A Book for Sale: Chapter Four

This week I’ve been mostly researching literary agents to pitch to.  My inner critic keeps poking me in the heart, saying things like, “STOP THIS NOW!” and, “You are a TERRIBLE WRITER!” and, “You ABSOLUTELY CANNOT do this!”.

But doing this I am.

Researching literary agents is a scary, immersive, and time-consuming business.

I started by scouring my copy of the Writers’ and Artists’ Yearbook, which lists literary agents from A-Z.  There are a lot.  Most have intimidating websites that (naturally) feature their prize-winning authors, and helpful guides on how to submit your own manuscript.

Recording pitch-likely agents called for a hefty spreadsheet.  I went through every listing with the visual equivalent of a fine tooth comb, clicking through to the websites of those that looked like they could be a fit.  If they were, into my spreadsheet they went.

I also noted my first impressions of each agent’s site.  How did it make me feel at first glance?  Supported?  Positive?  Too intimidated to speak?  Was there someone on their agents’ team who’d (I think, at least) particularly like a book like mine?

(Intriguingly, I learned that there is such a thing as “book club fiction”.  Surely any fiction book could be that?).

Browsing the listings, I realised that I didn’t want to approach big agencies with lots of specialisms.  I want to be represented by a small, dedicated, maybe-a-little-bit-quirky agency.   

This helpful criteria narrowed my list down to 18.

Then I went through that list again, really studying each agent’s website and making myself write three personal pros and three cons of their approach.  My logic was this: if I found it hard to find three pros, I’d lose that agent from the list.  But if I found it hard to find three cons, they’d stay.

The upshot is, I now have five agents to pitch to.  Most want a covering letter or email about me, my writing, and the book I’m pitching, a one-page synopsis of said book, and its first three chapters.

It might sound a bit pathetic, but this really does feel like the scariest thing I’ve ever tried to do.

There is something so unskinned and raw about presenting my book as a package to be pored over, and likely rejected, by someone who knows what they’re doing.  Someone who knows what readers are looking for, and what they’re not.

I’ve wanted to be a writer ever since I was seven years old, reading Enid Blyton’s Adventures of the Wishing Chair under my bedcovers with a little torch, because I wouldn’t sleep until I knew how it ended. Being able to write good stories felt like a magic power.  It still does.  So it’s hard to imagine how I’ll feel if – when – Something Else isn’t chosen.

(I suppose I’ll just have to keep on writing).