I have half a dozen music gigs this month. Which in itself is not a big deal. (When I was younger there were times when I’d play five nights a week for months on end.) What’s different is these gigs are spread out over five different bands.
 
Two of them are my “home” bands—one a larger, full-service group, and one a smaller, semi-unplugged thing that shares personnel and songs with the larger group. With both those bands I generally know the material to the point where I can listen to the other performers, observe the crowd (always the writer, right?) and just enjoy the music and the vibe.
 
But three of them are groups where I’m not the regular drummer and don’t necessarily know the material, and with two of those bands I get only one rehearsal each before going into the gigs. Which means I need to use some pretty ruthless triage during rehearsal, because there’s no way to discuss/chart/rehearse forty-plus songs in a couple of hours. (My method is basically: Nail the big stuff and don’t stress over the small stuff. To that end I limit myself to one line of scrawled notes after each song’s title on the set list.) During these “cram before the test” rehearsals (which typically consist of us playing through the intro and a few bars of the verse, and if everything’s cool I stop and ask to move on to the next one, because triage), a well-intentioned musician may sometimes tell me, in some detail, about the little accents he or she’s playing during the third verse or the bridge or whatever. At which point I politely explain that the #1 thing I care about is having the right feel for the song. If the groove of the song feels good—to the other band members and to the audience—then the little stuff doesn’t matter so much. However, if I nail all the little fiddly bits but the feel is wrong, it’s still a complete fail from where I sit. And the #2 thing is the fundamental arrangement, especially the intro and ending. Beyond that, we just have to trust experience, skill, and intuition.
 
So for me the fundamentals boil down to (1) Soul (i.e. the groove, which includes feel, tempo, and dynamics) and (2) Substance (i.e. major arrangement elements, including starting, stopping, and any big changes along the way). All else is secondary. If not tertiary. I wouldn’t think any of this is privileged information, but you’ll still occasionally see musicians playing with their nose buried in a chart—trying to hit all the little finicky bits they were told are somehow important—but they’re not really playing the music… they’re not engaged in the performance or what the other players are doing, and thus they’re likely not engaging the listeners. (Which is sort of the whole point of playing music in public, right?)
 
I think the same thing applies to any creative endeavor, including (you guessed it) writing.
 
Regarding writing, I think of these two fundamental attributes as follows…
 
SOUL: When I think of stories that have resonated with me, what I recall is the feeling I had upon reading them (and—for the really good ones—the feeling that lingered for quite a while after). But almost never the clever little plot events, at least not in any great number. I can remember stories that moved me to tears. But… I can’t really recall all the specifics of what happened. Nor do I need to. Sure, the basic outline is there, but what’s really there are the characters and the way they made me feel.
 
SUBSTANCE: The other thing that comes to mind when thinking about a specific story is: Did it hang together as a story? If so, good. If not, not so good. And a lot of this has to do with how artfully the author brought us into the story and released us from it, and handled the major transitions in between. (More on ‘Sticking the Landing’ here.)
 
I’ve said before that for me, the soul of a story—especially early in the process—is the vibe of it more than anything else. I get a certain feeling in my brain, and I attempt to convey that feeling to the reader. (Similar to how with a slow bluesy number, you might want the listener to feel longing or loss or desperation. But if you play it too fast… boom—that’s feeling’s gone. And nothing else you might do or say or play will make up for the loss of the essential mood of the song.)
 
I see aspiring writers arguing online about whether or not this or that “content” is “allowable” in this or that genre or age range, or what the specific word count of a middle grade should be vs. YA vs. adult literary, etc. I just want to mash the Godphone button and shout, “You’re missing the point—none of that matters as long as the story’s good. If we believe in your characters and give a shit about what happens to them, we’ll buy it!” And this is demonstrably true. By far the most popular books in recent history are a series ostensibly written for school-age children, yet the books average 150,000 words (600 pages) each. (And as I write this, the current overall #1 best-selling book in the country—according to Publishers Weekly—is the new illustrated edition of Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire… almost twenty years after its initial publication.)
 
So I guess the lesson here is don’t worry so much about the fiddly bits—the word count or genre constraints or the edginess quotient of the so-called “content.” Sure, you should be aware of current conventions (mostly because if you aren’t, you’re not paying enough attention to your chosen art form). But if you nail the all the “conventional wisdom” aspects and still have a weak story, it’s likely not going anywhere. On the other hand, if you have an amazing, unique, fascinating story which—although well-constructed—might be a little outside the box, you may find yourself with an agent/editor/publisher who also feels engaged with the Soul & Substance of your story, and subsequently a contingent of the reading public who are likewise engaged in your work.
 
Keep on rocking, keep on writing!
 

 
I spent a few days recently in the company of a few hundred other writers at a writers conference (the CCWC, named “The Best Writers Conference in the West” by The Writer magazine) and was involved in teaching various classes, workshops, and panels, as well as attending other authors’ classes. (Conferences are a subject for another time, but my short take is the right conference can do wonders to jump-start your creative talent, drive, and passion.)
 
One of the most oft-heard questions was some version of: Do I need an agent? A snap response is to look around the room and ask how many of the attendees are writers. (Hands go up.) Then ask how many of them have a literary agent. (Hands go down.) They get the point—clearly, you don’t need an agent to be a writer. But if you stop there, you’re doing them a disservice.
 
Because there’s a question behind the question, the simplest form of which is:
 
“Do I need an agent if my publishing goal is X…?”
 
Once we solve for X, we can provide a more meaningful response. The set of possible publisher targets is some approximation of the following:
 
{Self-Publish; Small Press; Mid-Size Trad Press; Big-5}
 
With the short answers being, respectively:
 
{No; Probably Not; Probably So; Yes}
 
There are exceptions to the above, of course. (My wife got her first book deal—twenty years ago—via the slush pile at a major publisher, rare then but almost unheard of today. There was no agent with my non-fiction books—at a smaller house but with distribution from one of the largest music-related publishers in the country. And my YA novel acquired an agent after an editor was interested in it.) But these are the exception, not the rule.
 
Category matters, too. You may find it easier to self-represent an academically-interesting memoir or biography to a mid-sized university press than a genre novel to a mid-sized commercial press, for example.
 
So in light of all the above, the answer to Do I NEED an agent? for some of us, in some circumstances, might be, well… not necessarily… not always.
 
But the far more important question is the one behind all of the others: Do I WANT an agent???
 
This is a completely different issue. The ‘Do I need?’ question is about your ability to gain access to your publisher of choice. The ‘Do I want?’ question is about the sum total of what an agent can do for you, as measured against any potential downside. (IOW, it’s a Cost/Benefit Analysis.)
 
So take a piece of paper and draw a line down the middle. On the left side, put down “15% of net proceeds.”
 
That’s about it for the “Cost” side of the CBA.
 
Now on the other side, you can start making a list of Benefits. Off the top of my head, you’ll probably want to begin with the following…
 
* Going back to the original point about access, a good agent will have personal relationships with editors, and she’ll know who might be a good fit for you and your manuscript. (Let’s face it—there’s a big difference between an editor getting an email from someone she’s never met vs. discussing something with a colleague over lunch.) And of course, just the fact that you have representation supporting your book pre-vets it to editors at larger houses, opening doors that might otherwise remain closed.
 
But then, once the first hurdle is passed—acceptance of your manuscript—there are a bunch of other things an agent does…
 
* They negotiate your contract. This alone is probably worth the price of admission, as they’re deeply conversant with things like advances, royalties, rights, etc. All of which can make a big difference over the long run.
 
* Foreign rights? Film rights? Ancillary rights? I think most of us would hate to try and navigate any of these without expert guidance, let alone even have a clue about where to begin with the process of selling them.
 
* Your agency acts as a clearinghouse for payments owed you, tracking and collecting them for you and sending you your share (minus their commission). Unless you like accounting—and are IRS-level good at it—this can save you tons of time, grief, and stomach lining.
 
I could go on with several other important admin things a good agency can provide, but perhaps the most important thing of all has nothing to do with administrative tasks…
 
* The right agent can be your best friend within the industry… your constant advocate… your staunchest supporter. The right agent wants what’s good for you and your career. Period, not comma. I haven’t done an official survey but I’d venture it’s much more common for an author to keep the same agent through multiple editors or publishers than the other way around. Not to get overdramatic about it, but they can be a light in the darkness as your writing career weathers the ups and downs of the publishing industry.
 
The specifics of acquiring an agent who’s a good fit for you and your work is a separate topic deserving of a separate post, but—having said all the above—not all agents are equal. My OBFN (Obligatory Bad First Novel) landed me an agent. He was fine, as far as it went – he shopped my manuscript to various houses and occasionally touched base regarding results – but he wasn’t a strong communicator and he never really seemed invested… in me, my manuscript, or my career. You got the feeling he was just throwing things (many things) against the wall, hoping some of them stuck. My story didn’t stick. (Which, in retrospect, I’m glad about… but that’s another story.)
 
And then with Road Rash I got another agent—a wonderful agent, intelligent and caring and professional, yet a total badass—and I saw what the right agent at the right agency can do: everything listed above and more. Especially the final point about advocacy and support. (Please don’t tell her I said so, but I think she’d be a bargain at twice the price!)
 
So, for me, the answer to the question behind the question is unequivocally Yes, I want an agent in my corner. If I’m going into new territory—one where I don’t know the rules and laws, where I don’t speak the language, and where a misstep could be costly—then I’m going to want a guide. The best one I can find. And I don’t begrudge the cost, not for a second.
 
You may have a different perspective and different skillsets, and thus may arrive at a different answer. That’s fine. Just do your research, go into it with your eyes open, and be aware of the costs and benefits before you reach a conclusion.
 
Happy writing!

 
No, this post isn’t about music, but the above impromptu clip can serve as a writing analogy. It’s just a simple little groove, shot with a phone, with no rehearsal or audio processing or anything.
 
In other words, it’s the first draft of an idea, not a polished manuscript. It could undoubtedly be better were it rehearsed, recorded with decent microphones, and mixed with some processing. (In writer-speak, it needs revision, polishing, and editing.) And already I can tell how I’d “rewrite” it. (IMO it should be maybe 10 bpm slower, with a little more triplet feel “swing,” more quarter-note accents on the cymbal bell, and a little more orchestration around the kit, instead of primarily on two toms. Perhaps with a shaker overdub. And of course, it should exist within a song, serving as a support structure for other instruments and melodic ideas… it’s certainly not a complete story within itself.)
 
But still, even in early draft stages, it tells me what I need to know—does it do what I want it to do? Does it evoke a slight world-beat vibe (interesting setting)… can I hear the “song behind the song” (subplot)… does it have an implied melody (theme)…?
 
And—getting granular here—did the hi-hat add the right texture? Because what makes this little experiment work for me isn’t the obvious stuff (what the hands are doing). To me, what makes it worth exploring at all is what the left foot is doing… the slight jazzy lilt from the little hi-hat notes on the “ands” in between the quarter notes. For me, if they were absent (or—almost worse—right on the 1-2-3-4 quarter notes), then it would be obvious/plodding/boring to the point where I’d have zero interest in using it.
 
(Think of writing a story about a geeky-yet-goth girl, the adorkable guy who sits behind her in math, their insta-love, and their Scooby gang of misfits that save the world in between episodic bouts of sex, drugs, and rock & roll. Yawn. Now make the characters senior citizens, but no ‘Assisted Living Rom-Com’ here—because NFW can they afford it—so they all live in a shitty little trailer park on the edge of town. With the currently-more-ambulatory taking turns caring for the currently-bed-ridden (though they all rotate through all positions sooner or later), until they’re forced to resort to crime to cover the increasing cost of their meds. In between bouts of sex, drugs, and rock & roll, of course. Because really, who’s more likely to blast Zeppelin at annoyingly high volumes—a sixteen-year-old with earbuds or a hard-of-hearing 70-something?)
 
My point is, sometimes what we need to do to find our emotional way into a story (see: Finding a Way In and a Way Out for more on this) is to change some aspect of the story to make it uniquely ours, to make it fresh, to make it resonate with us. You could age up all your snarky teen characters… by sixty years. You could take a “He Said, She Said” story and instead of showing Scene 1 from her point of view and then Scene 2 from his, you could show Scene 1 from hers, then turn right around and write Scene 1 again, only from his POV. You could tell a poignant  wartime tale of destruction and loss, but instead of telling it in the voice of the heroic child protagonist, you could have it narrated by Death, who—far from being a heartless killer—is basically a kind, introspective being who feels overworked by the stupidity of man.
 
None of these is a gimmick, any more than playing a subtle offbeat with your left foot is a gimmick. The story may work without them, but your particular slant adds an intangible quality, a certain you-ness to it that may not only feel new and unique to the reader but—perhaps more important—feel new and fresh to you… which may give you the inspiration and motivation to dive in and do the hard work necessary to bring it to fruition.
 
One of my dad’s favorite quotes was a line from The Little Prince: “What is essential is invisible to the eye.” He first heard of the quote by way of James Dean (who apparently appreciated it for the way he felt it related to acting). Taking that same philosophy a step further, I’d say it applies to any creative endeavor, whether acting or music or painting… or writing.
 
So find that little thing… that invisible thing… that essential thing… that makes your story feel like yours and no one else’s. And once you add that small essence to the mix—so small others may not even be aware of it—you’ll have something amazing.
 
Something only you can do.
 
Something that is you.