How to Glow in the Dark

[Leans across the table, sloshing my third martini] The straight answer to your question is no, you’re almost certainly not going to get the same advance for your next book — not from your current publisher, at least, and probably not from anyone. Yes, I can tell you this even though your first book hasn’t come out yet. It’s not personal; it’s just how things work.

Before I start razzing you, let me be clear: I do, in fact, care to hear more about the time Joe Biden was kind to you, because I care about you. How sacred it must feel to have been taken seriously by one of history’s most powerful people. Screw the cynics! Of courseyou’re still in awe, and of course you want to talk about it. As an Alfred Adler devotee, I believe people live above all else for significance, that simultaneous sense of belonging and mattering. My inbox teems with testament to this.

I have one. Every literary agent I’ve asked has one. And over the years—talking to hundreds of authors—I’ve realized that most of you have one, too. I speak of the white whale: that one competitor who’s always just sort of there, winning all the contests and compliments and cash, kinda-sorta making you want to hurl in the process. If you feel me on this, suffice to say you’re not alone. Envy is not the sole provenance of the personality-disordered lunatic.

“How can I write about real people?” I hear some variation on this question at least once a month. Authors want to know the rules. They want to talk through potential liabilities and spool themselves into whatever bubble wrap they can. I’m happy to help; the answers are easy enough. You can find the Authors Guild’s guide to writing about real people here, complete with pointers on how to avoid—well, if not getting sued, then getting successfully sued for things like libel and defamation.

Would you believe that generative AI neutralizes the Dunning-Kruger effect? That’s right: thanks to LLMs, under-competent people no longer need worry that they suffer from disproportionate delusions of mastery. Wow! That’s because AI evens the proportions. A recent study suggests that most people who rely on it start wildly overestimating their proficiency before long, including and especially those who have high baseline competence. AI levels the playing field on hubris, not ability.

[Nota bene: this week’s newsletter touches on bodies and weight. If you’d rather not engage with all that, olly out after line item one, and see you next week.] Look, says I, sloshing my third martini in your direction.1 If I’ve said it once, I’ve said it a hundred times: outcomes in this industry are like a gut microbiome. We can talk about bacteria common across populations, but in the aggregate, every individual’s colon contents are unique as a fingerprint.

[I’m catching up on post-vacation client work this week. Hope you enjoy this guest column from my friend Sam Ashworth, a wildly talented novelist and writing teacher. -ASL] It’s 1973, and we’re in a suite at the Sherry-Netherland hotel in New York. Three souls have been convened for an all-day meeting: director Herbert Ross—it’s his suite—screenwriter Jay Presson Allen, and composer John Kander. Their job is to break the story for the new Barbra Streisand movie musical, Funny Lady.

If you consume any self help for people pleasers, I’m sure you’ve heard this cliché: No one can get through life without making enemies. Finally set that boundary with Tammy Turmoil, and she’ll spend the rest of her life talking shit behind your back; refuse, and now you’re a villain to every Tammy-trampled innocent you failed. Of course, no one is the villain in every story. No, no: you’re probably a hero in some, too.

I’m just going to make one up: sparginal. Sparginal is what you feel when the brilliant, powerful man who likes you—you!—turns out to be a sex addict on the make with at least a dozen other women. It’s what came with the “handwritten” postcard you got from your hero, nearly bringing you to tears, until you looked closer and realized the card was written in junk-mail ink.

They seemed baffled that I’d driven there. The highlight of my trip to the Netherlands started with three septuagenarian Dutch people standing with a clipboard in a leafy suburban yard, waving cheerfully through the window of my rental SUV. There wasn’t another car in sight. “I’m here for the thing!” I said. “Is there…is there parking?” They conferred amongst themselves. “Ah—” said one lady. “—We’re thinking maybe you try to leave your car by the apartments up the road?” “Uh…will I get towed?” I said.