Ode to Literary Agents…

“Those pesky gatekeepers.”

Momentary lapse in the blog’s timeline.

I learned early on at that power plant, if a problem—sorry, challenge—no, wait… that’s not right either. Barrier. Yes, that’s the word flavor of the day: barrier. Regardless, when one of those cropped up, you didn’t just point at it like a toddler spotting a spider. A good employee came armed with an assortment of solutions—a tray of strategic goodies—for the higher-ups to choose from. Who would later on—more often than not—take credit for.

After all my years of writing standard operating procedures and policies, it’s hard to turn off my brain’s ability to recognize possible process improvements—when I see them—within the literary world today. Now, with over a hundred submissions under my belt—but who’s counting—all crafted with the care of applying to be Canada’s next best author. Always diligently following all those submission guidelines like scripture, the biggest problem, challenge, or barrier in the literary world currently is that the business’ best practice—and, unbelievably widely accepted—is no response at all.

I can just imagine what any literary agent would say to this whilst standing guard to those allusive publishing houses, “Do you know how many submissions we receive each day? Each week? Each year?”

Here is an official wannabe writer’s response:

“Do you know how many hamburgers are ordered at McDonald’s each and every day? Granted, agents are in search of that one perfect burger, but still…”

I cannot fathom McDonald’s business plan including ghosting customers because the drive-thru got busy. The mighty McDonald corporation runs ads—calls for submissions—designed to reach out and touch millions of potential burger buyers and they somehow manage to fulfil those orders without asking customers to wait three to six months, clutching a tray of burger dreams and ketchup packets.

Don’t be silly, writers would never expect a—minimum of 500-words written within the body of an email, outlined with one-inch margins and typed in 12 pt. Times Roman font— response on why their manuscript wasn’t “quite the right fit.” Writers do understand the realities—time is money, inboxes overflow, and the slush pile is a living, breathing beast. But not to reply at all? Not even an auto-generated “Thanks, but no thanks.”? To this wannabe writer, is just absolutely…mind blowing. And, yes, I will “write” it; “profoundly unprofessional.”

When zooming in on one literary agent during a webinar intended on providing tips and tricks on how to hook an agent, he casually admitted to reviewing submissions while standing at a bus stop each morning on the way to work, deleting queries based on the subject line alone. On his iPhone. With his thumb.

“Wait…what?” Cue dramatic pen toss into the air.

If writers are expected to spend countless hours researching agents, tailoring submissions, and polishing query letters like they’re going to the literary Olympics, at the very least they should expect is not to be deleted between transit stops. 

An auto-response costs nothing but a shred of professional dignity. Even if it’s just to say, “No thanks, best of luck.” This simple professional gesture would mean the difference between a wannabe writer waiting in hope or moving on with purpose.

Instead, wannabe writers are forced to refresh their inboxes like gamblers at a slot machine—just one more pull, just one more day.

Maybe tomorrow.

Or maybe, the reply we are so anxiously waiting for was deleted by a literary agent’s thumb on a rainy Tuesday morning… standing at a bus stop.

Coming up next:…AI made me the writer I am today. (spoiler: Hold on! Get a grip! Get your mind out of the gutter.)”