“Wow,” said the writer, shaking her head in disbelief. “My agent came to me house…”
Picture the most fabulous waterfront restaurant on Puget Sound, with an adorable waitress serving you a brunch of sourdough macadamia nut pancakes and Dungeness crab hash. As you watch the boats coming in and out of the marina, you talk about the books you’re reading, and what’s on your TBR pile, and which novels you’re really looking forward to reading, and then you talk about your kids and you laugh a lot.
And then it dawns on you. Your girlfriend also happens to be your literary agent, aka the woman in charge of the three-ring circus that is your career. This is a business meeting. You are “at work.”
You know you’re doing something right when eating and shopping are your business for the day. I’m not saying every day is like this for a writer, but
as I indulged in that lucky-author feeling, I remembered an old story. A writer came home one day to discover her house burned down, her car vandalized, all her treasured possessions gone or stolen. She stood there in horror as one of the emergency workers said, “We’re so sorry, ma’am. But at least we know who the culprit was–your literary agent.”
The writer staggered in shock. “You’re kidding. My agent? No way!”
“I’m afraid so, ma’am.”
“Wow,” said the writer, shaking her head in disbelief. “My agent actually came to my house…”
A hard day at work for my agent and me.