He hated his agent.
Bernadette had found him. At the time, with one book on the shelves and a few articles out in a handful of lesser-known magazines, he'd barely thought about getting an agent. He knew he should, at some point. He knew that it would be useful to have one to handle all the things he was horrible at, but that was all he'd thought about it until Bernadette had called. She'd given him the sales pitch and promised many wonderful things. He'd said no, thinking it was some kind of scam. She'd insisted. He'd hung up. There was a process to that sort of thing, a process that Bernadette ignored because she liked the way he wrote and saw potential. She'd called his parents. Apparently, she knew his uncle. His parents had told him how nice it was that he was working with a family friend, and somewhere in the midst of all of that, she'd become his agent.
He regretted it every day.