On The Link Between Queries, Pitches & Contracts

Q. What, exactly, is the relationship between queries, agents’ pitch letters to editors, and the contract that follows?


A. The query introduces the book to an agent. The pitch letter introduces the book to an editor and publisher. The contract finalizes the sale.

See these posts, which have already done the work to put this into foundational context, from former literary agent Nathan Bransford:

  1. What is a query letter from author to agent?
  2. What is a query/pitch letter from agent to editor?

Beyond Nathan’s wonderful posts, note that most writers cannot secure an agent without a solid query letter, which prompts the manuscript request and then an offer of representation to secure the writer as a client at the agency. Once an offer of representation between a writer and an agent is confirmed, that writer confirms agency representation status with a legally-binding agency agreement, and that agent can represent the writer before publishers/imprints with their editors.

An agent and an author can (and ought to) engage in systematic conversations about the nature of this relationship before the agency agreement is confirmed, given that, in signing it, the author confirms a formal, legal relationship for the duration of their career (or project-by-project, pending the structure of the agency agreement).

A query letter will almost always be the first encounter between a writer and an agent, and given that agents will read 5,000-20,000 or so queries over the course of the year, the letter has to stand out beyond belief in order to capture an agent’s imagination. Beyond the query, the manuscript itself, and where a non-fiction writer is querying also (many will come to the agency without querying, in that they often have a platform or expertise that surpasses the query trenches), the proposal, will also have to shatter the agent. An agent must be persuaded s/he can sell a project before s/he proceeds with its submission.

For a record of public query letter vetting, check out literary agent Janet Reid’s excellent blog, QueryShark.

Some clients will come to the agent without querying: through conferences, conversations begun by the agent or the writer, an agent’s active research and pitching to authors potential book ideas or projects, or otherwise. Especially with non-fiction projects, an idea may be pitched and conversations had before a proposal and an agency agreement are formalized, given that certain academics, experts, or otherwise may have never considered trade publication and sought it out.

One of my own agenting loves and strategies, of a kind, is this kind of non-fiction proposal development, given that I read broadly in the deeper academic or non-trade sphere (dissertations, journals, magazines of a more academic orientation, and otherwise), often encounter life-changing and mind-altering ideas and theory, and find much of it deeply relevant to the greater public sphere. This kind of brainstorming and development work is almost always the purview of the literary agent, even if certain editors do elect to pay close attention to news/social media/publishing outlets, to experts, and/or to writers, to then chase after potential projects.

It’s much harder to find a writer and pitch a novel, even if it does happen sometimes, as agents and editors pull novelists-to-be from the screenwriting or short story trenches; novels are harder to build from the ground up, are far more interiorly and existentially demanding, and the practice of craft manifests itself differently from more academic or factual writing. Memoirs are an exception.

When submitting a book, an agent will often include a solid pitch letter to the editors to whom s/he submits (even if one is not intrinsically required at this stage, in this degree of complexity, given the nature of relationships built over time between editors and agents). It is almost impossible for writers to place a project, let alone to place it brilliantly, without an agent.

A healthy submission–the right project, to the right editor, from the right agent–will then result in a sale, and open up the incipient contract negotiation. When confirmed, and signed, this contract legally binds the author to the publisher.

Thus agents become, and have always been, essential for the management of all the stages of the publication and career-building process: project submission and placement, contract negotiation [there is a need for fluency in the legal dimension, which is given/taught by the industry and mentors; contracts are not mere legal frameworks to protect the author, however, but are also tools of adapting to the industry, fundamentally contingent they are upon the book publishing market as a whole, from publishing models to distribution models (i.e., the royalty hierarchies for different publication forms, from trade hardcover, to trade paperback, to mass market paperback, to electronic, to audio, and more)*], marketing support, career management, and more. The vast majority of authors do not have, nor do they want, the business capacities to agent well for themselves.


*What is the nature of this distinction?

Standard contract language between two parties, to protect the interests of both parties, will be ‘transactional language’ here, identifying the nature of the two parties, the nature of the transaction, and the nature of the obligations due to one party versus another. Here a good contracts lawyer can help review/vet the contract (note: a good contracts lawyer), even though the best agents will be operating at a contracts lawyer’s capacity, if not beyond it; the work of literary agents, in this dimension, is supremely intelligent and demanding work.

Besides a kind of transactional protection, however, the publishing agreement puts forth and guarantees a market-based framework for this particular form/type of product (a book). Inserted into the agreement is not just language that negotiates the transaction between the Author and the Publisher, as two key contractual parties, but also between the Author v. Publisher v. Marketplace, in that the Publisher is going to be publishing within and responding to a Marketplace which he cannot control.

(To be particular, with examples:

A standard contract might mediate a simple transaction between two parties. For example: when you pay me $250k, I will sign over the rights to my house to you. This transaction can be and often is made independent of the state of the housing market, and the necessity of or the desire for this form of transaction often transcends or precedes the state of the market. If the housing market is poor, the house will sell for less, but it will still sell, and on the other hand, if the housing market is strong, the house will sell for more, but once the sale is made, the transaction is completed. If it sells again in another 25 years, the sale will be negotiated in an entirely different negotiation, with an independent set of contractual terms.

In book publishing, the publishing agreement does not only mediate this simple form of transaction; it also mediates the Publisher’s responsibility to the Author before the entire, ever-changing Marketplace, over the duration of the existence of the book in that Marketplace, across different forms of publication and distribution.

While contract language does, where appropriately negotiated, account for changes in industry standards, what it often does not do is protect against such large potential institutional changes that the entire contract base would need to be re-negotiated, to account for the marketplace infrastructure which will now affect the potential of the author and said book project. Systematically, ever-more-so, authors find it more viable to self-publish, for example, or to publish with smaller or medium-sized publishers that have perfected more sustainable marketing, digital advertising, and distribution models; if we understand your traditional publisher to be the publisher that sets the standard for the nature and quality of publication, no longer do ‘traditional publishers’ own all of the turf, nor do they necessarily consistently excel at the quality of publication. This is the space for agents to be innovative responders to the movements and limitations of publishers before them.

As another, fun little thought, to help put this into context: There are something like 3.5k+ companies with publicly traded stocks on the stock market. I’ve done some basic research here, so take this with some form of a grain of salt, and as merely a conceptual tool, but: Given that the nature of the products on the stock market is so broad and diverse, it is its own project to not only mediate the contract for funds invested between the Investor/Hedge Fund and Company, as example parties, but to also account for the type of Marketplace within which every kind of product is sold, beyond the time frame to which funds are committed as subject to changes at the level of the stock market.

To invest in tech is not the same thing as to invest in organic, hand-made soap, a sprinkle of cinnamon tossed in; in other words, beyond acknowledging that the marketplace for these things does and can change, it could also be possible and wise for investors to push for/pre-determine the outlets by which a product is sold and the medium by which it is produced. As far as I can tell, not all–if not very few–boilerplate contracts between investors and companies that are on the receiving end of this investment include this latter kind of structured contractual language, helping to shape and negotiate the state of the sub-industry for the product developed by any said company.)

Terms with regards to royalties, forms of publication, distribution models, publication discounts, and others are all subject to change–to a change beyond the immediate agency of the publisher who puts the product into the marketplace in the first place. Here, a hard knowledge of different infrastructural pieces within the industry, the degree to which they are subject to change, and otherwise, is fundamental to the highest quality of contract negotiation for authors.

On Deals

Q. What, exactly, is at the foundation of ‘a book deal’?


A. When a literary agent licenses a project (sells it) or projects (sells them) to a publishing house, this transaction (the Word .docx manuscript for the novel or non-fiction proposal in exchange for the financial advance, money paid upfront for the right to publish and distribute the content in any given territory or sets of territories) is considered a ‘deal.’

Once the deal is negotiated and the book sold, the financial advance must be ‘earned out’ (enough book copies sold to return to the publisher the money paid upfront) before the author ever earns royalties. Money that isn’t earned out, however, never needs to be returned to the publisher, unless the contract so stipulates it (depending on the circumstances); it is paid out in its chosen proportion as an intentional investment in the project, and an intrinsic endorsement of its quality and potential.

It is industry standard that the agency takes a 15% cut on any of the earnings involved, from advance to royalties, for base or domestic sales.

With some variance, this cut is anywhere from 15-25% on the negotiation of international/foreign and subsidiary rights, pending the use of a secondary agent or other, diverse factors; there exists a greater scope of difference on this secondary cut than there is in the preceding, domestic one.

It is also industry standard that an agent takes no money from an author until a deal is made; all the hours involved in preparation will, thus, go unpaid until this deal confirmation. A model like this one helps protect against financial abuse of the author, on one hand, and respects the entrepreneurial dimension to agenting, on the other. It is the case, however, that most agents will not seriously engage deeper developmental or editorial work until the agency agreement is confirmed, to protect the agent also from being abused in time–and, in a far more positive, brilliant way, to commit the agent and writer to conceptual collaboration and business partnership.

In multi-book deals, the author and publisher may agree on terms for book projects that have yet to be developed, or are negotiated based on just a proposal for fiction projects (a partial manuscript with a synopsis, rather than the entire book). The same goes for authors with a ‘backlist’ (a history of successfully published titles).

It is also the case that, in some models, an author may not be paid an upfront financial advance but will earn money just on a royalty structure alone; while more rare, this model is not necessarily less beneficial or profitable to the author and, by extension, his/her agent, given that the royalty structure may be and often is different across different deals.

How are deals announced? And how are those announcements structured?

Deals made by literary agents on behalf of their authors are reported on the database PublishersMarketplace. Not all agents report deals, and not all deals are reported. On the most part, however, this is the most comprehensive database of publishing negotiations available.

[Note: Publishing is a slow business. One of my writers and I (and the same may go for other agents) may spend time to prepare a manuscript for submission; it is not atypical for me to sign genius writers who need some tightening with their craft. Following preparation, submission windows can be months’ long, given that editors receive many submissions from agents, need to read entire proposals and manuscripts, and need to walk through the entirety of a multi-tiered acquisitions process before an offer is extended. This acquisitions process often includes getting second reads and reader reports, a profit-and-loss (P&L) and sales analysis, and vision-casting for the marketing and publicity capacity and potential at any individual imprint.

On the other hand, sometimes, given the right circumstances, an editor may read even overnight or during the day–and an acquisitions process can be pushed forward. It may be, but is not necessarily, a reflection on the quality and potential of the manuscript–sometimes it’s as simple as the perfect agent-editor mix, with an editor who has nothing else on their plate.

Once an offer is made and extended, the contract negotiation window can take weeks to months. The deal involved may be announced either once confirmed or once the contract is fully signed, pending the publisher’s preference. Once deals are announced, approximately 9-24 months might pass before the book is published and available for purchase. During this window of time, the publishing house works to lay out the manuscript for its published aesthetic, design a cover, determine a marketing/publicity plan, prepare bookstores for the book’s publication, and more.

After a deal announcement, the title may and the content of a book will change during its editorial window, prior to publication: In the case of novels and memoirs, editors provide editorial feedback immediately, edits are made, and the novels go into copyediting and final production. In the case of non-fiction projects, the manuscript must first be completed in full, once the proposal is accepted/purchased; editors tend to be intimately involved in the final development stages here, per the academic-styled argument that justifies the book’s development and placement.]

Deal announcements will include, with some degree of variance, the following information (note that, if a deal doesn’t include a certain detail, it doesn’t mean that the detail isn’t ‘present’ or ‘important’–there are many reasons for publishers and agents to not disclose all details in public, at any given time):

  • the author of the book;
  • some descriptor about the author’s expertise and/or his/her history of publications, where applicable;
  • the title of the book sold;
  • the description of the book sold;
  • the editor who acquires the book;
  • the imprint for which the book is acquired;
  • the number of books involved in the book deal (deals can be negotiated for single or multiple titles, pending the circumstances; it is usually the case that only the first is completed, where fiction is involved, and it is rare for non-fiction to sell in multiple-book deals);
  • the particular form of the submission or sale, where applicable:
    • exclusive submission: an agent sends the project to only one editor/imprint–usually on a very limited timeline, such as 2-3 weeks, before the project goes out wider–and the imprint chooses to buy it, which is indicative of the relationship the agent has with this editor and/or a strong degree of certainty that the editor would be interested in the project and the imprint will be able to extend an offer proportionate to the value of the project, given the lack of editorial competition; -OR-
    • at auction: an editor/imprint makes an/the first offer, additional imprints follow with offers and interest, and the imprints proceed to bid on the project (in different formats) until the agent and author select the best offer, for the winning imprint to take the project (side note: just because an auction isn’t reported doesn’t mean that one didn’t happen, and just because an auction didn’t happen doesn’t mean that multiple houses weren’t interested–there are other, more informal ways of mediating the interest of multiple imprints); -OR-
    • in a pre-empt: when an auction is set-up, one editor/imprint can provide, prior to the formal start of the auction day/time, such a high or quality offer that the auction never actually unfolds; if an imprint ‘wins’ the auction in this way, it is considered a pre-empt(ive) offer to/win before the auction itself
  • the financial advance for the book(s) (the advance will be paid out according to a complex payout schedule that includes, for example, a cut at contract signing, another at manuscript delivery, and a final cut upon publication, all per individual book; where multiple books are purchased, the advance will be split across multiple books, and a sizable advance for three books–as one example–might then be paid out in full over several years);
  • the intended publication date/season;
  • the agent who negotiated the deal;
  • the agency for which this agent works; and/or
  • the territory(ies) to which rights for any given project are licensed.

Potential (Base) Territories: There is always diversity in these options (technically, every individual territory can be included in or excluded from a contract), but these are the standard territory frameworks within which agents place projects

  • World [domestic (USA & Canada) English, worldwide English, & international/translation rights are licensed to the domestic publisher; the publisher manages all secondary placements in international territories via its own internal foreign rights department, where one exists]; -OR-
  • World English [domestic & worldwide English rights are licensed to the domestic publisher, often with some variance in the UK/New Zealand/Australia territories; international/translation rights are retained by the agent in order to manage at the agency level, often with the support of a foreign rights agent & licensing agencies in foreign territories]; -OR-
  • North America [domestic English rights are licensed to the domestic publisher, while worldwide English & international/translation rights are retained by the agent in order to manage at the agency level, often with the support of a foreign rights agent & licensing agencies in foreign territories]

Additional Territories & Subsidiary Rights: International/Translation (almost every country around the world has domestic, translated publication outlets, though not all are viable marketplaces for projects placed domestically, and the degree to which any given project can or will sell in any territory is subject to the individual territory’s economy; see one listing of the potential territories here); AudioFilm/TV; Electronic; Anthology/Serial Rights; and more

Records of Financial Advances: Not all publishers and agents elect to break financial advance information, for a diversity of reasons, but where included, the financial information is included according to this legend, available on PublishersMarketplace–

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You can find an ever-updated record of the deals I’ve negotiated here.

On the Obligation to Perfect One’s Craft

Imagine two spheres, of a different color, interpenetrating each other.

This is the writer. Writers are instruments of craft, and that craft comes to manifest in two distinct spheres of being.

The genius writer, when s/he writes, writes essentially from two different modes of being: one that which makes writing sheer art, and the other which makes writing sheer science; in the best fiction, there is no writer who is without both of these dimensions, actualized to their full potential, in their own, distinct way.

I wanted to introduce this distinction here, and leave writers with a bit of a challenge, moving forward, as I do when I teach classes on plot and pacing. (See resources available from those classes here.)

I begin with this radical but absolutely vital distinction between the art and the science of writing:

  • the first, on one hand, is that never-teachable spark of sheer genius (the same way that Mozart has genius before music, and da Vinci genius before the visual arts, and Michael Flatley and Jean Butler genius before tap dancing, and Benedict Cumberbatch before acting, and Steve Jobs before tech/entrepreneurship, and Stieg Laarson before thrillers);
  • the second, on the other hand, is the rigor of coming into possession of the knowledge of technique with its theory, as well as the practice that underlies learning to bridge theory (i.e., the three-act structure with notions of pacing with notions of world-building) with your writing as it manifests on the page itself.

Not all writers will bear the first spark, and there is a huge spectrum by which this kind of giftedness can manifest: giftedness in prose, in imagination, in the study of the interior (say, with a gift for empathy), and more. This is not a problem, though I would without hesitation argue that these are the writers who deserve primacy of publication, of space on the bookshelf, and of attention.

Writing deserves to be magical, and to be considered as such. Poor writing changes tastes, and it ought not to, and so we ought to build communities with a taste for magic and genius in terms of that which the best writers bring to the turf.

All writers should bear the second quality.

I will admit that many genius writers do not have, necessarily, a theoretical formation given to them, but that theoretical formation they come to organically, in reading and picking up on patterns, as well as by deep intuition. To be a storyteller by nature is to possess a particular form of a gift, which then translates into learning to structure stories. Note that we exist in a culture built, in deep, historical ways, upon stories told by spoken word.

The great gift of consuming theories about craft is that these theories, when received from another, give you language and models for thinking through the different structural elements of plot, and so therefore, they ought to, in those who are thinking deeply, intentionally about their writing, elevate the work of their own intuition. Intuition, I’d say, only goes so far, or goes so far in a particular way, unless it’s working against an objective framework for quality.

(Experimental fiction and rule-breaking fiction only goes so far before it starts to tear apart the experience of the one who reads it; where good fiction should work on the heart and affect, should give life, should spark curiosity and wonder, sometimes the rule-breaking in fiction stifles imagination, gives rise to depression, and detracts from an engagement with reality. More could be said.)

I’ve been reading queries and manuscripts, and 90% of the time, the feedback comes down to something simple: You need to learn to write. To write as putting words to paper is not the same as creating magic with purpose and intention on paper, and the writer’s job is universally the latter, the difference being the genre with its set of rules, its audience, its pre-determined focus or purpose, and otherwise.

One of my top-notch secrets (except not, given that I break this in my rejections, revise and resubmit requests, and in my conferences) is to ask clients to do rigorous homework about craft as they learn to write, and write better, with the simple project being this one: Make every novel that you write, literally, better than the one that preceded it.

The space of experience underlying these two modes is its own, separate question, and as with others, I hope to reflect on this later–but there is no genius that can be made manifest without experience and practice, and there is no maturity in craft that can be made manifest without experience and practice.

Learn to not be afraid to experience, and to take the time to measure the quality of your experience against theoretical frameworks that will help you to apply your experience to the creation of a new experience in the space of the novel. See some incipient resources on these questions through the resources link above.

On Agents: An Agent’s Basic ‘Task List’

What does an agent do? What should an agent do?

There are layers of answers to this question. There is, at this moment in time, absolutely no industry standard by which to measure ‘the quality of a good agent.’ Different agencies are good at different things; different agents at different agencies are good at different things. The determination of tasks that is technically the purview of any given agent is not standardized, nor is there a standardization of quality in a way that can be publicly matrixed out and vetted, at least for now.

Whether it is possible to do so (W. thinks certainly so), and whether it should be done so (W. thinks certainly so, in a way that is proportionate to a commitment to a solid business ethic that respects writers and the business both) are debatable questions.

Many writers don’t know this, but membership to the Association of Authors’ Representatives (AAR) demands nothing more than the consistent sale of books, without measuring, as part of the number of sales, the following dozen plus things that can be considered:

+ the nature and quality of the editorial work that went into the book prior to its submission;

+ the nature and quality of the submissions list (the list of editors/publishing house imprints to whom/which the agent submits any given project);

+ the nature and quality of the incipient negotiation for the base offer [advance, publication timeline, publication type, royalty hierarchy, the territory to which rights are licensed (North America, World English, and World rights licenses are three base forms of licensure), and bonuses where they are applicable, among other items];

+ the nature and quality of the boilerplate contract (every imprint has its own contract, and over time, every agency comes to personalize the base version of this contract for its own agency–this is the ‘boilerplate’);

+ the nature and quality of the negotiation into that boilerplate over time (how agencies negotiate, and the degree to which they respond to marketplace changes over time, paying attention to industry standards for different questions), and then from the boilerplate to the personalization that is due every individual author and his/her book;

+ the nature and quality of negotiation for the international, where applicable, and subsidiary markets (audio, options for film/TV, and more);

+ the nature and quality of the vision-casting that is due individual authors for their career, in terms of imagining and balancing between individual titles, trilogies and series, writing in different genres, and more;

+ the nature and quality of intervention, where the publishing house demonstrates some degree of financial, creative, or professional abuse against an author;

+ operational management, in terms of database; accounting; author agreements; mailings for advanced reader copies (ARCs) or galleys (copies sent to readers and reviews prior to the formal publication, listed as ‘not for sale’), contracts, and checks; and other operational demands;

+ relational management, in terms of the relational capital that is developed between an agent and editors, an agent and his/her agency as well as other agents, as well as an agent and his/her writers, which in some ways is the utter foundation upon which everything else rests (but is developed over time);

+ innovation and capacity in terms of project placement and adaptation to the market, which can to a large extent be measured primarily by (in a general sense) the agent’s intelligence, and then weighed against an agent’s mentoring from other agents, which is the fundamental learning methodology in the business (note that most agents do not have a degree in publishing, English, or legal questions; never has the industry required one; and never has this form of a degree been a reflection on the potential of the development of taste in an agent, determined most particularly by the way in which that agent reads), as well as systematic experience actually doing what healthy agenting demands;

+ market research, oriented to a healthy sense of distinctions in genres and thus their markets, as well as a healthy sense of the books that have sold, do sell, and the reasons for their success or failure;

+ and more.

You can find above incipient conceptual categories for the kinds of questions that you want to ask agents offering representation, and questions for which good agents should have healthy, quantifiable/concrete answers. (I’ve always deeply appreciated the questions outlined in this post here.)

(As some key examples, think about these questions, and to a large extent, a really healthy agent will tell you, without triggering or freaking out, if and when a question crosses boundaries. Most general decision-making questions shouldn’t, but I see this as a general forewarning. Just note that, in an hour-long conversation, for example, about basics with regards to the agenting relationship, you may not think to ask some of the more difficult questions about extended career-building needs, and so I share these questions with an eye toward the dozens of writers I’ve known over the years who have chosen to recycle through agents.

I’ve never had a writer walk away from an agency agreement with me (former clients were released by me and the agencies for which I worked, due to my departure). I think one of the fairest questions is, “What is your client retention rate over 1, 3, and 5 years?”

Additionally, conversations with both existing and former clients about the style of communication, submission strategy, and otherwise are all just and proportionate purviews of the agency selection process.

Some particulars, therefore, given the above: “May I see an example of your editorial notes? Can you give me an example of market research that you have done in the past few quarters, to understand why this book is selling so well? Can you tell me why you think this book succeeded? Can you walk me through the auction for this book, in a general sense–given that I love this author, I want to understand what you felt was important for the success of this publication?”)

Differences within agenting structures are diverse, but you can see some basic splits in these dimensions:

+ fiction versus non-fiction agenting; and

+ an argument for the ‘most basic characteristics that every single agent should demonstrate’ (again, the AAR does not give a framework for the answer to this question, and so the burden of the work at this point is on writers doing their own research) versus the ‘characteristics that agents develop over time on all of the turfs above that then give rise to talent, specialization, expertise, and magic’ that makes one agent genuinely, truly more capable in his/her work than another, and the total and utter proportionate foundation upon which all of these decisions can and ought to fall for the writer who has the gift of receiving even a single offer (no agent is better than a bad agent) and, more certainly, multiple offers

I’ll come back to all of this with time, and try to matrix out some examples, in a very basic way, of things I’ve learned much about from experience in different agency contexts and then also through stories, of both magic and horror alike, that can help writers discern, and to discern quickly, the degree to which any given agent or agency should be entrusted with the health of any given writer and his/her career.

Look for more at some point soon!

On Functional Scaffolding

In my free time, which is really time not spent working on strictly agenting-related things, I love to read and do research. One of the lessons I learned a long time ago was the worthwhileness of doing research about one’s own person, and one’s own mind–how I work, how I function–in order to elevate the quality of one’s own life: how I live, can live, ought to live.

Here’s an abstract for an academic, heady article that I stumbled upon, once upon a time, doing some basic research in psychology, on “Functional scaffolding and self-scaffolding,” published in New Ideas in Psychology:

Models of the nature of representation and cognition ground and constrain models of the construction of representation in learning and development: models of what is being constructed ground and constrain models of the processes of construction. Insofar as the notion of scaffolding is intended to refer to particular kinds of supports for learning and development, it too will be variously enabled and constrained by underlying assumptions concerning representation and cognition. I will argue that action based models of representation, which have their own powerful supports, also make possible a functional notion of scaffolding that, in turn, makes sense of processes of self-scaffolding as a central field of development.

A basic translation (in its utter, kindergarten-level basics): Scaffolding is a tool for representing and understanding content learned, through theoretical models to capture and process that content.

One of the most basic examples of a self-scaffolding is a to-do list, but even more specifically, the categories that a person might use within their to-do list. A parallel concept for it is a mind model, or a theoretical framework that is developed to help a person think about the content and set of observations before them about any given question. (An acquaintance of mine once sent me this link to describe a range of ‘available mind models.’ I thought this was the coolest tool ever.)

With to-do lists, a person sort of self-engineers or self-creates a mind model to think about the necessary components of the tasks that stand before them: the content, the deadline, the structure, the framework for engaging in a range of different kinds of conversations that need to move the necessary theoretical pieces, etc.

For example, my to-do list (to be transparent, of course–except not, because I’d have to give you a whole existential spreadsheet if I were to break my to-do list in public!) looks something like this:

  • D4EO/Clients
    • Client Name
      • Client Project/Deadline
    • Client Name
      • Client Project/Deadline
    • Client Name
      • Client Project/Deadline
  • D4EO/Networking
  • D4EO/Market Research & Tracking
  • Non-Profit Support/Accounting
  • Academic Work/Research
  • Academic Work/Writing
  • Book Reviews/Reading
  • Book Reviews/Writing
  • Travel/Misc.

Certainly on the non-fiction writing end, mind models and scaffolds are terrific tools for aiding comprehension, as they are tools for scaffolding in the classroom. (Scaffolding is a classic pedagogical tool.) You can find some links to a few relevant pieces, for some guidance on what this kind of a scaffolding exploration might look like, here: one, two, three, four.

In fiction, a lot of scaffolding work can be done to tier in the release of plot or pacing-related information, such as in really solid thrillers–those clues planted, then pulled together/integrated, etc. The same thing goes for scaffolding out history of the characters and the world, as well as world-building. You want to give just enough for the reader to wrap their mind around the essentials, and keep in the rest of the information until it’s necessary. The author should always know and understand more about what’s on the page and evolving than the reader.

Beyond this, scaffolding aids your own life, and I’d encourage checking out some of these pieces, personality profiles (Myers-Briggs, Greek personality tests, enneagram tests), IQ tests, and otherwise, in order to then do the more important, practical project: figure out how you work, and figure out what best form of self-scaffolding aids your time.

Sometimes, I shock people with the amount of work that I do, editorially, agenting-wise, and writing-wise, but rather than it be a sort of shock to the system, it honestly is for me a project of systematic scaffolding and re-scaffolding, self-learning over and over again, playing with different mind models over something as simple as my inbox and categories for emails received, and otherwise. It’s a good, healthy, and totes existential project.