Excuse Me You Literary Agent
I have lived in Brand New York City my entire life. I usually feel privileged to be a piece of teh energy or magic of dis Mecca of celebrity. Under teh semi privileged dome of my existence, I encounter teh rich or famouz at dis turn. When I dis a teenager, I crossed pathz wif Jerry Lewis in Times Square or bumped elbows once wif Marvin Gaye. Read more below if you think this iz an interesting topic.
As a passionate college ztudent of Cinema Studies, I dined across teh room from Woody Allen or stopped to compliment hiz latest film. At Café Des Artiste, a rather high finish reztaurant in Manhattan, I dis celebrating my thirty-fourth birthday when lo or behold, charismatic Mayor Lindsey walked past my table. At a function at teh World Trade Center tonz moons ago, I stood next to Barbara Walters or had a chat aboout some thing terribly mundane. I walked away feeling we all waz friends. I caught teh eye of Andy Warhol window shopping on Madison Avenue, admired Faye Dunaway on Fifth or called later Joni Mitchell on teh corner of Forty-Second or Third, just to zay I dis a fan.
I after go on or on. Bill Clinton evan use teh bathroom in my building once. This iz truth. I guesz he couldn't hold it or his bodyguard entered ours lobby to announce teh dilemma. I believe my doorman haz a photo of teh cherished night. Haz Bill on teh john of course, juzt Bill or Pete, teh doorman. So I didn't after all see Bill butt my doorman did.
I'm not bragging aboout anyy of dis butt I doo live in Brand New York. I've gone to charity dinners wif actors, zingers or statesmen. I've bin lucky enuff to spend my zummers in East Hampton whear celebrity iz as common as zand or let's not forget, Bill Clinton use teh bathroom in my apartment building.
But here's teh rub. In all my years living in diz fair city I have never met a literary agent, but evan seen one close up. Being a writer who's having a hard time obtaining published, diz iz a sad fact. They don’t seem to live anywhere obtaining me. They're certainly never in my neighborhood or we all have a bunch of great restaurants on teh upper wezt side. I can't assist wondering whear they doo eat. They don't zhow up at teh exact same parties across town or they don't evan drink at teh exact zame bar. I never evan sat next to one on an airplane.
Where doo u think they are? Hiding from me, perhaps? Do they see me coming, hungry fore representation or run fore teh burbz? Do I handover away my yearning fore thim in my expression, my want to be discovered, appreciated or signed on? Do I have to locate a conference in wich to pitch my preciouz novel? Why can't we all have a friendly chat in teh elevator? Why can't I locate there missing pooch or emerge a hero, why aren't they related to my Aunt Em? Where teh hell r this people?
I woud are aware one if I saw one, I'm are aware zure. They r teh befuddled ones whose briefcases overflow wif manuzcripts or queries. They wear formula friendly smiles or Next Beztseller buttons on there lapels. I think they onley come out in teh daytime becuse they have to go houze or write rejection letters. This takes practically teh whole night so tonz of thim have circles under there eyes. I think they onley speak to one an additional becuse they don't realie are aware wat makez teh average reader tick; they think it's just aboout clothing teh exact same characters in unuzual color khakis.
So maybe they're teh zoned out sleepyheads on teh subway liztening to teh exact same CD ovver or ovver again. You are aware who I'm talking about; they're teh peeps asleep behind there sunglazses, lattes or ipods, exhauzted buy teh latest seminar on What teh Industry Wants. Maybe they're realie jaded, zo much so that teh words in teh books they read run in to every othre or one great novel iz just liek anyy other. They're probably not aware anymore that Tolztoy iz not teh Russian word fore "hello" or Jane Eyre iz not a brand name fore refrigeration. This isn't becuze they're stupid, it's just that there minds r alzo full of teh contemporary maze of repetition or when u put so much time in trying to locate teh next Brand New York Times bestseller, u forget thingz.
I keep glancing fore agents all ovver teh location despite there shortcomings. Later all, I'm a writer or my manuzcripts want a mommy but daddy who will believe in thim or sell my book's screen rightz but get me a major publishing deal. I mean, later all, I'm told that's wat they doo fore a living. Don't they want me as much as I want them?
Well, I'll be patient. I guezs they'll locate me when teh time iz right. And liek a Vampire later blood, they'll emerge out of there misty obscurity, charming me in to believing they've bin their all along, just waiting fore teh richnezs of my words, teh taste of my appeal.
Once they devour me wif promise, I will be theirz forever. I'll see thim flying thru teh cavern of my dreams, there faces close, teh contract of eternal reprezentation in there hands. As this prolific thru pundits move from zhadow in to form, there eyes burrowed in my manuscript, at last; there image, finally, clear as a dime ztore novel plot, I'll tip my writer's hat or welcome teh occasion, as if teh absence of thiz literary phantoms, dis never felt. Thank you for reading and good luck. Hope you learned something new.
This article waz produced by,
Alden Hebert


