Historical Fiction Literary Agents Novels & Stories

Shame I wasn’t a Prince Charming. My version of the story wouldn’t be fit for schoolyard reading, that was for certain. Who knew? Maybe if I’d written erotic fairytales of sweet little virgins back in my 80s heyday, I’d be a bestseller by now. Agents may have leaped all over it, as opposed to my overdramatized historical thrillers.

“I’m ahead of you on that. He’s an artist who does various types of work. One thing he’s known for creating is unique book covers. Including several covers for A.K. Crusader. I’m wondering if perhaps Mrs. Barron is planning to publish a novel soon. It would make sense that she’d sign the divorce documents before she signed with an agent, or more specifically, signed a publishing contract. That way, you wouldn’t receive any of her book’s earnings. Michael couldn’t believe it. Was she trying to sell a tell-all book about him? He considered taking her back while she contemplated selling their shared secrets. How did she make time to write? He’d found no writing and, as far as he knew, she owned

I nod. “Sophia, his secretary, has a list of literary agencies. She has already gone through it and picked out all the agencies that represent authors who write in the same genre as you. Mr. Smirnov thought that you could spend the morning crafting a letter for Sophia to send.” I smile. “Gosh. You are both very efficient. It would have taken me weeks to do that.” She looks pleased. “I try my best.” “Thank you. I really appreciate it.”

Just her presence steady and reassuring. The best strategic developer in the country. The Forbes list. The DreamHaven award. My father's son, carrying on what he built so that someone could succeed. *** Khole had taken my mind the later months. I had made calls to editors, platform executives, literary agents who owed me favors and were fine with being reminded of them. I hadn't asked anyone to fabricate anything; I wasn't interested in creating something superficial. I simply ensured that the right people read the right pages. That was all Khole required. The work took care of everything else.

It is a genuinely remarkable piece of work and you should not let anyone talk you into being uncertain about that. Aria said: All right. Elena said: Second. It is going to require a publisher and I have a contact. You know I have a contact because I have mentioned having a contact twice over the past six months in contexts that were oblique enough not to be pressuring but specific enough that you would remember if you needed to. Do you remember? Aria said: I remember. The literary agent your firm does intellectual property work for. Elena said: Correct. I am going to send her the manuscript with a note. She will say yes or she will not. If she says yes, you have an agent. If she does not, we

The next month flew by in a whir of brainstorms and phone calls and late nights staring at my computer screen. The end result: my very own literary agency. Well, technically, agent. Singular. Just me. Working out of my apartment after getting home from my day job. But I had plans, dammit. Big ones. Ones that involved getting good books by talented writers out in the world. Starting with Joy Needermyer. She’d been skeptical. Of course she was skeptical. After working with a publisher for over a year, only to be asked time and time again to tweak something, delete something, blah, blah, blah.

"Nothing's wrong. I have offers. Three agents want to represent me." His face splits into the widest grin I've seen since our wedding day, and he picks me up and spins me around right there, both of us laughing like idiots, "I told you. I told you it was brilliant." I spent the next week on phone calls with agents, asking questions about their vision for the book, their submission strategy, their communication style. The third agent I talk to is named Sarah Robinson, and something about her immediately clicks, the way she talks about the book's message, the way she understands what I'm trying to say about identity and choice and rebuilding.

The memoir had gone to an agent in the first week of March. Not the first agent Anya had queried — she’d done her research with the same thoroughness she brought to everything, spending two weeks reading about the literary landscape, understanding what different agencies focused on, thinking carefully about who would understand what she was trying to do and be genuinely equipped to help her do it.

Still pissed off with my encounter with Alessia, I drove back to work, only to almost bump into my best friend, who was my former roommate at the lobby. “Olive, what are you doing here?” I asked, even though I knew why she was here. “Hey. Glad I caught you. You didn’t return my call.” She accidentally read my manuscript over a year ago. That was how she became my literary agent. I breathed deeply. “Give me two months. That’s all I need.” “Honey, you know I love you. I can give you the time you need, but the publisher won’t wait any longer. It’s been more than a year since your last book, and the fans are getting enraged and anxious. And you got the advance payment already.”

"You've written around it. The reader can feel the gap." I rewrote it. The fourth draft was the one that went to agents, and the first agent who read it called me within three days, which I mentioned to Priya, who said this was unusual, and to Kade, who said this was expected, and to Killian, who said he'd have called within two. "You haven't read it," I said to Killian. "I've read everything you've written for twelve years," he said. "I know what you sound like when you're actually saying something."