The Hook

Not so long ago, I stood hip-deep in the cool waters of Willow Creek, a place that has been a part of me and those before me for more than four generations. Nearby, the quakey aspens shimmered and sang, and the air smelled of early summer and pine. The water moved clear and quiet around me, and I was certain I had everything right.

I cast. I waited. I cast again and again. Nothing.

Then, as steady as breath, I heard my dad. Calm and patient, he sounded just as he had when he stood beside me as I held my kid-sized pole with the Zebco reel, and later when we stood together, and taught my own sons how to cast their lines.

Check your hook, I heard him say, and though there were no actual words, I set to making the necessary change. My hook wasn’t sharp.

With the treble knot completed, I cast again. As always, my dear old dad was right.

Writing is like that. Someone opens your manuscript, be they an editor, agent, or reader, and you’re gifted that small, quiet moment of chance where something either catches or slips away.

It’s that first word, page, or scene where the connection begins. Or doesn’t.

A sharp hook settles in. It’s precise. Intentional. It finds its place.

So go back. Check your hook. When it’s right, you feel it.

And just beneath the surface, on the water or within the words, is the sense that something has taken hold. Your hook is set.

 

 

Back from Atlanta and Full of Gratitude

Returning to the Atlanta Writers Conference as faculty for a second year was a genuine honor. On May 1 and 2, 2026, Terrie had the pleasure of meeting with writers who had traveled from across the country to Atlanta for two days of pitch sessions, manuscript critiques, and the kind of unhurried conversation that reminds you why this profession is worth every ounce of effort it demands.

The writers who came to AWC this year were prepared, passionate, and deeply serious about their work. To meet with someone who has given that much of themselves to a story is always a privilege. It is the part of this work that never grows old.

To George Weinstein and the full team at the Atlanta Writers Club: thank you. The welcome you extend to writers and industry guests alike reflects something rare in this business, a genuine belief that the community matters as much as the craft. You have built something worth protecting, and we are grateful to be part of it.

Photos from the weekend, courtesy of AWC’s Patrick Scullin and Phil Fasone, are available in the conference gallery.

Thank you, Atlanta.

Reflections from AKALM

Mountain Reflections

“The Season Between”

by Terrie Wolf, Literary Agent and Rights Manager

 

August is a peculiar kind of hush.

Not quite the end of summer, not yet the fall push—it’s the pause between paragraphs. A comma in the rhythm of the literary year.

And in that pause, there’s just enough space to breathe in, breathe out, look back, and look forward.

Some of us are taking long-overdue vacations. Others are knee-deep in edits, contract negotiations, or preparing fall submission lists.

Mind you, we’re looking at this fall, for what could be published a fall or three down the road. Most of us are somewhere in between—holding two truths at once: the need for rest, and the work that won’t wait.

That’s what makes August special in this business. It’s when the industry exhales, or so we’d like to believe. Upon reflection, we know that August is

  • When we check in with our authors and they check in with us, it’s not just about manuscript progress, but also about our mutual well-being. Sharing a cool glass of sun tea on our virtual porch sets the mood for meaningful conversation.
  • When publishing professionals, authors, and readers return from retreats, writing events, and family holidays with reading decks in hand and a new perspective. We’re considering what will shape next year’s list, as well as those of the following year or two, and how these lists will impact the industry, and in turn, how the industry will influence the lists.
  • When book buyers look at fall catalogs and wonder: What will readers want a year from now, a fall from now, a winter from now, two autumns from now, and two winters from now, not to mention the springtime and summer season reading opportunities nestled in between those times.

…And we realize, this season isn’t quiet because nothing is happening. It’s quiet because the work is deep.

Because the publishing industry isn’t just a machine of production—it’s a rhythm of people, stories, and seasons. August reminds us of that.

So here’s what I’m holding space for this month:

  • The debut author who’s catching their breath before release day
  • The seasoned writer who’s taking one last look at what they’ve created
  • The editor who’s carving out space to fall in love with something unexpected
  • The agent (hi, that’s me), who’s rereading that manuscript one more time, both of us dog-eared (which pretty well explains my current look) and determined to make a difference

We work in cycles. And this one, this in-between, is all about a different sort of groundwork.

Let’s use it well.

Let’s rest where we can.

Let’s enjoy grape popsicles.

Let’s read something that strikes our fancy.

Let’s reconnect with the reason we started this work in the first place.

Let’s write the kind of truth that my mom would have called “rib-sticking” and real, even if it’s fiction.

 

And when fall comes—and it will—we’ll be ready.

With sharper eyes.

Fuller hearts.

And stories worth the wait.

See you on the next page!

Always,

— Terrie

Words, Freedom, and the Stories We Share

Qtq80 E6FCUI

Reflections on Independence Day from AKALM

As fireworks light up the sky this week, I find myself thinking—not just about independence, but about expression. Because freedom, in this business, isn’t reserved for one day a year. It’s something we defend, nurture, and live every time we help a story find its place in the world.

It’s the quiet courage of a debut author daring to speak truth on the page.

It’s the thriller writer holding a mirror to power.

It’s the memoirist saying, This happened. This matters.

Publishing, at its best, is an act of freedom.

Not perfection. Not performance.

But presence.

We are fortunate to work in a space where words carry weight. Where stories cross borders. Where voices that once whispered now ring out in hardcover, paperback, and translation. That’s not something I take lightly.

Because freedom of expression—real freedom—comes with responsibility.

Responsibility to:

  • Lift each other up

  • Publish with care

  • Advocate for the voices that challenge and change us

  • Do the hard work of listening, even when it’s uncomfortable

  • And show up—page after page, draft after draft—so the right story reaches the right reader at the right time

So this Independence Day, I’m especially grateful for:

  • The authors who trust us with their words

  • The editors and publishers who champion meaningful books

  • The readers who lean into stories that illuminate and inspire

  • And the sacred freedom we hold—to tell the truth, and imagine more

Let’s keep telling the hard stories.

Let’s keep lifting voices that need to be heard.

Let’s keep building something that outlasts us.

Because freedom doesn’t just live in fireworks.

It lives in books.

And at AKA Literary, we’re proud to be part of that story.

Happy Fourth, friends.

See you on the next page,

— Terrie