In May of 2009, the Shakespeare Club performed "Twelfth Night." William pitched in by making CDs of music and sound effects for the show, grabbing lunches, and, most importantly, taking me out for an obligatory margarita or three after a long day of performances.
I'm so proud of you, Mel, he said as we clinked our fancy glasses together.
In June I attended my fourth year of the writers' conference and my second annual lunch with my agent in New York City. As I walked through Manhattan on my way to the restaurant, I prepared myself for a breakup. One could hardly blame her for writing me off. I imagined she might say something like, I miscalled this one and because of the way publishing is these days, your book is simply not right for any shelf or any market, anywhere.
And I would be sanguine, professional and walk away gracefully. Hell, it's not like I hadn't had tons of practice with rejection in my acting career...except that...I was hoping my writing would make up for those busted acting dreams, that I would find an audience again and—
I opened the restaurant door to face my agent.
There she sat, elegant and calm, as usual. If she was about to wield an axe she certainly looked cool about it.
Let's talk about a plan, Susan started.
A plan? I gulped.
Where was she going with this? I was ready, my shield was shiny and my lines were rehearsed. A plan?
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