IN WHICH MR. BLOCK PONDERS WHETHER
HE SHOULD WRITE A COLUMN ABOUT AGENTS . . .
April 1989
How come you never write a column about agents?
For a couple of very good reasons, I think.
First of all, this column is not about marketing. It is unquestionably true that marketing is of more than casual concern to most writers, new or old, of fiction or nonfiction. Happily, other departments at WD cover the subject more than adequately. When this column began appearing in the magazine, around the time the last dinosaurs were dying out, its focus was centered on the techniques of fiction writing. Over the years my scope has widened some, to the point where I find myself as apt to write about the mental and emotional preparation for putting words on paper as the actual process of putting them there. Other aspects of the writer’s life, too, have seemed to fall within the column’s purview. Writing, after all, is a holistic activity, one performed with the entire self, not just the tips of the fingers. I’ve written about dealing with rejection, for example, because it can inhibit one from putting other words on other pieces of paper. I’ve written about the art of surviving on a writer’s income, and risk-taking, and lying fallow. I have even, Lord save us, had the temerity to write a column some years ago about the importance of regular exercise (and it probably wouldn’t hurt me a bit to go through my files and read that one myself). But I have tended to avoid writing about the whole business of selling one’s work, and I think I should keep it that way.
But that’s what your readers want to know about.
No kidding. Sometimes I think it’s all anybody wants to know about. You expect the question at writers’ conferences, but I get it other places as well. I was on a panel in Miami a couple of years ago at a book fair. Several of us were discussing crime fiction. The whole show was for readers, not writers, and during the question-and-answer session a couple of people kept relentlessly demanding to know how they could get an agent. I won’t take questions like that at a general gathering—I think they’re out of place and of precious little interest to the nonwriters who comprise the bulk of the crowd—but at writers’ conferences they’re impossible to avoid.
And what do you say when people ask how to get an agent?
That I’m the wrong person to ask, because my agent is not open to new clients and I don’t know a great deal about other agents. And I have that in common with most writers. It’s rare for a writer to know anything about agents other than his own, and it’s not uncommon for the writer to know precious little about the relative merits of his own agent, either. After all, what basis of comparison does he have?
If I can’t ask you, who can I ask?
Someone in publishing. That’s what I did the last time I made a change of agents. I talked to four or five friends who’d been in various areas of publishing for a fair number of years and who had consequently worked with a good many agents on a daily basis. They also knew me, knew what my work was like and knew what sort of personality I had. (And, knowing this, they still remained friendly with me. Go figure.)
Each of my friends suggested three or four agents they thought I might work well with, and I sifted the possibilities and made my selection accordingly. It was a far more informed choice than I could have made by talking to other writers.
But suppose I don’t have any friends in publishing?
They don’t have to be bosom buddies. Sometimes a slight acquaintance is enough.
For instance, let’s say you’ve managed to find a publisher for your novel without having an agent in the first place. It’s time to sign a contract, and you realize that you don’t know how to negotiate or what rights to ask for. You ask your new editor to recommend an agent. He’ll very likely recommend several, and they will all be people he’s worked with successfully in the past. His recommendation, backed up by the solid fact that he’s already committed to buying a book from you, will certainly get you a sympathetic reception from these agents, and the odds are that one or more of them will want to represent you and will suit you in turn.
Well, of course I can get an agent if I’ve already got the book sold myself. But what do I need him for then? Why should I give away 10% of my income?
First off, forget that “of course.” You could have a book on the bestseller list and still get turned down by certain agents, not because they’re high-hat but because they may not respond personally to some element of your writing style. A good agent knows that a successful writer-agent relationship requires both that he like your work and that he feel it’s salable. Either without the other is just not enough.
More to the point, an agent is most valuable after the book has found its publisher. That’s when he earns his 10%. He’ll make sure you wind up with a higher share of subsidiary rights, strike out the unfair clauses that appear in almost every publisher’s standard contract forms, and generally earn his keep by asking for concessions you wouldn’t know to ask for.
Good for him. My problem is I haven’t sold a book yet, and that’s what I really want an agent for. I don’t really care whether I wind up with 50% or 80% of Dutch language rights.
You will when the guilders start pouring in, but I get your point. You don’t have to have sold a book to get a publisher to recommend an agent.
Selling something else might help. Suppose you’ve sold a few short stories. (You don’t need an agent to sell short stories. Most agents really don’t want to market short fiction; they may do it as a favor to clients whose books they represent, but it’s not something that thrills them.) So you ask the editors who’ve bought short fiction from you to recommend agents, and you take it from there.
Far as that goes, you don’t have to have sold anything. All you need is to have come close.
Huh?
If you’re getting nothing but form rejection letters from publishers who have seen your novel, this approach won’t work for you. But suppose a couple of editors have taken the time and trouble to write you thoughtful letters, explaining why your book doesn’t quite work for them but saying nice things generally about the way you write. Write back to them, thanking them for the kind words and adding that you feel unequal to the task of marketing your novel yourself. From what they’ve seen of your work, could they suggest a few agents who might be receptive to your writing? You might not get an answer, but then again you might.
None of these approaches will get you on the client list of an agent who doesn’t like your work or doesn’t think he can sell it. But that’s as it should be; better no agent at all than one who does not believe in you and your work.
What about reading fees?
Well, what about them?
Some people say they’re reasonable compensation for an agent who takes the trouble to read unsolicited submissions. Other people tell me they’re a swindle. What do you say?
I used to say they were a mistake and let it go at that. Now I’m less sure of my ground.
All of the agents who charge fees to read manuscripts from unestablished writers will tell you that they’re just doing this to cover expenses. Some of them are telling the truth. Some of them are lying.
Back in 1957—58 I worked for an agent who charged reading fees and advertised extensively for new clients. At that time there were three or four of us employed to read the slush and respond with encouraging letters, detailing the story’s faults, advising against revision, and inviting the writer to send more stories with more fees. Our letters followed a carefully delineated form, always praised the writer’s talent and style, explained that the plot of the story in question had structural flaws, and went out signed (and presumably written) by the agent himself. While a slushpile writer was occasionally “discovered”—I found a couple myself during the year of my employment—this whole department existed not to find new clients but because it was enormously profitable. I’ve always felt that submitting to that agency was an utter waste of money, although I have since met people who actually considered the criticism they received worth their investment.
On the other hand, I know a couple of agents now who will read the unsolicited offerings of unestablished writers but charge what strikes me as a nominal fee for the service. They don’t offer lengthy reports and analyses—the charge is a reading fee, and all it guarantees is a reading, followed by a letter either offering representation or politely declining the manuscript. The agents in question explain that they cannot afford to give slush a thoughtful reading without this compensation, and that seems reasonable to me.
Agents who don’t charge a fee will generally take a look at what’s sent to them, even if they may publicly deny their willingness to do so. However, they probably won’t prioritize it; slush gets read when there’s nothing else to do, and there’s usually something else to do. They’re more apt to resent unsolicited manuscripts and to give them short shrift. But if they do get around to your manuscript, and if they do really like what they see, they’ll be every bit as eager to represent you as someone to whom you’ve paid a fee.
How much creative help does an agent provide?
Depends on the agent—and on the client. Some agents see it as their function to get the client’s work in the best possible shape before submitting it, and their role may include detailed criticism and revision suggestions. Some will originate book ideas and hand them off to their writers, even plotting the book along with the writer.
At the other extreme, one of the hotter agents in the trade these days is a former lawyer whose boast it is that he never reads his clients’ work. His role, as he sees it, is not to evaluate or improve their work but to sell it, and this he does superbly.
Some writers treasure the creative input they get from their agents. Others regard any suggestion as interference. You pays your money and takes your choice.
Speaking of money, I notice that some agents charge more than others. What’s the difference between an agent who gets 10% and one who gets 15%?
What’s the difference? The difference is 5%, dummy.
In the past ten years or so, a number of agents have raised their rates from 10% to 15% of sales. I had one agent explain to me that this was in response to inflation. My rejoinder was that if his clients’ income kept pace with inflation, so would his—all without a raise in commissions.
Another agent—who did not raise his rates—pointed out to me that every year a few more publishing professionals give up their jobs and set up shop as agents. They don’t need to demonstrate any qualifications in order to do so, all they need is for someone to paint their names on their office doors, and almost all of them remain agents and make a success of it.
“There are only two reasons for raising commissions to 15%,” this man said. “One is greed. The other is incompetence.”
Some years ago, Raymond Chandler wrote a bitter piece on agents and called it “Ten Percent of Your Life.” Thinking of an agent’s commission in those terms is a little unsettling, but “Fifteen Percent of Your Life” doesn’t sound a great deal better. There are agents who can make a good case for the higher rate, I know, but there are people who can make a pretty good case for anything.
That may be true, but at this point I don’t care too much whether my end is 85% or 90%, because right now I’ve got 100% of nothing. I guess the most important thing is to get a good agent.
No, the important thing is to write a good book.
And that’s why I object to the endless questions about agents. The presumption seems to be that an agent will make all the difference, that you can’t fail with one or succeed without one. And that’s nonsense, and when it leads people to place marketing considerations ahead of creative considerations, it’s dangerous nonsense. And it’s one more reason why I absolutely refuse to do a column about agents.
And there’s no way to get you to change your mind?
Sorry. This is one point I’m firm on.