Cracking the competition
When should you read similar titles, and when should you block them out?
Hi everyone. Apologies for the long silence! I’ve been traveling all month for book research and am just now catching my breath. Also, I wanted to share this excellent article on book publishing by Darren Incorvaia for The Open Notebook. I was honored to contribute what little knowledge I have on the subject—and I gained much more from reading it. Check it out!
Alright, on to the topic at hand, which I previewed last time: when is the right time to read competing titles?
I’m talking here about a subset of the “comparable titles” you’d list in a proposal. Not the ones that demonstrate a robust market for a particular kind of book, but those similar enough in subject to require an explanation for why your book will be new and different. You know, the ones that give you a titch of heartburn.
Even books that wouldn’t go in a proposal, because they relate to only a single chapter or merely tread the same philosophical terrain, can cause writerly indigestion. For my grass book, that would include titles like Ian Frazier’s bestselling Great Plains and Virginia Scott Jenkins’ The Lawn. I feel both obligated to read these books and terrified of what I might find it I do.
On the one hand, it’s my job to engage with the existing work on my subject, and doing so will likely be nothing but helpful to my research process. But some books also feel dangerous—like something toxic might leak out and cause permanent damage to my project and/or my mental health.
And it seems I’m not alone. An informal survey of author friends suggests that they too exercise caution around exposing themselves to work that hits uncomfortably close to home. And it highlights a few clear preferences about when—and if—to read competing titles.
Proposal prep
Most of the people I polled agreed that you ought to familiarize with any competing titles that were published before you submit your proposal. “Reading them at the start of a book project can help an author understand what they have to add to the conversation,” said Lisa S Gardiner, author of Tales from an Uncertain World.
This is a relatively low-stakes time, since your book is still taking shape. “I find it's helpful to read similar titles at the beginning of your project, when you're feeling out your story content and structure,” agreed writer Sarah Boon, who is working on Meltdown, a science memoir.
Sometimes, however, that’s not possible. You might miss an older book in your preliminary search and discover it later, when you’re in the thick of things (as I did with Frazier’s Great Plains). Also, if your book covers a lot of ground, like mine, it may not be possible to read several competing titles for each chapter while preparing a proposal. Which brings us to the next stage of the process.
Defensive drafting
Almost everyone I asked said that the one time to definitely NOT read competing titles is when you are writing the first draft of your manuscript. During this phase, many writers feel protective of their ideas and voice.
“I was very paranoid about unintentionally plagiarizing and felt I needed to get the first draft out of my head before I invited other strong voices in,” said Lizzie Wade, author of the forthcoming Apocalypse. Portland-based baseball writer Rob Neyer agreed. “By the time I got to the writing process, I didn't want to be distracted or disheartened by what someone else had done.”
And there are logistical constraints, said Kristin Hugo, who’s working on a book called Carcass. “I'm currently super busy with writing the book that I couldn't possibly add more tasks to this part of the job!”
Revision and beyond
Laura Poppick also “felt allergic” to reading certain competing titles while writing the first draft of her book, STRATA. But she recently turned in her manuscript and feels ready to engage. “Now that I have some breathing room and time for adjustment if needed, I will probably start dipping into more of those,” she said.
Lizzie is taking the same approach during revision. And it’s the one that feels most appealing to me, too. It’s basically what I’ve always done as a magazine writer: quarantined competing work until I articulated my own version of a story based on my own original reporting, then read it all and made any necessary changes.
And at some point, however, there’s little to be gained from reading a competing title, like when your book is out of your hands and headed to the printer. In that case, Alex Riley, author of A Cure for Darkness, advises authors to “ignore and hope for the best.”
What lies beneath
The anxiety provoked by competing work is nothing new for me. I’ve felt it many times as a journalist. And over time, I’ve tried to examine its source.
Obviously, there are legitimate concerns about protecting original thoughts and words when a story is in its fragile infancy. And there’s often also a deeper, vaguer, mostly unacknowledged fear that I think explains why competing work can feel kind of threatening. What it reading it reveals that I haven’t done enough homework? That my thinking is facile or flawed? That I’m a fraud? (NB: these are the same fears that lie at the heart of all my writing angst.)
As I forge ahead with book work, I’m trying to use this distinction as my guide. If my fear belongs to the first category (safeguarding my thought process), then waiting to read a competing title makes sense. If it falls more into the second (safeguarding my ego), odds are that my anxiety is at least partially unwarranted and I should just read the danged thing.
In my experience, confronting competing work occasionally reveals a small error or blind spot in my work. Most of the time, it makes me feel reassured that I did my homework and empowered in my argument. Never that I can recall has it made my worst fears come true.