My blooming romance with a literary agent, as alluded to in my last post, began near the end of the SCBWI Spring Writer’s Conference. Like all great love stories it began with a moment that can only be described as—unremarkable. Let’s be honest, this ain’t that kinda love story.
After watching him from afar, we had a chance encounter at the snack bar. I looked over at him, he looked over the gum choices, and our eyes met briefly. He selected Juicy Fruit. I selected him, though to be fair, at that moment he could have been a prancing pony or a stray bit of earwax. My attraction wasn’t physical, it was literary. Behind his name were the two words I desired most: literary agent. Had I the choice between a pole dancer, a French maid or the agent before me I would have pulled myself up by my chastity straps and chosen him, hands down. I am neither cheap nor easy but the weekend had worn me down and I was desperate for the affection of an industry insider, someone who would make me feel special, needed. Or at least visible, I was beginning to wonder.
I wanted to run to him and cry out ‘please have my baby’ (by baby I mean my first novel) but I knew I had to play it cool. Instead, I made small talk about how wonderful the conference had been, even though I had mostly spent the weekend stressing out trying to meet someone who could advance my career.
The agent of my dreams, in his good natured way, ignored my insecurities without ignoring me. Having spent years trying to ignore my own insecurities I was duly impressed how he did so with such ease. Perhaps it was the gum. Juicy Fruit can do that.
Before we parted I worked up the courage to hand him my business card (you should’ve seen the cards I had made boldly declaring Author right behind my name. They were beautiful. They still make me weep). He took my card and tucked it into his pocket atop the other three hundred cards he couldn’t wait to get home and wonder what to do with. But I didn’t care. I had met someone. It was all that mattered. I watched him walk away, his lanky Midwestern backside swaying to some internal happy-go-lucky Mayberry beat. I was smitten.
That night I wrote a love letter in the form of an email complete with witty repartee and heartfelt yearning. I made it clear I knew a good thing when I saw it and he was the one destined to be my agent. I attached my completed novel GHOSTBACK and my partially finished novel THE BONE THIEF and pressed send with a rush of adrenaline, thrilled at my own boldness. I couldn’t help it. My instincts told me it felt so right. When you’re in love you have to follow your heart and reason must give way to fancy. I had watched YOUNG SHAEKSPEARE IN LOVE and knew these things. And so I sent my love letter into the dark reaches of cyberspace in the hopes a note of equal tenderness would soon be returned.
I never heard back. Two months later reality sat on top of me like a sack of baking potatoes (big baking potatoes, the kind you wrap in tin foil and leave in the oven for an hour then split open and fill with melting butter and sour cream while wondering how a milk product that's already sour can have a freshness date?). I faced a critical choice. Do I heal my wounds of unrequited love and move on or risk further rejection with a second, though slightly less revealing, letter?
Tune in next time when you’ll hear me say ‘DEAR GOD, ARE YOU S%*&%*#G ME?’ or something like that, perhaps a bit more literary and child friendly.
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