recent market activity, so those debuts are your best bet. Don’t just look at the promotional chatter about those books. Try, if you can, to find any data on whether the books are considered to have sold well. If a publisher bought a book 15 months ago and is making good money from it today, it’ll want another book in the same broad genre.

Know your genre. The best – really, the only – way to understand movements in the market for your genre is to participate fully in that genre, as reader. To consider the whole romantasy genre, for instance – to understand what’s ‘current’ there – means reading widely in the genre. I’m not a big fan of slutty faeries, so my guess as to what to write in that genre would offer absolutely nothing by way of insight. But if you read what others are reading, then the book you want to read next is probably the one you want to write. You’ve effectively turned yourself into the Ideal Reader for your novel.

Don’t just think about your genre. If psych thrillers are doing really well commercially, then your historical espionage novel with an unreliable narrator fits into the same broad cultural trend.

So read widely. Pay particular attention to recent successful debuts. Read in your genre and out of it. Write what you love – and what there’s a market for.

And?

And don’t be seduced by shiny chatter and sales blurbs. Those things deceive as often as they inform – and actually, probably, a lot more often.

FEEDBACK FRIDAY / The big random thumb

OK, I don’t want to know if you have a shiny opening to your book, or if your battle scene is great. This week we’re going to do the Big Random Thumb. Basically: does your book look strong enough when we just search out a perfectly average passage? Is there something there to convince a reader that you’re worth trusting?

Give me page 42 from your manuscript. If you want to jiggle the start a little bit in order to find a chunk that has some coherence out-of-context, then fine. But not much jiggling – the less, the better. Page 41 or 43, if you don’t want to start at page 42.

250 words total, please. As usual, title, genre, and a line or two of explanation. I’ll pop my own page 42 sample up on Townhouse too, so you can take a look at what the Big Random Thumb finds with me.

When you're ready, log in to Townhouse and share your work in this forum.

Til soon.

Harry

(This is not an opening; this is a parenthesis.

You may skip it, if you wish – you may metaphorically flip the page – you may prefer your cup of cocoa and your comfortable slippers – but,

You skippers, flippers and people in slippers,

You may CRIPPLE your chances of novel-writing GLORY if you don’t grab the LAST CHANCE to take out an annual Premium Membership at a stonking 30% off.

I suggest that you:

1. take out the membership,
2. commit to taking at least 3 lessons of any one of our Premium Membership (PM) courses (choose whatever feels most timely to you now), then
3. Relish in how the membership is worth your investment.

And with that goodly message resounding in your head –

I now declare this parenthesis over.)

Good.

The idea for this email was sparked by the opening to a YA novel that was on Townhouse this last week.

The central image was kind of amazing.

An end of season fairground. A cold day, heading into sunset. A Ferris wheel not turning because of a broken gondola.

And – a boy sent up to climb the wheel, to fix the broken gondola strut.

And – that boy, walking in cheap trainers on the loft of that wheel, for a moment silhouetted against that sunsetting London sky.

Good, huh? I mean, that image is so striking, you could remember it for a long time. It would be hard to put that book down in a bookstore. It’s hard not to think of the boy, on that wheel, with his mallet for thumping gondola struts.

But (to my mind and other people may differ), that scene wasn’t quite flowing right. Now, to be fair, that’s pretty standard and is to be expected. The whole point of Townhouse is to present work that isn’t ready in order to get it ready.

And two points struck me in particular. The first is that we, as writers, have very long to do lists, especially when we’re less experienced, and especially when we’re opening a novel.

So, just from the top of my head, we have to:

• Establish location
• Establish character
• Get some kind of story questions moving
• Including (probably) a little bit of razzle-dazzle to convince the prospective reader that they have to stick around.
• Write decently
• Paint quick descriptions of any other characters who are kicking around. (The scene in question had two.)
• Deliver atmosphere
• Avoid sloppy language
• Delete redundant language
• Offer some kind of thematic resonance
• And so on.

That’s a lot. And I think that, often and not just with opening pages, writers are so busy trying to deliver This, That and the Other, that they lose sight of the little bit of magic that brought them to this scene in the first place.

And – we have a boy walking the arch of a Ferris wheel against a crimson London sky.

And – that boy is feeling the air move and considering the slipperiness of the wet metal beneath his trainers as he walks that curve.

That’s the magic. Everything else has to bend to that.

So, for example, we do need to know about the colour of the skyline, because that’s part of the drama. We don’t need to know where the fairground will fold itself away for winter.

We do need to know about the fair-owner yelling up at the kid, because he’s clearly part of the scene, but he should be pushed away and (for now) be made secondary. And so on.

Find the magic and prioritise it.

Not just with openings, but everywhere. What’s the magic? Is it central to the scene? If not, make it central.

And on this particular occasion, there was a further difficulty. We have two images and they’re both amazing:

• A boy on a Ferris wheel, silhouetted against a crimson London sky
• That boy feeling what it’s like to be forty feet off the ground and with the evening air moving around him.

But the first of those images is a distance shot. We’re a long way from the boy’s inner thoughts. The second of those images is the exact opposite: it’s all about the boy’s inner thoughts. The two camera angles are basically incompatible, and we want them both.

The solution here is about starting distance and moving steadily in. From silhouette view, to some closer-range view. (e.g.: “The boy had a rucksack of tools, on his shoulder, but he wore it lightly, as though unconcerned.”) Here, we start to move from general silhouette, to closer-up detail, but still nothing about the boy’s inner world. Then you’d shift to something closer still. (“He wore cheap trainers, one dirty white lace was already starting to come undone.”) Then you can reveal something of his inner world, and then, if you want, the boy can actually take over the narrative himself. (“It was high, and it was dangerous, but it was beautiful and it was lovely.” – that’s now the boy thinking, not the narrator speaking.)

So that’s basically the secret. Move from out to in, but do it gradually, so the shock doesn’t seem abrupt.

If you want one other tip, then give proper time and space to your touch of magic. You don’t need to rush away. Your reader won’t want you to.

FEEDBACK FRIDAY / Scene

This week, I want a scene where you have a lovely image or moment that you want to make central and memorable.

What I want is:

• Title, genre, a line or two of context.
• The magic: a line or two explaining where you think the magic lies in this scene
• The scene itself: our usual 250 or so words.

You get extra points if the little bit of magic coheres nicely with your themes and elevator pitch. When you're ready, log in to Townhouse and share your work in this forum.

Got that? You got it, I know you do.

Til soon.

Harry

Hello again! Welcome back to my series of insights into what it’s like to undertake the Ultimate Novel Writing Programme.  

Month eight – two thirds of the way through the 12-month course – and we are talking endings.  

Real life rarely gives nice, neat, ‘everything now makes sense’ endings. I think of moments in my life that, in hindsight were endings: the slice of pie my father saved for tomorrow, believing he had a tomorrow. The last time I carried my son on my hip, or the last time my daughter was happy to hold hands in public.  

Endings are important in stories, and I have a theory as to why: our own mortality, the inevitable ending we all face, is a major reason the artistic endeavour of novels exists. In short, we read novels to practise dying.  

A novel demands we invest in the illusion of a life – a life we go on to learn the rhythm of. We become familiar with its timescales and habits; with the loves, regrets and transformations its characters undergo. And then we’re asked to face the ending of these. We turn the last page and find we have to leave. Novels are rehearsals for mortality – a way to practise the art of letting go. Furthermore, the novel (though I’m happy to include poetry in my thesis) is the only art form that does this. Great paintings, transcendent symphonies? These imply, but a novel enacts. 

A painting or a song is experienced in the immediacy of the present — it’s capable of evoking eternity or the sublime, certainly — but it cannot carry us through a life lived in time. Whereas a novel unfolds like consciousness. It moves us through sequence, choice and consequence, memory and application. It requires duration, mirroring the shape of a human life. It delves into the interiors of others: we become mind-readers when we are novel-readers. When a novel ends, it doesn’t just stop, it dies – and as readers, we feel that loss. How many of us approach the ending of a great story with dread, not wanting to let the characters go? Isn’t part of a great ending, from a skilful author, that bittersweet realisation that you’re never going to hear that character say another thing? You’re never going to experience any more of their possibilities. These endings echo our own.  

In most great novels, the ending doesn’t just provide narrative closure. It asks questions: where and what is the meaning of the story? Has it done enough? What regrets remain, and why? Is there redemption available, or merely resigned comprehension and deflated acceptance? These are life’s big, keep-you-awake-at-three-in-the-morning questions. Music and paintings gesture towards these, but only fiction makes us experience them. 

But there is a paradox, too – as the novel dies, as the people inside it vanish, there are also beginnings. Something of a book’s characters can remain with us. We get to consider what happened and imagine their next steps. Perhaps we will discuss them with friends and, through those conversations, test out our own life narratives and soul yearnings? We may even – those of us writing a series – get to write up what comes next. The metaphysics of the novel intrinsically binds beginnings within endings. 

Which is maybe why, in this month of learning all about how to craft a brilliant ending, I actually find myself turning towards the beginning of my manuscript.  

As I have been writing my way towards the end of my first draft, I’ve been experiencing more and more of a ‘stop’. The words I could conjure were brief; sketchy. Writing began to make me feel a bit burned. I was charred wood, and the story wasn’t getting inside of me anymore. It was because the narrative ending of the story needed more supporting structure at the beginning.  

So – as in life, as in novels, endings have beginnings. By working through my Ultimate Novel Writing Programme course materials and discussing the detail with my tutor and peers, I’m better able to understand the significance of my book’s ending – and see how the structure of the beginning affects it. Heading back to the start of my novel has made the ending feel more alive. I can positively feel it inflating. 

Endings are powerful, and we writers bear a weighty responsibility for them. If you agree with my theory, we’re purveyors of rehearsed mortality – which might be the most human act of all. If you’re anything like me, you might want to get some help and assistance with shouldering that responsibility. For that support, I can highly recommend the Ultimate Novel Writing Programme! 

The Ultimate Novel Writing Programme (and its little sister, the Novel Writing Course) run twice a year. Our most intensive tutored courses, they offer writers more personalised, one-to-one support than is available through any other online writing course. To find out more about either, or to apply to be part of our next cohort, visit the Ultimate Novel Writing Programme or the Novel Writing Course web page. You can also contact us at any time to chat about your writing journey and explore which, if any, of our courses or services could help you. We love to chat with authors, and we will never sell you a service that we don’t think is the best fit for you – so don’t be shy!

Rachel Davidson is a long-term Premium Member of Jericho Writers prior to joining our Writer Support Team, Rachel loves helping hopeful writers, such as herself, to solve their problems and take a step or two closer to achieving their writing dreams. Rachel has previously self-published a trilogy, the first of which achieved bestseller status in fourteen Amazon categories in the UK, US, Australia and Canada and is now seeking her traditional publishing debut with her latest manuscript. You can find out more about Rachel via her Instagram @RachelDavidsonAuthor.

I’ve been a working novelist a long time. My first book came out in my twenties – a long time ago now – and my last four were published by Penguin Random House. I thought I knew the business: how novels work, how publishing works, how to hook readers. But becoming a mentor was a surprise. I’ve mentored writers of all ages and backgrounds, from the US to the UK to Australia, and six lessons have come up again and again. To my surprise, mentoring has taught me – or reminded me – so much about being a novelist. 

1. No One Is Born a Novelist 

We often talk about people having innate talent, and there’s something to that, but no one is born knowing what it means to be a working novelist. You have to learn two things: how to construct your novel, and what a reader, including agents and editors, will want from it. No one is born a novelist. There are things you can learn, and people who can teach you. 

2. Know Your Market (and Respect It!) 

One thing I say most to new novelists: know your market. Understanding where your book belongs is the smartest strategy. Think like agents and editors think. Research what’s being published in your genre and read hit novels in that area. You’d be amazed how many writers don’t really know their market. Seeing how empowering it is to understand that has made me rethink my own. 

3. The Opening Chapter Is Everything 

I’ll confess something. I didn’t realise how important your opening chapter is until I became a mentor. I knew in theory, but now I see it. (Not least because I also do Jericho’s Agent Submission Pack Reviews, and you really notice it there.) Your first chapter is your big chance. Agents decide within a page or two whether to keep reading – and so will readers. That opening must show who your protagonist is and what kind of world they inhabit, just as it’s about to fall apart. Make sure your opening sizzles. 

4. No, Wait! Character Is Everything 

When talking about novels, we often focus on plot, but it’s great, clear characters that make novels sing. Not their name or hair colour or funny brooch, but who they are deep down. What do they want? What will they learn they wanted all along but didn’t know? And how do you make the reader their confidante? Every novelist needs to get their book to where the character’s desires and needs are central to the reading experience. 

5. Learn to Hear the Music of Your Novel 

Many mentees bring work that feels uneven, and I’ve realised how much novel-writing is about rhythm. A novel is like a symphony: harmonies, instruments, crescendos. Every scene contributes to the whole. You don’t hear it on day one; you find it through writing. This has brought me back to my own work: you can hear the music of your novel – and you must.

6. We All Need Feedback 

I’m in a writing group with other novelists, and I still rely on their feedback. (In fact, I just took my next novel to them.) If you have an honest friend, that might be enough, but often you need a professional ally who will tell you the truth, kindly but clearly. That’s what a mentor does. It’s not just advice; it’s someone on your side in the hardest stage of a novelist’s life: before success. Writing is full of feedback – from agents, editors, reviewers – but it’s at the beginning that it matters most. And here I am, years into a career, still wanting it. Novel-writing begins as a learning process but remains one, and that’s the joy of a long-term career. You never stop learning – or wanting to get better. Put that in your heart, and you won’t go wrong. 

Work one-on-one with Neil Blackmore or any of our expert writing mentors & book coaches. Our mentoring service is like a choose-your-own-adventure for writers. Pick a package that fits your needs, and use your hours however you like. Each package includes your mentor’s reading, editing, and any calls or video chats. Find out more.