| | As of today, I now officially have a literary agent.
And no, it had nothing to do with her accidentally stumbling upon this web log, which I'm still convinced no one reads. On purpose, anyways.
I was talking with a friend over the phone, and without thinking I started a sentence with, "So I had lunch with my agent." I stopped myself right there, mid-sentence to think about what I had just said.
I bet this is the exact same shit that Stephen F. King* says to his friends on the phone. Or better yet, this is probably what every single successful author, musician, actor, and Las Vegas gay tiger trainer says to their friends on the phone too.
Yes, this felt great, but it also gave me this sudden feeling of enormous pressure. I am faaaaaaaar from successful -- especially since there are plenty of artists out there with representation who can't find work, can't find acceptance, and can't amount to more than an occasional call to tell a friend that he had lunch with his agent. Shit. I felt this wave of uncertainty and self-doubt hit me like a big fuckin' wave (sorry, still working on my metaphors) and became so anxious and worried from all this that I had to abruptly end my phone call early to take a dump.
It's what I do.
Now, with a cleaned-out colon and a clearer conscious, I can happily report that I still have no idea what the hell I'm going to do. My agent's told me not to worry about the details, to just keep doing what I'm doing (which, don't tell her, consists of Nintendo DS, The Office on Hulu, and oatmeal, lots of oatmeal). One day soon, she insists, we'll have the perfect pitch, the perfect manuscript -- and whether we toast our accomplishments or failures along the way, at least we'll be drinkin.'
Until then, I'd better get to work. On second thought, hand me that phone first. I need to call someone back to finish a sentence.
* F. is the author's middle name: Fucking
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| | Posted 4/21/2009 11:16 PM - 22 Views - 2 eProps - 1 Comment
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