4 Things Writers Love about Downton Abbey

It’s more popular than religion, it clogs up Facebook every Sunday night, and it’s an out-of-the-park homer for PBS. I know—what’s not to love about Downton Abbey? But there’s more to this show than scheming footmen, Maggie Smith’s one-liners, and “Bates is hot.” For writers, the show is a special pleasure because it hits on so many issues that authors grapple with all the time.

1) It’s a lesson in potboiler writing.

Like many bestselling authors, Downton creator Julian Fellowes keeps viewers engaged by employing two simple strategies that any fiction writer can use: delayed gratification and sudden setbacks.

       Delayed gratification sometimes plays out over entire seasons, with a desired result—Bates being cleared of the murder charge, or Matthew warming up to Mary—getting pushed farther and farther away as the complications mount and hopes are dashed. But Fellowes also uses this trick in miniature, teasing delayed gratification out of the smaller moments. Remember when Mary was trying to figure out whether someone in the house had mailed a crucial letter that would save the estate from ruin? She went to the servants’ dining room to ask the staff if anyone posted the letter, and no one had. She turned away, deflated, and the viewer’s hopes were thwarted too—what would happen to Downton now? But then Daisy, the kitchen maid, came into the room and asked what was going on—and it turned out she posted the letter, and all was saved. OK, it was manipulative, but notice that Fellowes didn’t give us an easy win even in this small scene; a delay of a minute or two stretches out the drama that much more and keeps us watching.*

       Then there’s the other side of the coin: While he’s delaying our gratification, Fellowes litters the show with unexpected setbacks and tragedies. Brides are jilted; people get sick and die. And while that kind of continual jarring would make most of us crazy in real life, in a story, it’s a surprise—and fun, in a roller-coaster sort of way**. It makes us wonder what’s around the next corner, and the next, and we keep watching to see what disaster will happen this time. So while Fellowes pulls us along on the rope of delayed gratification, he smacks us silly with sudden tragedy. And we like it, because it’s good storytelling.

2) It’s bubbliciously soapy.

Most Downton fans will guiltily admit that part of its attraction is that it’s a big soap opera—a serial about love and betrayal among a large cast of characters. So were Dallas and Dynasty (a friend used to call them Dallasty); so were ER and NYPD Blue and even the rebooted Battlestar Galactica, in its way—and so are countless successful shows on the air now. There’s a reason why TV writers draw from that well again and again: The serial structure hooks viewers, and the machinations keep them watching. Fellowes has avoided some old soap clichés—so far, we haven’t had any babies switched at birth or lovers who turn out to be siblings, though this season I smell a dead-person-who’s-not-really-dead (the heir in India?). But he has trotted out a few chestnuts like amnesia (the soldier with the burned face), villains who do evil just because they’re spiteful (Thomas and O’Brien), ill-starred lovers who have to overcome outlandishly complicated obstacles (Mary and Matthew), and the old standby of rich people who keep their cognac in glass decanters and are constantly in danger of “losing everything” and being forced to flee to their spare mansion, the little one with only 10 bedrooms.

3) Julian Fellowes is a late bloomer.

I have a soft spot in my heart for Julian Fellowes. I first noticed him when he was an actor on the BBC series Monarch of the Glen in the early 2000s. He played Kilwillie, the mischievous blueblood neighbor, and got stuck doing a lot of slapstick scenes. But he always played that character with zeal and a deliciously snooty accent. And it turned out that at the same time, he was quietly nurturing his career as a writer, penning the screenplay for Gosford Park that later won him an Oscar. He also wrote two bestselling novels. And his dual careers of acting and writing really took wing when he was in his 50s—older than I am now. I love that.

4) It ain’t Big Rich England.

These days, we’re plagued with a bevy of “big rich” reality shows—I call them “fat-lip shows”—like Big Rich Texas and The Real Housewives of This City That Will Not Surprise You by Having Rich Housewives in It. These shows take us inside the mahogany walls of America’s zillionaires and show us that 1) they rarely work, 2) they bicker constantly, 3) they fuss a lot about their appearance, and 4) they take a long time to eat dinner. Of course, Downton Abbey is like that too, but it’s all concocted by a writer***, which somehow makes it more palatable. And, hallelujah, it gives that writer a really good job.

           

* The creators of the sci-fi show Eureka had a similar storytelling trick that they called “the big button”: The heroes slave away through the whole show on a machine that will stop some looming disaster, and in the last act, just as all hell is breaking loose, they finish the machine and push the magic button—and nothing happens. Or something happens that appears to save the world, but that causes another disaster, and they have to solve that. By the end, the viewer is spent and satisfied from all the tension and release (and that connection between storytelling and sex, folks, is a whole other topic).

** I can’t imagine that it’s healthy to desensitize ourselves to tragedy like this all the time. It might explain in part why we’re willing to go to war and don’t step in to stop human rights violations. We accuse kids of being desensitized to violence through video games, but anyone who consumes popular entertainment—perhaps even novels—is in the same boat. Or is it good to have thick skins? Would we all die of fear if we weren’t toughened up by tales of little kids being cooked by witches and eaten by wolves?

*** Reality shows do employ writers, at least to edit the footage and make the “stories” hang together better for viewers. And writers for some of the game-show types, like Survivor and The Great Race, basically contrive the whole show. (Great article here on the inside scoop by a reality-show writer.) One show, Storage Wars, recently suffered a scandal when former star Dave Hester accused the producers of planting valuable items in the storage lockers to give an edge to some competitors and make the stories more compelling. I must come out here and admit that, scandal or no, I love Storage Wars—it’s one of my favorite guilty pleasures, and I’m squarely on Team Brandi. I was also a big fan of the tragic-in-retrospect Anna Nicole. One critic summed up my feelings about that show: “Why doesn’t somebody put down the camera and help her?”

Little Things That Editors Hate

A while back, I talked in this blog about that moment when an editor is sitting there looking at two good poems or stories, but she only has room in the journal or anthology for one. She likes them both, but one of them has to get stuffed into its SASE and sent back to the minors. That’s a time when a few polished touches in your submission, like a straightforward bio and a non-scary cover letter, can tip the scale in your favor.

But there’s a dark side to this, and that’s where we’re going now. In my years as an editor, I’ve seen writers shoot themselves in the foot countless times with a bit of attitude or carelessness that probably seemed harmless when they did it, but turned into a deal-breaker when that submission was pitted against another. So, to give your work its best fighting chance out there in the literary trenches, here are a few little submission boners to avoid.

1. Don’t provide the editor with “helpful hints” on how to deal with your submission.

Cover letters can go so wrong, so fast. Sometimes writers get mixed up about who’s doing the writing and who’s doing the editing, and they feel compelled to tell the editor how to do her job. Even a hint of this sort of attitude can scare off an editor. Here are some examples, paraphrased from actual cover letters I’ve seen over the years.

“I think your readers will enjoy these poems.”

A lot of writers use this seemingly innocent phrase. It’s the equivalent of small talk at a cocktail party—I mean, you’ve got to say something to be polite, right? But this line instantly undermines the author’s credibility because it sounds both insincere and slightly arrogant. And it doesn’t say the writer has read the journal; in fact, it makes me suspect that he hasn’t. This writer is better off saying what he admires about the journal—the overall tone, or a poem he liked in a recent issue—proving he’s done his homework. If he hasn’t seen the journal (I don’t condone that, but I know it happens), he might mention something about its website or blog that he liked (because he probably looked at those when he was getting the guidelines). But if you can’t pull that off with honesty, just go the direct route: Avoid the chitchat, and wow the editor with your excellent poem or story.

“Please consider my story and, if you like it, feel free to edit it.”

This is another phrase that sounds sort of polite. But it implies that the author knows the story isn’t quite there—and also implants that idea in the editor’s head. Even worse: “Feel free to edit it down to your maximum length.” That just makes me scratch my head. I start thinking about those ballpoint pen refills that you can cut with a pair of scissors so they fit all kinds of different pens. Remember those? Messy. Inky. And what am I supposed to cut out of this story? The bad parts?

“I have not included an SASE because most publishers respond via e-mail and you should too.”

This is code for “Publish my piece, you stupid Luddite.”

“I have made my story just long enough to fit on three pages of your publication.”

OK, this one’s pretty rare, but it happens. And it’s sort of endearing. I mean, this author has counted up how many words (or, in my OCD fantasies, characters) fit on a page in my journal. And he’s done me the favor of editing it so I won’t have to touch it—it already fits! This puts me in mind of those “starving artist” sales, where you can buy an oil painting for that weird little phone alcove in your hallway, and another for the spot next to the bathroom sink—all for 50 bucks. Who cares what’s on them? They fit perfectly!

2. Don’t scatter your contact information all over your submission.

This one happens a lot. Keep in mind that, at some literary journals, the person who opens the mail is also the person who reads the submissions, at least in the first round. And while a good story or poem will trump any number of gaffes, it’s wise not to piss off this first reader by putting your name at the top of the cover letter, your phone number in the middle, and your e-mail address at the end. That poor editor is probably logging hundreds of entries into a database, and you’ll gum up the works by not making it easy for him. One time when I was logging in several hundred submissions, I found myself frequently barking the m—f word when people didn’t put their name and contact info in the upper left corner and the genre in the upper right, as they were asked to do in the guidelines. I spent hours logging those things in, and I got tired. Tired and mean. I’m just sayin’.

3. If there’s a postmark deadline, don’t mail your submission by Priority Mail, which costs a couple bucks more than First Class.

This is money down the drain. If it’s a postmark deadline, the journal or contest will build in a few extra days for the stragglers to come in—the envelopes that got wedged in the door of the mail truck or delayed by that storm in the Midwest. As long as your letter is postmarked by their deadline, you’re good. Priority Mail and its overnight kin—Express Mail, FedEx, etc.—all carry a hint of desperation and wastefulness that will make your editor a little uncomfortable right off the bat.

4. Don’t forget to include an SASE, or at least an e-mail address and phone number.

I know—who in the world forgets all of these things? It always surprises me, but it does happen sometimes. I can only assume it’s an accident, and I can’t get on my high horse about how stupid it is, because I’ve done some careless things when I was cranking out submissions in a hurry, like sending out simultaneous submissions when I didn’t mean to, and addressing letters to the wrong editor. But this gaffe is a heartbreaker because even if I love your work, I’ll have a hard time contacting you. And you’ll think I’m the world’s worst editor for not even having the decency to send you a rejection. Unhappy faces all around. When I used to kayak a lot, I kept a bonehead checklist by the door—paddle, life vest, and even boat—to keep me from arriving at the lake without the kayak or drowning myself out there. If you’re as forgetful as I am, a Post-It note next to your computer can save you a disaster or two.

5. Don’t use those big Tyvek, polyester, or spun-bonded envelopes that have to be cut open with a pair of scissors.

This is actually my number-one pet peeve about submissions. I hate, hate, hate those big, rip-resistant envelopes and their lumpy cousins, the yellow bubble envelopes. These inventions from hell make me put down the letter opener and sort through all the junk on my desk to find the scissors—which are always far, far away—just to open that one damned submission. You’d think this would only factor into the early envelope-opening, logging-in part of the process. But oh, no—I will remember that submission.

Honorable mentions:

6. Cigarette smell wafting out of the envelope.

7. Not putting enough postage on your submission so it arrives at the publisher with postage due.

8. “I wasn’t sure how many poems we could submit, so I sent both of mine.”
(I actually sort of love this one.)

Little Things That Editors Love

A while back, I was talking with my friend, the poet Amy MacLennan, about an odd topic. We’ve both been reader/editors for literary journals and publishers, which means we’ve both spent many hours wading through piles of submissions, logging them in and sorting them into the Yes pile, the No pile, and the Maybe pile. The odd topic was this: Once in a while, a moment comes around when an editor is sitting there with two poems or short stories, both of which she likes, but only one of which she can accept. Maybe the fiction anthology is down to its last slot, or there’s room for one two-page poem, but not two. What will sway this editor to pick one piece of writing over another when, for all practical purposes, they’re equally good?

This is when little things become important—strange little things that an editor starts to notice when she’s read 300 submissions in a row. Picking one piece over another at this point may be a very unscientific process, one that boils down to a bit of charm, or a small annoyance, that the writer inadvertently sprinkled into his or her submission. Every editor’s different, and there’s no accounting for pet peeves. But let’s assume that I’m sitting there with two pieces of writing in my hands—one yours, and one that’s somebody else’s. Assuming that both of them feature stellar craft and suit my taste, what little things can you do in your submission that will make me root for you?

1. Surprise me.

By “surprise,” I don’t mean put a cockroach in the envelope, or tack another bloody O. Henry ending onto your short story. (Don’t get me started on O. Henry abuse.) The kind of surprise I like is, for instance, a sonnet that startles me with its gorgeous language set against an unusual topic—say, hospital food or safety deposit boxes. Or a short story that’s in the form of an accident report or a shopping list. This is the kind of jolt that lifts one good poem or story over another good one, a certain transcendence that makes an editor feel like she’s discovering truly inventive writing, perhaps even changing the course of literature. What editor doesn’t want that?

2. Include a short, straightforward bio with a few decent credentials and nothing cutesy.

Notice that this has nothing to do with your story or poem; this is all about the cover letter. Even if you have no publishing credits whatsoever, this is where you play it straight and say that you’re a stay-at-home mom or retired plumber or whatever, and maybe you’ve taken a few creative writing classes. If you have good credits—well-known literary journals, or small ones—list three to five of them*, and maybe a contest or two that you won, a degree you earned, or somebody famous you studied with, and keep it around 50 words. That’s it—no soliloquies, and no jokes. Humor in your story or poem is fine, but humor in a cover letter is like target-shooting in a strange, dark room—you’ll probably miss, and things will just go wildly wrong from there. If you’re a writer who likes mantras, here’s one for the cover letter: Do not scare off the editor.

3. Keep your cover letter simple.

This goes hand in hand with the short, straightforward bio, but it encompasses the entire look of your cover letter. When I was reading submissions for an anthology a while back, I was surprised at how annoyed I got with the overdecorated cover letters. I saw all sorts, from big splashy author logos to pastel photos of ripply lakes and aphorisms about dancing in the rain. All of those things qualify as too much information. I’m a sucker for elegant touches, like bullet points between the state and zip code, or the little telephone icon before a phone number. But after seeing so many methed-up cover letters, I’m leaning more and more toward the humble, plain-Jane variety, with the writer’s name and address at the top left-hand corner in the same font as the rest of the letter. (Needless to say, avoid frou-frou fonts, or the kind that a former co-worker called “too fontsy.”) The main attraction should be your poem or story; for the cover letter, the only rule of thumb is that it should not be distracting. If it does come down to you and that other author, don’t make the editor think, “Hmm…the one with the neutral cover letter that doesn’t say much, or the crazy teddy-bear lady?”

4. Just send one or two entries. Not twenty. Not fifty.

One exception to this: It might actually be OK to send twenty or fifty entries in to a contest. You have to pay for every one, so you’ll be helping them keep the contest going, and that’s not a bad thing. But if you’ve got twenty genuinely good stories or poems, they’ll do better work for you if you spread them around rather than putting all your literary eggs in one basket. And if you’re submitting to a journal or anthology—well, let’s just say that when an editor sees thirty-eight identical envelopes in the mail bin, he probably won’t be thinking, “I bet I’ll love this person’s work and will be thrilled to read every one of these!” Again, editor-ay, no air-scay.

5. Do any of the following, some of which are completely out of your control:

Be a little kid.

I love getting submissions from kids. I don’t care if the story is wildly inappropriate for our publication; these small people with their hand-scrawled cover letters and drawings of their hamsters just kill me. That’s not to say that I’ll accept the piece. But I will send the nicest rejection letter you ever got.

Be one of many people from your small town who sent in a submission.

I love this too. I’m fascinated by the little batches of envelopes that come in from the same tiny town in Kansas or Manitoba or wherever. Obviously these people know each other; they’re probably in a workshop or night class together. And because I’ve been in those workshops and classes where we all ganged up and tried for the same publications, and then laughed about it over coffee later, I’m instantly on your side. Bonus points if you’re from the same family.

Hail from an exotic-sounding place.

This is completely immature on my part, but I will give you a slight edge if you live someplace that sounds really cool, like Black Kitten Road or Woolgoolga, Australia.

Next up: There’s a flip side to this, of course. What dog-doodies should you avoid to keep your work out of the rejection pile? Stay tuned…

* Bonus pet peeve: authors who list every place they’ve ever been published, complete with the title of each poem or story, in a big honkin’ paragraph.

Photo by Niklas Bildhauer