Fiction by Laura L. Feldman & Stephen M. Feldman
I willed my phone to ring. The literary agent had scheduled the call for 2:00 p.m. Not yet late, still one minute before the hour.
I had dreamed of being a writer since junior high, when I’d written my first story for an honors English class. The A+ didn’t hurt, and neither did my mom’s encouragement.
My novel manuscript had consumed two years of writing and rewriting. Before contacting agents, I devoted a month to crafting a query that pitched the story and my writing background in three flawless paragraphs. I sent it to fifteen agents. Three requested the full manuscript.
A month later I received an email scheduling this phone appointment. Soon I would be talking with an agent who wanted to represent me and sell my novel.
I would be a writer. ‘Yes, I’ve published a novel,’ I would say. No longer a poseur.
I checked the time again.
Two minutes late. It didn’t mean anything. I needed to relax, act as if I spoke to agents all the time.
I glanced at my list of questions, lifted from several books about landing an agent. Prepare for the phone call, they all instructed. Don’t immediately say, ‘Yes, yes, yes! I want you to be my agent.’ Ask questions. What did she like about the manuscript? What were the weaknesses? What changes would she want to see before submitting it to publishers? Did she have a plan for the submission process?
Act like a professional writer.
Three minutes late.
Had I gotten the day wrong? Was the call scheduled for tomorrow rather than today? I opened the agent’s email.
I’d already read the brief message at least a dozen times. But I reread it again, twice: “Can you talk about your ms. this coming Thursday at 2 p.m., ET?”
No mistake. It was today.
The phone buzzed. I checked the screen and my stomach hardened into a knot. This call would change my life.
The phone buzzed again. I took a deep breath and answered.
“Hello,” I squeaked. “Sorry.” I cleared my throat and tried again. “Hello, this is Sara Klein.”
“Hi, Sara,” said a sweet lilting voice.
“Hello,” I said, for the third time.
“Just so you know, I’m not calling to offer representation.”
“What?”
“I want to be clear at the outset. So you’re not disappointed. Or confused.”
The ice cracked and I crashed through. Panicking, I opened my mouth to scream and freezing water rushed in. I was drowning in the darkness. Which way was up, which way was down?
“Some writers,” she said, her voice muffled and distant, “think this first phone call is to offer representation.”
“No,” I croaked. “Of course not.”
I glanced at my list of questions. Nothing there suggested an appropriate response.
“If you’re amenable,” she said, “I’d like to discuss your manuscript and some changes I’d like to see.”
I squeezed my eyes shut, holding in my tears.
“If you rewrite it,” she continued, “I’d be willing to take another look at it.”
“That would be great,” I managed to say.
“No promises of course.”
“That makes sense. You’ll have to read the—”
“I don’t want to mislead you. I plan to read the rewrite, if you do it. But at this stage, I can’t promise I’ll have the time.”
“Oh.” I squeezed my temples. What were we even discussing, then? “I understand.”
“Do you still want to proceed?”
“Please,” I wanted to hang up, throw my manuscript in the trash, and cry for a month. “Go ahead,” I said.
“Wonderful. The first thing I noticed was a problem with the plot.”
“The plot?” Shit. Shit. Shit.
“That’s right. After the first plot point—”
“Hold on,” I said, clicking my ball point pen. “Just one second.” I flipped the page where I’d jotted my useless questions. “Sorry. I’m ready.”
And she was off and running, tearing the manuscript apart. I couldn’t concentrate, couldn’t comprehend enough to ask intelligent questions. I tried to take copious notes, nearly transcribing the conversation. Later on, after I calmed down, I might be able to learn from my notes and benefit from this torturous experience.
If an agent, any agent, was willing to critique my manuscript, I should consider myself lucky—that’s what I reminded myself. Despite my disappointment, I would rewrite and send the manuscript to her again. Of course I could do exactly what she wanted, and she could still reject it. Or I might not even hear back from her. She hadn’t even committed to reading the next version.
As she talked, I decided to send the rewrite to other agents as well. Why not?
The phone call ended abruptly. She had another appointment. Maybe with an actual client? I didn’t ask.
Hollowed, drained of motivation, I riffled through my three pages of notes without comprehending them. My gaze shifted to the desk drawer on the lower right. I didn’t want to do it. But I couldn’t fool myself any longer. Neither this agent nor any other would likely offer representation.
I swallowed, my throat dry and raspy. Then I slid open the drawer and pulled out a stack of law school applications. I’d put it off long enough.
Laura L. Feldman writes and edits for the Wyoming Survey & Analysis Center. She has degrees and certificates from the University of Oregon, Stanford, and Harvard. Stephen M. Feldman is the Housel/Arnold Distinguished Professor of Law at the University of Wyoming. He has published several short stories and nonfiction books.
