My Week as a Literary Agent. (Ish.)

From audiobook casting to rejection epiphany, and the surprise healing in between

Launching my debut novel prodded me up a near-vertical learning curve daily for a year. Hence, tackling yet another thing foreign to me—the audiobook—roused about as much enthusiasm as packing for Everest while mid-limp down Kilimanjaro.

My hope all along had been to someday sell the rights (which I retained separately) to an audiobook publisher, bringing money in on this book baby for a change while handing the work and worry to the experts. Then I remembered a) my cortisol spikes if someone else tries to fold the towels, and b) I’m unagented, which meant shopping the book. Again. Given how that went the first time, it was Everest all day long.

Wearily, I put the audiobook up for auditions, hoping for ten or twenty narrators to choose from. I was open to all possibilities (female, male, one of each, multi-cast), prepared to wait however long it took for the right one. A month, two? Six? What did I know?

Nothing. Per usual, I knew nothing.

I stepped away from my desk for two days for a speaking engagement. Meanwhile, a too-familiar discomfort was building. What if people were reading the audio script and laughing? What if nobody auditioned? What if the book’s multiple perspectives, the chapters named after flowers–including their Latin names, plus a carefully chosen illustration for each–didn’t translate well to audio AT ALL?

Bruises I thought long gone were tender anew. The insecurities, the naked vulnerability I’d felt querying the book were back for a rousing encore. What if my baby gets clobbered all over again?

Back at my desk, I’m ready to take down the post, save this particular climb for some other time. Except, I’ve received 138 auditions plus a hundred more email inquiries: Did I receive their audition? Would I like another? Am I still considering? They’re at a funeral right now but can they audition next Tuesday?

By the time I’ve read three, five more have pinged in. In an administrative capacity alone, I’m having trouble breathing.

I’m one of those file-or-delete emails as they come in types, leaving only messages pending further action in my inbox. My professional exchanges by and large take place with the made-up people inside my head. Suddenly, a mere two days of not being on top of this, my inbox is out of control and it appears there’s no getting in front of it.

Then, like Wile E. Coyote’s anvil, it hits from a new angle:

I’m the one who’s going to have to do the rejecting.

How had this never dawned on me before? (I consider myself, on a macro level, to be reasonably intelligent but I’m often, on a micro level, an idiot.)

Overwhelm pooling in my stomach, I open the first audition. I have no idea what to expect; the last audiobook I listened to was on CD in a post-surgical haze eighteen years ago. Suddenly, I’m on the floor beside my desk ugly-sobbing, because after years of writing and revising these sentences I know them better than the Hail Mary, still hear their rhythms in my sleep, but I’ve never heard them spoken aloud before—by a seasoned actor, no less, with decades of live theatre, film and tv experience. I’ll never forget it.

YES! DONE! HIRED! 

That was easy.

But the next audition is incredible, too. So is the fifth, the ninth, number fourteen. All for totally different reasons.

Full-blown panic now. I’m going to have to reject performances that are, I-BS-you-not, brilliant. Shared with me by fellow creatives who took such obvious time and care with my words, offering layered takes on these characters who mean a whole lot to me—all with only a few paragraphs to go on.

I know too well what it takes to be that vulnerable. How long the aftershocks linger. And I have to tell almost all of them no?

It’s the same table, only I’m on the other side now, inflicting on others what I’d found so painful myself.

Once I’ve finished flipping out and get down to business, working through the auditions is like reliving those querying years through the collective eyes of the many (many) agents who said no, or more often, nothing at all, and this new perspective is like a miracle balm for those stubborn bruises.

Several auditions I’m able to eliminate straightaway; either they don’t match the stated criteria (a thick southern drawl for characters born and raised in Toronto, for example) or, wince, the performance/professionalism/equipment just isn’t there yet.

Several more are solid auditions. People with awesome voices, clear passion for what they do, obvious talent, and they fall within the selection criteria. But they’re not right for my book. Meaning, they’d be perfect narrators for a thriller, mystery, YA, the evening news—just not these characters in this particular story. And how could they know that? I’m factoring in scenes, characters, and overarching story elements not in the audition script. It’s not a question of whether they’re good, because they absolutely are. It’s whether what they’re offering matches what I need in this moment. They took a shot, and I’m so grateful they did; it’s only in hearing them that I begin figuring all this out, and I’m honoured they shared their gifts with me.

Then, God help me, there’s the shortlist. Voices that come eerily close to the inflections, tones and cadences I realize only now have been forming like riverbeds in my head for years. The performances are exquisite, the people behind them delightful. I can’t go wrong with any of them. I want to hire all of them, then meet them for coffee.

But I can’t take them all.

I’m reminded of wedding dress shopping. So many options. Some not my taste, others unflattering on my shape, several that make my heart flutter. In the end, you can’t take them all. All you can do is choose the one that’s most you.

In the end, I choose two voices (one male, one female) that come closest to the inarticulable ones in my head and do the best overall job of encapsulating the many other elements and variables nobody but me can see.

Then, though it takes eight days of doing little else, I reply to every person who auditioned. A lot of other stuff piles up, balls get dropped, I pray these people don’t hate me, I cannot wait for this part to be over, but I refuse on principle to ghost as I’d been ghosted.

This part of the process, too, ends up being a cleansing of sorts–not least of all because nearly everyone replies. They thank me for being a live voice amid the dark void, the encouragement that put them back in their studio that morning when they’d been on the brink of quitting. They wish me luck, offer kind words about the book, share industry insights, resources and contacts as I figure out next steps. I’ve never felt so “among my people” outside of writing people. It’s one of the brightest spots on this journey to date.

Several ask for feedback. What did they do wrong, what could they have done differently to change my mind, how can they improve? Again, I relate hard. I was once desperate for such info. Sending my work out time and again, hearing nothing but crickets, second-guessing in circles as to what might need changing. So I’d love to be of help here, but I see now it’s impossible—irresponsible—to try. All I’d be offering is my own spitballed opinion which doesn’t matter AT ALL beyond the context of this one book, but could alter their approach to future auditions if it’s all they have to go on.

Of course, the quality has to be there. The basic submission parameters must be met. But the ones doing the asking, they already have all that covered. Beyond, there’s no “wrong,” just me trying to close in on two voices that best approximate all nine characters as they sound in my head, across all their scenes, through all stages of their transformation and shifting relationships with each other.

In other words, what do I know? 

Thanks to this experience, here’s what I do know:

• Writers, voice actors, anyone pitching creative work—heck, anyone brave enough to expose their heart in any context—are peeking through fence slats. They can only see a fraction of what the other party has to go on. There’s the submission requirements, and then there’s everything else which can’t be articulated because they often don’t know themselves until they see it.
• An agent receiving hundreds or more queries per week—every. week.—while dealing with the rest of their life cannot possibly stay ahead of that wave. (For the record, I still think there’s room for improvement in the manuscript querying process, but that’s for another post). When you’re drowning in that radio silence from agents and publishers, picture those 238 notifications pinging into my inbox and me hyperventilating and know that’s nothing compared to what they’re getting.
• If you’re going to overanalyze any aspect of this process, let it be the work itself. “It’s a numbers game” is only true if the work is really, objectively, the strongest it can be. Focus your time and energy on that above all else (it’s the only part you actually control), then take your shot. Then, do your best not to sweat it because whatever happens next has nothing to do with you.
• Whoever is deciding wants to make the right choice, possibly even more than you want to be that choice. Don’t get caught in weedy minutia. If you’re anywhere close, no small error or glitch is going to disqualify you. Nobody’s jamming the glass slipper on a stepsister because Cinderella’s hair wasn’t perfect that day.

If all else fails, picture me drowning in those auditions, deeply grateful for all, and in jaw-slacked awe of many. And remember:

I just couldn’t take them all.

THE BLUE IRIS Audiobook is now available on Audible, Amazon and Apple Books. The narrators did a spectacular job–please show them some love and leave a review! View Trailer.

This essay is part of The Launch Diaries, a series of reflections, lessons, real talk and confessions specific to the debut author’s journey. Free on Substack. For writers, creatives, or anyone curious.