I am over-the-top excited to announce that I have signed with the incomparable Erin Murphy of Erin Murphy Literary Agency. This has been a bumpy, twisty, pot-hole-ridden journey but the destination offers a humbling panorama through my rear-view mirror.
It doesn’t seem fitting to simply say that I’ve got an agent. Sometimes the journey is as sweet as the destination. I’ll skip the minutia, but the highlights of my agent journey went something like this:
Erin and I met at a 2008 SCBWI conference where I had scheduled a ten-minute verbal pitch. As a conference volunteer, I had an opportunity to observe her interactions with other hopeful writers. I could tell she was sincere, honest, savvy, and full of heart. (Her recorded sales record didn’t hurt, either.) By the end of my ten minutes with her, I knew she was the agent for me. We clicked. She liked my projects. We both had a good feeling about it. But, she wasn’t going to make it easy.
A year after that first meeting, Erin suggested I rewrite my middle grade nonfiction (Book Thing One) as a picture book. I mentally suggested she jump off a cliff, but how could I ignore her advice? She did not offer representation.
(I spent the next year learning how to write a n.f. picture book. I read, dissected, disassembled, analyzed hundreds of picture book biographies to learn what makes them work. I had years of research to sift down to an impossibly short text. See my related blog posts.)
Two years after meeting Erin, while Book Thing One was being reinvisioned, I rewrote Book Thing Two as a picture book biography (see, I was paying attention.) Erin loved the subject, but the writing was too predictable. Too journalistic. She was right. She did not offer representation, but her door remained cracked.
(I needed to learn more about narrative storytelling in my nonfiction. I read more, signed up for related workshops, and began to imagine my stories with an audience in mind, rather than mere words on a page.)
Without realizing it, Erin had set me on a course of self-education. Even I didn’t know how much I needed to grow as a writer. But, I had never been more determined and committed, so I continued to study, analyze, rinse-repeat.
Three years, a million rewrites and revisions, and multiple projects, after meeting Erin, I re-submitted Book Thing One to her. She loved it. It was ready. I was ready. But, she did not offer representation. And, after all this, believe it or not, I understood why. It had nothing to do with my work this time. Rather, it reflected a shift in her existing client base. Here’s the thing about literary agents; they have to diversify. If their client list is top-heavy in any one genre, it opens up a heap of potential marketability problems for them and their clients. I had grown enough within this industry to understand the ebbs and flows. Dagnabbit! It was an agonizing, business-based disappointment for both of us. After all, by now, we had built a level of friendship, too.
Six weeks later, I signed with another agent. Temporarily. When it doesn’t work, it just doesn’t work and, within a few short months, I ended the relationship. Though Erin and I kept in touch, it took even more months for me to tell her about my agent divorce.
Four years after meeting Erin (here’s where I cleverly pull the reader in closer by switching to first person pov,) she comes to the Austin SCBWI conference. We hug. We laugh. We catch up. I ramble about what I’m working on. Then, she makes me happy. She asks to see Book Thing One and, now, Book Thing Three. I want to jump up and down. On one hand, her request makes me smile. On the other hand, I’ve submitted to other agents by now and Erin’s request, after all we’d been through, makes me want to lovingly yank her hair out.
The day Erin finally read my latest works, all these years after our first meeting, she offered representation!
Astonishingly, she wasn’t alone. Two other agents offered as well. For the first time ever, I had a choice. When Erin and I spoke by phone, I tried to play it cool. I’ll admit that I felt a surge of unfamiliar control. And, for the slightest moment, I thought, “Move over Thelma, Louise gets to drive for a change.” But, playing hard-to-get lasted all of two minutes. It was such a no-brainer decision. For four years, I knew she was the agent for me. Now, I had finally grown into the right client for her.
So, there you are. Proof that mentors sometimes don’t know they are mentors. And that, if you’re willing to pay your dues, stay the course, and invest the energy in honing your craft, you really can navigate some rough terrain toward your destination. Eventually, you might face an old familiar door. Where just the right agent will welcome you home.
A happy time! Squeeeeeeee!