I just got an agent.
While literary agents often insist that writers act in ways that are normally anathema to them (meeting deadlines, working during the day, wearing a tie in the office, waking up before noon, et al), they are also a source of pride for writers. Having an agent is a sing that a writer has made it.
This stems from the fact that agents rarely take on a writer unless he or she has already sold something, or otherwise gained a public reputation (running naked through a Blue Jays game, for instance, or committing mass murder). Although this makes sense from an agent's limited perspective, it does make it difficult for new writers to get their work published.
Fortunately, I don't have to worry about that any more. I recently had my first lunch with my agent, Josh "Finagler" Finkle (of the prestigious Bradleigh Group). He told me that I was set for life.
"I'd like to outline a marketing campaign for you," he said, adding: "Are you sure you won't have any artichoke hearts?"
"The vinegraitte sauce disagrees with me," I lied. "Are you absolutely sure I need a marketing campaign?
Josh looked at me. I could feel the heat of his gaze and see his upper lip begin to quiver, which was supposed to make me more aware that he did not approve of what I had said. I immediately regretted the question, as I was meant to. "Look," he said, "self-promotion is the name of the game today. There are thousands of competent writers out there - the ones who will get those big movie deals are the ones willing to go to ridiculous lengths just to get their names remembered."
"I don't know..." I hesitated.
Josh surprised me by smiling. "Look," he explained, "everybody has to be into self-promotion these days, not just writers. Actors, aerospace engineers, cost accountants - do you think Ted Turner would be in a position to buy out CBS or MGM/UA if he hadn't spent years carefully building his reputation?
"And, what about politics, the acme of self-promotion...?"
"I see your point," I started, pausing momentarily to cut into my half of a chateaubriand. That moment, however, was all that Josh needed.
"Good," he said. "We have two basic approaches: the hard sell and the soft sell. Which do you prefer?"
I swallowed and answered, "The hard sell." I figured that if I had to do this to get ahead, I may as well do it right.
"Good," Josh nodded in approval. "The soft sell is for wimps...and New Democrats. Now, I'll get an artist to draw some of your best characters - Mr. and Mrs. Frump, Professor Blunderson...you know - and we'll put them on buttons, posters, t-shirts, lunch pails, heavy farm equipment, government documents... Merchandising is very important --would you object to having your face on a button or a t-shirt?"
This conjured up some disgusting imagery, but I didn't want to derail Josh's enthusiasm, so I let it go. For all his ability as an agent, Josh didn't strike me as having a great sense of humour. "I don't mind," I responded.
"Good," Josh said, spearing a Parisienne potato. "I'll arrange for the photo session immediately. And, of course, there are the dolls and figurines..."
I laughed, rudely spitting up some coffee. "Can you imagine a Mrs. Frump doll?": I asked, amused. "Picking flies off her coat and throwing up when you squeeze her stomach? Kids will certainly get hours of enjoyment out of that! Or, how about Professor Blunderson? Pull a string, and he says, 'My dear boy, I've got a marvelous new idea, new idea, new idea!' It's priceless!"
Josh looked grave, leading me to believe that my original speculation about his sense of humour had been essentially correct. "Alright," he finally admitted, "they aren't exactly ET or Captain Kirk. We'll work something out, though, don't you worry."
"I'm not worried," I sardonically replied.
"I didn't think you would be," Josh said, staring dolefully at his half-empty glass of wine. "I have a few connections in Hollywood, and we'll try to get a movie deal once the merchandising is in place..."
"A movie deal!"
"Sure," Josh continued. "Erma Bombeck got a movie deal, why shouldn't you? IN the week since I took you on, I've had more than one offer from an interested television producer."
"Really?" I asked, surprised. "For which columns?"
"What the Heck Do You Know?" Josh told me.
"What the Heck Do You Know?" I blurted.
"A lot, I hope," Josh responded, smiling. Not my sense of humour, but the guy was obviously trying.
"How can you make a TV show out of What the Heck Do You Know?" I asked. "It's a quiz for goodness' sakes!"
"They want to make it a game show," Josh explained, "a sort of cross between Jeopardy and Second City..."
"That's weird," I said, as if I hadn't been dealing with weirdness all my life.
"Trust me," Josh said, smiling again. "With the right campaign, you'll be set for life in just two or three short years. Just think of it: you'll never have to write again!"
"But," I protested, "I love writing!"
Josh pushed his plate across the table in disgust. "Tell me," he angrily asked, "just how serious about this are you?"
