AFTER MY MOTHER’S DISTURBING PHONE CALL, I WAS more determined than ever to shine as the Novel Idea Literary Agency’s newest intern. It was time to begin my quota of reading one hundred query letters, but I paused to savor the moment, touching the stuffed file on the coffee table and wondering whether the next Booker Prize winner might be waiting within. With a rush of anticipation, I grabbed the first letter and read:
Dear Sir:
I wanted to give you the privledge of hearing about my amazing book, Pitch Black. My book is a 55,000-word thriller that is a quick read and is written in the breakneck speed style of bestselling author Don Brawn. In Pitch Black, a coal miner goes crazy after a number of years worked in the dark and decides to murder first his family then anyone foolish enough to cross his path.
Whoa. I didn’t need to consult the reference books Bentley had given me to know that this query contained several major errors. In my opinion, his title was cliché, his opening line rather pompous, and he’d called his work a thriller when it sounded like a horror novel. Definitely more Stephen King than Dan Brown. It also contained spelling and grammatical errors. I read through the rest of the letter, but nothing about his query hooked me as a reader.
After digging out a pair of blank folders that I found beneath the query letter file, I labeled one tab with the word “possibilities” and the second with the word “rejections.” I hesitated for a moment before placing Pitch Black in the rejection folder.
This query was to be my very first rejection. Within the space of two minutes, I would forever crush the writer’s dreams of getting a step closer to one of the agents working down the hall. It was momentarily paralyzing. What if the author was depending on this query letter to change his life? What if he slaved at some manual labor job during the day and then burned the midnight oil composing his novel all night? What if he had five children to feed or, heaven help him, to put through college?
“I can’t think about those things,” I informed the letter resolutely, but with compassion. “My job is to look for an idea that readers would find compelling, something they’d rush out to the bookstore to buy, and that’s not what you’ve got. Sorry.” Into the rejection folder it went.
The next query was utterly baffling. The name and address of the Novel Idea Literary Agency and a date from last week had been written at the top of the document in an angular scrawl. Beneath that, there were only four lines of text reading, “Return my story. I gave it life. It belongs to me. You will regret your actions.”
Now here was a quandary. Did I put this in the rejection folder or create a new one termed “Nutcases,” “Crackpots,” or “Agents Beware”? I rubbed the sheet of paper between my fingers. It was not ordinary printer paper, but quality stationery, watermark and all. It also smelled faintly of the outdoors, but I couldn’t pinpoint the scent.
As I raised the sheaf to my nose for a second whiff, a man in his midthirties with tight black curls and formfitting designer jeans jogged over to the table. He slapped a ten-dollar bill on the coffee table and shouted, “Zach Attack!”
“Excuse me?”
He thrust his hand right under my chin, and I instinctively jerked away, trying to protect my personal space. “Zach Cohen, aka Mr. Hollywood—the man who gets the screenplays onto the big screen.” He pumped my hand up and down and then let go. “I also represent sports writers. All the elite athletes who are able to string a sentence together come to me. Especially the B-ball guys. I just sent out a proposal for a tell-all by one our most famous Dunston players. Can’t name names, but I’m sure you know who I mean.” He stood back so that he could take note of how impressed I was by this declaration.
I was not impressed, because I didn’t know a thing about basketball. This is a grave sin considering I live in central North Carolina, home to several elite basketball programs, but I didn’t care. “I’m Lila Wilkins,” I replied flatly, and then my Southern upbringing kicked in. “It’s very nice to meet you. Do you mind telling me why you’re offering me money?”
“Caffeine run, baby. The Zach Attack has to have his double espresso every morning to work his magic.” He cracked his knuckles repeatedly as though already experiencing caffeine withdrawal. “I wanted to treat you to one, too, seeing as it’s your first day on the job. I was hoping you’d run downstairs and get them for us. I’m waiting on a call from New York, and your queries aren’t exactly going anywhere, so what do you say?”