4. Getting an agent

Getting an agent – or in my case, getting lucky: No bones about it, I’m a lucky b@$!@rd. A while back my family and I moved from West London to Kent in search of, like so many before us, the parent’s Holy Grail – an acceptable primary school with a catchment area more than a literal stone’s throw. My better-half met other mums, made friends and joined a reading group (one that actually consumes books as well as dry white wine). Purely by chance one of the other well-read mums turned out to be the better-half to a literary agent who happened to be looking for new British crime. I know… don’t hate me. The next thing I know I’m awkwardly introducing myself by email to a man I’d never met, explaining that said better-halves had got chatting and tentatively attaching the first few chapters of my book which he needn’t read if he hadn’t a mind to etc. Next came a meeting where he assured me he wasn’t just humouring me and that was it; I had an agent. Only… not really.