The Predators Who Prey on Authors

Occasionally I'll get a call from an author predator. It begins like this. Yeah hey this Mike from Doowop Press and we really love your work and want to talk to you. Mike will then precede to tell me how much he loves my books and they would love to publish my work...for a  small fee. Usually 5 grand is where it starts. I don't return these calls but they stay on you. I haven't heard from you...are you ok? Eventually I block the number.

But many authors fall prey to these predators. Unpublished authors are looking for validation and unfortunately these companies know this. And they make their money off of authors who are desperate to get their work out there and then five or ten grand later the book dies a silent death but they are already on to their next victim. It gets even worse with the movie predators.

Hey William we read your novel and think it would make a great movie. Usually two people work in tandem. One is a person who initially contacts you and then they bring in the big gun agent who is not an agent at all. We can get your book in front of top line producers and they will make it into a movie...for a fee. Again it is in the thousands. The word Hollywood is Christmas for most authors and so this is a strong play and unfortunately many authors get fleeced finding out too late they have no contacts at all and worse they never read your book.

Publishers are supposed to pay authors not the other way around, Movie producers are supposed to pay authors. Agents are supposed to work on commission. But just hearing that someone loves your book is a tonic to the gin of years of struggle and it is that drunkenness of perceived success these predators bank on. 

Literary Agents and Hollywood

I was watching The Word last night. A familiar plot of struggling writer takes an old manuscript for his own and becomes famous. But the scene that ceases to amaze me is the agent scene. It as if Hollywood has not been updated since about 1945. First the agent looks like a professor with donnish spectacles...a greying dignified figure behind a desk who looks more like Max Perkins than the rough and tumble agent of today. But lets hold on that.

So the author is discovered by the agent and he gets a call. In The Word the struggling writer submits his phony manuscript and the agent is on the horn. I must see you. Ok. First canard. Agents no longer call anyone. You get an email. But alright lets roll with it. The writer goes into the very large office of the uber successful agent who sits behind his desk more befitting a CEO than a literary agent. He crows about the manuscript and then produces an enormous contract. Second canard. The contract.
Agents don't require contracts. Sure. A few still will get you to sign but it is really a gentleman's agreement. If you want to leave you leave. But if there is a contract it  is one page. Then the agent sells the book instantly in The Word. Boom. Done.

So lets take all of this together and put forth the modern literary agent. Many have an office but many do not. Many work at home. The agents office is small and very nonliterary. The laptop is the office. They do not look like Max Perkins. They look like anyone trying to sell something in a cyberbased economy. Harried. Disheveled. My one agent who was extremely distinguished looked more like a punk rocker and preferred a room with a very old couch fit for a fraternity.

But more than all that the call to the author is an email saying I will give this a shot. I like it and want to represent it. I will let you know. That's it. Nobody flies to New York. Apologies to all authors who fly to NY to meet their agent. But mostly you never meet. Even after they sell your book. It is not that they don't want to meet you it is just they are too busy. And you are usually too broke.

So that's the very unglamorous picture. But I did enjoy The Word. The way the author skyrocketed to the top like a movie star. The agent who sold his book the second he took it on. The Max Perkins world of author and agent. So nice. So gone.

Rocket Man...the Catcher in the Rye of the suburbs