Jul
13

Nerdtopia.

When I was little—say, seven—I had a favorite daydream. I daydreamed quite a bit, back then, playing somewhat elaborate scenes out in my head while in the car, at school, or swinging absentmindedly on the playground. Many of these were excessively dramatic and involved my death and subsequent funeral, or more mundanely, a busy morning getting my many children ready for school. But in my favorite and most often replayed fantasy of all, I went to the mailbox, and there, at long last, was an envelope from the publisher to whom I had sent my manuscript. Inside was a typed letter (I never imagined that the “typed letter” part of my daydream would eventually seem quaint and old fashioned), and I unfolded it with shaking fingers.

They were delighted to inform me! DELIGHTED TO INFORM ME! I was going to be an author!

Next there was screaming, and happy tears, and sharing of the news, and then, if I recall correctly, things skip ahead a bit, and once again the mail plays a vital role as a large box is delivered, and squatting on the floor in my living room I open the flaps and lift out the first copies of my very own book.

NERD, you’re thinking. My GOD, what a nerd she was! And it’s totally true. But I turned that scenario over in my head with the same wistful reverence I would imagine some children felt envisioning their future wedding, or discovery of latent superpowers.

Obviously, getting an agent is not the same thing as getting that typed letter, but it’s not exactly liver pâté, either. It means that a professional, whose job it is to know these things, thinks there is enough of a chance that my book might actually end up in an honest to god STORE someday that she is willing to devote time to developing and submitting my proposal in anticipation of a future commission. And it’s not like I met her at a bus stop, where she handed me a grimy handmade business card she pulled from the folds of a trenchcoat just after she offered to put my name in lights. No! She’s very reputable, and I was introduced to her by a friend (to whom I have now promised a kidney, should the need ever arise, so Simone’s had better hold out because I no longer have a spare). And not only is she genuinely excited about the project and awfully likable, but she gets it, and that is everything, I think.

Her name is Danielle, as everyone knows by now, because I am unable to say the phrase “My agent,” and instead have mostly been saying either “My…lady,” or “My…that is, Danielle.” (Then I think, does that sound too familiar? Like I’m the kind of asshole who calls famous people they’ve met only in passing by their first names? But you try saying “my agent” without internally rolling your eyes at yourself, or blushing, or generally feeling absurd).

To tell you the truth, I thought I knew exactly what the outcome of my proposal’s maiden voyage would be. I thought it would be number three or four. I knew the boxcar and diseased pigeon and my eventual demise near a cart-return were unlikely, but I was quite certain it wasn’t going to end the way it did, either. I’ve been feeling a little emperor’s-new-clothes-y about my writing for a while now, and in the past few years I have been rejected for a couple of things that, quite honestly, I thought I was certain NOT to be rejected for. It gives a girl a complex. Now, though, I feel like a cartoon Buddha of contentment, and I think I’ve been more productive in the past week than in the last several months altogether.

I don’t know how much you all know about the process from here. I didn’t know a damn thing, and every time someone whose website I read writes a book, they post about it well after the fact, long past the proposal and agent, after the deal is done. Which may well be the sensible way to go about things, but I am terrible at sensible, and besides, you’re the wind beneath my wings and all that, and I like having the company.

So, next! The proposal gets sent to a short list of editors—think a single dinghy rather than a flotilla—and then we wait some more.

And in case you are wondering what a person does after they get the news that they have a real honest-to-god…book representative, I’ll tell you: I called my husband, sent a couple of emails, and then went to a diner to have a tuna melt and a glass of iced tea. I considered telling the waiter, but decided against it, because he would have been confused when I said “I have a…you know,” and then blushed madly while he guessed “Question? Secret? Parasite?” Eventually I would have had to spell out “l-i-t-e-r-a-r-y a-g-e-n-t” on a napkin, and I didn’t have a pen with me, so I said nothing. But I ate every single one of my French fries in celebration.

By Alexa | Posted in Ceci N'est Pas Une Ecrivaine |