My good luck has run out.
I met Erik when I was 19, got engaged two months later, and married him shortly after I turned 21. I knew better than to let this one get away. One of my former teachers, who really should have known better, told me that getting pregnant was no reason to rush things. [If he was right about both halves of his statement, then I am a medical miracle, with a gestation period of eight+ years…]
My anniversary is coming up in one month. I mean, if you’re going to disturb most every adult you know by marrying, young, a boy you just met, you might as well do it on April Fool’s Day. Am I right?
So there I was, 19 and engaged, turning to my best friend and saying, “I am so glad I don’t have to date around. No crowded singles’ bars, no corny pick-up lines, no uncomfortable first dates…” No “If I told you I liked your body, would you hold it against me?” No “Guess what’s on the menu? Me-N-U.” And, regrettably, no “Do you believe in love at first sight? Or should I walk by again?” I patted myself on the back (probably literally, knowing me at that age) and smiled the smile of the self-righteous.
I should have kept my mouth shut. I’m still bruised from where the 2×4 of karma caught me across the face. I’m having to do all the things I thought I’d skipped: the subscribing to dating services, trolling Twitter for possible hook-ups, inserting myself awkwardly into conversations.
Not to worry! Erik and I are doing fine. I got me a man. I’m on the prowl for an agent.
Today I queried my 48th agent. I’m pretty sure I just passed Dr. Seuss in terms of number of rejections. Oh my gosh, people, I can’t even tell you how hard that was to write. I’m actually, for the first time, hoping no one reads past the little intro that shows up on Facebook. Ack. It’s like, it’s like, it’s…well, I don’t know what the heck it’s like! It’s like gross and yuck and lame. And discouragement and despair. Like bad hair days and muffin tops and acne.
I mean. I guess.
But just like I believe that Erik and I were “meant for” each other, I do believe I’ll meet my agent someday. So today and next week I’ll be sending queries to agents 49-57 (sorry for those of you who like tidier numbers), brushing my teeth and fixing my hair and revising my newer novel and putting on my Big Girl Pants and getting stuff done.
Because when my Super Agent Extraordinaire calls, I want to be ready.