So you’ve probably heard that I have an agent. Except it’s not quite official until I sign the contract. We were out of town over Thanksgiving so I figured the contract would be in that stack of held mail. I pawed through waaaay too many holiday catalogs and found . . . no contract.
The next day I came home from work eager to check the mail . . . no contract. (Thank goodness Wendy blogged about offering representation, otherwise I would have been experiencing some angst. Well, more angst.) It’s amazing how, after waiting five years, one more day seemed like forever.
The next day I came home knowing the contract would be awaiting me. I asked my husband about his day at work and tried to listen as I sifted through the day’s mail. No contract. I may have made a sound that attracted attention.
“Who’s it coming from?” my husband asked.
“Books & Such.”
“Oh, you mean in an envelope like this?” He produced the envelope from beneath his Bible.
SigningAnd then we laughed and hugged and had a lovely dinner and he took my picture as I signed the contract (that’s him in the photo on my desk). Et voila. I really do have an agent.