A writer gets in touch, an editor recommended him. You like the topic of his project and request to see the proposal. You ask if any other agents are considering, and the answer is yes. In fact, the writer tells you that some agents have already expressed interest, could you make it snappy. Naturally, you wonder why you didn’t get it when the other agents did. Is the writer bullshitting about interest. Is the writer, suddenly realizing that he is in demand, interested in trading up or widening the potential circle of agents from which to choose. You read it over night. You’re not blown away, but still, the psychology of the hunt works its magic on you and you make an appointment to meet with the writer.
He is breathtakingly handsome, mid thirties, cool sports jacket, just the right amount of gel in his brown locks. Horn rimmed glasses like Paul Theroux. Firm handshake. Looks you right in the eye. Steady, steady. You ask all the usual questions, how did you get the idea, how long have you been working on it, what other writing have you done, what books would you compare it to? And you explain all the usual things, the process of getting a proposal ready. The writers is eager to “do what it takes.” you explain the submission process and what happens after the book is (hopefully) sold. Then, he asks how much it’s worth and you hem and haw. You can tell he wants to hear a big number, but you actually think the project is mid-list at best.
You can see right then in his eyes that you are not going to be his agent. That he has bigger fish to fry, or another agent has shot him up with publishing heroin and he is happily stoned. You start to make all the usual noises about advances being unpredictable. There is also the small matter of this writer not having any real credentials to speak of. There is also the small matter of the subject being interesting, but not riveting, not necessary. And there is the small matter that nothing is selling and fewer and fewer books are deemed essential. You look at the table. You have twisted your straw wrapper into the equivalent of a snot rag. A few days later he calls to say he has chosen someone else.
How do you feel?
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Fuck the Forest, Let’s Talk about Me: A Writer’s Advice to Agents —GUEST POST by AUGUST
You get on a plane. The person you’re sitting next to sees that you are reading a manuscript. You can feel their eyes on the page, you know they are trying to say something. They will either blurt it out or start with some small talk. But you know what they’re thinking. They have a story to tell, they survived something, or went somewhere or ate something. Or they know someone who went somewhere or ate something or survived something terrible. Then, it happens. They cross the line and ask what you do and you think about lying, about saying anything: you’re a post partum doula, you’re a designated hitter for the Tampa Bay Rays, you own a ribbon shop in Santa Barbara called Ribbons! Ribbons! Ribbons!. You ask god why he made you an agent, why people think that whatever happened to them is of interest, no matter that they have never written a word. Can’t you just hire a ghost, they ask. Isn’t that what editors are for? Please, 24B, do not tell me that your son-in-law is a writer, that your mother escaped Poland, that you love Harry Potter and always thought you could write a children’s book. Would you ask a dermatologist to look at a pimple on your ass, would you ask a banker to evaluate your portfolio? Please wannabe writer don’t sit next to me, don’t ask me what I think of electronic books, don’t tell me how much you love your Kindle. Don’t ask me how publishing works or if you can give my name to your colleague who is writing a memoir about her herb garden. Just be quiet and enjoy the in-flight magazine’s cover story about Bobby Flay and leave me the fuck alone.
Let’s get crunchy and talk about flap copy. The two or so paragraphs that are the equivalent of a book’s welcome mat. Editors are generally responsible for the copy, though they usually cadge it from the catalogue copy that they write months earlier. All of the copy writing that goes on is actually very important as it “positions” a book and communicates its salient points. WHen I first had to write flap copy as an editorial assistant, you would have thought I had been assigned to write the inaugural poem. I was petrified. The writing style was completely foreign to me and I had no clue how to boil a book down into a few paragraphs and distill its essence. I started reading the flap copy of every book publishes by the house and I started to see patterns. All flap copy has a certain tone, a basic movement, you want to entice but not be a spoiler. You want to establish the book within a tradition, but make it seem original. You want to cast the basic ideas or story lines in terms both specific and general. You want to flatter and entice the reader who is deciding whether she wants to buy the book. In other words, you want to land the ball close to the cup. Flap copy is a little like American cheese.
Over the years, I’ve received my share of fan letters, marriage proposals from inmates, and the occasional hate mail. But today, I received a really shitty piece of hate mail, notable for its largely incomprehensible thought sequences, forced intimacy, and comparison of my tits to dirigibles or Subway sandwiches. Thank you for taking the time to write. Thank for defiling the beauty of an envelope, the sensual pleasure of opening a letter with a brass and ebony letter opener from Africa in the shape of a pelican. Thank you for taking my baby teeth, my pee in a wax cup, my first dance. Please take this stamp on your tongue like acid, like holy communion, like a child blind with happiness and know that you are not mine.
I got back on the pony this weekend. I realize why I had been avoiding it. Writing is freaking hard. Ha ha! There’s a news flash for you. Two things always happen to me when I sit down to write: I either have to go to the bathroom or I nod out. Why is it so hard? I always hated it when people said relationships were hard, that you had to work at them. Why? I sort of feel the same when people complain about writing. It’s not as hard as laying brick. I’ve also believed that the prolific among us, the truly great, don’t suffer. It comes to them, they go to it. But of course, many great writers suffer horribly. What am I trying to say? What am I getting at? If writing is so hard why do you stick with it? Why not garden, or cook, or soak in a tub? What’s with this shit?
I was invited to give an interview via Skype for a website about publishing and communication. This little turtle tucked her head right back into her shell. It’s bad enough I have to see my trail of slime known as this blog, but I just couldn’t face seeing myself. Mirror, mirror on the wall, who is the most self-loathing of all. There was another invitation for a phoner. Sign me up! I did a lot to promote the revision for the Forest for the Trees, articles, e-cards, snail mailings, panels, workshops. I even sat around with a bunch of writers in Ann Arbor and talked about butt plugs, for chrissakes. And for what: an uptick in sales. An ego hit that doesn’t last as long as a crack high. To spread the gospel according to moi? I’m lucky, yes, for sure. I was a girl intent on other darker things. And somehow I found the words to say something else about life and writing and publishing. Why am I crying? Why do I make myself sick? Bobbi?
I had a really nice lunch date today. What constitutes a good lunch?
Fifty minutes suspended in time. Today, I spaced out, time traveled, went deaf. The carpet has triangles filled with circles. Someone else’s head dented that pillow. My therapist is beautiful. Older, elegant. She wears one perfect bangle. Could you say that again? Where did you go ? Am I getting worse? Am I in the sweet spot? Could you say that again? Is there a river? Are you in my movie? Did you sponge down the counter top? Does the bangle slide on easily? Is time up? What are you feeling? What?
