I’m not talking love, though I guess one could also apply this in that direction. What I’m focused on here is whether I’m “meant” to ever have a literary agent.
I’ve had agents, is the thing, and it’s never worked out. So I’m starting to think maybe I’m just not meant to have one.
The first one was a well-known screenwriting agent who agreed to handle some options for me, but he scared away the directors who wanted my script, so nothing ever came of it.
The second was an agent who admittedly mostly dealt with actors and “personalities.” I was her first writer—she’d been wanting to add a writer to her stable, she told me—and she didn’t really know what to do with me or my work. She was a great cheerleader but no more useful than that.
And the third sent my manuscript to only one place before giving up and telling me she just didn’t have the time.
Maybe I’m just not good enough to attract better agents. But I also have to wonder if maybe I’m just meant to go this alone and continue to self-publish. Am I wasting time and energy looking for a champion and hoping for a bigger, better deal? Maybe it’s time to shrink those dreams down to pocket size and learn to be happy with what I have.