show notes

Welcome to Write Wrong. A podcast that talks about writing from the point of view of someone who’s been doing it wrong for far too long. Write Wrong is clinically proven to be for entertainment purposes only. If you should glean some sort of inspiration, instruction, or helpful advice on writing, then you have no one to blame but yourself.  

 

I’m Cortney Hamilton, and this is episode 001: How I got an agent with my first novel, and how I lost an agent with my second novel. 

 

So sit back or forward, drive slower or faster, or do those dishes crusting in your sink and me give twenty minutes to tell you how this happened and what tips I learned. 

 

But, first and foremost, before I continue, I’m going to start every episode with a tip. If you don’t get anything else out of this episode, if you turn it off in the next forty-seconds, you still get practical advice. And here it is: 

 

Do not trust anything that says, “clinically proven.” All that means is that it’s more likely someone in his garage put on a dirty lab coat he bought at Goodwill, rinsed out a beaker, once used as a spittoon, and likely harmed an innocent animal before packaging whatever it is he made and putting it on a shelf. And I’ll just say one more thing about it: Goop

 

Moving on: 

 

Ah, yes, getting an agent. The process of taking a 100,000-word novel condensing it to a 300-word query and chopping it up to fit into a 280 character tweet all to entice that elusive gatekeeper who skims.   

 

But most of us will want an agent. I want an agent. I had an agent. And I’d like another one. They’re like cookies that way. 

 

And at the end of 2017, I got on social media or what I like to call: Satan’s joy. Specifically, Twitter, a place that I both love and loathe but not necessarily in that order. And  I pitched my novel on hashtag PitDark, which sounds like a hashtag for depressed writers seeking help from mental health professionals, but is actually a place where you can pitch your horror, your dark dramas, your fan-fic cookbooks featuring recipes as inspired by “Cthulhu”…or your dark comedies. 

 

Which is my default writing genre, no matter how much I want it to be a steamy historical romance.  

 

As I mentioned, after reducing my 100,000-word novel to a Twitter pitch (as all great stories are preordained to be conveyed), I received an overwhelming response of one from an agent interested in the novel. I’ll call this person Larry. And just because I’m using a pseudonym doesn’t mean I don’t like Larry. Or have mean things to say about Larry. In fact, the only thing I dislike about Larry is his pseudonym. But that’s my fault.

 

So, Larry liked my tweet-slash-pitch. Which meant I could send Larry the query. I did, and he asked for the full manuscript. And within six weeks of tweeting, Larry wanted to talk to me on the phone. 

 

This moment, by the way, has been the most exciting moment I’ve had in my writing career up until and including today. Talking on the phone to an agent for the first time was like going on a date with a celebrity who’d never give me the time of day. My stomach’s fluttering, I stop hating myself for a few minutes, and I hope she hasn’t confused me with someone else. 

 

But I still wasn’t in. It’s like an interview for a job. They like my resume, but who am I really? What else am I working on? Where do I see myself in five years? If I were stranded on a deserted island with only one other person, would I go full cannibal? 

 

But the strange and wonderful thing about this call is that you’re also interviewing them. I know this sounds contradictory. They’re the gatekeepers. They decide to take you on. But you get to decide if you’ll let them let you take you on. It’s like a toddler wanting to be picked up by his mother, but only if his mother was eager to do it, and only then if he showed promise to pay off later in life.  

 

But, you, too, get to ask questions: 

 

And I highly recommend that you question. Write them down and take notes during the call.  Otherwise, you’ll forget everything you talked about. Memory’s funny like that. Sort of like a train you expect to stop at your station that then passes you by, “Oh finally, here it comes. Here it comes. And there it goes.” 

 

Ask questions you think are dumb, that are silly, that are obvious to everyone but you. But ask every question you’re curious about. And I had a lot. Looking back, this was, by far, the longest conversation I had with Larry throughout our relationship.   

 

And Larry was a champ. He answered most of my questions before I could ask. But let me tell you this: I probably had fifty questions, and I still didn’t ask all of them.

 

And why, you ask? Because I’m an expert people-pleaser. And my people-pleasing skills entail predicting what won’t please people. 

And so, even though I’d written my questions down, I didn’t ask a couple because I thought they might be awkward for Larry. 

 

They are: Can you give me the contact info to an author you represent right now? 

 

And: Can you tell me a few recent fiction sales you made? 

 

I don’t know why I didn’t ask those. They’re perfectly legitimate. Maybe it was because our conversation was going so well, and Larry was a new agent, I didn’t want to pressure him. 

Yeah, I know. Not so smart. Which, by the way, is probably what they’ll put on my gravestone. “Here lies Hamilton. Not so smart.” 

 

And I didn’t have to avoid those questions. Larry likely would’ve answered them. 

So if you get the call, try not to be intimidated. Puff yourself up beforehand, do some power stances, pretend you’re Alec Baldwin in a Mamet play, or talking to his daughter, whatever it takes. Because, while it feels like pressure, and you’re elated someone other than your girlfriend likes your work, the interview goes both ways. And this is about you approving them as them approving you. 

 

So, Larry offered to represent me.  

 

I was ecstatic. I immediately called my mom, who both congratulated me and dismantled my ego by saying: “That’s great, honey. When does it get published?”  

 

“Not yet, Mom. Can you give me one victory? Just one.” You’ll be the first to know. Trust me.” 

 

All maternal disappointments aside, my mother’s question points to a very important thing: I had an agent, but I still had a long way to go before I was published. 

 

Getting an agent is a victory, have no doubts. But it’s a victory, in the same way baking a cake for the first time is a victory. You’ve survived the supermarket during the Coronavirus, but you still got to mix the ingredients, bake the cake, then frost over the charred pieces and convince people they were on purpose.  

 

But back to Larry. He was a newer agent who’d mentored under a very successful agent. And he explained to me that his system, which was based off his mentor’s system, was not a hands-on approach. He chose books he thought were ready to pitch. He didn’t get into the book and start editing if it didn’t need it. And he told me he thought my book was ready. 

 

And maybe because I suffer from imposter syndrome and perfectionism, and sometimes Batman syndrome, which is the inability to turn your head without also turning your upper torso, I had my doubts. 

 

But, I’m just a rookie writer, and Larry was the expert. And even though he was new, this was a big New York City agency, and we all know that working in a big city means you’re an expert because you can afford the rent.  Plus, I was sick of revising and really wanted to believe Larry, and so in the end, I did.

 

Now, I want to say something out loud just so you know that I know. Agents aren’t critique partners. They’re there to help sell the book. Technically, it’s not an agent’s job to help me improve my book. Especially if they think it’s good to go and doesn’t need improving. 

 

But here’s what I think about it now: 

 

There was an impulse inside me that felt I could go deeper with my main character. That maybe she was too superficial. It was a gut instinct, and one I figured would be confirmed by an agent who’d want to represent me but would have some rewrite suggestions.  

 

But Larry thought it was great. And this is where getting an agent is really hard. 

 

Because, despite my addiction to not trusting myself, I still had to listen to me. And if experience has told me anything, I’m horrible at giving myself advice. That’s why I prefer to give it to others, so I can walk away before seeing the bloody aftermath. 

 

And I did think about saying something to Larry, but I didn’t want him to think I didn’t trust him. Or that I wasn’t confident in my story. And I also wanted to believe him. If Larry thought the book was ready, who was I to say it wasn’t? I mean, It was flattering. And I love to be flattered. 

 

But ultimately, this is an opinion game. Agents take on your book because, in their opinion, they like it and think it’s good enough to sell. Editors accept or reject your book because, in their opinion, they like it or don’t, or think they can sell it or not. That doesn’t mean they’re right. It’s just their opinion. Either way, I think if I at least expressed my opinion about it at the time, it would’ve been easier to change it later. 

 

So here’s the process of pitching as far as it applied to me. The agent sends out a pitch to editors at publishing houses. Think of it like, if your agent went fishing but for editors. Except, in this case, they likely know the fish professionally, and the fish will pay them money if they want more bait. Okay, it has very little to do with fishing, except for the long wait. 

 

But the editors read the query, and if you’re lucky, read the novel. Whereupon, they’ll send your agent an acceptance or rejection letter. 

 

Larry sent out the first round of submissions, and we waited about six weeks to get all the feedback. 

 

And in general, the editors said they liked it. But I think they liked it in the same way that people like jello. Which, let’s face it, you’re only eating it because someone told you it was spiked with vodka. 

 

Most of the feedback was complimentary, friendly in tone, and reminded me of reactions I got from girls in high school: kind, but tainted with a tinge of pity.

 

The common criticism, if there was one, was that they didn’t relate to my protagonist overall. Now, here’s the thing: this is what I worried about when Larry said the book didn’t need any edits.  

 

But now, here it was in writing. So I thought: Great. Now we know. It’s confirmed. Let’s fix this before sending it out on another round of submissions. 

 

And I mentioned this to Larry. Now, I think if I had mentioned my reservations in the beginning, this might’ve gone over with more weight.

 

But Larry insisted we not do that. He truly thought the book was good. And it was more of finding the right match than anything that might be deficient in the book.

 

Which is totally a legitimate reason. Because it is about finding the right match. Because some people really love unspiked jello. You just gotta find them. 

 

So, on to round 2:

 

We submitted to another five editors, give or take. 

 

Now, I’m interchanging the words ‘editor’ and ‘publisher.’ But the way I understand it is the editor works for the publisher, and they’re the people who will work on your book to get it published through the company that employs them. If they say yes to your book, then it’s like the publisher saying yes to your book. This may already be obvious to you, but that’s because you’re smarter than me. You probably have never reversed the cables when jump-starting your car either. 

 

But I was confused at one time, and I still may be, so if that’s not how it works, please feel free to go to my website to tell me how wrong I am or tweet me a meme of a disappointed Judge Judy doing a face-palm.   

 

So the whole submission process took about six months for both rounds.

Another tip: much like sending out submissions to agents, always be working on something else to get your mind off the process. Work on short stories, another novel, your garden, construct a city of homemade Peeps and then incinerate it with a butane torch and rampaging Godzilla action figure. You know, hobbies. 

 

Me, I was working on my second novel. I had two ideas I wanted to write. 

 

Now, the thing agents typically prefer to hear in that first call is that you’re working on something similar to what you’ve just submitted. This supports your image, your brand, your style.

 

Despite this good advice, I told Larry my next novel was a ghost story. He didn’t sound psyched about it. But he endorsed my creativity. 

 

Well, I worked on that book, and I quit about 40k words in. It wasn’t coming together. Like a retro jello mold, you had to let it sit if you wanted that perfect aspic salad that looks like a decorative fish. So I started on the second idea which I figured Larry would love: another comedy. Not as dark as my first but in the same vein as the novel he liked. 

 

And I worked on that while waiting for round two results to come back in. 

 

Which pretty much went the same as round one. Some lovely things were said about my writing, but no one loved the novel enough to want to take it on. 

 

At this point, Larry declared the book dead. Not in those words, but I recognized that tone from when I was seven, and my father told me my cat wasn’t just taking a long nap. 

 

And I want to emphasize that during this whole process Larry was very communicative. He always got back to me right away when I emailed (which I never really did). Said I could call any time if I wanted to talk (but I don’t really like the phone as a talking tool), and he passed the editor’s responses on to me, which was super helpful. 

 

And Larry was also surprised and disappointed that no one wanted the novel. He really thought it was accessible enough to catch on.  

 

And of course, I was disappointed because, as I’ve been told, once it goes through a couple of rounds of rejections, no one wants to see it again, even if you revise it.

 

But I’m stubborn about my work. I’d put a lot into it already. I wasn’t going to give up on it yet. I’d take some time then come back to it. 

 

And, hey, I had an agent, right? A supporter. Someone to read the next version, and we’d talk about the possibilities. 

 

But, at this point, I was deep in my second novel. I figured, finish the second book. Submit that to Larry. Go back to the first novel, revise, and Resubmit to editors. Then go back to my third novel, and make that jello fish mold.

 

Overall, it took me about a year to write the second one: including revising, getting feedback from beta readers, hating myself, taking time away, revising it again, cursing myself, trashing half of it, then going back and recovering what I trashed. It takes a while.  

 

Finally, I finished the second book. And I really liked it. I thought it was funny and entertaining and a good beach read, or even a stay-at-home read when you’re quarantined and want to go to the beach.  And I got good feedback on it from beta readers, you know, except for that one guy who has a lot of opinions. 

 

I sent the second book off to Larry. And waited. 

 

Knowing agents are very busy, I wanted to give him some time to read it. My fantasy was that he’d read it that weekend and come back with a glowing review by Monday. But it took about the same amount of time it would take if I wasn’t Larry’s client. About six weeks. Finally, he emailed saying he’d just finished it, and while it had its moments, it wasn’t something he wanted to represent, and that I could find someone else to rep it if I wanted.

 

But wait, I thought Larry was my agent?

 

See, when Larry took me on, he actually took on my first book. And we had a verbal agreement. If the book was picked up by a publisher, then we’d sign a contract...for that book. So there was a gray area, he was representing me on that book, but not necessarily me in general. Although, during our initial phone call, and in later emails, he told me he was in for the long haul on my career. 

 

And this agency was legit. And I figured that was the norm. And maybe it is, I don’t know. I guess different agents have their own way of going about it. But Larry worked this way and so I went with it.  

 

Larry also said he didn’t want to help me try to revise the second novel because he wasn’t that into it. 

 

He offered to talk to me about his decision over the phone, and in hindsight, I should’ve called. But I opted not to. If he didn’t connect with the story and didn’t want to help me revise, I didn’t really want to hear him talk about the details of why he didn’t want to help me with a revision. 

 

Okay, I definitely should’ve called just to get some more feedback. But I’m tender inside and inclined toward mentally lashing out and causing a scene by thrashing and throwing chairs while my physical body remains perfectly still, zoning everything out until my emotions are neatly contained in a cool stoicism, which allows me to easily cut people off without guilt. 

 

I’d also felt abandoned. I realized I really wanted an agent who’d help me with my writing. Not just to act as a fence between me and a publishing house but to believe in me and help make my books better.  

 

And Larry had always been upfront. He told me he was hands-off from day one. And true to his word. He was. So I couldn’t be disappointed. I was under no illusions, except for the one that told me that Larry’s approach didn’t apply to me. 

 

I also loved my second book. I thought it was really funny. I know. We all think we’re funny on some level. We are, after all, our own best audience. But, considering, I’d had a first novel, which I also thought was funny, and was confirmed by an agent, I hoped I was right. 

 

So I emailed Larry and said we should part ways. Coincidentally, what I also tearfully told my third girlfriend after she said she never agreed to be exclusive. 

 

But here’s some of the lessons I learned:

 

1. Listen and know what you want. 

 

First, listen to yourself. This sounds cliche, but I don’t mean listen to the ‘I know, honey, don’t tell me how the cables go on the car battery,’ kind-of voice. I mean, the deeper one. The one that says, “Why are you being an A-hole to your wife?” Because even if you’re not being an A-hole, that voice is probably telling you something important anyway. 

 

And that voice can sometimes seem counterintuitive to your brain. Which might say: “An agent wants to represent you. Take it. Take it, you idiot!”   

 

But deep down, I knew I wanted someone who was going to help me as a writer, to improve and grow and tell me when my story sucked but also ways to fix the suck. 

 

And not all agents are going to do this, I know. And I wasn’t looking for a critique partner, but I was looking for someone to be in my corner and not just on one book. When Larry told me he had a hands-off approach, I ignored what I wanted just so I could have a chance to submit my novel to publishers. And I got that chance. But now, I’m hoping I haven’t blown it. 

 

Also, listen closely to your potential agent. To the details. To their approach. And don’t go with an agent if they don’t groove with your style, even if it’s your only offer. You got this person. There’ll be others to find. It takes time. Or, so I’m told.  

 

2. Don’t be intimidated. Don’t be afraid to ask questions you deem to be awkward. Don’t be a jerk about it, but definitely ask. It never hurts to ask. Let me repeat, and this is mostly for me. It never. Hurts. To ask, Hamilton. 

 

3. Keep working on other things. If I didn’t have something else to work on, I would’ve been miserable through this process, and then when it didn’t pan out, I would’ve just crumpled into a heap until the neighbors complained about the stench. Working on something else helped me to focus on the future, which is where your focus should always be. The future: The one place where reality has yet to ruin. 

 

4. Be honest with yourself. 

Like politics or vomiting on a Tilt-a-whirl, getting published is all about timing. It could be that my novel was good enough as written, but that the editors rejected it, saying, “Books with cadavers just aren’t trending these days.” I recently heard from the writer, Larry Brooks, that 96% of ms submitted to publishers get rejected.  

 

And I know this is a business and strangely, businesses don’t like risk, especially if it’s not a sure thing. And maybe, I need to absorb that hard truth. And, honestly, after what I consider an appropriate amount of effort, I will give up on traditionally publishing this novel and move on. But not yet.  

5. Be patient and kind. Publishing takes forever. And that’s even when you’re a best-selling author. Your agent really wants the best for you and the project. But if you have different ideas on how to go about it, definitely voice them and work it out politely. I have no issues with Larry. I wish him the best. And I think all of this will make the novel better in the nd. 

 

Who knows? Maybe I even had to go through this in order to make the novel better. If I look at it in that light, then I made the right decision. Right? Maybe? Yeah, okay. 

 

So where am I at now? I’m still unpublished. Currently revising my first novel using the editor’s comments I received. 

 

And I have to say that rereading the manuscript there were some glaring mistakes I wish we’d have caught before sending it out. 

 

But I know I’m also swimming upstream. This novel’s been submitted to many editors. There’s a good chance it won’t go anywhere traditionally. And if it doesn’t, I’ll likely self-publish, which is like saying I’ll hot-wire a Tesla and drive it through a ring of fire. But I’m learning. 

 

And I believe in the novel. I believe I can make it better. And I believe there’s an audience for it. 

 

I mean, believing in ourselves is sometimes the only thing that keeps us going.   

 

Even if I’m fooling myself, it’s okay, because I’m pursuing improvement. Not just this book, but as a writer, as a human. As someone who maybe needs to learn more determination, someone who’ll be strong enough to ask the tough questions next time and not just to my agent, but to myself. 

 

This journey we’re on is more than just writing books that we hope people will read. It’s about learning lessons of patience and perseverance, of becoming better as human beings telling stories that are worth reading even if they’re just to entertain somebody sitting on the toilet. 

 

Maybe I’m not changing the world with my writing. But I am using my writing to get to know myself better. To connect with the world. I have a long way to go. But I believe the journey is worth it. 

 

There. 

 

Now, I’m going to feed my unicorn and meditate on world peace. 

  

That’s it for this one. It was longer than I wanted it to be. But, hopefully, it was worthwhile. 

 

I would love to hear from you about your experiences with agents. Check out my website Cortwrites.com for show notes and links. That’s C-O-R-T writes.com. Feel free to email me, or you can leave a voice message. Or tweet at me. Maybe we can talk about your stuff on the podcast. Maybe I’ll call you for an interview if you have something to say. I don’t care if you’re not published. 

 

And finally, I’ll go out on a quote at the end of each episode, hopefully inspirational, because if you’re not feeling inspiration, then the perspiration is not worth it. And no, that’s not the quote. I just made that up: 

 

This one’s from Wally Lamb, a man who’s been to prison…on purpose. He says: 

 

“If the book is true, it will find an audience that is meant to read it.”

 

Wouldn’t we all love to believe that.  

 

Thanks for listening. Keep going. Like a white water rafting trip that ends in a dental cleaning, this process is both exciting and tedious. And takes a lot of patience. I’m a slow writer and a fast dreamer; between the two, my frustration thrives. But I take a breath, ground myself, and keep writing.  

 

So Write. Write, my friends. Write like you’re saving a baby from a burning car. Because that baby is your novel and that car is time.