Sometimes I Embarrass Myself...

...But first an announcement. Ladies and gentlemen, it was a whopping sixty-five degrees in Seattle today. There was a time when sixty-five was an unheard of temperature, a myth told to scare a child of the south as she grew up never needing more than a light jacket. Then that child moved to the wonderful land of omg-what-do-you-mean-forty-is-warm, Seattle, Washington. Been living it up in the Emerald City for over three years now (the longest I've ever lived in one place) and I think I've finally acclimated to this godforsaken weather because when I saw sun today I busted out the shorts. It was wonderful. My obscenely pale legs might have startled the swarms of tourists making their way into the city as that time of year approaches again, but that's okay because I wore my YOLO shirt. Speaking of YOLO, have you heard this yet???

And now for my embarrassing story of the day...or I guess of my month since it's been an ongoing fiasco. A month ago today I accepted Kimberley Cameron's offer of representation. About a week or so later I received the paperwork. I read through it, grabbed an envelope and sent it back the next day. Another week passed and I get the same envelope in my mailbox with a stamp reading: invalid address. I checked the address on the top of the contract. It matched the one on the envelope exactly.

Thinking it was just a mistake by the post office I tried again. Another week. Another returned contract. Unfortunately finals week was in full swing and I was in no mood to march to the post office to sort the matter out (plus who has time to dismember a post-man during finals week?) so I set it aside to deal with when I wasn't insanely busy. After all, Kimberley was already my agent through a verbal contract and she's been busy ever since trying to sell my book.

Finally I sat down yesterday and studied the address on the contract. I was zero-two in the war with the USPS. I could not suffer a third loss. There was nothing different between my address on the envelopes and the one on the contract though! My boyfriend leans over to see what I'm doing then swivels his chair back toward his computer.

"You know that's a T, right?"

Face. Desk. Repeat.

I write in cursive. I have always written in cursive. Up until yesterday I thought I could read cursive too. Apparently not. I Googled the agency and saw that I was in fact misreading their very VERY cursive letterhead. I must be broken or something because I still see an L instead of a T.

Turning 98,000 Words Into One...Maybe Two.

So one of the things Kimberley and I discussed yesterday was the need to find a new title for my novel. I'm completely fine with that and thought it would be a fun little adventure. There's just one problem...coming up with a new title is proving to be a greater challenge than writing the novel itself. I have a few ideas I'm tossing around, but nothing is really jumping out at me yet.

When I first started writing the novel formerly known as Zhukov I had no clue what to call it. I think when I was drafting up an outiline, not even really committed to the idea yet, I saved it as something like Seattle Underground Thingum. Later it was renamed Zhukov, after the protagonist.

Every once in a while I'd stop and tell myself I needed to come up with a better title. Part of me really liked calling it Zhukov though! I mean it sounds strong and gritty. I guess that can be said for a lot of Russian names. Say it a few times. No, no. Say it out loud. There. See what I mean? But alas, I have always known it was a working title and I am so glad that my agent agrees! Onward to a new title!

EXCITING NEWS

It's official! As of today, I am represented by Kimberley Cameron of the Kimberley Cameron & Associates Literary Agency!

OBJECTIVE: Keep From Having Anxiety Attack

I am an incredibly superstitious person; that's no secret. Between you and me though, dear blogosphere, it wasn't until today I realized just how innate and positively CONSUMING said superstitions are! I have news. Wonderful, exciting and amazing news I want to tell the world about. I want to sing it from the rooftops, fighting to keep my nerves in control and stomach contents down all the while... BUT I CAN'T EVEN POST A CHEERY FACEBOOK UPDATE BECAUSE I'M SOOO HORRIBLY AFRAID THAT I'M GOING TO JINX MYSELF IF I UTTER A WORD JUST YET!

3 p.m. tomorrow. I will make it until 3 p.m. tomorrow.

Deep breath. Swallow nerves. Reapply deodorant and carry on, grinning giddily....Pray to the literary gods for me, blogosphere.

Oh Goodness..

So there I am just watching the latest episode of The Walking Dead when my phone lights up. The little icon says I've got a voicemail. I groan (partially because of Norman Reedus and partially because of my phone's lack of coverage in my own apartment) and tell myself I'll check it later since it's probably just mum anyways. The episode ends. I call my voicemail. At first it sounds like this old friend I've lost contact with, especially when the first thing she says "Well that's an interesting voicemessage." I'm combing the archives of my mind for that one friend's name when all of a sudden I realize... it's an agent.

AN AGENT.

Guys. An agent called me. An agent called me and heard my ridiculous voicemail greeting. I like to think it sounds something like "MandaMandaIN'DA'MORNIN" like the "Troy and Abed in the morning" jingle. It probably doesn't.

Oh, and by 'an agent' I don't just mean 'an agent.' I'm talking about one of my top five dream agents, Kimberly Cameron. It took almost ten minutes for me to calm down enough to call her back. I kicked my boyfriend out and distracted the polar bears with bones, but I was still so addled that I tripped over my own name when she answered...I can't even feel embarrassed about my voicemail because of how awesome I feel about that call.

One Of These Days I'll Get To Write For Fun Again!

When I signed up for two English courses and one course on International Affairs (which has an essay due every other week) I thought "No big deal. I love writing and I'm good at it." It is now week five, maybe six, and I am so utterly 'blurrrrrrghugggghghhhh' it isn't even funny. Fortunately, I did manage to get my revisions all sent out before the metaphorical poo hit the metaphorical fan. Unfortunately, I have spent every moment since then bent over a keyboard writing papers and praying to the literary gods for some kind of miracle. Something like an Ewok in a Delorean....

This is what I need to happen right now.

On a plane at 5am...

And I've been up for 28 hours... A perfect time to NOT edit.