Querying Literary Agents...Where to Begin

It’s a tough job, but someone has to do it. If seeking a traditional publisher is your goal, the first agonizing step is to find an agent. And, be prepared to spend weeks, months, even years on your quest. To begin with, buy The Guide to Literary Agents or Jeff Herman’s Guide to Book Publishers, Editors and Literary Agents. The internet is also helpful, sites like Writer’s Weekly and Feedblitz, but there are many more avenues on line, too. Just type in “literary agents” in a search field and see what pops up. The savvy writer will also subscribe to magazines like The Writer’s Digest, The Writer, Poets and Writers, and online publications. All contain valuable information on querying agents, preparing a proposal or a synopsis, and some list potential agencies.


You’ll need to prepare a query letter, a synopsis, proposal, detailed outline, author bio, comparable titles, marketing tools, and sample chapters. Then tweak each and every one before submitting. Have you compiled a list of possible agencies yet? Do that, and then the day-to-day business is less daunting. Also, keep track of submissions by maintaining a spreadsheet and continue to update it, because after the first twenty or thirty queries sent, believe me, it all becomes a blur. Even with a spreadsheet, mistakes happen. After I compiled the perfect pitch and hit the send button, I found that I had already sent a query to that agency. It was an idiotic mistake. I had an alphabetized list, but inadvertently placed that agency under its first name instead of the last name. Agencies frown on this.

Don’t hold your breath, expecting a nice note back from each agent; they are rare. In fact, you’re lucky to get a standard “Sorry. It doesn’t fit our needs.” Most of the time, they only respond if interested, but don’t get discouraged. Some will give a time frame of when they will reply if interested. But as a rule, three months is long enough to hold out any hope. In the meantime, keep churning out queries to other agents.

Expect to spend a hefty amount of time scouring agency websites to decide if they are a match. And, don’t forget to check the acknowledgments of other books similar to yours. If they mention their agent, be sure to add them to your list. You could spend hours checking out other on-line information about the agency, but limit yourself. Remember, time is money, unless you’re loaded and just like to surf the net. Write a personalized query for each agent; no mass mail outs. Check and double check for errors before hitting the send button.

Don’t let rejection hold you back. Alex Haley submitted his first book two hundred times and Jack London tried six hundred times before reaching that golden winner’s circle.

Self-publishing is likely here to stay and can be considered after exhausting the list of possible agents. Knowing there is a fallback option makes it easier to go forward. Just remember to follow the agency’s requirements, be cordial, never call or fax unless asked to, and persevere. This ain’t a game for wimps.

Guidelines for Literary Agents

Tons of information on how to submit to an agent exists: books, e-books, internet sites, even the writers magazine whips out words of wisdom. Granted, even with all this, I haven’t gotten it quite right yet, or I wouldn’t be griping. But all too often would-be authors open their inboxes to find nary a word from agencies. Is it too much to ask to respond to e-mail submissions? It wouldn’t hurt for agents to follow a few guidelines too.

After all, writers spend hours pondering which agent to pitch, checking guidelines and reviewing their author lists, and even click on their blog for more details. We thoughtfully prepare a correctly concocted query for that particular agent. Then, we wait and wait for a response and wonder if it’s lost in Cyberspace. Did they get the gall darn thing or not?

Even though we carefully input the address, stuff happens. Maybe one too many periods slipped in, or we misread a c for an e. Most aren’t set up to auto respond, so we wonder, should we resubmit, or are they even still in business? Best not to dwell too long, I surmise; just push on and try another agent.

How long is too long to wait for a response? Most don’t even give a specific time frame, so I can’t help thinking I probably wrote something stupid, so they simply deleted or shredded my little gem. Maybe that’s why, after a year of querying, I’ve only received one request for the complete manuscript, which was subsequently rejected. Maybe, my book is a complete dud. If so, go ahead, say so. I can take it. (I hope.)

Once, I got this sweet note from an agent. She said she thought my book was charming, but not quite right for her list, but suggested I add 30,000 more words. By the way, that happened to be a few thousand more words than the whole book was at the time. It took months of wracking my brain and endless rewrites, but I did go from 26,000 words to 53,000. Now, that’s progress, right. I’m tempted to write, “Dear Miss Charmed Agent, wouldn’t you like to take another look? I did what you said.” Well, maybe not.

In the desperate search to locate an agent, and don’t kid yourself, I’m not going to be too picky at this point; my alphabetized spreadsheet is now five pages long. Anyhow, finding an agent is only part of the agonizing journey. As a wanna-bee, I push on and comb through all the books that are similar, looking up their agents. At this point, I have two choices: Little House on the Prairie and A Girl named Zippy, neither actually come that close to mine. Sometimes, the agent isn’t mentioned, and I have to dig deeper. For all my trouble, I usually find they’ve gone on to bigger, more profitable ventures, like selling editorial services; or they quit and moved to the beach near a four-star golf course.

The worst is when agents ask that the proposal be mailed. Mailed? I hate snail mail. Yet when an agent represents a book similar to mine or seems extremely promising, I dole out a few Washingtons, for which this pessimist is sure she’ll receive a form rejection. Hey! It’s something. What’s really shocking is to discover that an agency does have a website, but only accepts postal submissions. Don’t they care about the trees tumbling to the ground, the bushel-baskets full of paper we insignificant peons must use? Whatever happened to going green?

Would-be authors can attest to receiving a reject similar to this: “Sorry, but it doesn’t fit our needs.” That makes me hopping mad. I did so do my homework. I read their guidelines. Right there in black and white, it said Memoir. What else do they want? Couldn’t they be more specific? Perhaps: “We only consider celebrities, ex-presidents, governors who abdicate, and those who fell into a volcano or walked on Venus.”

For those agents still reading this, I’m especially ticked off at the nincompoops who only respond if interested, but don’t give a time frame. I’m begging; please signify if the wait is a month, a year, or a decade, which, come to think of it, could be my entire life. Try: “If interest, it may take up to three months to respond.” See! That wasn’t so hard, was it?

So you abhor simultaneous submissions. I bet a lot of writers have read, “We give priority to those who send us an exclusive query.” Yeah, sure! No self-respecting author is going to fall for that one, especially if there’s no acknowledgment or response time given. My guess is priority or not, all queries get dumped in the slush pile. Besides, if the agency looked there first, it might not have to cry into its morning java because it missed a blockbuster. Something to consider, right?

Are any agents still with me? If so, is it so difficult to give us lowly authors some of the same considerations we graciously give you? Most do meet your requirements, right? If it says snail mail with a self-addressed-stamped envelope, we oblige. If it asks for the information in the body of the email, so be it. We don’t send an attachment when you say this will result in an immediate deletion or meeting the mouth of the shredder. We’re not stupid. Single space the cover and double space the synopsis? You got it!

Not all agencies are at fault here. Some do give consideration to authors. For that, I sincerely thank you, as, I’m sure, all hopefuls do. But for those who are dallying behind in this digital age, please give a time frame, accept emails and use an automatic responder. This not only saves our environment, it saves the sanity of millions of aspiring authors. Think of it as a way of giving back for all the commission checks received.

Tip of the Day: Agencies who follow these guidelines will receive priority and go to the top of my querying list, alphabetically, of course.

Birds of a Feather

yesterdaysmagazette.com This is the ninth of my articles to appear in their magazine. You can find this article at their site or read it here.


Upon my arrival in that Midwestern Illinois town, I joined a family with two other girls, ten and fifteen years older than I. Believe it or not, before I swooped into my parents’ lives, gray hairs had already sprouted on Mom’s head, which I mostly attribute to my ten-year-older sister, Norma.

For example, in those days water heaters were small. To draw hot water for a bath, the pilot light was lit shortly before each bath, which barely tempered the ice cold water. Mom and Dad sat in the living room when Norma, then five, took it upon herself to light a match and heat the water. Hah! I was only three when I lit my first match.

She turned the knob and, after several tries, she finally succeeded in getting the wooden match to glow. But, as she leaned down to ignite the gas—Kaboom! Mom heard the noise and her daughter’s screams and raced to the kitchen. The gas exploded in Sis’s face, leaving it red and raw for quite awhile, and even singed off her eyebrows. Enter Mom’s gray hairs #46 through #49 and, obviously, not from yours truly.

Standing by the backyard shed, Norma picked at the rusted hinges while her older sister, Roi Jane, played inside the dilapidated building. Dad blew the whistle for the girls to come to supper, and Roi flew out of the shed. Norma let out an agonizing cry, and Mom came running. Sis’s fingers had gotten jammed in the crevice and were totally crushed, so her parents rushed her to the hospital. Voila! Gray hairs #50 through #55. Fortunately, my sister escaped with no broken bones.

She probably didn’t cause any of Mom’s gray hairs with this one, but the imp in me just has to tell. When I came along, Norma was ten. At school, the nun patted her on the back and said how nice for her that she had a new baby sister. Norma muttered under her breath, “No, it’s not nice. I’m the baby of this family. I don’t want no bratty, bawling little sister.” She likely thought this for years, since she often got stuck chasing after me.

I hate to admit this, but my sister could have been dubbed a Robin Hood of her day. On a muggy August afternoon, she left the playground and took a shortcut home along the railroad tracks. As she passed by lush vegetable gardens, she couldn’t resist and ran over and plucked a few tomatoes from one yard, and then pulled carrots and grabbed corn from others. I imagine, since she was little and carried such a small bundle, no one minded or, at least, felt it wasn’t worth the effort to chase after her with a billy club. At first Mom’s face showed furrows, but then brightened into a smile. Although Sis had snatched vegetables from rich families, she offered them to her own poorer one, for which Mom was grateful. That night, they blissfully feasted on her bountiful gifts, ignoring their bare cupboards.

We both suffered from nightmares, though mine was always of flowing lava roaring down a hill, which startled me from a sound sleep. Hers were often of hunting for something lost—her music, a purse, or she couldn’t find her way home. She says now that the searching likely related to the absence of her biological father, even though she was only one when he took off. On a stroll home from school, she saw the back of a man’s head that looked familiar, so she ran up to him and asked, “Are you my daddy?” His startled look made her wonder why she did such a dumb thing—her words, not mine.

Yet she’s quite adamant about my dad being her dad. After all, Dad entered her life when she was so tiny. In fact, just recently when she visited the doctor, he asked her how her mother and father died. Without hesitation, she said, “Dad died from cirrhosis of the liver.” It wasn’t until she got home, flipped on the TV, and settled in her easy chair that it dawned on her; she told the physician about the one who raised her, not her biological father.

She and her older sister, Roi Jane, both contributed to Mom’s gray hairs when they jumped up and down on the bed and bombarded each other with pillows. Feathers flew when this wormy kid, Norma, fell against the wall and smashed right through, landing on the living room floor of the adjacent tenant. Imagine my sister’s surprise, not to mention Mom’s…well, you know. Come to find out, it wasn’t a wall at all. To stuff his wallet, the landlord had put up a thin partition making one unit into two.

When Sis came home early from grade school one day, she found the door locked. Since she had no key, she pounded frantically and yelled, “Let me in. Let me in.” When no one answered, she got scared and banged on the window. The glass shattered into a thousand pieces; blood gushed from her hand. Mother was next door and when she heard the screams, she ran to her daughter’s side. I’ll not mention the number of gray hairs here.

Norma was born during the Crash of 1929. She says they were poorer then, than when I grew up. One summer, she picked flowers at a vacant house that was surrounded by pillared two-story homes with lush trees and bushes neatly manicured. Then, she knocked on doors selling the bouquets for 5¢ a bunch. When she emptied her pockets on the kitchen table, the coins jangled like joyful bells honoring her contribution to their meager household.

Okay, enough of the little angel’s stories. The fact is, to this day, Norma isn’t fond of housework, but who is? She and her sister were responsible for most of the upkeep because both parents worked. When she was little, she got into trouble time and time again for not washing the dishes properly. On Saturday, Dad would go through the cupboards and inspect each cup and plate. If he found a scrap of food on just one, he insisted the girls redo all of them. Roi Jane nagged and scolded her younger sister’s neglect the whole time they rewashed and dried each and every piece.

Her favorite name for me was “little bugger.” Norma said she always had to lay down with me at my nap time. If she didn’t, she said, “The little bugger will be up in a flash and get into all sorts of trouble.” That may be true, but…..

On other occasions, she had no mercy for her little sister. She’d tickle my underarms, the back of my neck, bottoms of my feet, and anywhere in between. It didn’t matter where, I’d laugh so hard, I couldn’t catch my breath, sounding like a pig honking as I gasped for air and hollered for her to stop. But she kept it up until I thought I’d expire. All she had to do was come at me with those long fingers wiggling, which I still remember well, and I’d head for the hills or closet or wherever else I could escape her twitching fingers. Believe this, I got so tickled out as a child that now I’m just plain numb.

Like birds of a feather, Norma also ran away from home, but she was three. My great escape didn’t come about until I turned five. Another similarity is that when she was found, she had stripped along the way and stood in the road plumb-naked. After that, Dad tethered her to a tree, so she couldn’t wander off. My sister and I may be birds of a feather, but if I’d been around at the time, this tenacious baby sister would have taught her how to untie the dang rope.

THE LIGHTS OF CHRISTMAS

I can't bellieve it.......I posted this article on their website for review on October 8, 2010, and they finally decided to publish it. If you want to see their website and this story, go to more.com/stories; otherwise, you can read it here and now.

3/18/2011




The Lights of Christmas

Why do we drag those tangled strings of lights out every Christmas? What is the meaning behind all that backbreaking labor it takes to wrap porch rails, adorn bushes, and wind hundreds of lights around evergreen trees? Are we gluttons for punishment, desiring to pay exorbitant electric bills?

We decorate our homes inside and out. The streets are bright with flickering lights, as are the retail stores that proclaim anything goes when it comes to decorating for the holiday. Anything, that is, to get shoppers’ dollars to go cha-ching in their cash registers. So, what’s really behind this widely accepted tradition? Does today’s excessive use of lights signify something else, a possible hidden meaning?

Christians celebrate what is said to be the true meaning of Christmas—the birth of Jesus. They honor the story of Joseph and Mary looking for shelter at an inn, but the only room is a stable where the Son of God is born on a bed of straw, surrounded by shepherds, angels, sheep and other livestock.

This tradition is carried on today by placing a nativity scene under the tree. Our family displayed such a scene, which included large, intricately painted porcelain figurines. However, one year we felt compelled to remove St. Joseph from the manger and bury the statue upside down in the backyard. We were told that this ritual would sell our home, which had lingered on the market for months. I have to tell you that it did work. However, when we moved in the dead of winter, absolutely no amount of effort could pry that figure from the frozen ground.

In earlier days, the holiday tradition began with the simple display of a Christmas tree, which dates back to Germany in the 16th century. When that first tree hit American soil is still controversial. According to wikipedia.org, in 1777, a Hessian soldier put up a tree while imprisoned at the Noden-Reed House. In prison? Really! I continued to read that Mathew Zahm of Lancaster, Pennsylvania, set one in place in 1821. That seemed more believable. But then, in another sentence, Charles Follen, a German immigrant, is credited as being the first to display a Christmas tree.

It was also recorded that in 1842 Charles Minnegarade decorated the first tree at St. George Tucker’s home. So now we know when and where it all began, right? Okay, it’s not exactly clear, but, one thing we know is that all of this led up to our extravagant lighting and decorating of Christmas trees.

Again with Wikipedia’s help, I found that strings of lights could be traced back to December 22, 1882. Then, Edward H. Johnson was proclaimed the Father of Electric Christmas Tree Lights when he lit up his own tree with the first hand-wired, 80 incandescent red, white and blue, walnut-sized electric light bulbs. Of course, it might be noted here that he was also an associate of Thomas Edison and vice president of the Edison Electric Light Company.

Soon, retailers began stringing Christmas lights around the inside of windows. However, the exorbitant cost was prohibitive for the average family until 1930. So when did these strings of lights become affordable enough to adorn our mantles, doorways, roofs and porch rails? Can you believe? It wasn’t until the mid 1950s. That’s when it started. That’s when our society went bonkers, each neighbor trying to outdo the other.

After that, it seems, Christmas decorating became extremely materialistic. Homeowners succumbed to retail propaganda and began stringing lights around roof edges. I think of this is a fad, which isn’t really pleasing, nor does it give that warm, fuzzy feeling I associate with Christmas. Think about it. It shows off bent and rusted gutters and emphasizes all those missing shingles. Besides, it takes away from the softness of twinkling lights adorning bushes, and reindeer bobbing on the front lawn. So, put away that rickety ladder. It will not only save dollars, it might save a trip to the emergency room.

In Illinois, it became a tradition for our family to drive across town in mid-December in our sort of heated car, bundled up in coats, hats and mittens, just to see a particular subdivision’s spectacular Christmas array. With my children in tow and later my grandchildren, I pointed out Santa, a manger scene, or a Disney talking character. The little ones planted their noses up against the frosted inside window to get a closer look. I admit it was a thrill for me too, hearing their giggles, listening to their bursts of excitement, and seeing their little faces light up. And, yes, we even enjoyed the glowing roof gutters.

In December, while living in a Chicago suburb, I marched outside and pounded a wooden snowman and reindeer into the frozen ground, and then strung lights around the evergreen and porch rail. I might add, ending up with numb toes and fingers. Now I live in California, so you’d think I’d go all out. But the first Christmas here, when my grandchildren hopped out of the car and didn’t notice my labored outside display, I said to myself, “You’ve got to be kidding?” Since then, I’ve opted for simple indoor decorations. That is, if you call eight huge Rubbermaid boxes full of Christmas decorations and two full-sized trees simple. I’d say it’s time to pare down more. Hey! I’m no spring chicken, you know.

Just the same, I doubt you can ever take the kid out of the grownup at Christmastime. I discovered this recently when I hopped on a boat to cruise around a parade of brightly lit boats at Newport Harbor. My usual scowl turned into a smiley face observing the helium-filled Santas, pelicans, snowmen and, of course, Rudolph. The air was cold, the wind brisk, and my fingers froze. Yes! In California. Thank goodness I remembered my mothballed winter coat with the hoody, but this idiot, who spent most of her life in Illinois’ frigid winters, of all things forgot gloves.

Recently, a commercial on TV showed real snow carted into California on a hot December day. The winter wonderland surrounded a Lotto winner’s house. My thought was if you want to play in the snow, take a drive to the mountains. Or, as my mother would say, “You’re throwing your money away.” This time, I’d have to agree with her, though I hardly ever did.

Perhaps these festivities keep our spirits up, perhaps we’ve gotten a bit fanatical, or perhaps we’re obsessed with outdoing our neighbor. However, my bet is that it goes beyond that.

"Hey, it’s Christmas,” you say. “That’s what we do; don’t be such a Scrooge.”

Yet, when the days grow short and the nights long, aren’t we really stringing all those lights to prolong the day and ward off the night? Maybe it’s to honor the birth of Christ, or maybe it’s simply to celebrate the holiday. But, stand up and be counted if you also string those lights because you’re just plain scared of the dark.