Saturday, April 4, 2009

Secret Agents . . . Continued


(Continued . . . )

For the first time in my life, I am about to meet a literary agent face-to-face. My previous two agents were, in essence, long-distance relationships. Sure, we had exchanged photos via the Internet, talked on the phone, exchanged emails . . . sort of like an e-harmony for writers, or one of those clubs where you can "meet hot singles". But this was different.

A few days later, I drive downtown Indianapolis to meet the guy I hope will be my new agent. Let's say his name is David. (Actually, that is his name, but for the sake of this blog, let's just pretend his name is David.)

I suggest we meet at The Spaghetti Factory, since it is near his hotel. As I drive into town, I realize I am driving a 1991 Caprice station wagon with an interior that smells like cat urine, so I park fifteen blocks away and walk in through a blinding December snowstorm toward the restaurant. I don't want to take a chance on having to drive him back to the hotel in my car and nixing the whole relationship because my floorboards haven't been cleaned since the Reagan Administration.

I have never been so nervous.

When I walk into the restaurant, a guy walks over to greet me, and I am astounded. Now, I think it is perfectly okay for a straight guy with one lifetime partner to say, but David was drop-dead gorgeous. He was young, virile, well-groomed, and he looked like he had stepped right out of the pages of GQ. Next to him, I am just an old gray fat man with a sheaf of papers under his arm. I can hardly stand to look at him without my eyelids fluttering.

David asks the waiter to give us a table "in the back" so we can talk without being disturbed, and I wonder if we are going to discuss writing, or if he plans to give me a lap dance. The waiter gives Dave a wink and leads us back to a dark corner of the establishment. I am thinking to myself, I'm glad I shaved this morning and cut my nostril hair, and I wonder if he will appreciate my choice of cologne?

We sit down, and the first thing David says is, "Tell me about yourself."

I'm not sure what to say: Well, I'm a Libra . . . I enjoy kayaking and hiking. I try to take care of myself. I eat right. I work out. And in the summer, I sometimes shave my chest hair.

No, but instead I tell him about my thirty-year courtship with writing, how I write my guts out every day, and that I would do anything short of biting the head off a chicken to have an agent like him. As I talk, I can imagine David standing by my side a booksignings and speaking engagements, overhearing the whispers among the throngs of female admirers who would say things like, "The author ain't much to look at, but good Lord ain't his agent pretty!" or "I've never heard of this author before in my life, but any writer with an agent who is that scrumptious deserves to sell a book . . . I'll take a dozen!"

An author can only dream of an agent like David, and as he leans into the candlelight on the table and asks me what I want to order, I make sure he sees my wedding ring as I order spaghetti and meatballs.

(Continued . . . . )


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