About two years ago I was dumped by my literary agent (my fourth). I mourned, sat around the house and cursed for a few months, and then I shook myself out of my funk and decided I needed to search for new representation. I'd scour the outer edges of the universe for a good literary friend. So I told Becky, "I'm going to find another agent."
Her response was the usual, "You'll never find another agent. No one will work with you."
My response was, "I can get an agent with a single phone call."
Becky laughed at this one and refused to cook dinner that night (which is not unusual, since I do most of the cooking and have numerous black licorice recipes).
But, like Captain Kirk, I outwitted the odds, called up Scotty and asked for more power, and I scoured the New York literary scene for an agent who was open to working with a wild and wacky guy like me . . . and then I made my call.
Ba-da-bing-ba-da-boom. I got an agent first call. Thanks, Cindy, for answering the bell!
I know we'll have some success very soon . . . all I gotta do now is remember where I stashed my best manuscripts. I'm still waiting on that apology, Becky. Or dinner. Whichever comes first.
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