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It didn’t take Dick long
to decide against hiring Fred’s friend to write his book, or signing on with
Fred. Adventures with Old Houses was published by Charleston, South
Carolina-based Wyrick & Company, who were happy with Dick’s writing. It
sold 30,000 hardcover copies, and a paperback edition has recently been
published. Most important, Dick had a fabulous few years talking about his
houses and his book; in fact, he still does.
At the time, I marveled at
Fred’s peculiar proposition. Perhaps he planned to collect from both Dick
and the writer. (After all, ‘greed is good,’ right?) But I didn’t
know for sure, and maybe it was about something else entirely. Whatever the
facts about Fred, my experiences as I began to market my book suggest
that something’s rotten in the agent world.
Three different agents
tried to sign me up to be the writing instrument of his or her ideas. They
apparently thought I could write well enough, and I guess they assumed I was
so desperate to get published, I’d go for what each of them wanted: to write
what she or he dictated. The first one—let’s call her Claudia
Climber—claimed to love my book, only she wanted it totally different. She
wanted it to open in London instead of New York, to have a lot more of it
take place in the South, etc., etc. Claudia insisted I use her “editor” who
turned out to be a really bad book doctor—let’s call her Barbie Backwater.
Barbie advised me to
forget about the book I’d written, and model my novel on Oliver Banks’s
The Rembrandt Panel, 1980. It’s definitely not my kind of book. The
reader knows from the outset who the killer is and why he killed. The plot
revolves around how a pair of stereotypical Boston cops (Callahan and
O’Rourke) and an incompetent art expert, Amos Hatcher, struggle to figure
out who did it. Although Hatcher is described as a Ph.D., his art
historical research is clumsy and amateurish; a high school student wouldn’t
make the mistakes he did. In my view, The Rembrandt Panel has no
redeeming features, and I’d be embarrassed to write a book like that.
I told Barbie what I
thought, but she disagreed: This was a good art mystery, the kind I
should write. The inaccuracies didn’t matter; in fact, she insisted that I
put illegal and inaccurate activities in my book. (Example: she
told me two of my characters should be shown examining a painting at its
auction. Not possible, Barbie Backwater. You should attend an auction
before you make suggestions involving one.) I should gussy it up according
to Claudia’s instructions, with the changed locations Claudia wanted. Then
Barbie produced a list of things I mustn’t include—Dolly, the Maltese
terrier had to go; no dogs. No brand names, or book titles or films—no
references to Starbucks, or “Sex in the City,” or Harry Potter. The
more memos she sent me about things she didn’t like/wouldn’t permit, the
more I wondered what the last book she’d read had been; maybe Banks’s The
Rembrandt Panel? She obviously hadn’t read any recent bestselling
fiction, or any recent books on writing, let alone any award-winning
mysteries. I wanted her to think of my book as part of the school of
Elizabeth George, Margaret Maron,
Julia Spencer-Fleming—highly esteemed mysteries I read and admire. But no;
Barbie Backwater was sure she knew everything, and she hadn’t read any of
the books I admired.
Claudia and Barbie had
frequent conferences about my book, and after their conversations, Barbie
would give me my orders. But it wasn’t until Barbie mentioned some of her
conversations with Claudia that I knew what was happening. (“Claudia wants
me to make your book ‘tight.’” Speak English, Barbie.) I was appalled: I
was paying Barbie! Wasn’t it unethical for her and my agent to
discuss my book behind my back, and jointly determine its contents? Was
Claudia getting a kickback from Barbie? (‘Greed is good,’ right?) I never
knew, but I left the hapless pair without a backward glance. With luck,
I’ll never see either of them again.
The second agent—let’s
call him Sylvester—opened his discussions with me (via telephone and
email—we never met face to face) by asking how much I’d be willing to change
the book to have him become my agent. I was taken aback by the approach, but
this was (and is) a new world to me, so I said, “Uh, well, it all depends.
For example?”
At first it was only
tweaks here and there—shorten this, move that. But it turned out that what
he really wanted was for me to kill off Dinah, one of my two female
protagonists, and promote Rob, who’s in love with Coleman. I should have a
strong male hero, and make the book’s two main characters a heterosexual
couple. (As Shannon Gilligan, the writing coach who worked with me on
heightening suspense wrote, “What a bad idea! Mr. and Mrs. South?”)
I pictured Sylvester in
short-sleeved dress shirts and bowties, in an office in his parents’ attic.
He was a picky eater with lots of allergies, who ate only food cooked by
mom. Perhaps because of his narrow life, Sylvester fancied himself as a
James Bond-ish literary agent partnered with Coleman, the attractive editor.
Of course, my book would no longer be set in the art world—about which
Sylvester knew nothing—but in the literary world, with Sylvester as the
star, and Coleman, tamed and docile, as his loyal and dutiful sidekick.
Again, we parted company. I doubt if Sylvester ever makes it out of the
attic.
Most recently I wasted
seven months while I was kept dangling by a very senior agent I think of as
Simone Salacious. We first talked in February, when she said the book was
“very exciting,” but she’d like to see the first 50 pages cut
substantially. I cancelled a vacation, and cut 15 pages out of the first
50. I didn’t hear from her for months, and when she finally called, she
didn’t mentioned the cuts I’d made; she said she’d decided the book was too
“old-fashioned” and she couldn’t sell it.
But in May, Simone met my
friend the writer and writing teacher Susan Cheever, who asked her what she
hadn’t liked about my book. Too long, Simone said, but if Susan and I would
cut the book by 50 pages, and make it a 300-page book, Simone would sell it.
I was astonished; anyone who reads
best-selling mysteries today knows they’re long. (Elizabeth George’s books
run 700 pages.) But I made the cuts, and Susan did a final edit. My poor
book was a shadow of itself at 300 pages, and one I wouldn’t enjoy reading.
Still, if Simone could sell it, maybe I’d get to meet a real editor, who saw
it my way.
But the months
drifted by, and although Simone called almost daily, she never wanted to
talk about my book: she was pressuring me to get involved in one of her
charities. I wasn’t interested, but she was going to sell my book, right?
Finally, I said I’d meet with representatives of her charity. The day after
I reluctantly agreed to involve myself with the charity, Simone telephoned
and told me how terrible my book was. She made it clear that the cuts had
never been important; she just didn’t like the book. Her major criticism:
no sex. She wanted lots and lots of sex, the more perverted the better.
She loves X-rated films, and doesn’t think a novel will sell today without
sex, sex, and more sex. The poor woman didn’t know that good mysteries
don’t contain sex scenes. (Think of the great classics, like Sayers’s
Gaudy Night and Tey’s Brat Farrar. Then think of Tony
Hillerman’s books, and on and on…) I said farewell to Simone, furious about
the lost months. In retrospect, I don’t think she ever planned to do
anything with my book—her interest was always in how she could use me. She
did her charity great harm, too. I’d go out of my way to avoid meeting her
again, and that means avoiding the charity.
I receive lots
of email from writers complaining about their agents for all kinds of
reasons. Some of the agents extract money “for expenses” from the poor
writers, and never send the book out. Some of them have unusual
propositions—like Fred Loser. Some, like Simone, want something totally
unrelated to the writer’s books, and are unfamiliar with the kind of book
the client is writing.
Some agents obviously
aspire to a role other than marketing books to publishers—that of
mastermind, and writer-manipulator. It has been said that those who can’t
do, teach; perhaps some people become agents because they can’t write, but
want to be close to writers. When they find that being an agent isn’t
enough, they want far more. But have they ever studied writing? Do they
have any credentials? Have they ever published? What are their
qualifications to do other than try to market? In any case, if this is a
trend, his dictating to the writer, I hope that other agents with the same
ambitions have better taste and judgement than Fred, Claudia, Sylvester, and
Simone.
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