Why I No Longer Have an Agent

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.

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Navel Lint

oly rule
Okay, I have been warned. It appears I broke the law getting within 50 yards of wildlife at Sunday’s picnic, according to this article in the local blat. I’m sure there are APBs out for all us VW club criminals. But it is not always easy to get 50 yards away from wildlife determined to climb into your lap and eat your Almond Joys. I am not sure how we could have outrun the deer in that most of us are old enough to have Golden Age passes to the parks. It’s hard enough for us all to reach a picnic table much less eject from one when the camp robbers appear. I’m sure it is a good rule. But like many good rules, it is meant to be broken followed without question.

So. Not a single vote for Fun House Chronicles cover A. Were you all scared by clowns as young’uns? I’ll make the change. Can’t do a third cover right now, BTW, due to the expense. Down the line, maybe. I’ll save your ideas. And thanks for taking the time to help. Hugs and kisses all around. Unless you are wildlife then stay the hell 50 yards away.

Sis and I wanted to take a ride yesterday. The little car was too low and the van too high for a hyperextended knee and an iffy back. Lest this sound too much like a Geriatric Goldilocks, the answer was obvious: we stayed home and ate some yummy dark chocolate. And it was juuuust right.

Posted in Animals, Fun House Chronicles, Local color, Navel Lint | 1 Comment