Why I've Decided to Never Query Another Literary Agent Ever Again

by Sandra Gail Lambert

Audio Version:

Why I've Decided to Never Query Another Literary Agent Ever Again

by Sandra Gail Lambert

I've been writing since I was forty which is considered a late bloomer for a writer. Nevertheless, that was thirty years ago. I have long bloomed. But I still remember, no not remember, I can feel in my throat right now, the excitement of writing that last line of my first novel and realizing it was the last line and knowing that it was perfect. The book has never been published, but I still remember the sentence. "How did they know which open, wet, wild space was theirs?"

I've spent most of these thirty years looking for my wild space, my home, a place where I belong in the writing world. And in so many ways I've found it. But starting with that first novel, each project was also a vehicle to use in the hunt for a literary agent. Writers talked of agents as a sort of home for their work. And it seemed you had to have one. Mainly they could show your work to mainstream publishers, but they were also your advocate and some sent you flowers on your birthday. When people knew you had an agent, you were considered more of a serious writer. It gave you prestige.

There was this once I had what turned out to be a fake agent for a couple of months. They did nothing for me, but because, briefly, I was considered an agented author I was in a sort of club. As a result, I was invited to speak about "acquiring an agent" at a conference and as a speaker I gave a reading that night and after the reading an editor at a fancy journal asked me to submit work to her. And to submit directly to her not through the regular submission portal. It was my first time being solicited. Years later I was introduced to a visiting famous author by her also famous writer friend who praised my memoir as part of her introduction. The visiting author was so friendly, until she asked who my agent was and when I said I didn't have one, she turned away to speak to someone else. I was outside the club.

I wanted to be in the club. I tried five times—with the first novel, with another novel, with a memoir, a collection of short stories, and a book of essays. Writers told me get my work in high-end journals and agents would come to me. I did that: The New York Times, The Paris Review, The Sun. No agents came knocking at my email or slid into my DMs. Generous writers set me up with an introduction to their agents who often responded kindly but with a rejection. Starting in 2009, I've queried agents two hundred and sixty-eight times. Agents work hard and get nothing unless a book is picked up by a publisher who pays. So, that means not once did an agent look at my writing and think, "Hey, I could sell this."

 On my own I placed a debut novel to an independent press and a memoir to a university press. Right now, I have two projects I'm shopping around to publishers—the short story collection and a book of essays. I did, at first, query agents about them, but I noticed that none of my old anticipation was there. But my body did respond with the familiar spike of hope when agents asked to look at the full manuscripts. And the hope made me angry even before the ultimate rejections.

I've decided to reject hope. Hope can keep you (me) from moving forward. It can keep us from other possibilities. I'm seventy. I know I keep saying I'm seventy, but turning this age has been transformative. I don't have time to mess around. All my life, disability has caused me to focus on what's important as far as energy, but now time is included. I'm letting go of the way the literary world has said to proceed on a writing career, a way I've followed for a quarter of a century.

Some of you are right now thinking I should have gotten a clue a least a decade ago. Sometimes I think that as well, but I was locked-in to a way of doing things. And it worked well for me in many ways and brought me writing success and much joy. But these days, if my work ever seems marketable to an agent who runs across it somewhere, that's great. But I've decided to never query another agent ever again.

Since that decision, as a result of that decision, I'm posting essays like these on Substack. My style has become looser and less worried over. The writing has less of a hard grip on craft. (Part of this change also has to do with getting high on pain meds every now and then. Which also has to do with turning seventy. Check out my "Writing While High" essay here on Substack.)

In a giant move away from the traditional literary world, I'm serializing a novel on Substack as well. Which means it's not eligible for awards or reviews or any of those lists (the long list for some big prize, best new releases, best beach reads, best whatever) we writers always hope (there's that word) to see our names on. But people are reading this wild thriller of a novel. People are supporting it and my writing life with subscriptions that have reached over a thousand dollars. That might not be much for some writers, but it's more money than I've ever made on any other single publication. And I get to be in conversation with readers. It's exciting. And it's fun. And it's without expectations or any external, set definitions of success or failure.