Finding an Agent

There are many ways to find an agent. I know, because I’ve tried most of them. In the past decade, I’ve queried over sixty agents about two different books – and had contracts offered from three. No question, the agent search has been the most frustrating part of my writing career. But part of it’s my own fault.

The book I sent out in 2001 was still rough. Of course, I thought it was brilliant, and so did an assistant for an agent who was hot at that time. The agent said, “It needs work,” but gave the assistant permission to take me on. She didn’t know what she was doing any more than I did, and after collecting rejections on my behalf, she lost her job.

By then I’d written another novel. One agent who read it sent me a one-paragraph evaluation and said he’d look at it if I revised. I did. Six months later, I received a standard rejection. I’m still grateful for the editorial advice.

What I learned – very slowly – was that my work was good, but not yet good enough, so during the next seven years, I’d go through stints of revising followed by spurts of researching agents and sending out queries. Some agents sent form rejections, some never replied, and some wrote letters telling me I was a “splendid writer” and that “someone else will snap up these lovely pages.” I also received letters rejecting someone else’s novel – the first glimmer I had of what a nightmare record-keeping might be at the agents’ end.

In between bouts of submissions, I’d engage in bouts of revision. Each time, both novels improved. I published some of the chapters as short stories, even winning a prize. But I was so demoralized that I stopped sending the books out. Even after I learned about a new, independent, micro-publisher interested in regional fiction, it took me eight months to muster the courage to submit. A month later, my book was accepted, and a year after that, Into the Wilderness was in print.

Having a published novel was thrilling, and I still hear from readers, which is absolutely the best. The novel won a prestigious award, but marketing it was incredibly hard work. I spent a year on the hustings, and sold nearly 2,000 copies. I learned a lot – including the limits of my reach as a solo publicist.

I decided to give the mainstream route another try, and pitched the unpublished book to an agent at a writer’s conference. It was six months before I heard from her, but she loved my work and wanted to represent me. Then she disappeared. Twelve months after we met she sent me an agency contract and said she could send my book out the following week. I was leery. We talked on the phone. I asked for some time to think. In the end, I saw too many red flags: One was she worked by herself, and I found myself worrying about her safety and health. I decided I needed an agency, not just an agent. Then, after several weeks of flattery, she insisted I had to rewrite the book – and told me how. In the end, I didn’t feel confident that she was reliable. With considerable regret, I turned her down.

Meanwhile, I tried another tack. A friend of a friend of a friend gave me the name of an agent who only represents cookbooks; she suggested three agents who handled literary fiction. I used her name in my query, and they all asked for a sample. Two asked for more, and one called to talk. This agent spoke as an advocate for the reader and told me where she stumbled while reading the story. She’d look at it again if I cared to rewrite. I did. I also looked her up.

She’s a principal in a well-established agency with a handful of agents. Every time I submitted, she’s replied within the promised six-week timeframe. Every time she’s read the book, she’s said, “This is where I have a problem with the story,” leaving me to write my own fix.

We’ve signed an author-agent agreement, and she has the book now. I’m crossing my fingers – but not holding my breath. Literary fiction is a hard sell, and Elegy for a Girl is a dark story. But that’s her problem. Mine is writing my next book.

Deborah Lee Luskin often writes about Vermont, where she has lived since 1984. She is a commentator for Vermont Public Radio, a Visiting Scholar for the Vermont Humanities Council and the author of the award winning novel, Into The Wilderness. For more information, visit her website at www.deborahleeluskin.com

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Re-vision: To See Again

It’s November, National Novel Writing Month (NANOWRIMO), when ambitious writers pound out a novel in a notoriously short month – only thirty days, several of which are devoted to the preparation, enjoyment and digestion of Thanksgiving. I’m expecting twenty people for the feast, which is easy: cook a turkey, bake some pies and lay in plenty of wine.It’s feeding the dozen or so who will start arriving on Tuesday and stay until Sunday, and who need breakfast, lunch, dinner and beds, that’s a challenge. Add two birthdays to the mix (and homemade, decorated, cakes), and it becomes clear that there’s no time for drafting anything new. But the chopping, prepping, visiting and general mayhem are quite conducive to the act of rewriting, which is what I’m up to this month.

I’m working on a novel that I researched and drafted between 1995 and 2001.  A young and inexperienced agent represented it briefly, but she lost her job before she could sell it. Frankly, I don’t think anyone could have sold it. Back then, it was unwieldy and shapeless, but I was in love with my own effort and thought others would be, too.

In the intervening ten years, I’ve seen the flaws, and I’ve been episodically reworking this novel, whose word-count has dropped from a whopping 140,000 words to under a hundred thousand. I’ve lost count of the revisions – but never the story, which is a dark tragedy set in Vermont in 1958. And I’ve never given up on it, although I have put it on the shelf for long, dusty, intervals.

I’m a great believer in those dusty intervals, and I try to allow shelf time for everything I send out; I even try to let a blog post sit overnight before launching it into cyberspace. There’s a similarity here to romance, and how the hunky date might not look so handsome the next morning.

It’s misleading to think that there’s some kind of magical alchemy that occurs while words wait overnight, but I’m convinced it’s not the typescript that changes – it’s the writer who returns to a work with a little distance and a different set of eyes. Not only do the grammatical errors and logical lapses glare back in the morning light, but so do the overall structure and the narrative shape – the arc – of the story.

Oh, I know what it’s like to fall in love with your own work, to think that what has flowed onto the page is just perfect – inspired, even. And it may well be. But that doesn’t mean that it can’t be improved. And this is especially true of a large work, one that grows by accretion.

Every time I have revised Elegy for a Girl, it has become a tighter, more gripping story. And now, I’m seeing it again, and adding more torque to the characters, language and plot. Sixteen years into this project, I’ve developed experience and faith in revision – and comfort in knowing I have the current best text to return to, if need be.

This is my second or third revision of this novel this year; I’ve lost count. What’s driving this work is the offer of representation from an agent who has read it as an advocate for the reader. She knows her stuff – and she loves the book.

What I’ve done this time – which maybe will be the last revision – is mapped the book, scene by scene. I’m reintegrating a character who I once edited out, I’m noting the pacing, and fine-tuning the overall rhythm of what happens, when.

Each time I revise this book, I learn something else about craft. In the beginning, I learned about characterization and plot and how to integrate research into a story. Another time, I learned that pruning and cutting improved its development – just as cutting away branches in the orchard promotes better tree growth and more fruit. Now, with an agent waiting for the typescript, I’m learning how to take my writing one step further up the professional ladder.

I’m thankful for learning patience over sixteen years: patience and the value of revision. What about your writing life are you thankful for?

  Deborah Lee Luskin is the author of the award-winning novel, Into The Wilderness, “a fiercely intelligent love story” set in Vermont in 1964. She is a regular Commentator on Vermont Public Radio and teaches for the Vermont Humanities Council. Learn more at her website: www.deborahleeluskin.com

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