Sign Up
..... Australian Property Network. It's All About Property!
Categories

Posted: 2019-03-22 13:26:13

Selwa Anthony is ensconced on an avocado-green leather sofa, a chihuahua reclining on either side of her. The leading literary agent is small but commanding, a diminutive grande dame with sharp brown eyes and long purple fingernails. As always, she is carefully coiffured and glamorously dressed, as if her next appointment were a cocktail party. But Anthony's mood on this warm afternoon is more defiant than festive. "Everything I've done in my life has been boots and all," she says.

Literary agents are behind-the-scenes people. Their job is to foster writers' careers and secure them good publishing deals: they rarely make news in their own right. Yet Anthony has had a central role in not one but two headline-grabbing court cases in the past year. First, she was in the thick of a battle over the estate of her friend Colleen McCullough, best-known as the author of the blockbuster outback saga The Thorn Birds. Then came the showdown with her former star client, bestselling mystery-romance writer Kate Morton. Anthony, who initiated the legal action against Morton, ended up feeling that her own professional reputation was on trial. In the witness box, she was grilled for hours. "It was terrible, terrible, terrible," she says, as sunlight streams into her harbourside Sydney apartment.

Both courtroom dramas transfixed the Australian publishing industry. The story behind the McCullough case had all the ingredients of a rip-roaring airport novel: the literary lioness in failing health on a remote Pacific island, the estranged husband, the revoked will, the deathbed reconciliation. The story behind the second case was quieter but if anything more gripping, with an ending that few predicted. "I think the Kate Morton case has kind of surprised everyone," says Vanessa Radnidge, head of the non-fiction division at publishing group Hachette Australia. Radnidge corrects herself. "Shocked everyone."

Selwa Anthony at home with her chihuahuas Ruby and Bella, on the sofa where she reads fresh manuscripts.

Selwa Anthony at home with her chihuahuas Ruby and Bella, on the sofa where she reads fresh manuscripts.Credit:Tim Bauer

The chihuahuas, Ruby and Bella, look up from the sofa as Anthony's amiable husband, Brian Dennis, appears with a teapot and cups on a tray. "When I met him, he was a book sales rep," says Anthony. These days, Dennis's role might be described as Adoring Slave: he runs the household, chauffeurs Anthony and her authors around town, keeps the Selwa Anthony Author Management Agency accounts. In other words, he takes care of the practical necessities, freeing Anthony to peruse submissions from promising new writers and look after those already in her stable. She represents about 60 authors, she says. "I'd be working with at least 25 at any one time." Though she has an office in the apartment, she prefers to read manuscripts somewhere comfortable, such as the lounge or the sunroom. "I'm hoping to discover something fantastic when I start reading," she says. "I don't want it to be work."

I'm hoping to discover something fantastic when I start reading. I don't want it to be work.

Anthony rarely takes on established writers. For her, spotting and cultivating talent is where the thrill lies, even if she does little to encourage would-be authors to get in touch. Her agency website offers no email address or phone number: if you want to send her your work, your only option is to wangle her contact details out of someone in her network of friends and clients. "It felt like a back-door entry to a special club," says TV presenter and writer Andrew Daddo of his admission to the fold.

You won't get through the door unless Anthony believes you have potential. But once you're in, you're in. While I research this story, several writers impress on me how thankful they are for her unshakeable faith in them and for her unstinting efforts on their behalf. Anna Romer, whose fourth novel comes out in May, was with Anthony's agency for 10 years before landing a book contract. During that decade, Anthony encouraged her to try her hand at different genres – thrillers, mysteries, romance, fantasy – and kept sending Romer's work to publishers, who kept rejecting it. "She'd say, 'Look, just keep going. You'll get there,' " says Romer. "She was steady as a rock."

Literary agents work on commission. For successfully negotiating a publishing contract, an agent takes a percentage of the author's earnings from the book. Romer remembers feeling guilty that Anthony had championed her for so long for no financial reward: "I used to say to her, 'Let me pay something.' And she'd say, 'No, no, that will come when you sell a book.' "

Kate Morton, now in her early 40s, was studying English literature at the University of Queensland when she made her first attempt at writing a novel almost 20 years ago. Anthony, who was given the manuscript, tells me she decided against passing it on to publishers: "The first one wasn't worth showing anyone." Morton's second manuscript was better, but the agent's attempt to find a publisher for it failed. Anthony respected Morton's determination to persevere. "When they get rejected a couple of times but they still want to keep writing, then it's not for me to tell them to stop," she says. "If I feel the passion is there, I stick with them."

When writers get rejected a couple of times but they still want to keep writing, then it's not for me to tell them to stop.

In late 2004, Anthony had a visit from Annette Barlow, a respected editor at the Australian publishing firm Allen & Unwin. Anthony says Barlow was scouting for new material. As it happened, the agent had a printout of Morton's third manuscript, an incomplete novel centred on a grand country house in England in the 1920s. "I gave it, just on a whim, to Annette," Anthony says. "I said, 'Take this, have a read and tell me if it's the type of thing you're looking for.' " Soon afterwards Anthony was able to relay exciting news to Morton, who was living in Brisbane with her husband, musician and composer Davin Patterson, and their first child: "I said to Kate, 'Allen & Unwin are interested. How long do you think it will take to do the last 50,000 words?' She said, 'About eight weeks.' I said, 'Do it in four. Get babysitters.' "

The result was The Shifting Fog, published in Australia in 2006. Billed as "a rich and engrossing story of love, passion, secrets and lies", it sold well here. But Morton's big break came in 2007, when the novel, launched in Britain under the title The House at Riverton, was named "read of the year" by the Richard and Judy Book Club, the UK equivalent of Oprah's Book Club. British sales reportedly soared to more than 750,000. Morton is now the author of six international bestsellers, all of them intricately plotted historical mystery-romances. By last August, when Anthony v Morton was heard in the NSW Supreme Court, she had sold more than 11 million books.

It seems to Hachette Australia's Vanessa Radnidge that both good management and good luck played a part in Morton's ascent to literary stardom. "It was like all the planets aligned," says Radnidge. "That's not denying Kate Morton's talent. But there are so many other writers equally as talented." Morton's sixth book, The Clockmaker's Daughter, got middling reviews when released late last year. The Washington Post called it "tedious" and "convoluted". But Morton has millions of fans around the world and one of them is Juliet Rogers, chief executive of the Australian Society of Authors (ASA). "You have to be good to be as successful as Kate is," says Rogers. "In her genre, she's a master."

Before the lawsuits robbed Anthony of the will to celebrate, the highlight of her year – and one of the cheeriest events on the Australian publishing industry calendar – was the annual dinner at which she presented the SASSY (Selwa's Authors' Success Stories of the Year) Awards. A Good Weekend report on the 2012 awards noted that Anthony took a moment at the microphone to thank her hair stylist, florist, personal trainer and naturopath, along with the designer of her fabulous sequinned frock. In 2013, the winner of the ultimate prize – the Pink SASSY – was Morton, whose acceptance speech was delivered in her absence by Allen & Unwin chief executive Robert Gorman. The author thanked Anthony for believing in her in the lean unpublished years: "She answered my phone calls herself, read drafted manuscripts, offered words of encouragement and – when necessary – words that urged me to move on and write the next one." Morton added: "People say writing is a lonely profession, but I say they just haven't found the right agent."

For Anthony, watching Morton's sales figures shoot skyward felt like the exhilarating culmination of her career. "She said Kate was the writer she'd been waiting for all her life," says one of her close friends, non-fiction author Sue Williams. "To have everything go so horribly wrong has been a huge blow for her."

Kate Morton and Selwa Anthony at Anthony’s SASSY Awards in 2010.

Kate Morton and Selwa Anthony at Anthony’s SASSY Awards in 2010.Credit:Craig Peihopa

A couple of years ago, Anthony tripped over a barrier that kept the chihuahuas out of her bedroom. She says her first thought as she hit the floor and felt her right wrist break was: "How am I going to put on my make-up?" Applying eyeliner and mascara left-handed proved so tricky that she had semipermanent false eyelashes affixed instead. Unlike some of her writers, who tell her they do their best work in pyjamas, she sees home-based employment as no excuse to let standards of personal presentation slip. "She will be completely done up any time you go around there," says Williams, adding that Anthony rarely goes out for meetings. "Everyone goes to her. The heads of publishing houses, even the heads of overseas publishing houses, all traipse to her place. She really holds court."

Shona Martyn was a frequent visitor when she was publishing director at HarperCollins Publishers. "I tended to take little cakes or flowers," says Martyn, who nevertheless kept in mind that these were not social occasions. To be distracted by the dogs or the water views or Dennis and his tea tray would have been a mistake, because Anthony herself was thinking of only one thing: getting her writers the highest possible price for their manuscripts. "She was completely focused on the deal," says Martyn, now editor of Spectrum in Saturday's Sydney Morning Herald. "She's a businesswoman, albeit one with purple nails."

Since the 1980s, when Anthony started her agency on the advice of her confidante Colleen McCullough, she has dealt mainly in popular mainstream fiction, particularly fiction aimed at women – the kinds of books that rarely get reviewed in the arts sections of newspapers but nevertheless fly off bookshop shelves. "There was a gap in the market for somebody willing to develop that kind of writer," says the ASA's Juliet Rogers. "Many of the other agents were focusing more on the literary end."

Lyn Tranter, director of Australian Literary Management, gives credit where it's due: "Selwa is very good at judging commercial work. They're not the sort of books I'd buy or I'd read, but hey, good luck to her."

Anthony tells me she goes on gut feel. If she gets a craving for Smith's crisps when reading a manuscript, she takes it as a sign from the publishing gods that she has in her hands a possible bestseller. "Brian," she shouts to her husband, who has returned to the kitchen. "Open the cupboard. The one that has the Smith's chips in it." Four packets in stock, he reports.

I'll jump up and down if a cover isn't right, because you do judge a book by its cover. And its title.

Many agents step politely to one side after selling a manuscript to a publisher but Anthony takes a keen interest in every stage of the book's production. "To the point where publishers quail a little when she rings," says Shona Martyn. "Most publishers find dealing with Selwa quite challenging because she is so determined and so controlling about covers and so on." Overbearing, is the way some put it. "Nobody is in two minds about her," says Sue Williams. "They either love her or they find her too controlling and too difficult." Anthony is unrepentant. "I'll jump up and down if a cover isn't right," she says, "because you do judge a book by its cover. And its title."

Geoffrey McGeachin, whose first novel was a comic romp about a bank manager's mid-life crisis, remembers Anthony's delight when the publishers agreed to the title she wanted: "Selwa rang and said, 'They're going with Fat, Fifty and F…ed! I feel like I've won the lottery.' " McGeachin claims to have believed for a long time that he was Anthony's only client. "Because whenever you ring Selwa, you just get straight through," he says. He has a theory that she sees the entire world in terms of publishing opportunities. "You'll be discussing something, an event or a person, and Selwa gets this look in her eye and goes, 'Mmmm, there's a book in that.' "

Ideas. She's got a million of 'em. "I have plots in my head that I give to authors," says Anthony, who likes her clients to send her a few chapters at a time, so she can give them feedback and help shape the narrative. Anna Romer tells me that in her new novel, Under the Midnight Sky, the protagonist was originally a beekeeper. "As the story developed, Selwa said, 'I think it might work better if you make the character a journalist.' " Romer resisted. She loved the beekeeping thing. "Then I remembered that Selwa is always right," she says with a laugh. Beekeeper out, journalist in.

Selwa's not really in it for the money. She's in it for Australian writing. She's incredibly patriotic, much more than most people I know.

The NSW Supreme Court heard that Morton had earned more than $17 million from global book sales, and that her agent had retained $2.8 million in commissions. By the standards of the local industry, these are astronomical sums. Anthony emphasises to me that her business hadn't previously been especially lucrative: that they live in a waterside apartment is due largely to Dennis's profitable dabbling in the real estate market. In any case, Sue Williams gets the impression the windfall from Morton's books was less important to Anthony than seeing her author conquer the world. "Selwa's not really in it for the money," Williams says. "I think she's in it for Australian writing. She's incredibly patriotic, much more than most people I know."

The daughter of Lebanese immigrants, Anthony grew up in the NSW central-western town of Cowra. Her father, Abraham Tannous – he changed his surname to Anthony – started his life in Australia as a travelling salesman. Later, he and his wife, Josephine, opened a drapery store in Cowra's main street. They and their growing family – Anthony was the fourth of seven children – lived above the shop. Anthony says her parents, both avid readers, were fiercely proud of their adopted country. Abraham, inspired by the title of Ethel Turner's classic novel, referred to his kids as "seven little Australians".

After Anthony left school, she moved to Sydney to work in the book department at David Jones. She was back in Cowra, aged about 19, when her father, "the most gentle man", shot himself in the drapery store's changing room. "It never leaves you," she says of the suicide. "It damages everybody."

Her first marriage was unhappy, and she eventually walked out with her two children, Anthea, then seven, and Linda, three. To support them, she got a job with the Grahame Book Company, rising to be retail and merchandising manager of the Sydney chain's five stores. She adored bookselling. "Every day something new happened," she says. "A great book came in, or a celebrity walked in …" One day in 1977 that celebrity was Colleen McCullough, on a promotional tour for The Thorn Birds. Anthony immediately hit it off with big, loud, clever McCullough, and the two became best friends.

Anthony was executor to the estate of novelist Colleen McCullough.

Anthony was executor to the estate of novelist Colleen McCullough.Credit:Danielle Smith

Before meeting Brian Dennis, Anthony was single for a few years. "Had a couple of affairs, but they were kept secret," she says just as Dennis walks into the room. He affects shock: "You what?" They married in 1981. Three years later, McCullough tied the knot with Ric Robinson, a Norfolk Islander more than a decade her junior. "We'd laugh about the fact that we both married younger men," says Anthony (whose age is a mystery to all but a few intimates). As the years went by, she and Dennis became aware that McCullough's relationship with Robinson was rocky. "There were times when we knew she wanted to leave him," Anthony says, "and then there were times when she didn't."

McCullough died aged 77 in January 2015 on Norfolk Island, a speck in the ocean between New Zealand and New Caledonia. Anthony, who was the executor of her estate – but never her agent – went to court to prevent Robinson from inheriting real estate and other assets worth about $2 million (as well as some debts). In July 2014, McCullough had written a will leaving everything to the University of Oklahoma, which had awarded her an honorary doctorate. Lawyers for Robinson said the so-called "Oklahoma will" was superseded by two documents – one signed by McCullough in October 2014 and the other two weeks before her death – which set out her intention to revert to her original plan of making her husband her only beneficiary.

In evidence, Anthony recounted a conversation in which McCullough said of Robinson: "I've kicked him out for good this time. He has a mistress!" But McCullough's attitude to Robinson chopped and changed. She ended up taking him back, telling Anthony that her near-blindness and physical frailty meant she needed around-the-clock assistance, and she couldn't afford to pay a professional carer. That was the irony of the stoush over the estate: though The Thorn Birds sold more than 30 million copies (still a record for a novel by an Australian author) and McCullough published another couple of dozen books, among them a series of seven acclaimed novels set in ancient Rome, most of her money had been frittered away by the time of her death.

The court ruled in Robinson's favour, finding that McCullough had indeed reinstated her husband as her sole heir. The judge said claims that Robinson had pressured his wife to revoke the Oklahoma will had not been established. Anthony was disappointed but philosophical. "It would have been great to have won for the university," she says. "But it didn't happen."

Bestselling author Kate Morton, who was shepherded by Anthony to success.

Bestselling author Kate Morton, who was shepherded by Anthony to success.Credit:

When Anthony talks about Kate Morton, her voice takes on a baffled tone. "I had her interests at heart all the time," she says. "It was always what was best for Kate." Anthony was close to both Morton and her husband, Patterson: "Birthday gifts, Christmas gifts, the births of babies. You know, I was part of their lives." Not that this was unusual: Anthony had similar relationships with other clients. "Most of them become dear friends," she says. "I don't care if they're earning a dollar or a million dollars, they're all the same to me."

Fellow agent Lyn Tranter believes in maintaining a professional distance between herself and her clients. "I don't go to their houses and they don't come to mine," says Tranter, who would rather talk to writers about their work than their personal neuroses: "I am not a cheap psychiatrist." Anthony, by contrast, often has an author staying in her spare room and is always available for a heart-to-heart on the phone. Gail Bell, author of acclaimed non-fiction books The Poison Principle and Shot, likes her approach. "It's important for writers that somebody is prepared to listen to your bleatings, sometimes in the wee hours."

Perhaps because depression runs in Anthony's family, she understands the need for a sympathetic ear. As she sees it, being a sounding board is part of her job, whether a client is suffering a full-blown crisis of confidence or just weighing up the pros and cons of killing off a character in chapter three. "If you've got problems, even if they've got nothing to do with writing, she's there for you," author and journalist Diane Armstrong tells me.

Morton emailed from London to tell Anthony her services were no longer required. To many, this news did not come as a complete shock.

Anthony says she was happy for Kate Morton when in 2015 the author got the visas she needed to move to Britain with Patterson and their three young sons: "I knew she wanted to live in the UK – and her dream had come true, which was great." In December that year, Morton emailed from London to tell Anthony her services were no longer required. To many, this news did not come as a complete shock. "I always assumed that Kate would eventually leave Selwa and get a big London agent," says novelist Kim Wilkins, who had introduced Morton to Anthony 15 years earlier.

Anthony was hardly in a position to object. She had always told her authors that the reason she had oral agreements with them, rather than written contracts, was to give them the freedom to leave her stable at any time they chose. She claims she also explained to them standard publishing industry practice: if an agent and writer part ways, the agent continues to receive a 15 per cent commission on the writer's earnings from books for which the agent negotiated the contracts.

Morton appointed as her new agent Lizzy Kremer, president of the British Association of Authors' Agents. In an email to Anthony shortly before Christmas 2015, Kremer proposed that her company take over agency of the contracts for Morton's six books. Under this plan, Anthony would receive an ongoing commission of 7.5 per cent rather than 15 per cent. She would also receive 1.5 per cent of Morton's earnings on her yet-to-be-written seventh book. "You will share in Kate's success on book 7 to compensate you for any loss of commission on books 1 to 6," Kremer wrote. A stunned Anthony rejected the proposal, whereupon Morton stopped all payments to her. In March 2016, Anthony began legal action, alleging Morton had breached their oral agreement.

Author Kim Wilkins travelled to Sydney from her home in Brisbane to be with Anthony when the hearing began last August. "I've never met anyone as strong as Selwa," says Wilkins. "She's a tiger, and I admire her so much. But the court case was awful, there's no putting a shine on that."

Selwa Anthony and her husband Brian Dennis at their Sydney apartment in 2003.

Selwa Anthony and her husband Brian Dennis at their Sydney apartment in 2003.Credit:Jane Dyson

Agent Lyn Tranter agreed to give evidence because, as she saw it, Anthony had been deprived of income that was rightfully hers. But the sight of Anthony's and Morton's assembled legal teams gave Tranter pause, reminding her of the huge cost of the exercise. "When I walked into that court, my heart sank," she says. "There were so many wigs there. I thought, 'Oh god, Selwa, I hope you know what you're doing.' "

Morton, back from Britain, said in the witness box that she had always understood that Anthony would receive commissions only for as long as she was Morton's agent, and that Anthony had never told her otherwise. Anthony said in evidence that she was certain she had explained to Morton that the commissions were ongoing. But that was not the only bone of contention. Morton had launched a counterclaim against Anthony, alleging breach of fiduciary duty, breach of contract and negligence.

The nub of Morton's complaint was that Anthony had been wrong to advise her to grant Allen & Unwin world publishing rights for all six of her books. Morton argued that once her first two books had established her reputation, Anthony should have struck publishing deals directly with foreign publishers rather than through the Australian publisher, thereby saving Morton from having to pay additional layers of commission. Morton contended that the world rights deal had cost her up to 25 per cent of her earnings on overseas sales for books three and four, and 10 per cent for books five and six, and that Anthony, and Allen & Unwin, had profited at her expense. Anthony countered that she believed it was to Morton's advantage for the world rights to stay with Allen & Unwin because the firm was doing such a good job for her: it had the heft and resources to generate international interest in her books and to negotiate the best possible foreign publishing deals.

Writer Gail Bell, who sat with Anthony during the case, says the atmosphere was frosty. The layout of the courtroom meant that "when Kate took the stand, she had to walk past us", Bell says. "When she came back, she was facing us, and my god, talk about the death stare." Allen & Unwin's chief executive Robert Gorman and editor Annette Barlow sat with Morton. "And they cut Selwa dead," Bell says. "They cut us all dead." Anthony tells me she had known both Gorman and Barlow for more than 25 years. "They were my friends," Anthony says. "I have nothing bad to say about them other than I didn't expect them to turn their backs on me." (Gorman and Barlow declined to be interviewed for this piece, as did Morton and Kremer.)

In a judgment delivered in December, NSW Supreme Court equity division Chief Justice Julie Ward said she believed both Anthony and Morton had tried to give their honest recollections of events. But Justice Ward was more impressed by Morton's evidence, saying, for instance, that the author "gave a more reliable (and far more plausible) account of the time at which, and manner in which, the agency relationship with Ms Anthony arose". The judge said: "Contrary to the submissions made for Ms Anthony, I did not consider Ms Morton's evidence to be disingenuous or self-serving. Rather, I formed the view that in cross-examination Ms Morton was listening carefully and seeking to understand precisely the questions which she had been asked …"

 “I overestimated how important I was to them.”

“I overestimated how important I was to them.” Credit:Tim Bauer

Anthony's claim was dismissed on the ground that there had been no oral agreement between her and Morton that entitled Anthony to ongoing commissions after Morton left her agency. In addition, Justice Ward upheld part of Morton's cross claim, finding that though Anthony had genuinely considered it to be in Morton's best interests for Allen & Unwin to keep world publishing rights, the agent had breached her contractual duty of care in failing to adequately explain to Morton the alternative options. Anthony's evidence had demonstrated a "seemingly cavalier attitude" to the financial consequences for Morton of the world rights deal, the judge said. Anthony was ordered to pay Morton almost $515,000, plus interest, as partial compensation.

Anthony was shattered by the ruling. "It's the most I've cried since my father died," she tells me. She is grateful to the publishing industry colleagues who sent flowers – the apartment filled with them – but says she would have preferred their support to their sympathy. She wishes they'd turned up at court to show solidarity. A small smile. "I overestimated how important I was to them."

Shona Martyn, who testified as an expert witness, was surprised by the outcome of the case. Anthony had, after all, propelled Morton from an unpublished unknown to an internationally bestselling author; she must have done something right. Some in the industry were dismayed to learn that Anthony did not have written agreements with her authors, as is recommended by the Australian Literary Agents' Association's code of practice. (Anthony is not a member of the association, so is not subject to its code.)

Fiona Inglis, managing director of the country's largest literary agency, Curtis Brown Australia, says doing business on a handshake used to be quite common in the industry, but written agreements increasingly prevail. "And I think this might have put a red flag up," she says, "we need to spell out exactly what the rules are, so everybody knows."

Discussing the case, Anthony alternates between sounding morose ("I end up, in the twilight of my career, with everything I've worked for and believed in taken away from me") and doughty ("Every obstacle I've faced, I've been able to get through it"). She says two clients have left but the rest remain. As her legal team considers an appeal, she is back on the sofa reading manuscripts. She can't do anything else, she says. "I have too many authors who are depending on me."

To read more from Good Weekend magazine, visit our page at The Sydney Morning Herald, The Age and Brisbane Times.

View More
  • 0 Comment(s)
Captcha Challenge
Reload Image
Type in the verification code above