Are literary agents necessary?

This is the kind of question that can get a person into trouble, isn't it?

After months of going back and forth with my agent about my new manuscript, a little frustration comes naturally. After rewriting said manuscript completely at least once more, revising it again, and cutting out nearly 60 pages from the original work, I'd have to be brain-dead not to wonder if I was doing the right thing.

Why did I listen to many of my agent's suggestions?

Well . . . some of his points made incredible sense to me. On top of that, I respect his knowledge and sensibilities about the genre. And I’m hungry to be a better and better and better writer.

The members of my critique group thought I was insane to do all that to a manuscript that they thought would've sold anyway. They urged me to send out the book myself. I'm sure several of my cohorts on the ’Rati would've had the same advice.

Yet, I made the decision to listen. In the end, will all that mishmoshing result in a sale?
I'm waiting to see.
My agent has had tremendous success with other writers; we're both hoping he will with me.

In the meantime, my question remains: Are literary agents necessary?

When I was learning the business side of writing, everything I read and learned about the industry would've answered, "YES!"

It seemed like an immutable law, as much a given as the sun rising in the east and dogs liking liver treats.

Sure, there were tales about people who’d gotten published without an intermediary, but those were the exceptions, the stuff of myth.

Then came 9/ll, the anthrax scares, and the word on the street was that publishers wouldn’t open anything from anyone they didn’t know. In this new and paranoid environment, agents became even more essential.

However, quiet success stories continued to make me wonder about conventional wisdom. One that comes to mind right away is Pati Nagle who negotiated a three-book deal with Del Rey. She used an entertainment lawyer after the contract was offered.

Her answer to my question would be "NO!"

So which answer is right? Which would benefit the many writers -- the ones reading our blog for advice -- that are striving for publication right now?

IMHO, people need to really weigh the pros and cons of seeking literary representation in their careers. As Toni wrote yesterday, they need to look at what makes the most sense for them.

Below are two lists to begin the conversation. I note the pros and cons in no particular order -- and am sure I've missed many in both categories -- but hope that we can examine this question frankly for everyone's benefit.

Pros

1. Contacts: access to -- and attention from – editors who make the real decisions in publishing
2. Business advice
3. The abililty (to potentially) negotiate larger deals than a writer might do on his/her own
4. An advocate for the author to the publisher—editors and accounting
5. Legal and other specialized knowledge about the industry and trends therein
6. Up-to-date knowledge of the good, bad and the ugly about the publishers themselves
7. Current knowledge of the movements of editors across imprints and houses
8. Editorial advice (at least I like that in my agent)

Cons

1. It’s often more difficult to get an agent than it is to get a publisher
2. Time wasted researching and querying to find a good, reputable agent
3. Another block between the writer and the publisher/editor
4. Loss of income to a “middle man”
5. Potential pressure to write what you don’t want to write
6. Dishonesty/lack of transparency in money/editor querying
7. Lack of enthusiastic representation or, worse, misrepresentation
8. Personality or ethical conflicts

What do you think?

Are agents necessary?

Why?

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A program note:

Tim Hallinan will be my guest at Murderati next Monday, August 17. He’s written a provocative piece “Bleak is the New Black” that I think will spark a fascinating discussion. Please stop by and make him welcome.

Honesty in writing

When it comes to writing, I think too many of us try to outguess the market, to look into an imaginary retail crystal ball and write to what we think will sell in one, two or three years from now.

That’s why so many bestsellers beget whole cities of stepchildren that don’t share any of the remarkable DNA of their non-biological parents.

All this determining up front what genre our novels are, trying to dissect demographics and reader habits, going onto listservs and designing our works to please readers who like dogs but hate cats, is both useless and self-defeating.

Why?

When creative people spend that much time devising the perfect strategy for success vis a vis other people’s responses, they lose sight of their own unique gifts and voices.

The seed that started this particular vine of thought came from a comment a fellow novelist made about the first few paragraphs I’ve written in a new book. This one isn’t a mystery; it’s just a project I’ve started because I want to write every day and am giving myself permission to explore different styles and ideas.

My friend said, “Pari, I think that’s the most honest piece of fiction you’ve ever written.”

She wasn’t saying this as a condemnation of my other work, but simply out of surprise at the rawness of the emotion in the piece I’d shown her.

Honesty in writing? I was so flattered, I didn't ask her what she meant.

Last Saturday I was on a panel at a local bookstore with John Maddox Roberts, Jane Lindskold and Pati Nagle. Betsy James was in the audience too. We started talking about writer’s block and a bit about process. I said that I’d felt a change in my writing during the last five months or so since I'd come to terms with not penning more Sasha books for now.

I’ve begun to write what I want to write without worrying so much about where it “fits” into the market. (I'll deal with that later in the editing or selling process.) And believe me, just because I'm playing with new approaches doesn't mean I’m forgoing the hallmarks of good fiction for some kind of freeform lark. It’s also not a rejection of the idea of genre or categorization; I’m just not writing to any of those goalposts right now.

As a result, I’m working harder than I ever have, but the quality of the experience is different. I’m getting much more satisfaction from my daily effort. It feels – dare I say it? – more honest, more from the sincere heart than the analytical head.

Will my new fiction sell?
I sure hope so.

What if it doesn’t?
I’ll be very sad . . . but not defeated.

Either way, this slightly new focus is giving me a level of creative freedom that I think will serve me far better in the long run. At the very least, I’m not so damn worried about every publishing hiccup and trend.

The truth is I’m enjoying myself within the struggle of disciplined creation; the journey itself is becoming a lot more interesting.

Today, I have many questions that I’d like to discuss:

1. Writers: Should novelists write to a particular market? Should they follow the conventional wisdom of knowing where their books will go in the bookstores BEFORE they begin?

2. Here's another bit of conventional wisdom: you should write what you've written so that your audience can understand and stay with you. Readers, what do you think of that?

3. Readers: do you know when you’ve found an “honest” writer? Or honesty in the fiction you’ve read? Can you give us any examples?

4. Everyone: Does honesty in writing even matter?

5. Everyone: What the heck is “honesty in writing,” anyway?