I said big things were going to happen to me in this new apartment. I just didn’t know they’d be happening so fast.
Yesterday, I signed with an agent. My very first choice agent. An agent whose reputation and sheer dynamism caused me to laugh at myself for thinking she’d even acknowledge me. Who said such incredible things about the piece of work into which I’ve poured myself for three years that I had to pause and make sure she was talking about my book. So, yes. After the bitching, moaning, and freaking out, the worrying that I was just some little shit with a desire I could never live up to, the only obstacle standing between being considered for a book deal and me has been conquered. I am an agented writer, and my manuscript is going out to publishers—big publishers—in less than two weeks. Now, there’s only one piece left.
Well then. Hello, life. Glad you found my new address.
I’m going to consider myself dead for the next week or so to get the final revisions in place. All of the insane work I put into polishing this thing, correcting the pacing, and making sure it was at a seriously good place before I queried really paid off; the revisions she’s requested are few, and, once I sift through the specifics and turn Christian’s voice back on in my head, shouldn’t be that hard to bang out quickly. They have to happen fast if we want to ride the momentum. Then, I really, really set it free.
Last night, I stumbled into Emily Gould’s reading at the Park Slope Barnes & Noble that’s right across the street from my place, and it felt like a good coincidence. A young, former web editor who just put out a book. She told me to trust my gut. I think she’s right. It’s gotten me this far.
I guess the moral of the story so far is dream big. Then dream bigger. And even if it splays you out on your bedroom floor, makes you physically sick, and changes you in ways you can’t understand, don’t stop for a freaking second.
M
