Footloose and Agent-free.
Frank Sinatra once said “Hell hath no fury like a hustler with a literary agent.” No doubt many of you reading this will have an agent. If so, treasure them, kneel at their feet, kiss their knees. They hold the big shiny key which unlocks that tall steel gate between penury and making a living. In 2005 I parted from my agent. It was amicable enough. We’d done three books together, collected a few royalty cheques, but my book proposals became too outlandish and platforms for my work dried up. Thus I became my own, self-employed ‘hustler’. It worked a couple of times. I negotiated a Literature Grant with the Arts Council, and pulled off an un-agented contract with Constable and Robinson. Yet I realise now that saying goodbye to my agent was the commercial equivalent of a suicide note.
It is expected that when writers write about their craft that they should provide aspiring scribes with a sense of uplifting inspiration. The rewards, the glittering prizes. J.K. Rowling’s millions, George R. R. Martin’s Game of Thrones - 5 HBO seasons - wow! Another Dan Brown blockbuster, and, income wise, who wouldn’t want to emulate Stephen King when he claimed “I am the literary equivalent of a Big Mac and fries.” But dump your agent - without having another waiting in the wings - and you’ll emulate a reduced Tesco sandwich on the cusp of its sell-by date. The writer + agent = publisher = MSS assessment equation is the one Einstein never tackled.
So the question is - what are agents looking for? According to writer’sdigest.com, initially it’s an impressive query letter. I’ve laboured over such appeals for attention without success. Is it my work? Possibly. But I figure it’s something else. I’m 71. I’ve been writing full time for 18 years, and before that, part-time for 30 years. Although I have 14 books, including biography, non-fiction, fiction and poetry to my name, no titles have ever sold more than 6,000 copies worldwide. Therefore the bulk of my income has been earned writing magazine features, PR, and countless research projects for the music industry. This is not a good CV for any agency, and it confirms that I was lucky to have ever had an agent at all. Yet that doesn’t stop you from constantly searching for that one brave literary Svengali who might just take a risk. In 2010 I thought I was about to by-pass the slush pile.
Writing East Midlands organised a Writer’s Convention at De Montfort University in Leicester. The advance publicity offered writers the opportunity to send in a synopsis and three chapters of a work in progress. There would be a final shortlist of ten of the submitted MSS, and the lucky authors would be granted a 15 minute meeting with ‘a major London Literary Agent’ to discuss said work. I was one of the lucky ten with a WW2 novel set in Germany. My interview came at the end of a nervous Saturday afternoon. I was ushered into a quiet office in the English faculty and there, open on the table, was my work. The young woman (I estimated she was in her early 20s) from the London agency apologised, saying that her boss, the ‘senior’ agent had been unable to make it, but my work had been read and assessed, and this meeting was the result. I was then bombarded with a stream of negative criticism, all delivered with a sweet smile.
“This work is conceited.” I asked what she meant. “The central character telling the story in your novel is a writer. That is a literary conceit.” I was puzzled by this. But the critique continued covering various points, which were no doubt valid, and as my fifteen fraught minutes drew to a close I asked the question “So why was I chosen and why am I here?” She responded “To tell you that you can’t write fiction.” I picked up my MSS, we shook hands, and feeling about as popular as a skunk at a barbecue, I skulked off to the car park and drove home. I totally re-wrote the book, removed the conceit, and two months later re-submitted it to the agency. Needless to say, I had no reply. If there was anything which would put you off looking for another agent, this was it.
However, I’ve kept on trying, mainly with non-fiction, but the usual response is ‘We are not taking on any new clients at this time’.
Today, in my self-created no-man’s land, I’m still scraping a meagre living, but if there are any youthful, novice writers reading this, don’t be put off. Agents and publishers are, in the main, more interested in young, photogenic authors because they’re a better long-term investment. They’re less inclined towards irascible, self-opinionated pensioners on their last legs who misguidedly imagine the world owes them a living. Yet I’m not downhearted. I’m still fulfilling my vocation, because getting up every day and spending ten hours writing remains a pleasure and a privilege. I’ve found that just surviving is a noble fight. At least these days there’s the commercial cul-de-sac of self-publishing, a territory where ‘literary conceit’ (and other sins) is actively encouraged. And that, fellow authors, is the new no man’s land - the world of Amazon, Xlibris and Lulu, where you could well end up if you ditch your agent.
Most writers begin their careers fuelled by dreams. ‘Making it’ is part of it all; will I get reviewed, pay off the advance? Writing in no man’s land is the same as writing anywhere else. I don’t think he was writing about agents, but Hemingway summed it up;
‘A writer’s problem does not change. He himself changes and the world he lives in changes but his problem remains the same …’ Thank heavens I don’t own a shotgun.