Few relationships in a writer’s life are as pivotal—or unusual—as the one shared with their literary agent. Establishing this connection involves finding a representative who’s a fit not only for one’s sensibilities, but also for the text one hopes to sell, making the writer-agent bond a triangulation between the personal, the professional, and the project at hand. After all, an agent is the trusted caretaker of a writer’s literary baby, the manuscript into which so much time and hope has been poured. It’s a business affiliation but an innately intimate one. The publishing world is notoriously unpredictable, and having a BBF (business best friend) to help navigate rejections and revisions sounds mighty appealing.
Which makes it understandable that many, if not most, writers dream of a soulmate-style symbiosis with their agent, whereby they sign with a representative and stick with them until death or retirement do they part. In this fantasy the agent is all the things the writer longs for: an editor, a fount of encouragement, a badass negotiator, an industry veteran, an ad hoc therapist. A forward thinker who sees and supports their vision—and always answers their calls.
The reality, unfortunately, is often less romantic, and while a lucky few may get to live this dream, most do not. But here’s a thought: Maybe that’s fine. Maybe it’s even for the best.
Perhaps you’re familiar with the concept of the “good-enough” parent? The notion is often bastardized to mean that it’s okay if we aren’t perfect caretakers to our kids, that we should go easier on ourselves. But the phrase’s original meaning is far more provocative. When British psychoanalyst and pediatrician Donald Winnicott coined the term in the 1950s, his argument was that children need parents to be imperfect, so they’ll be primed for life’s inevitable disappointments. If moms and dads are too reliable, too attentive, too quick to remove obstacles—too perfect—the child never learns to weather difficulty. It’s not just “okay” to be a good-enough parent, it’s imperative.
What if the same is true of agents? If they’re too present in or prescriptive about a writer’s creative process, too ready with praise or criticism, too bullish while striking deals, or too coddling in moments of struggle, might they make the writing life more difficult, not less?
The nature of agenting makes it almost impossible for a representative to be focused on any one client for too long. “In this business the margins are slim and the workload is enormous,” says Julie Stevenson, an agent with Massie McQuilkin & Altman. It’s a numbers issue: There are thousands of writers and far fewer folks to represent them. An agent may have a couple dozen clients on their roster, with new prospects’ submissions clogging their inbox each day. Ergo, if your criterion for an agent is “lots of hand-holding,” you’re likely to be disappointed.
And thank goodness, say some agents. While constant guidance can help you feel more secure as you make your way through revising or drafting, it can also dilute your vision, potentially replacing your thoughts about how the manuscript should work with those of your agent. “There are times when I might feel very strongly about the direction of a story, structure, cutting or expanding certain material,” says Stevenson. “And while I would hope a writer would seriously consider my advice, I am not the writer, and it is not my book. I want the writer to make the final decisions.”
An agent can and often will make editorial suggestions, but ideally this happens in a way that doesn’t read like an ultimatum—i.e., Make these changes or find a new agent. If an agent differs with their writer on a manuscript, they can and frequently do still attempt to sell it. “Sometimes I disagree with a book’s direction or just don’t love it,” says Seth Fishman, an agent and a vice president at the Gernert Company. (Full disclosure: I’m represented by this agency but not by Fishman.) “But sometimes a writer needs an agent to submit a book regardless. If I go ahead and do that and it doesn’t sell, so be it—we move on. If I sell it, great, that’s a win-win.”
A writer may also long for a decisive agent who will give them ironclad advice, sagely interpreting the often-baffling world of publishing. But putting too much stock in their counsel can cost you. A few years ago “Jenny,” a fiction writer in New York, brought a freshly finished collection of connected short stories to her agent of several years. Without reading a word the agent told Jenny there was no way a collection would sell and that she wasn’t going to try. “I was super mad about that,” Jenny says—and dubious. She entered the collection in a contest held by a small press, the prize for which was publication. She won. The lesson? However much you might want someone assertive and knowledgeable in your corner, nobody’s infallible. (Secondary lesson: If an agent dismisses your work sight unseen, it’s time to part ways.)
Another frequently hoped-for quality in an agent that may be unnecessary, even detrimental, is a long career. Los Angeles nonfiction writer “Sandra” told me that when she submitted a parenting book proposal to agents a year ago, she was certain she wanted someone who’d been in the game a while. “There was a big-time agent who was No. 1 on the list,” Sandra says, and she was delighted when that agent requested the proposal. Then…nothing. No reply ever came. Sandra queried another agent who had just a year on the job. She loved the project, and once she and Sandra inked an agreement, she sold it within weeks. “She was hungry and enthusiastic,” Sandra says. When we spoke, Fishman echoed the lesson Sandra learned: “Big agents are often busy; new agents are often hardworking and brilliant.”
Lastly, writers are often certain they want to stay with the same agent for years, maybe even forever—and that signing is akin to marrying. That’s a nice arrangement if neither party’s goals or areas of focus ever change, but if your sensibilities diverge over time, sticking around may not be beneficial. “Megan,” a Midwestern novelist, tells me that she switched agents three novels into her career. “I know so many more people who are changing agents now,” she says. “It felt like people used to keep them for life, and now there’s a lot more movement.” For Megan the transition was about finding a better match. While her first agent often made her feel ignored or dropped the ball on administrative tasks, her current one is reliable and generous with her time. “It’s such a better fit in terms of vibe,” Megan says. “Even when you talk to her for thirty seconds, she’s high-energy and gives good advice, and you’re like, Okay, cool. I know what to do now.”
If you’re reading this while on the hunt for an agent, you may now be wondering how to proceed. How high can you set your expectations? How much is too much to wish for? Every agent I spoke to agreed that there are some hopes you may need to let go of but that there are also some nonnegotiables about which you should never compromise. While a “perfect” agent may not exist, a smart and reliable and upright one is well worth reaching for. “Writers have to be able to trust my opinion,” says Catherine Cho, founding agent at Paper Literary. They also need to feel heard and respected, says Kristen Terrette, senior literary manager at Martin Literary & Media Management. “It bothers me when I hear authors say they don’t get responses from their agent,” she says. “This happened to me as an agented author and is one reason I do this job now. You should always feel like you can reach out to your agent with a question and get a timely and kind response. Don’t settle for less.”
However, some wish-list items you hold dear may not be feasible in all cases, and an adjustment to your expectations may be in order. For example, David Moldawer, senior literary agent at Writers House, points out that not every agent offers granular editing advice. “Writers tend to have high expectations for creative development from their agents,” he says. “I try to provide a lot of support, but that’s probably outside the norm.” Above all, try to be flexible, and remember that there’s no single template for what excellent representation looks like. A smaller or newer agency, for example, is not always a lesser one, nor is a younger or greener agent. How can you tell if you’re being too choosy? “Go out and try to find an agent; you’ll figure it out fast,” Moldawer says. “A strong novel or a genuinely exciting nonfiction project will attract multiple agents. If you’re getting no interest, you probably can’t afford a wish list, and it may be time to go back to the drawing board.”
James McGowan, senior literary agent at BookEnds Literary, says it’s all about how the agent speaks to you. “Communication style is the most important factor to me,” he says. “It’s important that your agent has a style that works for you, whether in the mode of communication, its timeliness, or its thoroughness.” But above all else, a writer should never let the agent search become more important than the work itself, says Fishman. “Focus on the writing,” he says. “All kinds of things happen, good and bad—a book doesn’t sell, you might part ways with an agent, they might not like a project you bring them, whatever it is. But what helps is a good book. Focus on that.” Perhaps your publishing journey, like your agent, won’t be perfect—but good enough is a very good place to start.
Katie Arnold-Ratliff is a freelance journalist and editor and the author of the novel Bright Before Us (Tin House, 2011).
Thumbnail credit: Dori Flynn; Stevenson: Tiffany Williams; Fishman: David Larson; Cho: James Choi