Page 21 of Not on the Same Page

“What made you want to become an agent?”

Surprise would be the wrong word to describe my reaction to the question. It’s the same question everyone asks when panels open up for the Q&A portion. But for some reason, when the sweet-looking aspiring author in the third row looks right at me and asks it, my mind goes blank.

Maybe it’s the phone call from my aunt that I ignored yet again this morning, or the text I finally sent to let her know I was in Denver and would call her when I got home. Maybe it’s the crappy hotel coffee I had to make in my room because I overslept…or hemmed and hawed about whether or not to send that text for so long that by the time I made it down to the lobby coffee shop, the line was too long and I would have been late to my panel. Whatever the reason, the wall I hit when she asks the question is a brick one. It feels like I can’t squeeze ten words together into a coherent sentence.

I’m sure it doesn’t have anything to do with a certain man sitting all the way in the back, his ankle crossed over his knee, who has had his warm gaze trained on me this entire time. If that were the case, I wouldn’t have been able to make it through the panel discussion with all the grace and poise and humor I usually bring to these events—if I do say so myself.

But suddenly this feels like going off script. Like my tried-and-true, rehearsed and not at all personal answer about my very generic-yet-relatable love of books isn’t good enough.

I clear my throat as all the eyes in the room are trained on me. “I love books,” I say uselessly. There is a smattering of laughter, which doesn’t really make sense except that I’ve been cracking jokes this whole time, so they probably think I’m still trying to be funny. It bolsters me, though.

“I mean, we all do,” I continue. “That’s why we’re here, right? I’m sure each of us has a story about how we used to curl up in the pages of a beloved novel when we were little. Maybe even how books have saved us from a certain fate when we were older.”

A few of the audience members nod. That’s certainly true for me too, but that story is a bit too personal to share.

“But the written word is important. Now more than ever. In a time when anyone can produce a novel with a few keystrokes in a computer program, the art of writing and reading is special. It’s remarkable.” More nods. “Even the struggle is vital. It shows us we’re alive, in a way.”

“A computer isn’t,” the moderator chimes in.

“Exactly.” I point in her direction, really gaining steam now. “I’ve been fortunate enough to work with some of the best writers in the business. Ones for whom words are their lifeblood. I’ve seen the struggle firsthand. And I’ve also seen the triumph. Writing and publishing a book is a microcosm of the human experience, from conception to birth to that awkward editing phase”—some laughs, Casey’s the loudest from the back of the room—“to finally, a finished and beautiful work of art that hopefully has a long life. I get to be a part of that, however small.” I shrug as if baring my soul in this way isn’t such a big deal. “It’s magical.”

“Well said. I love that,” the moderator chimes in after a pause. “Does anyone else have any questions?”

Now off the hot seat, my gaze snags on Casey, who is studying me in that intense way he always has. After a moment, he flashes a soft smile, then dips his chin in approval. It shouldn’t matter to me what he thinks, but it warms me from the inside all the same.

The panel concludes shortly after that. I shake hands with the other participants—two editors, a debut writer, and the moderator who is part of the convention committee—and grab my purse from where I left it under my chair. I need to get some caffeine in my system, stat. I might even go full-sugar vanilla syrup for extra energy.

“Miss McBryde?” A small voice stops me within two strides of the door. Fighting a groan, I turn to see a striking, young Black woman. She wears a pink vest and black trousers that look like they were tailored specifically for her. Her hair is short and natural, held out of her face by a matching pink satin headband. Her posture is incongruous with her meek voice—her back is ramrod straight, and her shoulders are square. I get the sense that “fake it till you make it” is her life’s mantra.

“Hi.” She smiles nervously. “My name is Imani Adrian. I’m an author? Well, I’m trying to be.”

“Hi, Imani. Nice to meet you.” I try to infuse as much reassurance into my voice as possible. Normally, I’d gently remind authors that pitch sessions are later in the day and she should find me then, but there’s something about her that draws me in.

“Hi,” she says again, then shakes her head slightly. “I wasn’t able to get a spot at your pitch session, but I really admire your work.”

“My work?” I frown. “You mean my clients’ work.”

“No, I mean yours. You represent some amazing writers, and I know keeping them all happy and thriving has to be more than a full-time job.”

She’s definitely not wrong there. There have been more than a few times where I’ve crossed into friend or assistant territory for an author to help keep the words flowing. “It is, but I love it.”

“I can tell. What you said up there”—she indicates the table where the panelists were sitting—“it really resonated with me.”

“I’m so glad.” I glance at the clock on the wall. There are about ten minutes until my first pitch session, and my opportunity for coffee is slowly dwindling.

“You probably need to get going.” Imani must have caught me checking the time. “I won’t keep you. But I did submit a query a few weeks ago, so I just wanted you to put a face with the name.”

Her name isn’t ringing a bell at all, but to be fair, I haven’t made it through even half of the queries in my inbox yet. “I’ll be sure to keep an eye out for it. What genre do you write?”

“Young adult fantasy. I have a particular passion for writing strong female main characters and diversity.”

Nodding, I say genuinely, “It’s admirable, and we definitely need more of that in the publishing world.” And now comes the part I hate. “But I don’t typically represent young adult or fantasy. My wish list is mostly contemporary lit fic. Some women’s fiction and psychological thrillers, but they have to be really gritty with thematic elements. Any chance you have something that would appeal to an adult audience?”

She tilts her head and purses her lips. “Young adult books can be gritty and thematic. I’d argue mine are.”

Resisting the urge to glance at the clock again, I settle in for some hard advice. I’m not getting my coffee at this point anyway, so I might as well impart some publishing industry wisdom since that’s why we’re all here. I give her a sympathetic look. “It’s not what any author wants to hear, I know, but I’ve been in this business for a while. Take it from me—you want the best representation for your work that you can get. And while I am good at my job, you really want your agent to be in a place where they can confidently sell your book. A lot of that is behind the scenes and has to do with the connections agents have with editors. I just don’t have connections in the young adult world.”

Imani tenses slightly, and I can tell she’s trying to hold it together. My heart aches for her. It’s so much easier to send a rejection email than it is to do this face-to-face, but this industry is unfortunately full of rejection, and she’s going to have to figure out how to deal with it sooner or later.