How I Found a Literary Agent

1. GOODBYE, STEADY PAYCHECK

Since February 2025, I’ve no longer been working at the company where I spent fifteen years in marketing. I was writing before that too, of course. I tried a bunch of different things—some worked, some didn’t—but all of them taught me something. Because after writing millions of words, something happens: you find what’s called your voice. It’s the way you write, the thing that makes you recognizable, unique. It’s not just about style—it’s rhythm, choices, tone. It’s the way your words start sounding right. The way you frame a scene, the weight you give to things, it all becomes part of your signature.

And yet, no matter how much I wrote, deep down I never truly believed in it. Not all the way.

Then the job ended (let’s say… more or less by mutual agreement), and I found myself thinking: “Now or never.”

I tried a few more things, but this time I decided to go all in. And I wrote a dark fantasy novel. One that would later be labeled dark romantasy—but to me, it’s something more speculative than that.

2. THE FIRST SLAP IN THE FACE

At that point, I wanted to do things properly. I asked around for a strong name, someone who could give the manuscript a serious edit. I was pointed toward an amazing editor who had worked for years at a major Italian publishing house… who, however, told me right away that publishing Italian fantasy in Italy is very, very hard. Publishers mostly prefer to translate from abroad. Translation? My chances were basically zero.

I gave myself half a day to feel crushed. Then I decided—no. That story deserved to be read. Even outside Italy.

So I translated it into English. With the help of today’s tech tools (yes, including AI, thank you very much!) and my own knowledge of English, I was able to revise and polish it myself.

In the meantime, I found out that, to get published abroad, you need to go through a literary agent. And no—I didn’t want to self-publish.

I felt this book had something in it that belonged in traditional publishing, not something to toss up on Amazon.

So I learned from scratch how to submit a manuscript. That’s when I discovered the query letter—a kind of sacred cover letter in the English-language publishing world. Then I started sending queries through QueryTracker, the platform that lets you reach out to agents (and track all your rejections—yay).

Spoiler: I sent out over 100 queries. Some got rejected within thirty minutes. Others took weeks. Some never replied at all.

A standard submission (when they don’t ask for just a short pitch by email) usually includes:

1. the query letter (where you introduce yourself and your novel)

2. a pitch (two or three punchy lines to hook them)

3. a synopsis (a full summary of the plot—including the ending)

4. a short bio

5. and the first three chapters of the book

   
   

A couple of weeks after my avalanche of queries, the unthinkable happens: I get my first partial request. And not from just any agent. From a true queen of American publishing. The kind that makes you jump out of your chair. I had followed the website instructions to the letter: query only. And yet, she replied. It wasn’t a yes—yet—but it was a sign. Maybe the concept did work. Maybe it had something. So I waited.

In the meantime, a few more partial requests trickle in—maybe three or four. And then there was that other episode.

An agent (remember this bit, it’ll come back later) sends me a message through QueryTracker:

“Fantasy or romantasy?”

And then, with a painfully sharp lash, points out that the formatting of my manuscript was a disaster. Something like, “Not even the formatting?”

He was right. The headings were broken, the layout a mess. But it was the middle of the night, I was exhausted, and I had made a mess of it.

I beat myself up for the embarrassing mistake. I write back, apologize, and ask if I can resend it by email. He says yes… but also warns me that the fantasy/romantasy market is so saturated, I basically have no shot.

I try to explain that mine isn’t a romance with fantasy elements, but a speculative novel with a romantic subplot. I probably just made things worse. Whatever. I send it anyway. Silence.

Then, scrolling through U.S. agent directories, I come across an Italian name. And let me say it right now: a legend. Massimiliano Zantedeschi.

An Italian agent who doesn’t charge to read your work? Who follows the sacred Anglo-Saxon submission rites? I had to try. I went to his site, read the guidelines carefully, prepared everything, and sent him the first chapters—in Italian this time.

A week later, he replies. He wants the full. TADAM.

I thank him and send it over right away. About ten days later, he writes again: he’s reading it, and we should talk soon.

Now, for those who aren’t familiar, in the English-speaking world this is known as THE CALL.

The mythical event. Anticipated. Feared. When an agent wants to talk, your heart lodges somewhere around your tonsils. We scheduled it for three days later.

3. THE CALL AND THE NUDGES

When we spoke, he had already read the whole thing. All of it. In less than two hours.

We talked for a full hour.

And let me tell you—he was a gentleman. Honest, transparent, incredibly sharp. And I could tell, instantly. After fifteen years of studying, writing, reading, debating… I know when someone truly knows what they’re talking about in this field.

I don’t remember every single word from that call—my head felt like a helium balloon—but I do remember this:

He told me the opening chapters had flaws (and he explained them clearly), but he kept reading because he thought: “There’s something here.”“And I was right. I didn’t stop until the end. That happens maybe twice a year, tops.”

He told me what he loved. Who he wanted to submit it to. A great publisher, part of a major publishing group. That same day, he sent me the representation contract.

At that point, as is standard practice, I sent a gentle nudge to all the other agents who hadn’t explicitly rejected me yet. I let them know I had received an offer.

In the meantime, I implemented one of the two changes Massimiliano had suggested for the opening chapters.

The other, I didn’t. Not right away, at least. Because it would’ve turned that scene into a romance trope. And you know me—I loathe those tropes that scream “they’re in love” by the first or second glance. But I understood why he suggested it: it would’ve fit better with the positioning of the publisher he had in mind. So totally fair—and yes, I absolutely would’ve done it, if that pitch had moved forward.

4. AFTER THE CALL & THE NUDGES

After the nudges, things start moving. Some partials turn into full requests. Even the queen agent asks for the full manuscript. And not just her—another absolute queen of U.S. publishing joins the party. BOOM.

Even that agent—the formatting one—writes back. Honestly, I hadn’t even planned to include him in the nudge. But I did. And he replies. Polite, distant, professional. He asks me to resend the revised opening.

So I send it, without even knowing whether he’d read the original one.

Twenty years later (well, twenty minutes), he replies again—this time with a completely different tone. He tells me he really liked it. That he wants to read the whole thing.

A few hours later, I get another email. Something out of a dream.

An ode to my writing. Truly. No one had ever said anything like that to me. This was the same agent who’d been cold and skeptical—now suddenly invested, enthusiastic, committed. He asks if he can add me on WhatsApp to talk more (if I’m okay with that, of course).

And me, full Italian mode, I immediately think: “Where’s the catch?”

Spoiler: there was no catch.

Diego Harrison took this book like a hammer to the heart—and pulled me right in with him. During our call, he was so passionate and convincing that I ended up hoping the two queens would turn it down. Just so I wouldn’t have to choose. In the end, I gave them less time than the standard two weeks—and I’m pretty sure that tipped the scale in their decision to step back.

Meanwhile, of course, I had kept Massimiliano in the loop. True professional that he is, he told me to take all the time I needed. That his offer stood, no matter what happened.

Eventually, I explained to him why I felt so strongly about trying the U.S. market—and he got it. Not only that, he congratulated me. He knows it’s basically a mission impossible.And if that weren’t enough? He still offered to represent the book for Italian rights, if it ever came to that.

Let it be known: I will defend his name until the end of my days.

5. SUBMITTING TO U.S. PUBLISHERS

Diego isn’t an editorial agent. That means he doesn’t spend months and months editing your manuscript before submitting it to publishers (though I imagine there are exceptions). And that basically means two things:

• Your manuscript already has to be fire. Your writing needs to have a strong, unmistakable voice.

• You go straight into the hands of the biggest American publishers (in my case, it was a full-court strategy—fast, wide, and bold).

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Some writers prefer editorial agents. I can say, now, that they’re not for me. Especially after reading countless stories of writers who spent months revising their books with their agent… only for editors to reject them anyway. One fellow writer told me that, after their book was acquired, the editor had them remove all the changes the agent had asked for. Others, of course, found success—but let’s just say the dice roll the same for most of us.

And I didn’t have to go through months of edits with no guarantee of results.

Of course, during the call, it’s crucial to understand what kind of agent you’re dealing with—before you sign anything.

6. THE SUBMISSION PERIOD

It’s rough, guys. Really rough.

I’m in my third week since the book went out to publishers—and that’s nothing in this world. It can take months and months before you hear anything back. The lucky few who land a deal early on in the process? They’re called “unicorns.” The rest of us mostly hear crickets during this phase.

And honestly? The chances that the “race to the million” ends right here are high. About 62% of agented manuscripts never find a publisher—even after making it into the lucky 1% who actually sign with an agent.

Everyone advises you to start writing something new. Not just to stay distracted, but also to have another shot if this book “dies.”

I forced myself to start again—and now, this new project is pulling me in. But during the first week, I was frozen. Just staring into space.

I asked Diego if he’d be interested in reading the pitch and the first five chapters of the new novel, and he enthusiastically said yes (priceless!).

So we’ll see what happens. I hope this post was helpful—whether you're thinking of giving it a shot yourself and want some advice, or if you'd like me to dive deeper into a specific part of the journey.

Feel free to message me or drop a comment!

Thanks—and good luck!