Ghosted

 When I landed an agent it was a huge deal for me. It made me feel legitimate and like I was on the right path. Even if that path would be littered with disappointment and pain. 

She was well respected and sent several of my stories to big publishing houses that sent me the most beautiful rejection letters. 

I reworked a few of them and reached out to said agent. 

And then I reached out again. 

After about a month of sending emails, “Hi there! Is all ok? I have some new ideas!”  agent replied. I asked to have them sent out to a small publishing house I loved. She did and I received another lovely rejection. 

Then, a week later I emailed with a new story. This time I received an auto-reply. 

“This email is no longer in use.”

Hmm.

I double checked the address. Yes, it was correct. How unusual.

I reached out again. 

“This email is no longer in use.” 

Then I noticed, tucked at the bottom, “Please send any submissions to agenty-agent at new agency she started.”

Hmmmmm.

My agent had ghosted me. 

She started a new agency without telling me. 

I can’t make this shit up. 

I finally tracked her down and politely asked what had happened. Was she all right?

“Yes. You will need to resubmit if you would like to continue representation.”

This may well be how things are handled in the publishing world. Writers can certainly handle a few ego smacks. 

We had a contract. I remember holding it in my hands and thinking how proud my mom would be. I know that it said the only way to cancel was mutual agreement. I remember that because I thought what a heartbreaking conversation that would be. So I would never do it. I would make it work. I would work hard and write daily and make my mom and agent proud. 

The birds seemed horrified. Or at least I thought they seemed horrified. 

“It’s a sign that she wasn’t right for me.” I told myself and the bird sitting in the green beacon of hope. 

“This is actually how things are handled in publishing. This is how they weed out the chaff.” I whispered as I folded tiny baby clothes. 

Eventually my pride forced

me to swallow the moment down and forget about it. I forgot about writing for a while too. 

One morning I woke up, fed the dog and made some coffee. I stood on the front porch looking out at the lawn meadow. 

“Fuck it,” I thought to myself.

And I continued on.