The Truth About Getting an Agent - Part 1
I can't imagine you haven't heard that I've signed with agent Michelle Wolfson of Wolfson Literary Agency. You had to have heard--I was yelling!!!! I need to write a post about the journey...its what I do. But if you don't mind, give me just a little wiggle room because I'd like to do it my way...
As much as I ADORE all my writer friends, I wouldn't be honest if I didn't say I've always coveted their good news just a tiny little bit. I mean, if I didn't, that would make me like a droid or something and then I wouldn't be cuddly and I might rust. So as a human, with human emotions, I'll admit that I've always been 99.9% over the moon, excited for my writer peeps--with one exception. I'm possibly just a little more than .1% green with envy of Mike Jung. He's Captain Stupendous and I've always wanted to be a superhero too.
So for all of you out there, who've embraced me with all your love and support, (I'm only talking to that .1% part of you--deep down inside where your soft and squishy vulnerable stuff is) This is for you...to remind you that it wasn't an easy journey, I didn't do it alone and that it was so worth it--so please don't give up.
This was how my journey as a writer started...
The date is June 18, 2004. Several months before this picture was taken, on this little guy's 1st birthday, my Dad was diagnosed with an inoperable brain tumor on his optic nerve. Later, in September my Dad had his last birthday. My final gift to him was the knowledge that he was going to be a grandpa for the third time. Towards the end, he would lay in bed--he was blind, half paralyzed and extremely aware of being a burden on his family. (he never was.) He asked me one day if the baby was close to coming. (It was December and my youngest wasn't due until June.) That's when I realized he was waiting. He was waiting for me and he was waiting for my baby. Once again, I held him close and whispered that I did not want him to wait. I told him that I knew he would be with me always and that it was OK for him to go. He died on New Years Day 2005. I was sad, but I was mostly relieved that he was going to feel like this again...
After he was gone I missed him terribly, but like I'd predicted--he hadn't left. He made is presence known and I started to write. This is what I wrote...
When your father dies unexpectedly you have two choices; you can let a little piece of yourself die with him or you can let a little piece of him live with you...
You know my pick.
If I Was There to Tell You
I never knew myself to be deep as the ocean.
I skated across life as if it were a sheet of ice.
At certain times, in uncertain light
I thought I saw something deeper,
but I was never truly sure.
My beautiful baby, now grown and searching,
would grab my hand and try to make me fly.
I made no sense of this...
but she kept flying and returning for me.
Always coaxing me to soar,
never understanding my fear of falling to the ice.
Fracturing completely.
As I lay dying, she held my hand.
As the dark shattered, I suddenly realized...
there is no ice when you know yourself to be the ocean.
Just like there is no ceiling when
you know yourself to be the sky.
Now I fly with her to the depths of me.
This was the first time in my life where I'd written something that came from some place bigger than myself. It was an experience of a lifetime and I was hooked. I wanted that feeling again and again but I was afraid. I didn't have a lot of faith in what I could do as a writer, so I joined an online poetry sight and I wrote more poems about everything I was feeling. I also cyber cruised the SCBWI website. I didn't think I belonged there. I felt I wasn't good enough to be a part of that, but it never stopped my from driving by.
About halfway through my pregnancy, it was my birthday, and I received a wonderful present. One I will never forget.
This is Heather. We've been friends since junior high school. We're still friends and she is a link in the chain of reasons that I now have an agent. For my birthday that year, she bought a pregnant and grieving friend, a ticket to a local author's luncheon. It was a pivotal moment for me. I heard the authors talking about their books and how they came to be standing there. I was in awe. Then we went home and sat in the driveway and talked for several hours. We shared the day and other good things and then for just a moment I felt brave and I shared something ugly. Something I was ashamed of and that is when it happened...Heather didn't hate me, didn't judge me. Instead, she felt relieved because she'd been carrying around the same ugly thing too. She thought she was alone. I thought I was alone. We weren't--now we were together and the burden wasn't so heavy to carry. I laid in bed that night and one of the biggest revelations of my life hit me.
I needed to be open and honest with people. I had done it for my father when he was dying and it was beautiful. But why should I wait until someone was dying to speak up?
I realized there will always be people who hate me and others who don't understand me, but in the big scheme of things, they are few. Most people want to connect. They don't want to be alone and my truth might be the connection that makes the difference. That night I decided two very important things...
The first--being open and vulnerable is worth the risk of having my heart rubbed against a cheese grater from time to time.
The second--I am going to be an author.
***to be continued***
As much as I ADORE all my writer friends, I wouldn't be honest if I didn't say I've always coveted their good news just a tiny little bit. I mean, if I didn't, that would make me like a droid or something and then I wouldn't be cuddly and I might rust. So as a human, with human emotions, I'll admit that I've always been 99.9% over the moon, excited for my writer peeps--with one exception. I'm possibly just a little more than .1% green with envy of Mike Jung. He's Captain Stupendous and I've always wanted to be a superhero too.
So for all of you out there, who've embraced me with all your love and support, (I'm only talking to that .1% part of you--deep down inside where your soft and squishy vulnerable stuff is) This is for you...to remind you that it wasn't an easy journey, I didn't do it alone and that it was so worth it--so please don't give up.
This was how my journey as a writer started...
The date is June 18, 2004. Several months before this picture was taken, on this little guy's 1st birthday, my Dad was diagnosed with an inoperable brain tumor on his optic nerve. Later, in September my Dad had his last birthday. My final gift to him was the knowledge that he was going to be a grandpa for the third time. Towards the end, he would lay in bed--he was blind, half paralyzed and extremely aware of being a burden on his family. (he never was.) He asked me one day if the baby was close to coming. (It was December and my youngest wasn't due until June.) That's when I realized he was waiting. He was waiting for me and he was waiting for my baby. Once again, I held him close and whispered that I did not want him to wait. I told him that I knew he would be with me always and that it was OK for him to go. He died on New Years Day 2005. I was sad, but I was mostly relieved that he was going to feel like this again...
After he was gone I missed him terribly, but like I'd predicted--he hadn't left. He made is presence known and I started to write. This is what I wrote...
When your father dies unexpectedly you have two choices; you can let a little piece of yourself die with him or you can let a little piece of him live with you...
You know my pick.
If I Was There to Tell You
I never knew myself to be deep as the ocean.
I skated across life as if it were a sheet of ice.
At certain times, in uncertain light
I thought I saw something deeper,
but I was never truly sure.
My beautiful baby, now grown and searching,
would grab my hand and try to make me fly.
I made no sense of this...
but she kept flying and returning for me.
Always coaxing me to soar,
never understanding my fear of falling to the ice.
Fracturing completely.
As I lay dying, she held my hand.
As the dark shattered, I suddenly realized...
there is no ice when you know yourself to be the ocean.
Just like there is no ceiling when
you know yourself to be the sky.
Now I fly with her to the depths of me.
This was the first time in my life where I'd written something that came from some place bigger than myself. It was an experience of a lifetime and I was hooked. I wanted that feeling again and again but I was afraid. I didn't have a lot of faith in what I could do as a writer, so I joined an online poetry sight and I wrote more poems about everything I was feeling. I also cyber cruised the SCBWI website. I didn't think I belonged there. I felt I wasn't good enough to be a part of that, but it never stopped my from driving by.
About halfway through my pregnancy, it was my birthday, and I received a wonderful present. One I will never forget.
This is Heather. We've been friends since junior high school. We're still friends and she is a link in the chain of reasons that I now have an agent. For my birthday that year, she bought a pregnant and grieving friend, a ticket to a local author's luncheon. It was a pivotal moment for me. I heard the authors talking about their books and how they came to be standing there. I was in awe. Then we went home and sat in the driveway and talked for several hours. We shared the day and other good things and then for just a moment I felt brave and I shared something ugly. Something I was ashamed of and that is when it happened...Heather didn't hate me, didn't judge me. Instead, she felt relieved because she'd been carrying around the same ugly thing too. She thought she was alone. I thought I was alone. We weren't--now we were together and the burden wasn't so heavy to carry. I laid in bed that night and one of the biggest revelations of my life hit me.
I needed to be open and honest with people. I had done it for my father when he was dying and it was beautiful. But why should I wait until someone was dying to speak up?
I realized there will always be people who hate me and others who don't understand me, but in the big scheme of things, they are few. Most people want to connect. They don't want to be alone and my truth might be the connection that makes the difference. That night I decided two very important things...
The first--being open and vulnerable is worth the risk of having my heart rubbed against a cheese grater from time to time.
The second--I am going to be an author.
***to be continued***