Once when I was at a writer’s conference, on an agent’s panel, a participant asked how we chose which editors to send our projects to. My answer seemed cheeky: lunch. But it’s the accumulation of hundreds of lunch dates over many years when you sit down with editors and find out who they are, what they like, what makes them tick. Pairing a project with an editor is a lot like fixing up two people on a blind date. Sometimes you put them together for superficial reasons: she’s from Maine! He’s from Maine! She’s an athlete! He used to coach! She’s a foodie! He’s a gourmand! Sometimes it’s more nuanced. You know an editor loves a certain literary style or author, and you feel your client’s work has those qualities. Sometimes, the subject matter links up with an editor’s taste. But how you know all this, for the most part, is lunch.
Sushi?
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WHen I left the world of editorial to become an agent, the most asked question I received was: where are you going to find clients? All the usual places: under rocks, in dives, in Nova Scotia, in their parents basement smoking crack. Or like Wallace Stevens in Hartford, or Paterson NJ, or the Keys. Don’t kid yourself, writers are everywhere, like faeries, you just need to know how to look. And then you have to have the right blend of blossoms and honey to get them to come out and play. How do you get clients. #1 way for most agents is referrals. #2 write letters to interesting people who you think have a story or some message #3 writers conferences and MFA pogroms. You could also steal other people’s clients. I worked for a man who read every literary magazine there was and wrote to the writers whose stories he admired. He called them friendly fan letters and that’s the kind I write. Sometimes you hear back, often you don’t. That never stops me from trying again. Sometimes, like many things in life, it’s a matter of timing.
What do agents actually do? I hear this asked a lot. One client once ventured a guess: you talk on the phone all day. Yes, it’s just like being in Junior High. When I was an editor, the editor in chief once stopped my office with the phone bill in his hand. He was waving it around and said that I spend more time on the phone than all the other editors. I shot back without hesitation explaining that I’m a top gun and everyone should be logging as many hours as me. He accepted it and departed. That was a close call. Of course, now phone time is largely spent doing email. In fact, I’ve grown phone-phobic. Though there are times when you have to pick up the phone, which can be to intimidate, console, take a temperature or gossip.
Really really really why do you write? Is it fun? Is it how you know who you are? Is it how you understand your world, people, their ways? Is it a habit? Is it an outlet? Is it therapy? Are you an artist, a typer, a wordsmith? Why don’t you paint or sculpt or dance or code. Who do you write for, your self? Your parents? Your peers? FUture generations? Are you on the outside, the inside? Do you have a need? Are you lost? Are you found?
Do you like being alone? Being alone with your work? Alone in your head. Do you like going to movies alone? Diners? Walking alone? Traveling by yourself. Are you alone when you’re at a party? Making small talk? Do you write when you can’t write. In your head, on the ceiling, the roof of your mouth?
How is everyone? I missed you. I‘ve been on vacation. I read a history of the founding fathers and My Brilliant Friend, which a million people told me I HAD to read. Whenever lots of people tell me I have to read something or see a movie, I develop an immediate aversion to it. THis has been going on for some time. In the fifth grade, everyone said I would love the history teacher because he was so “cool.” I hated him. I know it’s perverse, as if I’m so unknowable and unpredictable. I loved the novel.
Betsy Lerner 