When I was a teenager, I promised my parents I would write the Great American Novel.
This got me out of spending a summer as a clerk at Bloomie's, where my mother worked and where she had helped land me a summer job. It's not that I was against making money; I wasn't, although I never put it as the highest priority or even any sort of priority. I just wanted to go cross-country with my friends and camp and hike and explore and learn and watch and smell and taste and soak it all in. So I convinced them that this was all fodder for the GAN I was going to write. Any day. Really soon.
My parents, bless them, said OK.
So now here I am, some 30-plus years later, with a GAN idea. It has nothing to do with anything I watched, smelled, tasted or soaked in on that wonderfully crazy summer trip that eventually sent me to the wedding chapel (the first time) way too soon. But, it has everything with what I have seen and experienced in recent years. However, I could not have gotten here without the past, you know?
So I approached an agent and she said she was intrigued. She asked me to send her the first 50 or so pages. And I did. And now ... nothing. Silence. Like when you look in the mirror after the first cut/color with a new hairstylist because you wanted to shake things up and boy, did she! You're disappointed, shocked and wondering, "Now what do I do? How could she have thought I wanted to look like this?"
What do you even say?
It has been more than a month — two months? I e-mailed her a week or so ago just to "check in" and she assured me she'll be in touch.
Perhaps there is no "more ahead" for me, as I so confidently wrote in my last blog. But can anyone tell me if this agent thing is typical? Should I be worried that she's selling my idea to someone who can spin the story into a book in a month or two? Should I be fantasizing about how that book advance will help me stay in my home a little longer — plus relieve a (lately) always fiscally-worried mind?
And does anyone in Red Room ever even write to one another? Just curious, because it seems kind of lonely here. Ah, the writer's life, right?