Why have one?

There is this battleground, see. On one side, shooting from the jungle, there are the literary agents. On the other, shooting from the swamps, are the publishers. And contrary to what you’re probably thinking the writer isn’t bleeding on the barbed wire, caught in the crossfire. Hell, no. The writer’s at home in silent safety, pencils sharpened, ruler straightened, papers just so, about to begin A New Work, for which the literary agent will extract from the publisher an advance twelve times bigger than the writer ever dared to hope for or believed possible. Don’t get me wrong. I was cocky to start with. Agents? Pooh! Who needs ‘em? Hadn’t I placed Possum Magic all by myself? And ten more books after that, all by myself? It was only when I walked unarmed into a publishing minefield and was hurt so badly I cried for days that – wait for it – one of my publishers said, ‘Talking to you directly is spoiling our relationship. We like you. You like us. We’d like it to stay that way, but trouble is looming. Get an agent for God’s sake. And ours.’ They gave me Caroline Lurie’s phone number. How did I survive B.C. (Before Caroline)? I don’t know. I’m much less busy, less anxious, and less confused since she’s taken me on. I don’t have to be firm – she’s firm for me. I don’t have to sulk – she sulks for me. I don’t have to stamp my foot – hers stamp much harder than mine ever dared to. I just write books and do the banking dressed in the suit of armour that having-an-agent provides. My agent is a soldier who fights my battles. There was this terrible (nameless) problem (I’m being careful, OK?) which caused so much misery I wished I’d never ever in my entire life ever ever published one single book. I was so awash with angst I was helpless. Commandant Lurie strolled in, and bang, bang! The battle was over. My agent is also a lawyer. ‘Insofar as the right to remuneration as stated in Clause 13.iv and pursuant to any statute hereinafter is granted or by means of any other contrivance blah blah wank blah wank wank … ’ Writers, if they’re like me, are a wimpish lot too blinded by the ecstasy of having their work accepted to be able to read, let alone understand, the outrageous small print in some contracts. So who needs to read when an agent wears spectacles? My agent is a psychiatric worker, also. After I’d read a recent edition of the ABR from cover to cover I came over all lacking in confidence and feeling utterly unworthy and unclever. I mean – a children’s writer! What’s deconstruction got to do with possums, I asked myself in the name of God or Deakin (same thing) University? So I wrote to Caroline and said ‘I am as nothing.’ And she wrote back a post card more soothing than Valium: ‘Dear, dear Mem, of course I love you, and so does Jennifer. We are Very Proud … writing for children is incredibly difficult: probably harder than writing for adults. And you do it brilliantly, so there! … ’ And to think she only asks for ten per cent! Lord, Lord – it’s a miracle. She also plays the role of critic. She tizzies things up (i.e., she makes me re-write, re-consider or even recant) before she sends my stuff to editors. I value her judgement. She’s been there and done everything. She knows. I don’t – and I don’t have to, with her at the other end of an answering machine. It’s such a relief. Lastly, she’s enough of a friend to be frightfully honest. I’ve written a thing called Mem’s the Word to be published by Penguin. Some might call it an autobiography. I call it a case study. Whatever it is it’s about me and there are no holds barred. People who read it will know me better than I know myself. ‘Caroline,’ I said anxiously after she’d finished it, ‘did you like me while you were reading it?’ I wanted her to have adored me of course. ‘Well, no, actually,’ she replied in her crisp English voice. ‘Sometimes you come across as quite dreadful. But never mind. At least it’s honest.’ Like you, Caroline, damn your ten per cent. Like you. So! I’ve stopped being cocky and trying to roleplay the little Aussie battler, I’ve humbled myself and asked for help which has been freely given for ten per cent, and no regrets. Agents? I wouldn’t be without one.

Mem Fox

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Letters to the Editor - May 2024

Like Fire-Hearted Suns by Melanie Joosten

2024 Calibre Essay Prize (Winner) | ‘why your hair is long & your stories short’ by Tracey Slaughter

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