I Met An Agent The Other Day
A poem dedicated to every hopeful writer.
This poem is dedicated to all the hopeful writers out there. The essential moral embedded in its tail will ensure I won't forget the experience and the lessons learnt from it.
An Agent Of Mercy
I met my first agent the other day, as I’d paid them for some time to stay. Their first words were, ‘I’m going to be cruel.’ I didn't realise it was a duel. Then they say, ‘Some people cry.’ and I struggle to imagine why. How can ten thousand words critiqued give me just cause to weep? For I’ve held the hands of those in pain, on white sheets lying, and shed no tears at their dying. Their assumption is that they know best when exposing my draft to their tests. ‘Why is your lead still so angry? I doubt her parents created such antipathy.’ So you’re unaware people carry dissension, locked inside, for their own protection? What a fortunate life you’ve led, where no-one has cut you, you have not bled. I’m pleased you sleep soundly, old memories leaving no scars. Not lying awake, alone, in the dark. Now they dive into the grittier parts, the ‘Why write this?’ and ‘Isn’t that too hard?’ They persist in explaining what my own words mean, an exposition of their story. I agree the first chapters, yes, they must please. But have you never heard of how to tease? What boring tale a reader might wend, if I’ve already flagged how it might end. And as though, when I penned them, I had not meant to hide all that juicier content. So on we go, and it becomes clear, that amongst the pieties and ‘Oh, no’ and ‘Oh, dear,’ someone is seeing my book, not me. But I know more about them, because I check, you see. So when they adopt a scientific bent, I sniff the air for excrement. As, when I write of things that are true, I do my research through and through. And I might have more knowledge - which they choose to ignore, because, you know, I had a life before. The clock strikes to conclude our brief, discordant, interlude. My naïve solicitation has underwhelmed all expectation. I’m left with a residue of tortured unease, from both our mismatched vanities. Will their bold prophecy of crying come true - if their words aren’t lying? But then they add, in a final, deft twist, ‘You can write you know, you just need to persist.’ I ponder this after, with a wry smile, and realise they’ve gone the extra mile, to take their hard-won experience and, with no sitting on the fence, apply it with inescapable haste, to one of countless manuscripts they’ve faced. Blunt advice does no harm, just dents our pride, from which only naïve fools will hide. So these words can now disclaim self-indulgence. Instead, they're for my readers to travel with me, holding onto the stories only they choose to see.