I have spent today writing to literary agents.
Goodness me, that has been a task.
It would appear that literary agents are bombarded all day, every day, with letters from people whose books are rubbish. Their web pages say something along the lines of: “We are always on the lookout for new talent, but it probably isn’t you, so unless you are JK Rowling, please buzz off.” They go on to add: “We almost certainly won’t write back to you anyway, if we do it will take us about three months, by which time you’ll have forgotten who we are anyway, so please don’t bother.”
As a final encouragement, they say: “However, if you have sent us your book and another agent tells you that they would like to represent it, please get back to us immediately because we don’t want to miss out on anything good.”
Having ploughed through all of that lot I still had enough determined self-esteem left to have a go, being reasonably robust in that department.
I thought I would try everybody, which was when I discovered that they all wanted something different. Some wanted a synopsis of three hundred words, some of a thousand words. Some wanted the first three chapters, some wanted twenty thousand words. Some wanted it double spaced, some wanted it one and a half spaced, and I didn’t know what that meant anyway and had to look it up. Some wanted the submission in the body of the email, some as a word document.
In short, you can’t just do a standard submission and send it to thirty agents. You have got to do something different for every one. Most of them wanted some sort of biography. I was rubbish at that. In the end I settled on “I am a taxi driver and have written this in between customers,” which seemed to me to sum up everything that anybody might like to know.
Some of them wanted to know what writers’ conferences and events I regularly attend, and others wanted me to explain where I thought my book might fit in with others of the genre. I don’t think I know what sort of genre it is, and if I am honest, am not exactly certain what a genre is anyway. I lost track of how to define books once it got more complicated than fiction and nonfiction.
By the end of the day I had drunk three pots of tea and was quite worn out. Writing to agents is a lot harder than writing a book.
Mark came home in a similar state of discouragement because of some important bit not fitting to the camper van properly. It may have been the wing. We had to fight against self-indulgent gloom then, because we had got to get ready for work, and really we would have liked to drink wine and cheer ourselves up.
Of course we did get ready and go to work, which is where we are now.
I keep checking my email to see if any agents have written back to me but none of them have. I know it hasn’t been three months yet, but it jolly well feels like it. I will be quite insane with the upsettingness of waiting by the end of tomorrow, never mind three months.
I am going to have to find something to occupy myself in order that don’t think about it. Maybe I could write the sequel.
I have got lots to do really. Tomorrow I am going to clean the children’s bedrooms.
That’ll keep me busy.
The picture is Mark being helpful. I put it there because I couldn’t take a picture of a literary agent.
