PRIVATE LIVES : Agent Dearest : In Her Case, 10% Is Less Than Zero

IF YOU ASKED me, I could write a book about agents. It wouldn’t be a Jackie Collins saga about some shrewd hustler willing to kill for his 10%. It would be the truth, which is stranger than fiction (which is why I’ve changed all the names: so I won’t get sued).

Chapter One. I send a sample chapter of my novel to Vince, a literary agent who had read an article I’d written and asked to represent me. I wait a month for Vince to return my call and inform me I am the next Franklin Allen Lied--the man who got a $600,000 advance from Fawcett for his first novel. Instead, I get a call from my agent’s assistant. “Vince is having a major life crisis. If you want him to represent you, you’ll have to be patient.” If I am patient, I will have a life crisis, too, I complain to my friend Todd.

Chapter Two. Todd suggests I call Annette. He bills her as the rising star of Talent Unlimited, a multimillion-dollar New York agency. “She can make things happen,” Todd assures me. “She’s the next Swifty Lazar.”

“Sure, I’ll read your proposal,” Swifty says. “Todd’s so cute. Does he have a girlfriend?”

“Not that I know of.”

“The reason I ask is that he took me out to dinner last week and he didn’t make a pass at me. He stared at me, and I felt like there was chemistry, but I’m not sure. . . .”

“He wants to get to know you,” I explain. “Todd’s very old-fashioned.”

“Oh, I feel much better,” Annette says with a sigh. “Thank you.”

“Thank you,” I say gratefully. “I’ll send the chapter Express Mail.”

She calls three days later. “You know, I went out for drinks with Todd last night. And I asked what he was looking for in a relationship. He seemed really uncomfortable.”

“Todd doesn’t like to be pushed,” I say. “Did you get the manuscript?”

“I’m very busy,” she says. “I can’t waste time with a man unless we have a future.”

“About my novel. . . .”

“It’s a good idea, but I would have written it in the first person. If I were you, I’d do it over.”

Chapter Three. I do it over. I not only rewrite the chapter, I also go to New York in the hope that a personal meeting with Annette will speed my ascent on the best-seller list.

“Cute outfit,” Annette says when I walk into her office. “You mind going shopping? I have a big date Saturday night--with a doctor.” I didn’t fly 3,000 miles to improve her wardrobe, but I look on the bright side. An agent with a serious shopping habit has motivation to sell my book.

She leads me to a boutique on Fifth Avenue that seems to specialize in slutwear. Who am I to judge a woman with good publishing connections, I think as she tries on leopard-print leggings, jump suits with industrial zippers, and leather halters. “Won’t this drive him wild?” she asks, modeling a white fishnet toga.

“I think it will drive him away,” I confess, then suggest she put it on hold until after lunch. “Did you like the chapter better in the first person?” I ask after she finishes complaining about how it is impossible to have a perfect job, apartment and relationship at the same time.

“Yes, but it’s not there yet,” she says. I go home discouraged. But Annette keeps me in mind.

Chapter Four. “Chick at Silver Lining Press is looking for someone to write a relationship book for dogs,” she calls to inform me. “I gave them your name.”

“A relationship book for dogs,” I stammer. Annette explains it is easier to sell a first novel if I have a non-fiction book in print. It sounds like good advice. When Chick calls the next day, I am elated. I send him pages two weeks later. Two weeks later, Chick calls back.

“Chick likes my proposal,” I report exultantly when Annette calls late Saturday night from the doctor/boyfriend’s apartment to ask if I think she should sleep with him even though he isn’t officially divorced.

I advise her to postpone sex. She advises me the pages don’t work for her. She enumerates 50 words she would change, 30 phrases she would add or subtract, 20 jokes she thinks are funnier than mine.

“But the publisher likes it.”

“I’ll tell you what. Tomorrow, I’ll call Chick and tell him exactly what’s wrong with the book.”

An image flashes before my eyes. A salesman knocks on an apartment door. “Oh, good,” says the occupant. “I can use an encyclopedia.” “Wait,” says the salesman. “Let me tell you what’s wrong with these books.”

I try to stay calm. “Please don’t,” I beg Annette.

But Annette is as good as her word. Chick calls the next day. “I’ve talked to Annette and we both agree that you’re talented but the book isn’t there yet. Why don’t you take another shot at it?” I am weak. I know who I should take a shot at, but I hold fire.

Chapter Five. I incorporate Annette’s changes into a second draft and send it back to her.

“I can’t sell this book,” she says after reporting that her doctor/boyfriend had sexual problems on their last date even though she had bought a leather miniskirt. “But don’t be depressed. We can still be friends.”