It’s time. You’re ready for a relationship (with an agent). All you need do now is begin your search for others with similar interests. Could be a first glance (your query letter) is all it will take to spark something. Then maybe you’ll share a cup of coffee (agent asks to see the first few chapters). Or, perhaps, the two of you will get right down to business (agent dives in and asks to see your entire manuscript).
Now you wait. Waiting is hard. Were you witty enough, sexy enough, memorable enough? Did you make her catch her breath, laugh out loud, lose sleep? Or did you leave her feeling empty, like she’d wasted her time trying to get to know you?
Two weeks pass. Where is she? Panic sets in. What if you forgot to give her your phone number? And, gasp, email address? You know you didn’t, but what if you did?
You could use a shower, but showers are for wusses. And, anyway, it’s not easy to check phone messages while standing under running water. The upside of waiting, though, is that you’ve lost your appetite and along with it, those last ten pounds. Yay!
Another week goes by and now your friends are avoiding you. You stink! And it’s not just your body odor. Your ever downward spiraling mood has sent them running. What were you thinking? You can’t write. You’re not a writer. That agent isn’t ever going to call. You didn’t show her a good time. You weren’t witty or memorable enough.
You were b-o-r-i-n-g!
But wait– Is that your phone? Ringing? You check and see that–omigod!–it’s her! Your mouth goes dry. Your heart goes pitter pat. Your deoderant fails you. Thank God she can’t smell you right now. Or see your hair. Or see how you’re still wearing that blouse you spilled coffee on five days ago.
You wait to answer, while you compose yourself. But you don’t want to wait too long, else she might hang up…and never EVER call again!
“Hello, Ms. Agent? Oh, yes, I was just doing some laundry/reading/etc. Oh, thank you. I’m glad you enjoyed it. What’s that? You’re interested in having a relationship with me?”
You hang up. To hell with composure. You scream loud enough that your neighbors think you’re having an affair with the mailman. But you don’t care what the neighbors think, because right now you’re consumed with happiness. You’re over-the-top giddy with the promise of a long-term commitment. You can’t sleep, can’t think straight, can’t do anything but smile. You’re in love.