I’m not going to share her name because I’d have to get her permission, and that wouldn’t be near the fun. So I think I’ll just call her Peach.
She’s a little bit of a thing, tough talker, hard drinker, reformed smoker. She’s been an agent since movable type, having been the first to represent the Guttenberg Bible. I say this tongue in cheek ever since finding out she’s actually a year younger than yours truly.
I heard her speak at a Pacific NW Writers conference. A no bullshit sort. Not that she was an agent for my type of books (she specializes in Sci Fi, Romance, Horror and Western). But I liked her and stalked her at conferences for two years. Finally she agreed to add me to her list. This was not a wise business decision for either of us, but at least we had a friendly relationship for a couple of years.
Last January, Peach took a well deserved cruise to the Caribbean. She suddenly had a terrible headache and went to the infirmary. The ship’s doctor called for an emergency evacuation. Peach was lifted in one of those basket things that hang from a helicopter and sent to a Miami hospital. There she had emergency brain surgery and suffered a heart attack while under the knife. Her family was called to say their last good-byes. All in all, cruises are supposed to be more fun.
I am pleased to say that Peach did not die … it has been suggested by the surgeons that she is too tough. She’s doing well but has been ordered to cut back on her business load. So we have parted ways. I wish her well, as I am sure she does for me. She represents the traditional world of publishing and I represent the new order (kicking and screaming my way to Indy status). There’s a metaphor here involving old and new guards, and the industry at large.
But for Peach and me, it was just a partnership that wasn’t meant to be.