So, I'm sitting at my computer, checking emails, when I discovered a message from a literary agent. Following a temporary cardiac flatline, I read the note.
It was from E, an agent I met earlier this year at ALA. A few months following the conference, I'd sent her a manuscript. Luckily, she didn't reject me right away, but requested more of a complete submission — a summary of my current projects, printed book samples, and a write-up about what I seek in representation. Not a biggie, I can do that. But shortly afterward, I got word from HarperCollins to begin final art for ZOOM. Then, as the saying goes: when it rains, it pours. Fall conference season began, my work schedule jammed up, and I dropped the ball with a promising agent.
I wanted to contact her, but I felt like a dork having not followed through with such a small request. Finding her email note made my day, but I was horrified when I learned that she had been reading my blog. Oh. My. Freaking. Gosh! I dropped the email note and dashed over to my blog to be sure I hadn't recently cursed or spelled something wrong or said something fowl — you know how a brotha can be sometimes. But, whew! — I hadn't cursed or talked about politics or religion or anything that might be considered offensive, in quite some time. I did spell a few things wrong. For those who wondered, my son didn't "die" as I had mistyped. I fixed that typo, too.
Anyway, I finished reading her email. She's still interested in seeing more of my work and, thankfully, she was very understanding about my busy predicament. That's a very good sign. I'm a creative, aloof brotha-dude. I need some grace.