If you’ve
spent any time at all researching agents, publishers, and submissions
guidelines, you’ve no doubt encountered one phrase that appears more than most:
high concept.
What does
it mean, exactly?
Let’s start
with an example that I recently came across in, of all places, the
thirty-second thumb-through I give the Costco magazine before I toss it in the
trash.
The
featured book was Ruth Ozeki’s A Tale for
the Time Being. According to the article, this novel has “resonated with
readers worldwide.” It has also been nominated for one of the biggest literary
prizes around, the Man Booker.
Ozeki had
completed the fifth draft of this book and was getting ready to send it to her
publisher when the 2011 tsunami hit Japan. Perhaps because her father is
Japanese, her emotional response to the tsunami was so great that she decided
to rewrite the novel yet again. In the new version, the one that not only made
it into print but found both readership and acclaim, the sixteen-year-old
protagonist decides to end her own life as soon as she finishes documenting the
life of her great-grandmother, a Buddhist nun. In the tsunami, the girl’s
journal is swept away. It washes up on the coast of British Columbia, where it
is discovered by a woman who becomes a second protagonist, drawn by the tale
told in the journal, and concerned about the girl’s threatened suicide.
That’s
high concept. Whether you care about suicidal sixteen-year-olds or Buddhist
nuns or Japan is irrelevant. The set-up is irresistible: strangers drawn
together by circumstance, the proverbial message in a bottle, evocative
settings. You care even before you crack the cover. There’s much at stake, both
overtly and lurking within the set-up.
You’re
hooked.
Here, a
few thoughts about the “high concept” premise, to apply to your work:
·
High concept goes beyond a unique topic or
situation. Alien armadillos who fight gladiator style on top of
skyscrapers—that’s unique, but it’s only high concept if the set-up makes us
care about what happens and if readers can sense the story potential in complexities
they feel compelled to explore. The premise need not be complicated, but the
possibilities should be.
·
Let concepts evolve. (For more on this, see my post
on first thoughts.) Be open. Of your premise, ask what else, and what else, and
what else.
·
There’s much to be said for a concept that can
be articulated in a sentence or two. A publisher’s salesperson or a reader recommending
a book to a friend doesn’t have all day to explain. Early in the drafting
stage, after I have a strong feel for how my book will unfold, I like to also draft
some flap copy—a sentence or two that would entice a reader to buy or borrow my
book. I do this for both fiction and non-fiction projects. If this flap copy
isn’t irresistible, the concept likely needs to evolve.
·
Books come from where they will. You can’t force
or impose a high concept. And keep in mind that, important as it may be, concept
alone won’t make a book worthy. Without masterful development, a concept is
only a concept.
·
Despite all that’s said here (and elsewhere),
not everything you write will be—or needs to be—high concept. Alternative
markets and readerships welcome other types of writing.