How I got my agent and what nearly stopped me

alone on stage by Kian McKellar on Flickr

I’ve vacillated about whether to record this journey, as it may be the most personal thing I’ve written yet, but all things considered, I think it’s best to capture the story of how I signed with a literary agent, and the fear that almost stopped me.

For 20 years I’ve earned a living from writing, first as a journalist and then as a copywriter, so getting words onto the page and seeing my name in print wasn’t the difficulty or the dream. Like a lot of writers, my true and secret ambition was to write for children, crafting stories that the 11-year-old me would have read without stopping, forgetting meals, bedtime, and even homework to read just a little more.

It was hard having a goal that I wanted so badly, I hated discussing it, in case friends delivered no encouragement, or the wrong kind of encouragement, or urged me to self-publish. The goal of becoming a children’s writer was so precious and so huge, like a gigantic and slightly embarrassing imaginary friend, that it wasn’t until I was 33 that I looked that dream in the eye and made the first inquiries about how one goes about that kind of thing.

I approached a published children’s writer in Dublin, back in August 2003. How could I start writing for kids? Everything I’d read as a child was still in my head, but did kids still like that Enid-Blyton, C.S.-Lewis kind of thing?

No, it turns out – not when it’s written in a voice that so blatantly wasn’t mine, but was an unknowing mash-up of Blyton-Lewis-Montgomery. So we can skip the first nine years of my journey: the science fiction caper I quickly wrote in 2003 that was just as quickly rejected by a London agent. That sole rejection was enough to skewer my confidence, and the dream went back to sleep for years.

A manuscript in the attic (seriously)

It was only during a clear-out of my mother’s attic in 2012, when my kids were five and seven, that I came across that rejected science fiction manuscript. By then I’d read a new generation of children’s books and could see that my story wasn’t bad. On the advice of author illustrator Debi Gliori, I joined SCBWI, and it was the smartest thing I could have done.

SCBWI helped me stop spinning my wheels and turned me in the right direction, helping me learn about the market, introducing me to industry professionals like agents and editors, and letting me meet like-minded writers who shared the same, gigantic, imaginary-friend dream.

The first heartbreak: not-bad isn’t good enough

The first useful thing SCBWI taught me, thanks to a 1-to-1 at the 2012 conference with then-editor Non Pratt, was that my revised, not-bad manuscript wasn’t good enough to submit to agents. I’m not going to lie: that feedback was a bitter pill. And by bitter I mean cue the eczema flare-up, the wretched self-blame. Who was I, anyway, to think my ridiculous imaginary friend and I could ever get anywhere?

Fortunately I’d begun to write something else, and in the writing had discovered something about story craft. This story was, I imagined, going to be Book Two in a series, and already I could feel it was stronger than Book One: the story faster, the characters more real. So I threw myself into the writing.

Another heartbreak: Book Two had no ‘voice’

I submitted Book Two to an agent in November 2013 – right around the time that an editor I met advised aspiring authors not to write a series until the first book had sold. When Book Two was rejected by an agent, it was as awful (if not moreso) as when not-bad Book One fell flat. The agent said my story didn’t have a strong enough voice for her to successfully represent me, although my way with words was promising.

I needed more feedback than that if I was to progress, and fortunately, at that same SCBWI conference I’d won a raffle prize of a full manuscript read from a top agent. (For me, SCBWI conference raffle prizes have been gold. They’ve garnered me feedback from agents and editors who are otherwise too busy to guide early-stage writers.)

On the clue train: what do I do well? What needs work?

The 2013 feedback I received from that top agent was the first of many clues I began to hoard about my strengths and weaknesses as a writer. This path toward publication was beginning to feel like a videogame: I dashed from wise gatekeeper to wise gatekeeper, most of whom spoke only in riddles that it was up to me to decode. What was this “voice” they spoke of? What did they mean when they said, “where on the shelf would your book sit?”

I began to read like crazy, getting through more than 100 books for middle grade and young adult readers; I noted what worked, discovered authors I loved, and kept track of it all with Goodreads. Reading widely wasn’t enough, though: I had to write as much as possible, too, and in 2013 I tried NaNoWriMo, which challenges participants to get 50,000 words onto the page during the month of November.

In my 20s I’d had some success as a professional actor, and I started to feel how similar writing was to acting. If I wrote “in-character,” the way I’d acted, would that give my story this elusive voice?

For NaNoWriMo 2013 I experimented with a new idea – not a caper set on a space station, but a story set in my Massachusetts hometown, about a girl who wakes up every day in a different version of home, and who’s trying to get back where she belongs.

The rough draft I produced had voice, I was sure of it. But it needed revising. Through SCBWI I made inquiries about editors I might work with; I sensed that an experienced editor could give me the macro oversight I needed in order to revise properly.

The editor did indeed read the manuscript, pointing out again my strengths and weaknesses. And at the risk of sounding like a breathless and mentally fragile Victorian shut-in, I again withered at her feedback. I’d poured my heart and soul into this draft. And I’d got what I asked for: an honest critique. So why was I going to pieces?

Heartbreak the third: even a deeply-felt draft needs revision

I was seeing a pattern in myself and in the creative process, and I didn’t like it: submitting my work for professional assessment felt like the worst kind of vulnerability: more humiliating than strolling naked down Main Street, more terrifying than a parachute jump.

It was the true fear of the child urged to stand in front of the whole school and sing a solo: bare and immediate and alone. Those three exhilarating years in my 20s as a professional actor had ended in part because I wanted to train as a journalist, but if I’m honest, a big reason I left acting was because the rejection was intolerable. Each part I didn’t secure was a failure. Rejection of my creative writing felt like an unpleasant déjà vu.

If not for my SCBWI friends, and more peers and professionals I met at the wonderful BookBound retreat in May 2014, I would surely have stopped. BookBound in particular delivered an epiphany: revision isn’t the mark of failure, it’s the mark of a professional. Even a deeply-felt first draft is unlikely to be the most eloquent expression of the story concept.

This epiphany was a tremendous liberation. After BookBound I threw myself into the world of revision, discovering craft books by experts like Darcy Pattison, Renni Browne and Dave King, James Scott Bell, Noah Lukeman. These experts were the toolmakers, offering me proven techniques to turn a promising manuscript into a ripping story.

Revision tools work, but none is a magic bullet

Their tools worked. During summer 2014 I revised the Massachusetts book hard. Showing it to BookBound and SCBWI friends, I discovered which aspects of the story readers found most intriguing. By autumn 2014 I began submitting to agents, and this time I wouldn’t let one query and one rejection stop me: I queried widely. When I quickly received full manuscript requests, friends told me I should be elated. And I was, cautiously so. In fact I was quietly confident.

Make that prematurely confident.

Twenty-nine submissions and rejections later, I was bereft. Heartbreak number four was here, and it just about finished me off. I had used the tools correctly, hadn’t I? So why didn’t agents love the story is much as I did?

The answer again came via SCBWI. At an autumn 2014 conference raffle, I’d won a full-manuscript review from Rebecca Lewis-Oakes, an editor then with Faber and Faber. Her five-page editor’s letter arrived on Christmas Day 2014. Rebecca’s letter, along with the detailed feedback that agents had kindly provided, sat on my desk for two months while I put the Massachusetts book away.

The story had broken my heart and I resented giving it any more time. Instead, I took out the revising tools and began to chip away at the first draft of another book, set in Scotland, that I had written during NaNoWriMo 2014.

The Scotland book was interesting – my first fantasy story – but I could already see it needed a vast amount of revision. All that deep, methodical revision I’d already done on the Massachusetts book would be wasted if I didn’t make one last push to use the professional feedback, and try to find an agent.

The final stretch: into the breach with the Massachusetts book

In March 2015 I began heartfelt revisions on the Massachusetts book, taking the advice several experts had given, to introduce a new character. I also tried to clarify something I’d thought was the heart of the story, but that readers weren’t reacting to: the connection between the main character and her older sister.

By this stage I knew how precious industry interaction was, and I enthusiastically attended a live Writer’s Digest webinar in May 2015 by Jennifer Laughran, a senior agent with Andrea Brown Literary Agency. Webinar participants also got a critique from Jennifer, and her encouraging comments on my revised opening pages gave me hope.

I burnished my pages throughout summer 2015 – I devoted July just to adjective and adverb work, scrutinizing each descriptor in the 50,000 word manuscript. I also workshopped the revised manuscript and query letter with SCBWI friends.

In September 2015 I renewed my subscription to Publishers Marketplace to research agents; I wanted a US-based agent, since the Massachusetts book was very American. I started to build a target list of agents who represented not just middle grade, but also picture books, which I aspire to write. If an agent was on my A list, I refused to submit to them until I’d read at least one title they’d sold.

And then I panicked. In November I texted my SCBWI friend Louise, confessing that I couldn’t face submitting and being rejected again. She advised I take a breather and forbade me to do anything for a week. When KidPit, a Twitter pitching contest, came around (I’d enjoyed and found a great mentor and a beta reader through the previous year’s Nightmare on Query Street Twitter contest), I jumped in, risking a one-line tweet pitching the Massachusetts book. To my shock a reputable New York agency immediately requested my opening chapters.

Polishing the pitch, not just the pages

Simultaneously I’d been working on my live pitch for The Hook, a SCBWI 2015 conference event to let writers pitch their stories live on stage to agents. When I was chosen for The Hook, the terror of that was all-consuming, and I practiced my pitch ad nauseam, until I could do it in my sleep (see more on The Hook in my blog post here).

Whether for a one-line pitch or a two-minute speech, I could now tell my story easily, because I’d come to know it so deeply, including the all-important heart: that connection between the sisters. The KidPit manuscript request had given me confidence, so I quietly submitted to three agents on 13 November.

Within a month, I had four offers of representation, a long-listing for Undiscovered Voices, and a shortlisting for another Scottish award, plus I’d won two pitching competitions, including The Hook. Those four weeks were hectic, including a trip to the Big Sur Children’s Writing Workshop in California, and a chance to meet a whole clutch of agents and high-profile editors, in person.

The stupendously stressful business of choosing among different, equally strong offers of representation is not something I wish to repeat. Every agent was a luminary – all were on my A list. In the end, after speaking with writers each agent represented, I contacted Jennifer Laughran to accept her offer of representation in mid-December.signed contract abla

I am beyond thrilled to be represented by Jennifer; I hardly let myself believe this was happening, until the signed contract arrived last week, just before Christmas. When I ran to my diary to record this astounding turn of events, I saw it was exactly a year since my “heartbreak four” entry, when I nearly abandoned the Massachusetts book altogether.

I’m glad I didn’t. When I opened the envelope from Jennifer, I may or may not have placed the signed contract under the Christmas tree and taken a picture of it. The journey’s not over, of course, but I’m ready for what’s next, whatever revisions may come. It’s all part of the process.

 

What I learned about finding a literary agent

Still reading? Really? Ok, then maybe you’ll be interested the seven things I learned during this process of finding a literary agent.

  1. The story is the thing. As Jennifer has said on her fabulous Tumblr where she answers questions from writers, she really just wants to know about your story in your query. Stylish writing is awesome, but I didn’t get anywhere near to my goal until I had a gripping story to tell, because I’d written it from the heart. And thanks to revision tools, I’d finally managed to tell that story in a way that was compelling enough to interest agents.
  2. Friends who critique and who care are vital. It may only be during the beta-reader process that you discover the most intriguing elements of your story. Friends and family are acceptable beta readers, but writers – even those on an earlier stage of their journey – have a storyteller’s sense and can highlight weaknesses and strengths in your manuscript. These writer friends are also your oxygen when the heartbreak comes, which brings me to my next point.
  3. This is going to hurt. Submitting, and being rejected, are agony, but don’t let that stop you. Getting onto that bare stage, all alone except for the song you’re going to sing, becomes tolerable when you know other writers are doing the same thing, on their own empty stages, in front of their own audiences. When the rejection comes – ideally with constructive feedback – you don’t have to act on it right away. But using that feedback (especially from industry professionals) can help you rebuild and fortify your story. Of course one rejection, or even 10, doesn’t mean your story won’t win the heart of an agent somewhere. For me, it was important to know when to stop submitting and go back to revise further. And it was equally important to let the sting subside before I began that revision.
  4. I learned about myself and how I write. Turns out that I write fast, but I need to revise slowly and deeply. Over the past three years I’ve always had two different manuscripts on the go, and for me that works: being able to throw myself into a completely different story was a great distraction while I was on submission.
  5. Get closer to agents and editors, whatever it takes. Go to writing retreats, go to conferences, join SCBWI, take up any opportunity for professional feedback of your opening chapters. If there is no SCBWI network in your area, start one, as I did in southeast Scotland with my friend Louise. Industry organizations like SCBWI get you closer to (and defuse your fear of) the professionals who’ll help you improve.
  6. Seek feedback on your query, not just your manuscript. Pitching competitions like The Hook and the 10-word pitch competition at the SCBWI annual conference are brilliant. For new projects I’m crafting a story pitch at the rough-draft stage, and that pitch helps keep me focused. Your writing friends will spot holes in your pitch and query letter: let them do so before an agent does.
  7. Be professional, prompt and polite. When you’re ready to submit to agents, a very specific etiquette is expected, one that’s easy to research online. Especially if you begin to receive one or more offers of representation, keep everyone you’ve submitted to informed, and appreciate that they’ve cleared crowded desks to read your story quickly. Listen to their ideas. Take notes on your conversations. Let “the professional you” handle this part of your journey. Keep your wild imaginings, fears and anxiety on simmer for when you’re writing. For the query phase, pretend you’re at the bank or applying for a job, and be that cool-as-a-cucumber you.

Thanks for reading. I’d love to hear if there are any tips you’d give to writers who are looking for a literary agent. What worked for you?

 

Main image by Kian McKellar on Flickr 

Your manuscript: build the world and let it go

Bill Anders earthrise from the moon image courtesy NASA

I’m girding my loins for something many of my SCBWI friends already know well: the ordeal of submitting a finished manuscript to childrens’ literary agents. I’ve been here before, including with an early draft of the not-bad-but-could-be-more-sparkly science fiction novel I’m about to do the rounds with again. That experience last autumn was an eye-opener and a heartbreaker. Doesn’t matter how much you’ve heard about submissions: until you’ve put your own work forward to be judged by professional sales agents, you don’t know what words like inadequacy and anxiety really mean.

As one of my SCBWI friends Fiona said, I was one of the lucky ones, because while my early draft didn’t find an agent, I got a handful of “glorious rejections” that gave me hope, pointers on improvement and ample encouragement to send further projects to them for consideration (read: they didn’t want to see that manuscript again, even if revised).

But I have revised it, thanks to the incredible SCBWI network which connected me with a full-manuscript review from a Faber & Faber editor, courtesy of the SCBWI raffle prizes at last year’s Winchester conference. Have I mentioned what a lifesaver this incredible SCBWI organization is? On Christmas Eve, no less, the hard-working editor sent me a full editor’s letter analyzing the strengths and shortcomings of my manuscript, and packed with specific advice on ways to deepen it.

So that’s what I’ve spent the last four months doing: absorbing the Faber feedback and beta readers’ critiques, and using the remarkable resources I was introduced to by BookBound UK (they’re offering an amazing weekend workshop in Edinburgh September, by the way – don’t miss this if you’re a children’s writer in the area).

I realized, as I think I said recently on twitter, that all you really need to get published is an incredible idea, and the skill and discipline to work every day to tell it as dramatically as possible. But there’s something else I’ve realized, which is why I’m writing this post. You need a heart of Kevlar to find the agent who can sell your manuscript, if traditional publishing is the way you want to go (and it is the way I want to go).

Nerves and more nerves

In the last two days since I’ve finished my current revision, I’ve let myself think about what’s ahead: submitting the manuscript again. I’ve had to give myself a stern talking-to because I’m not up for a repeat of how I did it last time: compulsively checking the inbox, watching and wondering if agent tweets are about my manuscript, looking at who I’ve already submitted to and their reactions and trying to calculate – incorrectly – my odds of success.

I’m an ex-journalist and run my own copywriting business, and I regularly have to drum up business for myself and the other copywriters I employ, so I’m telling myself that’s how I’ll approach this agent search thing.

It’s no good – to anyone – if I approach potential agents like a craven supplicant seeking validation of my writing and myself as a person. Because rejections– if they come – aren’t about me, they’re about my product. In business, I contact potential customers who might need what I have to sell: in my case, it’s copywriting skills that can help virtually any company put themselves into words, even if their product is high-tech.

That’s how I’ll approach agents this time. They are, simply, sales agents (and, yes, career partners) who might very well need what I have to sell: a polished manuscript aimed at middle grade readers. The key difference from non-artistic products is that the agent doesn’t just need a well-written manuscript, he or she needs a “taste match” in order to take my manuscript further, and sell it on to influencers deeper within the industry that producers like me don’t have direct access to.

That means fiction writers have to cast their net several times wider, probably, than they might realize, because they’re looking for that elusive taste match: an agent who feels the manuscript chime with them, right down in their gut, because that’s the engine the project needs in order to find a home inside a publisher and a place in bookstores.

You’re a professional, not a supplicant

And – I’m just guessing here – if I were a literary agent, I don’t think I’d be too crazy about starting a professional relationship with a supplicant-style writer who’s approached me with a fabulous manuscript but a heavy dose of needy, demanding continuous contact and affirmation of their skill and worth. I probably can’t afford to devote that attention to any one writer if I’m to focus on my real job, which is closing deals.

But it’s so hard, isn’t it, for writers to trick themselves into maintaining that mental distance from what they’ve written? I reread what I’ve written above, and it all makes sense, but when I do start the submissions process how, truly, can I defuse the inevitable anxiety of it all?

I think the problem is the manuscript itself. A writer has so much grief and love tied up with the product they’ve made, and let go. The manuscript is like a planet: with such weight, such irresistible gravity, the closer you are to it. Only the distance of time and space can help you see it more clearly, and let the turbulent emotions of creation and separation mellow into something else, something like the wonder and admiration that others who had no part in its creation may feel.

So that’s my visualization I’m sharing with you: I’m picturing my manuscript from lunar orbit rather than satellite orbit, far, far away, a complete and finished blue marble that I can admire, but that I can still cover up with my thumb.

And yes, I’ll need to fly in to land at a later point if my book is taken by an agent or sold: there could be seismic changes and re-building on a global scale. But I’ll make the changes, and take off again to leave it behind. It’s my manuscript, but it’s not my home anymore.

I think of other things I’ve written – the small and big pieces of literature that all the writers around me have created – and so many of them drift around like aimless comets. Only a few become finished planets, settled in orbit, fully formed.

But I think they’re all beautiful. Whether it’s a dirty snowball or singing sphere, that star in the sky is the world you made, writer, and you can be proud.

Good luck to us all.

 

Image by Bill Anders: earthrise from the moon, courtesy NASA

Authors on submission – how to survive the waiting game

watched-pot-never-boils-900-by-350 by randon C Warren

Earlier this year I participated in the marvelous BookBound UK retreat, a tutoring scheme for promising, unpublished children’s writers. Many of us from BookBound, and many more of my SCBWI friends who attended the popular Agents Party, are currently on submission with our manuscripts, seeking representation from a literary agent, so I thought it might be time for a sensible blog about being sensible.

Being an unpublished author on submission to agents is only slightly less harrowing than being an unpublished author whose agent has her manuscript on submission to editors.

But these scenarios share one element: the waiting game.

Repeat after me:

The only way to survive the waiting game is not to play it.

That’s it. Don’t wait. Forget you have submitted a manuscript, and carry on writing something else.

“Impossible!” I hear you cry. “How can I forget that my baby has been set adrift in a boat with minimal provisions?”

But this impassioned statement mis-states the scenario. Your baby is not adrift in a boat. Your baby is in hyper sleep. It will not suffer from its state of suspended animation, but you might, if you continue to mis-comprehend the situation you’re in.

The situation is this: when you consider the entire universe of aspiring authors out there, vanishingly few debut authors are taken on by agents. Painfully few debut authors’ work is taken on by editors. The debut author’s manuscript is looking for someone to fall in love with it, but the game of love is a search that has ever been fraught with heartbreak.

So let me reiterate: don’t play the game. Read submission guidelines; submit; forget.

Repeat.

If you have a polished, promising manuscript, and if you keep submitting, it might just find its true love.

Just can’t forget?

If you find yourself unable to submit and forget, I hear you — I do. Try the following:

1) Get a cup of tea

2) Make a to-do list

3) Include on that list “check in with submissions”

4) Do not approach that item until the to-do items above it on the list have been completed, and do not approach that item more than once daily.

5) If you are worried that a nibble from an agent will go unseen, ask yourself whether that is a worry grounded in reality. The truth is, checking in with submissions once a day is acceptable. Checking three times an hour is madness-inducing. Trust me on this. Delaying your response to a nibble will not hurt your chances with that agent.

6) Remind yourself you’re hiring the agent, not the other way around. You are not seeking an employer. You are seeking a partner. Keep searching until you find the right partner, but devote an appropriate portion of your energies to the search. Believe me when I say that 95% is not an appropriate portion of your energies. We all know that a watched pot never boils, but aspiring authors on submission have a gut-level fear that tells them the unwatched pot will boil, burn dry and set the house on fire. Try to ignore this fear.

Remember: don’t play the game. Revisit that to-do list and its priorities. Your writing is one part of your life, it’s not the entirety of it.

 

 

Image courtesy Brandon C Warren on Flickr