Page 7 of How NOT to Seduce a Rockstar
Exactly. I’d do the same. I would deliver the manuscript myself. Put it in front of the right eyes. And this time? No photocopies, no letterheads, no “emerging agents looking for fresh voices.” I was done swimming laps in the kiddie pool. Time for the ocean. The big fish. The editorial megalodons.
I shoved the manuscript into my bag just as it was—bare, unbound, no frills. Kind of like me. I grabbed my jacket, my lucky scarf (which had brought me luck exactly once, but hey, that time I’d found a free parking spot right in front of my building), and ran out the door.
On the train, I stared out at the horizon as the Manhattan skyline came into view, steel giants rising against the sky. I wasn’t afraid.
I’d been mailing my manuscripts down there foryears, tucked into padded envelopes with stamps licked more with hope than saliva. But I’d never dared knock on the door of the biggest fish of them all.
Every writing blog said the same thing: “Aim for a young agent. One who’s hungry. One who hasn’t made it big yet and is still willing to take a chance on you.” I pictured these guys with rolled-up sleeves and messy hair, sitting in cubicles on the lower floors, surrounded by manuscript towers like paper castles. But here’s the thing: if they were still stuck down there... maybe there was a reason. Maybe they just didn’t have the eye.
The ones upstairs—the ones repping The Big Names—those were the ones who could smell success before the ink was dry. They didn’t guess. They knew. They’d done it before. And like they say: if you’ve done it once, you can do it again.
Besides, what do they know on those writer forums? It’s not like I’ve seen Salman Rushdie or Donna Tartt chiming in on posts like, “How do I know if my novel’s too long?” Those tips always came from fellow strugglers, people worse off than me, firing off blind advice and praying they hit something.
When I got off at Downtown, the city hit me all at once—light, noise, footsteps, voices, hot dog grease, honking horns, and the heavy scent of ambition. I immediately looked up. The skyscrapersgleamed like glass swords in the sun, and the city moved fast, rushing past me like a flood of asphalt that didn’t wait for anyone.
I slipped into the crowd, clutching my manuscript tight in my bag. It was rolled up inside like a secret scroll.
“We’ve got this,” I whispered to it silently. “Just stay quiet and lay low. Like King Kong. He seemed tame at first, caged. But then—
Then the whole world watched as he climbed the Empire State Building.”
I walked with purpose down Lexington Avenue, slicing through the thick afternoon air like a samurai with a manuscript instead of a katana. I knew exactly where I was going.
For years, I’d avoided elite agents. Not just the legends with waitlists longer than a federal case, but even the mid-tier ones—thanks to those writing blogs preaching humility: “Find an agent as hungry as you are! Grow together! Fail together!”
Well, enough of that. No more tortured-artist romanticism. I was aiming straight for the top. The best. The Meryl Streep of literary agents.
I didn’t even know if he’d be in the office that day. He could’ve been in Cannes, in St. Barts, or at a Nantucket villa doing yoga with Stephen King. Hell, he could’ve been dead for all I knew. But I was so fired up, so possessed, I knew he was there. And I knew I was going to find him.
I stepped into the skyscraper like a woman on a mission, crossed the marble lobby, and headed straight for the elevators, not even glancing at the security guard whose eyes followed me the whole way. Taking the elevator all the way to the top was a statement in itself—no serious agent worked on the third floor.
I hit the button for the top level and studied myself in the elevator mirror as the doors slid shut: messy hair, determined eyes, the look of a female lead in a pivotal scene of a mid-budget film.
Perfect.
When the doors slid open, the hallway was quiet and bright, lined with pale wood and frosted glass. I weaved past a couple of fake plants and a giant framed photo of a Pulitzer Prize–winning author smiling next to a tower of his own books. The door I was looking for was at the end of the hall: a tasteful, elegant plaque etched in gold:
BRONSON & ASSOCIATES – Literary Representation
I stepped inside. The air smelled of expensive paper and publishing success. Behind the reception desk sat a flawlessly dressed woman in a cream blazer, her smile pure professionalism.
“Good morning, how can I help you?”
“Mr. Bronson, please,” I said firmly, droppingmy bag onto the desk like I was delivering a federal warrant.
She looked up, that professional smile still frozen in place. “Do you have an appointment?”
“No.”
“Mr. Bronson sees clients by appointment only.”
Of course. I’d known she’d say that. But I hadn’t come all the way from Brooklyn with a manuscript in my bag to be stopped by a secretary with a tailored suit and perfect lipstick.
I glanced around. Behind the frosted glass walls, I could see agents hunched over desks, surrounded by shelves of first editions and glossy book posters. Novels that had once been nothing but typed-up dreams—just like mine. But none of those cubicles could belong to Bronson. Too humble. Too normal. And Bronson wasn’t normal. He was a legend.
“I’m sorry, you can’t go in there!” the receptionist called as I strode toward the hallway.
I ignored her and picked up the pace. I had a few meters’ head start. She wouldn’t run—not yet. A brisk walk was the most she’d allow herself. I was already in full-onWest Wing-audition power walk mode.
