At 19 a modeling agent told me that I was too short. “How tall are you?” she had asked, looking at me above the rim of her designer glasses. Her brown eyes regarded my face, clutching it like the invisible hands of an artist examining a finished piece. “I’m 5’9,” I announced proudly, squaring my shoulders to gain height. Her well-shaped brows rose to her heart-shaped hairline as she tapped her pen against her full lips. Had I not been a potential model, I would’ve allowed myself to stare, to imagine kissing those lips with my inexperienced ones. “Come here,” she said, gesturing me to come closer to where she sat in the middle of the room. Her assistant, a tall effeminate man with the humble, yet proud peacock decorum of a fancy butler wore a smirk on his face as he too watched me walk towards them as though I were already on the runway (my attempt at showing how well I walk). Once I reached the agent, she took off her glasses. Up close her skin was a radiant brown—one which appeared as though she had never aged beyond her supermodel years as one of Jamaica’s top models back in the early ‘90’s. When I stood before her, she rose from her seat. She continued rising like a tree growing in front of me, well over six feet I assumed. By the time she was on her feet, she was hovering over my head, a smile that read “I told you so” plastered on her face. She was standing so close that I could almost feel my legs buckle as my lungs had filled with the subtle vanilla scent of her perfume. “I’m six feet,” she said, “and right now I can tell that you’re shorter than 5’9.” I had no choice but to swallow my tongue and nod like a dumbfounded schoolgirl as I looked up at her. She told me that she loved my look and suggested that I do petite modeling (for shorter girls). I simply thanked her and moved on with my life, later becoming a model elsewhere.
Fast forward to 2011 where as a writer, I’m going through the same process of contemplating literary agents. Yesterday I met with an agent on campus, an older white woman with rosy red cheeks and youthful blue eyes. She didn’t quite give me the schoolgirl butterflies the modeling agent had incited, but her demeanor was just as intimidating as she paid close attention to me, her eyes narrowing as though she could see the words I spoke when I told her I have a collection. One thing she said was, “We hardly take collections of short stories. We want novels.” Once again the memory of the modeling agent flashed across my mind: “You’re too short.” Panic crept inside my stomach and I swallowed. “What do you mean you don’t take collections of short stories? That’s my entire thesis.” Her eyes softened at my words as though she sensed that I was about to have an artist breakdown—these are breakdowns where the artist hyperventilates, questioning our strengths and abilities; the kind of breakdowns where we compare ourselves to others and have nightmares of not being able to pay rent because everyone in New York City wants to be a writer (oh, yeah and a model) and here you are with a rejection letter that crippled your ego and forces you to look in the mirror, raise your fist and sing Destiny’s Child” I’m a survivor” on the top of your lungs until you break down in tears and find the courage to re-submit since your life as a professor at a swanky liberal arts college like Vassar and a respectable author—not the cheesy, commercial self-published types, but the real ones with displays at Barnes and Nobles—depends on it. Phew! (just catching my breath here).
So there I was standing in front of this literary agent having one of those internal breakdowns. It wasn’t like I could square my shoulders, put on a pair of heels, and announce that I’m not too short; it wasn’t like I could shout on the top of my lungs saying, “I’m beautiful dammit!” No. This time, it’s my work that’s on the line, a body of work that I’ve spent countless hours putting together, have turned down many social events just to finish, have flaked on many friends, and closed down many a Brooklyn cafes just to revise.In my mind I thought of the pieces that I could make into novels. Then an idea appeared. “I have a novel, but it’s not done yet” I lied to the agent. She nodded at me like a doting mother appraising a child who had just uttered the first word. “Wonderful! Well, you shouldn’t force a novel if short stories are your strength. Do what makes you comfortable and send those out to different journals. Once you start getting published in those journals, you will build a reputation as a writer. Only then will your collection be accepted by agents. But it doesn’t hurt to have a novel in the works.”
Unlike the rejection I endured at the modeling agency at 19, there was something about this information from the literary agent at 29 that had me rise to the challenge. As a serious writer I couldn’t walk away and move on with my life defeated by rejection letters and agents. In these situations my grandmother would’ve asked “What would Jesus do?” But instead, I chose to ask myself, “What would’ve Edwidge Danticat, Tiphanie Yanique, Jhumpa Lahiri, Junot Diaz, and Paule Marshall done?” They would’ve written some more and send more work out, build the reputation they now have. That’s what they would’ve done; and that’s exactly what they did! Sounds like a lot of work? Well it is. I’m learning this everyday in my program.
I must admit that my legs had buckled as I learned that literary agents like modeling agents are highly selective in who they choose to represent. But now, I have a lot more inside me to make up for my height (although I’m still taller than the average woman). I have stories that will someday stand as tall as beanstalks creating shadows for generations to come. I like to tell myself this, because I believe that anything is possible when I put my mind to it.
Nicole © 2011
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