Be afraid, be very afraid.
When I was an editor, everyone at the publishing houses feared a few agents, most notably Andrew Wylie who has gone on the record with his disdain for publishers. He was a bully, he didn’t play by the rules (or rather he played by his own rules), and he exacted huge advances for his clients.
In a Vanity Fair article he was quoted as saying, “When I got into the business, I saw that agents had…friends. Their close friends were publishers, and their second closest friends were their clients. Their friendships with certain editors, certain houses were important to protect the longevity of their profit margin…It’s a source of satisfaction…that editors do not recommend us to writers. They say, ‘No, no!” Whatever you do, don’t go with Andrew.’ Well, thank you very much, we’re doing our job.”
I realized then it was better to be feared than loved. Fewer people will attend your funeral, but so what. You’re taking a permanent dirt nap anyway. Unfortunately, I think the only I person I scare is myself.
When I left editorial for the dark side, a fellow editor took me aside and said he thought I was making the right decision, becoming an agent. He had observed that I fought too hard on behalf of the authors, that I didn’t realize who “buttered my bread.” I couldn’t let anything drop. He said I wasn’t a good company girl. I took all these as great compliments, that I was a true champion of writers. Though I also felt vaguely accused of being…immature.
My parents had always accused me of never knowing when to stop, but why should I have stopped begging to go to that Peter Frampton concert? So what if I had a 102 degree fever. Why wouldn’t I want to go to my 34th Grateful Dead Concert? What is enough? I keep pushing because I believe in the these little fuckers known as books. And if they’re worth publishing, it’s worth trying to get it right. In the ten years I’ve been on Andrew Wylie’s side of the fence, however, I still find my stance is more collaborative than confrontational.
That said, I’d like to be feared. I want editors to tremble and publishers to faint. And please, don’t think of me with a referral. For god’s sakes, man, whatever you do, don’t go with Betsy Lerner.
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When I was in the fifth grade, I was crazy about my English teacher Miss Presnell. She has horse hair clogs and played Jethro Tull’s Aqua Lung during class, handing out the lyrics for us to analyze.
I went to a Man Ray exhibit today at the Jewish Museum in New York. Am I the last person to know that his birth name was Emmanuel Radnitzky? And sure enough, early in the exhibit there was Radnitzky at 13, portrait of the artist as a bar mitzvah boy. I would have enjoyed the exhibit more, but two women in front of me kept talking about their co-op boards and favorite brand of veggie burger. I know I could have walked away, but I was so disgusted by them that I was also attracted. There was also a father, son, grandson trio moving through the show. The grandfather was in a wheelchair. When the art was really outrageous, the old man would punch the air with his cane and exclaim, “He was meshuggenah! Meshuggenah, I tell you.”
Does honesty have to be brutal? How many writers say: be brutally honest. Isn’t honest enough? And what are they really saying? In many cases, I think it’s code for: be gentle. Learning how to be brutally honest and gentle at the same time is the agent’s/editor’s duty. Obviously, some are better at it than others. Of course, I’d like to think I’m good at it, but who knows? You’re better at it with some writers than others. It’s often a matter of clicking, and in the best cases you inspire each other.
Betsy Lerner 
