(continued . . . )
Funny thing about food. When someone slides a plate of spaghetti and meatballs underneath my nose, I'm going to eat it. So while David is reading my material, I'm slurping up spaghetti like a fish sucking the last drops of water out of a fishbowl.
Eventually David glances over the top of my manuscript and asks, "Where did you get all of this information about Jerry Ford's death?"
I wipe away all the spaghetti sauce residue with my shirt sleeve, burp twice, and say, "Well, I talked to people at the Ford Presidential library in Michigan, and then it also helps to be a pastor sometimes. I was also able to interview a couple of pastors who were with Ford in the days prior to his death."
"This is a unique book," David says. "Why don't I take this one and shop it around. I've got a couple of publishers in mind."
"Super-duper," I say. I've now got a verbal commitment from my new agent, my third in seven years. It feels good.
I can't wait to get back to my 1991 Caprice wagon. I realize I didn't cram any coins into the meter and I'm probably getting towed even as I slurp spaghetti. But then I may not even bother picking up the car. Now that David has promised to sell my book, I'm already dreaming of being able to buy a used Volvo that I'd had my eye on for several months. It's only got three dents in the bumper, and most of the writers I know drive Volvos. Or perhaps I'm thinking of the GMC Pacer?
(contined . . . )
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