Agents? Who Needs Them?

Scott Adlerberg wrote an exceptional piece in the Mystery Writers of America New York Chapter’s blog on whether an author needed an agent in this time of flourishing small presses. I have nothing to add to what Scott said, and he said it better than I could have, anyway. In fact, he summed up my situation almost eerily well. What I’ll do today is share my personal experience in the context of his post.

(First the disclaimer: I am not recommending anyone follow my course. I’m not recommending you shouldn’t, either. It depends on your ambition relative to the industry.)

I can summarize my experience in the fields of agents and publishing succinctly: I have had three agents over the past fifteen years, and received contracts from two publishers. No agent has even gotten a contract for me.

That’s not because they were bad agents; far from it. In fact, it’s hard to imagine I would ever have received a contract if not for the invaluable self-editing tips Pam Strickler taught me. Barbara Braun showed me things about introducing characters I still use, and Bob Mecoy was generous with his insights into how the industry handled—or didn’t handle—writers such as myself. I am grateful to them all.

But neither of my contracts were a result of contacts initiated by them.

The original Stark House deal for Grind Joint came about because Charlie Stella read a draft, thought it would be good for them, and people don’t say “no” to Charlie Stella. To say he’s a force of nature is to make the phrase no longer a cliché, because—listen to me—Charlie Stella is like no other force of nature you’ve ever seen.

The Penns River series found a new home because—much to my surprise—I apparently had a bit of a profile. Maybe even buzz. True, a single bee in a boxcar, but Eric Campbell knew who I was, wanted to talk to me, and the process was pretty informal.

This is right about where those who have yet to land either an agent or a contract say, “See? It’s all about who you know.” To which I politely reply, paraphrasing my friend Jack Getze, “Horseshit.” I’ve been writing with intent to publish for almost twenty years, and got my first agent almost fifteen years ago. I paid my dues. Self-published two books before Grind Joint, then four more between contracts. That’s not how old boy networks operate.

Not to cover ground Scott already went over better than I’m likely to, but, like so many things in life, the answer to the question, “Do I need an agent?” is, “It depends.” No one wants to hear that. No one. We want some kind of direction and it’s not there. “Okay,” you say. “What does it depend on, smart ass?”

It depends.

If you want a foot in the door to a major New York publisher who will wine you and dine you and provide editorial, marketing, and distribution support, then, yes. You need an agent. The big New York operations don’t take unsolicited manuscripts. For them the slush pile may not be dead, but it’s in a hospice. Find an agent who knows how to deal with a big publisher. (This may be the one area where connections come in, as an editor will naturally be more likely to accept a manuscript from an agent with whom he or she has experience and trust.) Then you wait.

One the other hand, if a big New York house isn’t your goal, the agent may not be a big deal, he or she may be a hindrance. It’s no insult to say agents need to make a living, too, and 15% of the kinds of deals an independent publisher offers may not allow the agent to keep the doors open. This means the agent isn’t going to look at those houses for you, and that’s no insult, either. It’s life.

There’s another, more important, decision the author must make before he or she worries too much about an agent: the definition of success. Armed with that, deciding whether to look for an agent is a simple decision. (Not that discovering your personal definition of success is easy.) What’s that? You’ve decided you want to be a bestseller and need to learn how to get an agent who can help that to happen?

How the hell would I know?

(Thanks to Scott Adlerberg for his well-written and thought provoking article.) 

How To Query an Agent

The always readworthy blog Do Some Damage has a post today on the ever-popular topic, “How To Query an Agent.” My comment got a little lengthy, enough to make it a blog post of its own:

I'm amazed at how many people are looking for the "secret" to getting an agent. It's as obvious as a tarantula on a slice of angel food. (Apologies to Raymond Chandler.):

· Write a book they'll think they can sell. That means it's the best writing you can do, and has a chance of getting a publisher's attention. The writer may not be the best judge of either.

· Meet them halfway. Follow their guidelines. It will help to place yourself in their position: getting dozens of submissions a day. Everyone has ways they work best. The agent's guidelines reflect theirs. Do what they ask, just as you'd like anyone asking for your attention to do for you.

· Give them respect (they are professionals), but don't kiss ass (so are you). If their guidelines are too arbitrary and stringent for your tastes, don't submit. If they will only reply if they are interested, don’t submit. (That's my pet peeve. Emailing a rejection takes under thirty seconds. They can spare the time.)

· A query is like a job interview. True, if a contract is signed the agent theoretically works for you, but it has to be a mutual thing. If you don't put your best foot forward, you can't get a fair assessment, and it will be your fault.

Last, but most important: Stop whining. It doesn't help, and no one wants to hear it.

A Little Reminder

I’m well aware my decision to forsake traditional publishing puts a glass ceiling over any writing career I might have, and I’m good with it. I’m even better after what happened today.

I want to state up front this is not a diatribe about agents. Agents have it tough now. The foundations of their business are set in quicksand and they’re getting squeezed on one side by publishers who want more out of authors all the time and on the other side by authors who think a book contract will buy them a villa in Capri. The agent I’m about to discuss is highly respected by everyone I know, including me. We’ve met, shared a couple of drinks in a small group, and my writing has always received a fair hearing. This rejection was complimentary, written with tact, and I have no quibble with the assessment.

It did, however, take the agent seven months to get around to it.

To me, that says more on the state of publishing than it does about this agent, and I’m too old for this bullshit. I’m fifty-five, and life is too short to live on gossamer-thin hopes that take the better part of a year to spin out. I don’t burn like I did as a young musician. I enjoy my quiet time more than I used to, and I’ve paid enough life dues that I don’t feel the need to wait indefinitely for someone to tell me to jump so I can ask how high.

I understand my path is not the way to fame and fortune; I’m not recommending it to others who may have different goals than I.

On the other hand, I’ve never missed a deadline, and I doubt I will.

How Much is Too Much?

I recently parted ways with an agent and have begun trying to place a novel with a publisher on my own. The process is as tedious and frustrating as I remember it, and could be used as a tool for AAR to encourage writers to hire agents. If creating a law can be compared to making a sausage, wading through what’s involved to find a publisher is like having to find and kill the required animals, butcher them yourself, and then make the sausage.

I’m not complaining, though it probably sounds a lot like it. (When I complain, you’ll know.) This is my decision, and I’m good with it. I had an agent, but over time she and I came to have different visions of where my books should be marketed. Now it’s on me, and that’s fine. I don’t ever want to wonder if I didn’t get published because an agent only wanted to approach big publishers, even if the book was better suited for a smaller house. Now it doesn’t matter if the fault lies with the book, or with the approach: it’s on me either way. I’m good with that.

Here’s what’s hard. I was researching small publishing houses last night and found one I thought worth submitting to, until I read their guidelines. They want the whole manuscript via e-mail. Fine. They’ll need it for four to six months, unless it requires a second reading, which will take longer. Not so fine, but what can you do? They also will not notify me if they don’t want the book, only if they do, and, by the way, don’t even think of calling for a status update.

Well, then, they can kiss my ass. I don’t think it’s asking too much to send a e-mail rejection. “Dear Sir or Madam: No thank you,” would be sufficient. I’ve seen short story markets that do this, but they have definite end dates on their windows: if you haven’t heard back by March 15, we’re not interested. That I can live with.

I realize I’ve just crossed a potential publisher off of a list that’s tight to begin with. That’s okay. I think their approach is unprofessional and patronizing, no matter what they say about wanting to find and promote new writers. I’m also willing to admit I’m a hard ass from time to time, and it sometimes is not in my best interest.

How much jerking around will you allow a publisher to do before you say enough, particularly when they aren’t paying you (yet)?

Query Me This

Annette Dashofy, a contributor to the excellent collective blog Working Stiffs, has provided a link to a PW article by agent Stephen Barbara that arrived to me though Sisters in Crime via a friend. Barbara’s subject is “The Great American Query Letter,” and comments on what he clearly considers to be the Golden Age of the query letter.

According to Barbara, more good query letters are written now that ever before, and it’s driving him crazy. It used to be an agent could look at the query letter—maybe not even have to read it—and know immediately the book could be passed on. (See his article for an entertaining passage on how he’d just know.) Now, thanks to seminars, webinars, blogs, and a general understanding that a writer must get the agent’s attention before he can get a reading, all the query letters look great. Most of the writing samples still stink, but now he has to read them to separate the wheat from the chaff; the query doesn’t help with elimination. He ends his article by saying not to worry too much about queries you send him. (It’s another entertaining passage, well worth reading. The whole piece is fun.)

From a writer’s perspective, this is probably good news. I have friends who spend time and effort agonizing over queries when that time would have been better spent on another draft. At least now we know of one agent who isn’t going to use a white glove to see if your query is worthy of reading your book, so long as you avoid certain obvious errors.

It may make things a little harder for agents, and God knows they don’t need any more on their plates. (Just read one of their blogs for more than a week and see if that topic doesn’t get mentioned.) It can also free up some time and energy for writers, who can concentrate more on getting a better book out, which should work to everyone’s advantage.