A NY Agent Requested My New Novel. Go Figure.

I've been sending writing samples to agents since my teens. It's largely been a waste of time and, back in the day, postage. Why do I still do it? I'm an optimist. My wife says I look at a manure pile and start digging, certain there's a pony in there somewhere.

I've published six books!

It's true. I've self-published six books in two series ... three Alaska adventure books for middle-grade, and three Alaska mystery books for adults. I have a fourth book finished in the mystery series, now in the publication pipeline, and a fifth book begun. 

But in what we laughingly call my spare time ... yes, I'm also helping to renovate an 1893 house in Oregon ... I've written a couple of other books. At this point in my life I write about three new first drafts a year. I'm actually writing books 10 and 11 right now. Am I selling? Yep. 

Somehow, later in life, I got the rhythm of it. It's somewhat easy. I show up at my workstation at about 6:30, coffee in hand, and start typing. The pages fill. 

Then, out of the blue, an agent. 

The working title of the requested book is "The Dead Boy," a title no one admits liking. Except me. It's exactly right. In a nutshell, it's about a boy who has made it all the way up through Jr. High without anyone knowing he can't read. He's created an elaborate—and successful—deception, based on help from his best friend, Ozzie. In Chapter 1, as school ends, Ozzie dies. What will he do?

I didn't realize until I'd written about half of the book, that the dead boy, is the one who is still alive. His fear of being found out keeps him from really living. 

I like the book and a few of my tried and true early readers also like it ... except for the title. 

Without a lot of hope, I submitted it. 

I submitted thirty pages and a synopsis to an agent with the Jennifer De Chiara literary agency in NYC, home of all things literate. I remember telling my wife that it would take about six weeks to be rejected, best case. 

I picked the agent out very carefully and deliberately. I looked at each of the books he had repped within the past few years, checked out online interviews he had done ... about what he liked and didn't like, what he was tired of ... and so forth. I even examined his photo. He has good teeth. 

I hit send.

The next day ... the next day! ... I got a note from him. Here it is: "I like this. Could you send along the complete manuscript?" 

Could I? Oh you bet. 

What happens next?

I honestly don't know. It would be nice to have some professional person want to work with me on my literary career. It's a surprisingly lonely business. But I know it's a numbers game. A kind of literary lotto. And the odds are long. 

What will I do if I'm not chosen ... if he doesn't want to rep the book? I'll keep doing what I'm doing. He's already told me the important thing: I'm writing at a literary level that he recognizes. It may be as close to a gold star as I get ... from that world. 

My real gold stars come from my existing readers ... many of them ... who tell me they couldn't go to bed without finishing the book, or that they're having withdrawals waiting for the next one. 

Can I live with that? Oh, you bet.