The Bookseller.com

6th October 2008

Daisy Frost is an agent at the Edward Cecil Literary Agency. She blogs at missdaisyfrost.com.

PN confidential

01.08.08

You know when you get one of those rare emails through that you know instantly is life-changing in a shriek-inducing, nail varnish-spilling good way? Well, today is one of those days.

But before we get into all of that, it is time to come clean. So yes, Publishing News did try to poach me to be their star columnist for the planned revamp and offered me a massive four pages a week of colour and gossip, and a remit to generally turn their ailing magazine into Heat meets The London Review of Books. I have to admit I was tempted but, after a lunch or two thank God, common sense prevailed and here I am.

It is a shame on one level because we could have done a glossy “what do publishing celebs do when they aren’t glued to their BlackBerry?” feature, which could have answered those pressing industry questions such as “which Cape editor reads nothing but chick lit by the pool?” and “what three items does David Godwin never travel without?”

We could even have had hot centre spreads of Amanda Ridout and Vicky Barnsley slumming it in Torremolinos and Wayne Brooks and Martina Cole running a series of Country House Murder Weekends in Essex. Oh, the glamour, the style and the inspiration for those of us mere “pedestrians”, as Gwyneth Paltrow calls non-famous people, lower down the food chain.

Anyway, back to the whole “life-changing email” thing. I just got an invitation (plus one—I mean, total result) from the office of über-agent Ed Victor asking me to spend a whole week with him at his Annual Summer House Party in Great Gatsby-esque splendour somewhere in the Hamptons.

This is the big one, and if previous years are anything to go by, we will be hanging out with the likes of Freddie Forsyth, Bono, Graydon Carter, Pope Benedict, Kofi Annan and that Nolan sister off “Loose Women”. The house even has an Irish Murdoch bell tower apparently—not to mention a Nigella walk-in refrigerator.

I could waste time asking myself why I’ve been asked, but there are more critical issues to address: Do EasyJet fly to New York? How likely is it that anyone else there will have the same zebra-print maxi dress from Topshop? How can I make sure I don’t burst into flames with hysteria before I’ve managed to make friends with someone from the Kennedy family, who are sure to be staying nearby? I can practically see Sarah Jessica Parker looking back at me when I glance in the mirror.

But before I go off to Chateau Ed, I have a hideous feeling I’m going to have to do some work—my desk is so rammed it’s possible I might find that Osama bin Laden has been hiding in a lever arch file all this time.

I am therefore going to delete everything that is a month old, under the assumption they’ll just email again if it’s important; email every contracts manager I am currently fighting, saying NO to everything; and, finally, submit every unsold project to anyone I can think of. Exclusively. That should keep the wolves at bay for a couple of weeks.

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