Note: This is the promised follow-up to my last post, When a Literary Agent Flirts with You. I wrote it on May 1, 2026, the same day I spoke on the phone for two hours with literary agent Stephen Barr of Writers House and his assistant, Erica McGrath.
This is a tale of three cons. One which I perpetrated, another which was enacted upon me, and a third played out by people who do not exist.
So. A literary agent asked to speak on the phone.
The first words that spring to mind are ones like, “panic attack”, “euphoria”, and “queasy bowels”. Stephen emailed me on a Tuesday to say he and Erica had finished reading my manuscript and would like to call to discuss my “writerly ambitions”.
A call! On the phone! In this century!
The effect on my nervous system was something akin to a coronary embolism. Somehow, I’d bamboozled these consummate professionals, these magi of letters, into thinking my words were worth something. This, of course, was the first con. Like nerdy gunslingers equipped with holstered keyboards, we set the time for Friday at high noon.
Here’s the thing: I told just a few people about the impending conversation, and almost everyone kept saying how long it must feel, that span of three days. But I was thinking, “Three days? Are you kidding? After thirteen-plus years of querying? It’s barely long enough to practice!”
Practice, in this case, involved brushing off my sorely neglected “FOR THE CALL” document and rehearsing some witty anecdotes (all of which were substituted for a decidedly unwitty series of Ums, Uhs, and What Nows? during the actual event).
I didn’t get great sleep the night before (also see: parent of a toddler), but I also didn’t feel half so anxious as I expected. Not until the last few hours. But when I clocked out from work for my lunch break, and saw my phone screen light up, and screeched to my wife, “It’s happening!” from my fusty basement office . . . well, that’s when the true panic set in.
Stephen, true pro that he is, put my nerves to rest straight off. He and Erica asked questions about my toddler, swapped stories about their own pets and progeny, and showed a frankly suspicious degree of tolerance for my rambling dad jokes.
By the time we got down to the metaphorical brass tacks, I was well at ease.
What did those tacks consist of, and what does that expression even mean? No clue about the latter (please leave a comment if you know), but as to the former, the first hour or so was discussion of my manuscript. They offered quite a bit of praise, followed by gentle insights about ways the book could be strengthened, all of which felt immediately, mortifyingly obvious. As in, “Holy heck, how didn’t I think of that?”
I’ve heard that all the best calls wind up as brainstorming sessions, and that was certainly the case here. It was so strange to hear people I’d just met discussing my cast of grubby ne’er-do-wells as they plot to sabotage a crusade, but also strangely natural. My novel (current working title: The Sinners Troupe) is the fictional con I promised at the start.
After an hour or so, Stephen asked if I had any questions, at which point all my painstakingly researched and itemized bullet points fled clean from my thoughts, despite being blazoned on the computer screen in front of me. Seriously, where did they go? Will I ever find them? Are they hiding in the couch?
Fortunately, Stephen and Erica assured me I could email them any questions I forgot to ask, which was most of them.
And now for a socially awkward confession: right to the halfway point, I still didn’t know if Stephen intended to offer representation, despite all the helpful feedback he’d given me. I thought it might be a revise-and-resubmit situation. But when I said those words, “I don’t want to assume, but . . .”
He interrupted, “Oh, you can assume.”
At which point the dams of my anxiety burst asunder. Ye, verily!
The most fitting parallel that springs to mind is the day I asked my then-girlfriend’s (very traditional) parents for permission to propose. I could’ve sworn the conversation was going badly. In fact, I thought they were saying no right up until Lauryn’s mom said, “So, when do you think you’ll pop the question?”
My long flirtation with Stephen also ended in engagement. Much to my delight, continuing bafflement, AND EXTREME FREAKING GRATITUDE.
But immediately after we hung up, another con occurred.
Before The Call, I’d decided that, if all went well, I’d purchase a little treat for myself. A treat in the form of forty-one inches of gleaming steel, scribed with elvish runes. That’s right, folks! With my wife’s heroic forbearance, I decided to buy a full-scale replica of Anduril, Flame of the West!
Yes, I am the very coolest. Thank you for noticing.
Unfortunately, I may be cool, but it seems I’m not the sharpest bulb in the bouncy house. The online store I tried to purchase from turned out to be a house of ill-repute, and not in a fun biblical sense. Credit cards were cancelled. Tears were shed. Eyes were rolled (on my wife’s part, that is).
Me, the crafter of cons, conned by a crafty counterfeit.
And that’s how I learned what truly matters.
At the end of the day . . . after all the nerves, all the words, all the queries . . . all the heartache, and discouragement, and despair over the past decade-plus of my life . . . all the banging my head against the unyielding wall of narrative, all the money I spent on a writing degree of questionable utility, all the sunny afternoons I’ve wasted hunched over a keyboard . . . what matters, my friends, is this:
If a deal on a premium replica of an elvish sword seems too good to be true, it probably is.
For my next post, I’m hoping to get a little blurb from Stephen about his point of view on The Call. For you writerly types, this may provide some insight about what an agent looks for; for everyone else, I think it’ll just be interesting!
Luke Wildman 