Photo © Kira Wizner
It was 2003. I had finished a middle-grade novel, The World’s Most Disgusting Sandwich, and was trying to get it published.
“It has potential,” a potential agent told me. “I’d love to see other books you’ve written.”
Other books I’d written? I hadn’t written any other books. I had written an anonymous poetry column for a teachers’ newsletter. I had written a bunch of essays in college and graduate school. I had written some irreverent songs to play on my guitar. “This is my first book,” I confessed.
“Well,” she said, “we don’t typically represent books, we represent writers. Are you working on... Read More