Sigh.
Today my manuscript has been with an agent for one month exactly. I feel like I’m still single and met this amazing guy one month ago. He was gorgeous, smart, funny, charming, sincere, sweet. We talked for hours, he took my number and promised he’d call (he put it in his cell phone and I made sure he got all the numbers right). He told me that although he WOULD call, he was leaving the next day for Europe to spend the holidays with his family, and that January and February are notoriously busy in his line of work. So he might not call SOON, but he WOULD call me. When he had time.
What does this all translate to? I know Gail will get back to me, eventually. She had a FEW things to do over Christmas and New Year’s besides reading my manuscript. As if anything else could be more important than reading my manuscript. Like watching her children’s eyes as they open their Christmas gifts. Spending valuable time with family and friends. Listening to carolers. Eating sugarplums. Crap like that.
And really, from what I’ve read online and on the Romance Writers of America chats, it’s not unusual for an agent to take even two months to get back to you. One friend suggested that she’s reading it a second time to give me terrific feedback and prepare for the bidding war among major publishers. I just hope she likes it.
In keeping with my budding romance parable, I’m hoping to hear at least by Valentine’s Day. Wouldn’t that be appropriate? And I’m hoping he not only calls, but wants to take me to dinner. And marry me. In Vegas. Right away.
