Some weeks the glass is half-empty.
Other weeks you look at the glass and think, “Dang, I wish that was vodka instead of water.”
This week, I was just happy the glass was metaphorical, because otherwise it would have been smashed by the rollicking earthquake of good news I got.
It started with an email. “We at Larsen-Pomada would like to talk to you about your manuscript.”
Seriously? I thought, sitting at my father’s (dial-up) computer in New Orleans. They seriously want to reject me in person? Isn’t that a little. . . sadistic? (And me, without my rejection pants!)
THEM: “We’d like to offer you representation.”
ME: (choking on decaf) “Excuse me?”
THEM: “Um, representation. We’d like to represent you.”
But, but… this was Laurie McLean, agent extraordinaire of Larsen-Pomada. MY DREAM AGENT! Well crum, I thought. Exactly what kind of mushroom was that in my lunch salad?
Then Pam van Hylckama Vlieg, Laurie’s fabulous assistant (and agent-in-training with whom I’d been emailing), got on the phone and confirmed. Nope, no hallucination. Dream agent likes me.
For the next few days, I doodled in my notebook, “Cecily White, repped by Laurie McLean,” then I added, “and Pam van Hylckama Vlieg,” because two agents are better than one, right? I drew a bunch of flowers around it and started smiling a lot. My kids didn’t think this was weird at all. They began referring to Pam as Agent P, and Avery started asking things like, “Mommy, if you get published, will I be famous?”
ME: “Yes, dear. Absolutely.”
EVAN: “Does this mean I don’t have to eat vegetables anymore?”
ME: “Only if you want to get scurvy and die young.”
AVERY: “I like carrots.”
I thought the wave of joy had ebbed when Monday morning rolled in. Then the second call came:
PRANK CALLER: “Hi, this is Nikki Enlow calling from Romance Writers of America®. You’re a finalist for the Golden Heart®. ”
ME: “That’s not funny, Stephanie.”
PRANK CALLER: “No, really. You’re a finalist.”
ME: “Dude, you know I have caller ID, right?”
Turns out, she wasn’t kidding. Apparently it’s okay for judges to eat funny mushrooms too, because I can only assume that’s what they were doing when they read my manuscript. So yeah, I’m a finalist.
Which means my photo is going to be up on a widescreen in Anaheim and now I have to lose like, ten pounds so my butt doesn’t obscure the attendees’ view when I get there.
MY SISTER: “You can’t wear jeans.”
ME: “I don’t own anything else.”
MY SISTER: “Go shopping.”
ME: “But I look good in jeans. They’re slimming.”
MY SISTER: “Invest in Spanx.”
Yes, clearly, only Spanx can save me now. And so, at the end of one of the most adrenaline-packed weeks of my life, I am left with a nugget of awesome and a handful of Lycra.
Some weeks the glass is half-full.