The Ideal Reader
The Ideal Reader
The behind-the-scenes joys of editorial work
First, welcome to new followers, and I sincerely apologize for the radio silence. Between outstanding deadlines that have finally been crossed off, plus a trip to Washington DC for this year’s Food History Weekend, my own writing time fell to the back burner. While my lofty former goal of weekly posts can often seem out of reach, I plan to pick up the pace a bit in the coming weeks, so as those blank billboards say: “Watch this space.”
Like many avid readers, I knew I wanted to be an editor long before I knew what it meant. When I graduated college, my B.A. in English as bright and worthless as a newly minted penny, I attended the Columbia Publishing Course, a famed bootcamp for young people hoping to find jobs in publishing. It was a six-week crash course in the work of media—books and magazines initially, then “new media” in the early 2010s until digital wasn’t so “new” anymore. A lot of the people who came into the program said they wanted to be editors—in part, I think, because they perceived editing to be the closest thing possible to loving books. (I’d already had this expectation somewhat demystified, having spent a good portion of college reading submissions for The Kenyon Review and seeing firsthand the difference between the “slush pile” and published submissions.) But editing, we believed, was the best way to get close to authors, to the source of creative genius that inspired so many of us to read. The golden ticket promised to us via this program, via job fairs, guest lectures, and many networking opportunities, was an entry-level job in book publishing—a foot in the door to the making of culture.
Straight out of the program, I landed one of those coveted assistant spots, at Alfred A. Knopf, the acclaimed literary imprint that has minted as many Pulitzer and Nobel Prize-winning writers as Harvard has minted presidents and CEOs. My role was that of a managing editorial assistant, which I initially took to be a more administrative position than I might have liked. However, I quickly discovered that it made me unique among the assistants in that I had to act as a go-between for every editor, copyeditor, interior and exterior designer, and publicist in-house. I loved the versatility of the job, the way it embedded me in every title on the production docket, and the camaraderie of it—I was 22, but everyone knew my name, and I knew theirs. And I had a full vision of book work, from proposal to signed contract to finished book—and of the many, many people who worked behind the scenes, and behind the author, to make that book possible.
When I transitioned into cookbook work full-time (a story for another day), that vision expanded to include the many commercial and aesthetic elements that had to be brought into harmony to make a book sing. I suddenly understood the distinct talents required of text designers and cover designers, copyeditors and proofreaders, and the marketing and publicity teams that shaped each book’s journey into the culinary marketplace. Especially because cookbook writers come from everywhere—they can be anyone, from talented home cooks to food historians, influencers to renowned chefs—the collaboration of an entire network of contributors becomes more important than ever. So much of a cookbook’s success depends on establishing trust between the author and reader, and each person on a cookbook team plays a vital role in establishing that trust.
A cookbook editor’s responsibilities vary widely, especially as their list of authors and forthcoming titles change over time, and two editors are rarely alike, as they each have their passion projects and best practices. But each of the editors I worked for, in distinctive ways, knew how to walk the fine line between treating cookbooks as commercial endeavors and as high art—always advocating for what they thought would be the most successful version of a book possible, but never at the expense of honoring the author’s vision and voice. Like book agents, editors work closely with authors to tease out the ideas of what a book actually can be: what argument it makes about cooking, what recipes serve as evidence to that argument, and most importantly, how to engage the potential reader so they come to think of the cookbook as an essential guide. This is work that gets done line by line, headnote by headnote, with the editor moving back and forth between the author’s perspective and the reader’s comprehension. It’s because of this shape-shifting that cookbook editors must be both exceptional and ordinary cooks, omnivores and picky eaters—able to advocate for the author’s vision and to serve the reader’s needs. It’s endlessly difficult and creative work and often far from glamorous. But when a book comes into its final form, when you step back and see your author signing books or speaking in interviews, there’s almost nothing like it.
During my years in book publishing, my favorite type of work happened at a moment of transition, when an author handed over their manuscript to me, often after a year+ of round-the-clock writing and recipe testing, and said, “Tell me if it works.” This was the moment where, page by page, I had to play two distinct but essential roles. First, I had to be a grand inquisitor, red pen (or Track Changes) at the ready to spot faults and flaws on every page. I had to think on behalf of the skeptical home cooks who didn’t want to waste their time or dollars on bad recipes, and who deserved a thorough explanation of every novel ingredient or lengthy method. I also had to hedge my enthusiasm, knowing full well that the vast majority of book buyers only have about 10-15 cookbooks in their homes at any given moment. How would my authors earn a place on that fraction of a bookshelf? That critical voice was important, demanding precision and tempering expectations, even in a booming commercial marketplace.
But behind that tempered critical lens was a much more joyous view, and a far more fun role to play: that of the book’s ideal reader, the person who had every possible reason to fall in love with the author’s vision and who followed each headnote suggestion, each recipe step, and each sotto-voce sidebar with rapt attention. At every stage of a cookbook’s journey, from pitch meetings to sales conferences to production meetings and publicity briefs, I had to remain singularly confident that my authors were brilliant and deserving of the public’s attention. I had to articulate, over and over again, the novel observations and contributions of their work, to delineate how they would help home cooks improve their cooking, and to say why their book should be included in the home cook’s regularly referenced library. It’s a challenge to be that consistently optimistic, to repeatedly advocate for someone else’s ideas, but it was creative and generous work, and always in the service of writers I admired. To contribute not only to a cultural discourse, but a discourse of cultural possibility, is what’s kept me in the food world and what’s given me so much joy in working the “cookbook beat.” I have to be open to authors persuading me to change the way I cook, sending me in new directions, and teaching me that I still have so much more to learn. Even long after the first book I edited was released, I haven’t lost a sense of joy in encountering a new and enlivening cookbook.
It’s a shame that even the greatest of cookbook editors rarely get their critical due from the publishing establishment. Perhaps it’s because cookbooks are seen as a feminized genre or because recipes are perceived as technical writing rather than as creative writing. Perhaps it’s because, despite the nourishment and joy that such books provide, cooking is still regarded as a largely naturalized rather than intellectualized process, especially when it’s done at home. But to be honest, I never did it for the fame, or the prestige, or the three-martini lunches. I did it because I loved the responsibility of caring for ideas, for seeking out new voices, for championing books from pitch meeting to printed copies, and for the responsibility of acting as the ideal reader, when we didn’t even know if that person existed. It’s why I keep reading today, red pen or not.
Recommended Reading: A few gems from while I was on blog hiatus. Nobody Wants This. The Paris essays of A.J. Liebling. Several joyous assignments, including my first-ever piece for the Boston Globe and this fun return to literary criticism for SAVEUR’s latest print issue, on the omnipresence of food in crime novels. But for a recent read, I loved this piece in Food & Wine from Maggie Hennessy on the tendency to overfeed the ones we love. (Just as Hennessy remembers her German grandmother’s tendency to sneak chocolate into her pockets, I think of the countless aunts, uncles, and grandparents who encouraged me to “ess, ess” whatever was in sight. Would love to see an entire volume of essays about the joys of overfeeding from across a whole slew of American immigrant experiences… complete with recipes, of course)
The Perfect Bite: Sadly I didn’t have much dining time while in Washington, D.C. (Unsurprisingly, it was much easier to find cocktail hour—thanks, Off the Record, for a superb martini.) But I was happy to catch dinner with a dear friend at Meli Mezze, a terrific restaurant near Columbia Heights. Everything we had was great (and reminded me that I’ve been sleeping on the power of gigante beans), but it was a simple dish of fried potatoes tossed in herbs and a light dressing that’s been sticking with me since. I rarely cook potatoes at home, in part because I trust restaurants to do the best, double-fry style. Happy that my theory still stands after our spectacular dinner.
Cooked & Consumed: One of my most recent cooking ventures (soon to be up at SAVEUR) was a Q&A and series of tested recipes from Michael Mina’s gorgeous new cookbook My Egypt. Everything I made from the book was fantastic, but it was a new-to-me dessert dish, a baked custard called om ali, that truly blew my mind. Mina’s version—which uses day-old croissants, lots of chopped nuts and fruit, and aromatic spiced milk—has completely displaced my definition of bread pudding, and given me a fresh appreciation for the wide array of ingredients, traditions, and recipes that have shaped Egyptian cooking. Keep your eyes on the SAVEUR site for when it drops; you won’t be disappointed.
Glad to see your blog is back.