I love agents. I wish I could stop eating them.

Literary agents: the catch-and-release method

This is a story about valuing yourself. About finding yourself a champion. Not someone adept at knocking beefcake unconscious, breasting the finish line tape or bamboozling the unwary with the Sicilian Defence. But someone who will champion you and your work (who isn’t your mum or your best friend). A sword-wielding knight/amazon (how annoying that a billionaire has stolen the word for warrior women) to slash you a path through the thorny battlements of traditional publishing and lower its drawbridge so you can enter its dreamy castle (even if sometimes you find yourself booted out the back door and into the moat).

A lot of words have been spent on self-publishing vs traditional publishing, with many laying the boot into trad publishing, and I understand: years ago, I wrote about how rubbish author pay rates are, and things are, at the moment, looking quite a bit worse. But if you hate marketing (hand rockets up like a total swot know-it-all) and your writing is of the ‘literary’ sort that only gets noticed when it wins prizes, traditional publishing is your best (and perhaps only) bet.

And hell, there is nothing like handing your baby over to people who love it; and who, to help its passage out into the world, will pay for a prizewinning cover design and lovingly wrap it in facsimiles of 16^th-century maps sealed with wax and string by interns who set off the fire alarms — leading to an evacuation of the entire building —just so it can be sent to a fifty famous people for Christmas (true story). Employ professional PRs with excellent contacts who will get you slots on national BBC radio programmes and column inches in mainstream newspapers. Accommodate you and indeed your husband and daughter in 5-star hotels, book you into the main programme of the Cheltenham Literature Festival, and snag you an invite to the opening party where you accidentally spend 20 minutes flirting with Duran Duran’s John Taylor without realising who he is (another true story, thank you Prosopagnosia). That was 2011-2013, and it was an absolute blast.

But of course, these are the highlights. The lowlights are (paradoxically) more illuminating.

Getting an Agent is Easy

People tell me it’s hard to get an agent. And that makes me feel a little guilty because, for me, it has been easy. Keeping them is another matter. That is not, apparently, my area of expertise.

I have had six agents since 1998. When people gasp at that and ask me what happened, I tell them the short version is a bit like Henry VIII’s wives: “divorced, beheaded, died, divorced, beheaded, survived”. Agent #6 is new, and I truly hope I have found my “forever home” (that sickly phrase from the dog adoption programmes my daughter used to watch) because if not, I am going to have to come up with another analogy.

(And if you like this post, please like/subscribe/share; you know we writers start losing our teeth if we don’t get the oxygen of attention.)

Here is how I got each of my six agents and lost five of them. None of this is a recipe or an instruction manual. As you’ll see, it is too random to be anyone’s roadmap. It is more of a lesson in persistence, which I consider the main defining feature of all successful writers—which tribe I am still hoping to join at some point before I die.

I am changing everyone’s names to code names (a nod to the other kind of agents) so we can stay friends. No matter how agenting relationships go, it pays to be polite.

Agent 1: Delicious Cake-Maker at Peters Fraser and Dunlop

(1998-1999)

Method: Lunch conversation, resulting from a teaching job

Peters Fraser & Dunlop was ‘A Big Four Agency’ at the time (so I was told). How excited was I? You can bet I was straight on the blower to my mum, seeing if this would make her love me (“UH-UH. Our survey said –”). PFD gave all their writers an A5 clothbound hardback, bookmarked-with-a-ribbon, gold-embossed PFD diary at Christmas each year. How I loved that. It made me feel that I mattered, even though I didn’t yet have a publishing contract.

How did I land Delicious Cake-Maker? She came to talk to my students at the University of Sussex. Yes, we brought in publishers and agents for our annual Agents & Publishers Day, and I nabbed one of them for myself. It was a dream scenario. As the tutors, we were asked to take our randomly assigned agent or editor to lunch in the Arts Centre café. We got chatting, she asked me what I wrote, I said short stories. I mentioned I had recently won a prize in the 1997 Independent on Sunday/Bloomsbury Short Story competition. She asked me to send her that story. I did. She asked me to send her a whole collection’s-worth. I did. She said yeahhh, short stories don’t really sell, do you have a novel? I said, I can have a novel, give me a couple of months. Truth was, I had already completed a novel, Hail the Primitive, which had brought me my first significant chunk of money in a grant from the Arts Council, but by then, I knew it was an apprentice piece, not good enough to send her. I had another idea burning to be written. I wrote a big chunk, maybe 30,000 words, and sent it to her. She sent me, by return, every writer’s dream. A letter that said,

I started reading this last night, and I couldn’t put it down.

And with the letter a contract. I completed my black comedy, Paramecium Days, and she loved it. She sent me a list of the editors she thought would agree with her. Exciting, but nerve-wracking. As the weeks rolled on, she kept me updated, sending me curated extracts from the rejection letters, which all said lovely things about my writing, but that it wasn’t right for their list. Two of the reasons stuck with me: “We’ve already used up our budget for first time female novelists” and another who felt it was too similar to a novel called Middlesex which they had just acquired. Which I hadn’t heard of, but became this Pulitzer Prizewinner by Jeffrey Eugenides. Many editors (and this was to become my trademark) weren’t quite sure how to market the book, a black comedy that was either too funny to be truly dark or too dark to be truly funny. No one was sure if they should really be laughing about such serious stuff. (Let’s face it, this is still what I’m up to).

But Philip Gwyn Jones, then editor at Flamingo, loved it. The three of us lunched together to discuss it, and I could practically smell the ink drying on the contract. He said, “I love your knockabout set pieces.” I had no idea I had written knockabout set pieces! Go me!

He explained Flamingo was part of Harper Collins, and though he would sometimes take an unsupported punt on a book, he thought that would be a disservice in this case. To do the book justice and launch my career, he would need to get the full sign-off across Harper Collins. Six signatures. He already had five. They were just waiting for the UK Marketing Director.

We waited. And waited. Every Friday my agent would ring to say ‘no news yet.’ After about eight weeks, the news arrived, and it was no. And that was that for Paramecium Days. My agent said don’t worry: write another. We’ll get that through the door, and Paramecium Days can be the follow-up.

The next one took longer. I had left my abusive marriage and was having a rather difficult time of things, so I needed a couple of years. And somewhere in the process (1999, Wikipedia tells me), Peters Fraser & Dunlop was bought up by a US company. My agent said there was no point staying with PFD, because they weren’t going to be representing literary fiction anymore. She herself was disillusioned, and was leaving agenting entirely. She told me to jump ship, so I did.

Agent 2: Caring Daughter at David Higham Associates

(1999-2000)

Method: cover letter and writing sample

I landed my second agent via the usual method at that time, which was to thumb the Writers & Artists Yearbook and see who sounded like they might like your kind of thing. Then send out enquiry letters, a writing sample, and an SAE. I hadn’t sent out many when I got a bite from an agent at David Higham, who are still going strong.

When I visited the agency to sign with them, I discovered they represented Richard Adams, whose Watership Down had prompted me to start writing my very first (very derivative) novel about a family of fox cubs when I was nine). Editions of Watership Down prominently displayed in their offices felt like a very good omen. I finished novel 3, The Arcadia Suite, and my agent called me to have lunch with her. Exciting! Not least, free lunch! (I was broke, a single parent, working as a waitress.) She told me the ending was not okay. I had done a ridiculous thing and put God in it. You can’t do that, readers don’t like it, she said. I mean, my fault, probably, for writing a novel in the middle of having a breakdown.

We discussed ideas. I went away to delete the last few chapters and write new ones. But I had not quite finished before my agent called to tell me she was leaving agenting—two in a row, now. Her father was ill, and she was leaving to become his full-time carer. She handed me over to her very capable colleague…

Agent 3: French Soup at David Higham Associates

(2000-ish to 2011)

Method: In-house handover

With its new acceptable ending, my agent sent The Arcadia Suite straight to Philip Gwyn Jones at Flamingo. He commissioned a reader’s report. It said a lot of great things about the book, but the reader felt that I should remove ‘the accident and its aftermath’.

The novel was about an accident and its aftermath.

I told Philip that I couldn’t remove ‘the accident and its aftermath’ because if I pulled those threads, the whole jumper would unravel. So that was the end of my potential love affair with Flamingo. My agent sent it to the 22 places agents could send things that year and still expect their fifteen per cent to cover overheads. Again, so many very enthusiastic responses. If you just cut off the final sentence, you wouldn’t know any of them were rejections. We hit the buffers for The Arcadia Suite. Again, my writing was considered ‘excellent’, and the book ‘unmarketable.’

I applied for another grant from Arts Council England to help support me in writing novel number 4. After about 30,000 words (and a lot of research) I was losing heart, and steam. The Literature Officer, who was very supportive of my work generally, said he had reservations about giving me money for ‘another unmarketable novel.’ But he’d give me money for poetry (I had quite a bit of published poetry under my belt; no worries about it being unmarketable since everyone knows there isn’t a poetry market). I needed the money, so I went with that.

For several years, I had no contact with my agent, because I had nothing for her to sell. But in 2005, I got funding for a PhD in Creative Writing. And in 2010 I had the finished project, a verse novel called The Marlowe Papers. I re-contacted my agent with feedback from people who had read it, who were all rather excited about it.

My agent said she wouldn’t submit it anywhere because she ‘didn’t think it had any commercial value’. She suggested I send it to my usual poetry publisher, which to me was the same as saying,

“Take your four years of work, row it out into the middle of ocean, and drop it in.”

I was certain it needed to be submitted as a novel and would only find readers that way. I wrote back with my ideas about several editors who I had read were looking for literary historical fiction with some kind of USP. Trying to persuade her we really might have something here.

She ghosted me. I had already read that if your agent stops answering your emails, that is a very big sign they don’t really want you as a client anymore. I heard from others in the business that agents are reluctant to sack clients (some kind of superstition that if they do, you will become successful and they will kick themselves), but like an unfaithful spouse doing everything they can to get caught, they treat you such that if you have any self-respect, you will get the hint and end the relationship (and they will be devoid of blame).

After several weeks of being ghosted by French Soup, I sent the opening to a friend of mine, a former student whose MA project (which I had supervised) had sold in a three-way auction for a massive sum and who was now an internationally best-selling author. This author knew commercial. And she had always been very excited about The Marlowe Papers (when I was in the midst of writing it) despite the fact it was in iambic pentameter. (Yes, I know. I mean, if people say your speciality is writing unmarketable novels, why not Go Large). I said, ‘Hey, I know you’re really busy (she is always on that book-a-year deadline), but would you mind just glancing at the first few pages and see if you think this has got any commercial potential?’

She printed out the first 30 pages to read on the train to London, on the way to meet her agent. She rapidly reached the end of those pages and was hungry for more. She told me later she spent half the meeting raving about it. She texted:

“Rupert is interested in seeing it. Will you send it to him?”

Given I was now being ignored by French Soup, I decided yes, I definitely would.

Agent 4: Snappy Dresser at Rupert Heath Literary Agency

Method: personally recommended to him by a successful former student

My relationship with Rupert is in the public domain, so he doesn’t need a code-name, but it would be wrong not to grace him with one in homage to the knockout silver shoes he wore to Sceptre’s 25^th Anniversary party. Plus the fact that he was the first agent to succeed in earning his commission.

I sent Rupert a PDF of The Marlowe Papers on a Friday, and by Saturday evening, he had emailed to ask if we could talk on Monday. On the call, he enthused about the book while I scribbled down the compliments, including the fact that he said, ‘This is the kind of book I’m in this business for.’ He offered to represent me and told me to give Agent 3 her 30 days’ notice while he got ready for the submission round. Getting ready included sending my novel to Hilary Mantel, who gave me four generous adjectives to butter up publishers with. When 30 days were up, I signed with him. That very day, he sent hardcopies by motorbike courier to the selected editors he had pre-warned by telephone to ‘be on the lookout for something very special' that they would want to read quickly.

Within four days of signing with Rupert, I had a message on my answerphone: a preemptive offer from Sceptre (the literary arm of Hodder/Hachette) that I needed to accept by 9 a.m. A six-figure sum if converted to dollars. Thus, my career as a novelist—if it can be called that—finally began. And The Marlowe Papers did rather well, in terms of prizes and critical acclaim.

Rupert sold my second novel, Devotion, (which wasn’t his kind of thing) to OneWorld for much, much less. While I was writing novel 6 3, he left his wife for a woman in Canada and emigrated, effectively stopping his work as an active UK agent. My ex-student friend told me this and suggested I find someone else; she already had. Not long after I signed with Agent 5, Rupert’s sister wrote to me to say he’d had a fatal heart attack.

Agent 5: Studious Pip at [Redacted]

Method: pitch tweet

I had been agentless for a couple of years after giving Rupert notice. I figured there was no need for one until the new novel was finished, a novel which, partly for reasons of having to earn a living after Devotion brought in a pittance, was taking forever. Then I saw a free online ‘tweet a pitch for an agent workshop’ and attended out of curiosity. Feeling ebullient, I tweeted my 280 characters and got immediate interest. Several agents wanted chapters and a synopsis; three progressed to the partial MS. I interviewed them all and chose one. We didn’t sign up immediately because the head of the agency wanted to meet me in person. And about three days after meeting this agent, the whole country went into lockdown. Then I got Covid, and long Covid, and the novel got further delayed.

Then, in late 2022, in my second bout of Covid, something happened I still can’t talk about. I signed with agent 5, who I had kept on the back burner. The thing that prompted this I will expand on when I eventually get my happy ending. But after a few months of wrestling with myself and the world at large, I gave notice to Studious Pip. No hard feelings. Sometimes things go very, very wrong for good reasons. On the other side of hell, this is going to be a helluva tale.

Agent 6: Amis Jackpot, solo independent

Method: serendipity

Agent 6 was already on the radar as the unnamed drama unfolded. In fact, he arrived in my life (as a new student) about four days after I signed with Agent 5, which was weird in itself. Even weirder, he was only able to join the class because I had Covid and had to delay its start by a week; he happened to be in Somerset House, where my poetry group runs, and was inspired by a painting there to write a poem in the cafe. This gave him the idea to join a poetry workshop, and he discovered there was one in that very venue, starting the next Saturday. Mine. As I say, serendipity.

He’s had decades in the publishing business, first as an editor, then as an agent. He had been the editor with Flamingo just before Philip Gwyn Jones; another interesting coincidence. In that position, had given Martin Amis half a million pounds for The Information. He gave me support and advice throughout the crisis, and I felt endlessly conflicted about whether I was with the right person or if I should be taking note of serendipity. I signed with him in September. After a process of notes, revisions and restructuring, we’ll be starting the submission process for the pirate epic — surely not an unmarketable novel — in a few months.

So this story isn’t over. Hang around, and when I have news, I’ll fill you in.

Not in a gangster way. Just with words.

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What’s your experience (if any) with agents? Where in your life have you learned about yourself from what others say about you? I always appreciate your contributions and thoughts so please …

Post-it Notes

This week I have

• Marked a lot of student portfolios

• Supported my husband in his bedside vigil for his dying father since he was taken from our home to hospital on Monday.

• Swum 700m in 19C