The Dreaded Synopsis

I’m in the process of finalizing the proposal for Steven Graham’s second thriller, currently entitled THE BERMUDA EFFECT. A proposal usually consists of the first 35-50 pages of a book and a synopsis. Most writers start hyperventilating at the suggestion they reduce their 400-page book to a titillating 5 or 10 or 20 page summary that will both excite an editor and accurately convey the contents of the manuscript. Hence, the Dreaded Synopsis.

At least I know I have an editor who likes my books and is eagerly awaiting this proposal. Even more nerve-wracking is the process of writing a synopsis for a book that is already written—or half written—but still in search of an editor. When I sent out my first historical mystery, WHAT ANGELS FEAR, I really sweated the synopsis. I was trying to sell on a “partial”—200 pages plus a synopsis. And while I had an established track record as a novelist, ANGELS was my first straight mystery and I wanted the synopsis to reassure the editors that I had the twists and turns and denouement of the mystery all figured out.

I wrote a twenty page, detailed synopsis for ANGELS, and as a result almost killed the book. Editors said it sounded confusing. Of course it did—twists and turns that make sense when revealed and explained over the course of 400 pages can make your head spin when reduced to just 20 pages. They said the book sounded long. Of course it did: the synopsis was long. I learned a valuable lesson about synopses: Keep them short, and don’t go into too much detail because too much detail only confuses editors.

I have a friend who’s on her thirteenth historical mystery and still turns in twenty page synopses. Not me. I now write four or five pages. The first paragraph is intended to be a grabber—like the blurb at the back of the book. I sketch in my characters with a few quick sentences, then tell the story in broad strokes, with the emphasis on emotion, motivation, and action. I wrote the synopsis for my second mystery, WHEN GODS DIE, while I was at a state swimming championship, the air around me heavy with the smell of chlorine and the echoes of cheering kids bouncing off the tiled walls around me. Needless to say, I didn’t have the manuscript outline with me and so was composing from memory. It worked so well that I now take the same approach to all my synopses. It keeps those strokes broad and forces me to focus on exciting my editor rather than accurately conveying the details of the story. And that is important, because a synopsis is not an outline of a book; it’s a selling tool.

I still sweat when I sit down to write a synopsis. So much rests on getting it right. After all, I’ve spent the last six weeks outlining THE BERMUDA EFFECT, doing the research, writing those first chapters. I will be terribly disappointed if my editor comes back and says she doesn’t like the idea. (I’ll also be screwed—I need to get back to work on my fourth Regency mystery!) There’s a reason we dread the synopses. So much rides on them, and they’re so easy to get wrong. Oh, for the power to simply say, “I want to write a book about this plane that was reported lost in the Bermuda Triangle…” and have my editor go, “Yes, yes; whatever you want.”