To celebrate having acquired
representation for my mystery novel, A Matter of Taste, Robin
and I went to dinner a few weeks ago at our favorite neighborhood
restaurant, Avanti. Over an apéritif of sparking rosé, Robin
confessed something to me:
“I know I’m the one
who’s been telling you all along to skip the whole agent thing and
just self-publish,” she said. “But now that you’ve gotten one,
I’ve gotta say it does change how I think about you and your book.
All of a sudden it’s like you’re a ‘real author’ now.”
real authors on my
bookshelf
This had been an point of
contention between us. When I’d bemoan the frustration and
disappointment that went along with the search for a literary agent,
Robin would ask why I even needed one, when I could simply publish
the book on my own and omit the middleman altogether.





