I was in the car with TWD when I got the call. It wasn’t a call actually—it was an email—but “call” sounds way more dramatic, don’t you think?
At any rate, I lost it. TWD was telling me a story about one of his co-workers and I completely zoned out. “I need to call my mom,” I stammered. “I have an agent.”
An agent, for those of you who don’t spend your every waking moment writing, thinking about writing or wishing you were writing, is the first step in the very long road towards publication. An agent is how your manuscript (or book proposal, in my case) makes the journey from its sad and lonely existence on the hard drive of your computer into the hands of an editor who might actually want to publish it. An agent is how you become a best-selling author with the eventual capacity to buy frivolous shoes (maroon high-heeled boots; I already have them picked out), a yellow Mini Cooper and, of course, a room of one’s own in which to write.
Granted, I might be getting ahead of myself on that last one but like I said: it’s a first step. An important first step.
And it works out well for you too because it means I cannot stop blogging, much as I would like to. Because publishers are all about “platform” these days and platform is all about social capital.
Being the delightful man that he is, TWD kissed me and hugged me and told me how proud he was of me. He then drove me to the liquor store where he bought me an entire box of sangria to celebrate.
“Are you sure?” I asked. “A whole box?” (I was crying at this point. Again.)
“Nena…” he sighed, “this is your day. We’ll get whatever you like.”
So we got the box-o-sangria, a bag of Smartfood Popcorn and—because it’s not every day that one receives an offer of representation from a bone fide literary agent—an entire bar of Lindt caramel and sea salt dark chocolate.
(An agent, mind you, is still a long way from a book deal.)
After a trip to Barnes and Nobles (during which I started crying again), we drove back to his place, tried to make dinner, got a bit distracted and finally ended up enjoying our homemade peanut satay chicken a little later while watching back-to-back episodes of Millionaire Matchmaker.
This choice in entertainment, by the way, wasn’t even my idea. There are times—usually when I’m pissed off at TWD for one reason or another or waiting alone at his house while he’s off at work—that I think back to the pricey cocktails and fancy restaurants of my manthropological adventures and I wonder, “What the hell am I doing sitting here in the suburbs drinking sangria from a box?” But then there are times, when I’m dancing with TWD in his kitchen or falling asleep in his arms that I think, “You know what? I actually really like sangria from a box. And I especially like drinking sangria from a box with a man who doesn’t think any less of me for doing so.”