Once upon a time, I had a wonderful agent. She was not a hand-holder precisely- supposedly all agents fall into 2 categories: fuzzy hand-holders and hard-as-nails wheeler dealers- but she was incisive, ambitious and infectiously enthusiastic and she worked at a prestigious New York agency. She loved my book. She was only the second agent I sent it to- boy was I naïve and lucky back then! The first, also high-powered, sent me the nicest rejection letter I have ever received. He had lots of best-sellers under his belt but he didnt do childrens books. He was the one who suggested that I include details about Feltuss mundane world; his daily life, his parents, school and so on, to create a more dimensional book. Great idea and one I ran with.
So I had the pinnacle of agents in my corner and she came out swinging. After some revision she sent the manuscript to 13 of the top publishers. There were whispers of an auction. My heart soared. One by one the publishers fell away until one or two remained. Dial Press asked for a revision. I started working on one. And then tragedy struck. (Not real tragedy as far as life goes but tragic to me in that instant.) My wonderful agent decided to leave the business, move to one of the Carolinas to be with her boyfriend- an aspiring musician. She was young, she was in love, she left ME!!!
After Id picked myself off the floor, I went ahead with the revision. I inherited another agent at the same office who agreed to represent me. I polished that manuscript and inspected every word- the scary thing in hindsight is how much more revision I still had to do afterwards- and sent it in. Only to receive the news that the Dial editor was leaving for a better job with another publisher. My book fell through the cracks; the agent dropped me; I had nothing.
About ten years ago I would have started drinking ala Bukowski, but now I have kids; Im of a certain age; I write childrens books and cant be caught in bars at 10 am, so I didnt but I sure did want to. After some pathetic sniveling and self-immolation (or do I mean flagellation?) I decided to go ahead and send the book out to publishers myself. I liked the book. I loved my anti-hero. Surely someone would love him too? I spent tons of cash I didnt have on ink cartridges and paper, postage and padded envelopes; kept notes on who and when; scoured the writers source books for possible contacts and finally after amassing a thick folder of rejection letters (note: most of these tend to be form letters using the same language, which youll recognize after getting five or ten of them, and should not cast you into despair. The ones which are specifically negative are the ones to look out for) got a call from Lobster Press (small yet award-winning) saying they wanted the book. Persistence is definitely key, and a certain obstinate determination. What I still scramble for is optimism in the face of certain failure.
So I sold the book without an agent but it took time and money and patience keeping track of who got twenty pages and a synopsis, who wanted the whole manuscript, who needed a synopsis and a cover letter, who needed an author bio- mine was maybe one line long at that point and had nothing to do with writing beyond press pitches for Bay Area gangsta rappers and drunken rock ‘n roll bands.
Sometimes I think longingly of my agent- the first professional person to put me out there- and wish I still had someone besides my mother pitching me to publishers in London, but now I have an editor, a 2-book deal and at this point no reason to be giving up 15% to anyone.
///////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////