My Agent Called

My agent called. I like the sound of that. I like saying it. The phrase rings so Hollywood and Big Apple, don't it? My agent called. The three words roll off the tongue like apple butter and, every time I hear 'em, I think, "I hope my agent doesn't discover how truly inept I am, how utterly devoid of redeeming qualities. I hope she doesn't figure out I'm from Indiana and that I read mostly comic books."

My agent called. It's a fact. She called to tell me that yes, she did take my latest book proposal all the way to New York and run up and down the streets of Manhattan screaming You gotta read this! She called to tell me that people tossed rotted fruit in her direction and to survive, she had to toss my manuscript into a subway gutter and ask a pencil salesman for a loan so she could call me collect.

My agent called. She called to tell me that, holy guacamole, she did love my latest novel. It's a humdinger and could I send her another'n? Yes, I told her, I can send you another'n, and another'n, and another'n. How many do you want and how often do you want 'em?

Of course, when my agent calls we do talk about important things, too. I ask her about the cold front coming in from the west and what the forecast is calling for in New York and would she ever want to meet me in Indianapolis for sushi? She doesn't. She just tells me to keep writing, to do what I do, and to keep doing it better. She tells me that, yes, someday soon (before the next millennium) she's going to sell a wheelbarrow-load full of my work.

Until then, I write. And wait. Wait until the next phone call.

Isn't this a lot like dating? And I don't date.