Croaking loudly in the oxbow lakes in which they swim as the meandering river of the great plain sluggishly breaks free and starts to run by them, literary agents in their arrogance remind one of nothing more than this description in Emily Dickinson’s lines:
“How dreary to be somebody!
How public, like a frog
To tell your name the livelong day
To an admiring bog!”
How public, like a frog
To tell your name the livelong day
To an admiring bog!”
In their own words, their opinions are “Riveting, riveting…”
The above a random thought sparked by this…
Dreary (David Miller) Agent’s response to Susan Hill “And prizes aren't about fairness. Anyway, hope you're having fun wading through the rest of the poo published this year.”
And of course, as an outsider, I admit in saying this to, maybe, you who are listening:
“I'm nobody! Who are you?
Are you nobody, too?
Then there's a pair of us — don't tell!
They'd banish us, you know.”
Are you nobody, too?
Then there's a pair of us — don't tell!
They'd banish us, you know.”
(As they would, if ever they found us out)
Remaining with the frog theme, does not a “knot” of agents seem particularly apposite?
And some say that to rub up frogs the wrong way is to risk the deadly poisons oozing from their pores. But then, we live in Britain, not some fetid jungle, where living trees are pulped for profit?
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