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Dick decided against hiring Fred’s friend to write his book, or signing on
with Fred. Adventures with Old Houses was published by a South
Carolina company, who were happy with Dick’s writing. It sold 30,000
hardcover copies, and a paperback edition was also published. Most
important, Dick has had a fabulous time 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, of course; maybe it was about something else entirely.
Whatever the facts about Fred, my experiences as I began to market my
book suggest that the agent world was not at all as I had assumed it was. I
thought an agent read a writer’s book, and if the agent liked it, tried to
sell it. I think the best of them do operate that way, but there are other
kinds out there, with completely different ideas about the role of an
agent.
The first
agent—let’s call him Aaron—opened his discussions with me (via telephone and
email—we never met) by asking how much I was 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 depends. For example?”
At first it was
only tweaks here and there—shorten this, move that. But 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. He wanted a strong male hero, and
to 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 Aaron in
short-sleeved dress shirts and narrow ties, 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, Aaron 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 Aaron knew nothing—but in the literary world, with Aaron as the star,
and Coleman, tamed and docile, as his loyal and dutiful sidekick. We parted
company. I doubt if Aaron ever makes it out of the attic.
Two more agents
tried to sign me up to be the writing instrument of their ideas. They
assumed I was so desperate to get published, I’d write what they 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 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, which is 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 does. 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 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—the Maltese terrier had
to go; no dogs. No brand names, or book tittles 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 1980 book, The Rembrandt
Panel? She obviously hadn’t read any recent bestselling fiction, or
mysteries by the likes of Elizabeth George, Margaret Maron, Julia
Spencer-Fleming―the kind of mysteries I like. Barbie Backwater wasn’t
interested in hearing about recent mysteries. She knew best.
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 described some of
her conversations with Claudia that I knew what was happening. (“Claudia
wants me to make your book ‘tight’.”) 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 abandoned Barbie
and Claudia without a backward glance.
Most recently I
wasted seven months while I was kept dangling by an agent I think of as
Diana Dreadful. 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 mention 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, Diana
came to a tea I gave, and swept up in the excitement of being there (I don’t
think she was asked out much), announced that if I would cut the book by 50
pages and make it a 300-page book, she would sell it. I was astonished;
good mysteries today tend to be long. (Elizabeth George’s books run 700
pages.) But I made the cuts. My poor book was a shadow of itself at 300
pages, and one I wouldn’t enjoy reading. Still, if Diana could sell it,
maybe I’d get to meet a real editor, who might see it my way.
But the months
drifted by, and although Diana 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, Diana 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 loved X-rated films, and didn’t think a novel can sell today without
sex, sex, and more sex. I said farewell to Diana, 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. Sound familiar?
Meanwhile, my
writer friends complained constantly about their agents, who wouldn’t
return their phone calls, didn’t meet with them, etc. Was a good agent ever
going to cross my path? And if so, would he or she like my book? Out of
the blue, a person I met on-line put me in touch with his agent. Guess
what? She liked the book, and she’s trying to sell it.
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