Run for the hills, my dears


Oh, I nearly came a cropper yesterday, and have only just escaped total disaster by the skin of my teeth (hurrah for cliches and let’s have more of ’em, eh!). I saw a Twitter message that said that three young, fresh agents (much like chickens then, but not as trustworthy …) were desperately seeking new clients and – oh foolish woman – I actually clicked on the ruddy link that told you more about them.

What on earth was I doing?? I even skim-read the usual gubbins about how totally marvellous they all were and noted – be still, my beating heart – that all three of them were looking for work in some of the many genres I write in. Arrgghh!!! I actually found myself re-reading the puff paragraphs about the last one and – for a nano-second – wondered if I should give it a go.

Nooooo!!!! Absolutely no and three times no. For I understand all too well that submitting one’s work to a pesky agent (no matter how young and fresh, oo-err missus) only leads to trauma, agonised and pointless waiting, despair and rejection. Really, it’s not worth it at any known level, so I came to my senses, thank goodness, and deleted the whole damn flock of them. Phew!

Because it’s absolutely vital for all writers to remember that agents of any ilk are the Work of the Devil and you must run for the hills whenever you get a whiff of one. Be warned, my dears, be warned …

The Vanishing Writer


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