Judge My Book by Its Cover

One evening shortly after my book’s publication last fall, I arrived at the Harvard Coop bookstore in Harvard Square, introduced myself to a manager, and explained that I was the author of a new book, Writing Tools: 50 Essential Strategies for Every Writer. “Oh,” he said, his face breaking into a smile, “the pretty green book.”

Having once been the author of an ugly blue book, I never imagined I would one day see my name on a pretty green one. What good fortune! Since the book’s publication, people have offered me praise for how the book looks before they’ve read a word:

“It’s so handsome—and looks so handy.”

“What an interesting shade of green.”

“It’s so elegant—it looks like a classic.”

My book, dear readers, is being judged by its cover.

Much of the credit goes to Keith Hayes, 34, one of my publisher’s art directors. In a phone conversation, I learned how Keith came up with the design for my book.

When an interviewer from the design firm Fwis asked Vintage/Anchor art director John Gall whether he read an entire book before designing it, Gall answered, “If an idea gels one-third of the way through, so be it, but it’s really important to get a feel of the author’s voice. Believe me, I’ve tried not to read the books. Doesn’t work too well.” A member of that same school, Keith read far enough into my manuscript to get a good feel for my purpose and, especially, my voice. Next came a “jacket meeting” (a new term for me), in which Keith met with key decision makers, including the editor, publisher, creative director and sales department. Keith remembers their pitch: “This should have a different look than most how-to books about writing. This should have a 'gifty’ kind of appeal,” something you might give a student for graduation, they said.

They talked through a number of desired effects: “timelessness, beauty, quality.” The look of the book, Keith recalls, was to be “beautiful and refined,” but also “a little bit witty.” That led him, in the end, to an earthy, moss-green cover with a cream colored border; and an elegant typeface with literary flourishes; all printed on an uncoated paper stock to make it feel more rich and tactile.

Saving this texture from too much gravity was the photographic image of a stubby pencil, little more than an inch in length. It seems, at first, like an artifact not of this world. No pencil that short could keep its shine and sharpness. But that was Keith’s point. “It suggests someone has been writing a lot,” he says. “The pencil is worn all the way down, but still has a sharp point.”

Looking back, it seems as if my good luck was not luck at all, but the product of a rational process. My work, it turns out, spoke to the designer with a voice he could hear loud and clear. My publisher and editor knew, better than I, what I was trying to say and pitched that in the jacket meeting. Most importantly, after collaboration, we wound up in agreement.

“Bad covers,” says Keith, “are works of excessive tweaking.” Such kibitzing occurs when the designer has one vision, the publisher another, and the author a third. Blinded by individual sight, no one sees what the others see. That is the big lesson I draw from this experience: that if the players can’t agree on what the work is really about, someone—not always the art director—needs to go back to the drawing board.