The view from my writing chair has changed lately, and not just because it’s fall and the colors are starting to show. After ten years with my agent, I am recently unagented. (For some reason, that sounds better to me than “I don’t have an agent anymore.”)
With the decision came relief that the decision was finally made, and panic that it was really decided and my advocate was gone.
About a month has passed since then. It still feels very odd. Like my tether has come untied and I’m drifting on the Seven Seas and all the harbor masters of the world are not only hard to communicate with but also appear disinterested in my progress. There is no helmsman manning my wheel. (And I’m just throwing out these sailing terms willy-nilly without knowing if I’m using the right ones. But I am unmoored, so what do you expect?)
Trying to figure out who to send my work to has given me the unexpected result of sympathizing with my agent. What a terrible job! But many literary agents write that they love their job, so it must just not be my cup of tea. Which is why I had an agent in the first place. And why I will search for another one. Hoping my boat will find a lovely way to wend through these waters.
Just another chapter in the book that could be called, A Writing Career Is Not for the Faint of Heart.