I – I think I’m in love. Every spare moment I have, I think of my new love and reach out – tenderly, with tentative fingers – hoping that my heart won’t be crushed as it has so many times before.
No, no, I haven’t ditched The Hubby. God forbid. My mother would kill me. I’m talking about a manuscript that I’m currently reading. As writers, we all know what it’s like to fall in love with our writing, our stories. But what about the impact your works make on those who reside on the other side of the desk. Our lives aren’t all about herding wayward beagles and press releases. It’s about the fire that ignites when reading a fabulous manuscript.
I look at this step like a new boyfriend. Vic Hamilton – my sophomore year in high school – comes to mind. I wasn’t sure if he was my type or not. I tended to avoid the super popular guys because they tended to be jerks and want what I wasn’t willing to give up. He was the total surfer dude; blond (I prefer dark haired guys), blue eyes, and the cutest dimple in his chin (that looked like a great target for my knuckles at a later date).
I took a chance on the guy because he was friendly and funny. Hey, back in high school, how deep and esoteric does one get? The more time we spent together, the better time I had. He always thought of fun and different things to do; things I wouldn’t have thought of – and weren’t illegal. Just as I started to really like the guy, it all fell apart, and he dumped me, the bastid. When he started dating that flooze Amy Hartman, I knew that his libido couldn’t outlast me, so it was on to fresher, greener, more pliable pastures.
That’s where I am with this manuscript. The first page sucked me in like revved up Hoover. The second, third, and fourth pages did the same. Before I knew it, I’d moved from my desk to my easy chair (after tossing the beagle off) and nestled in for the next couple hours. Just like Vic, I was smitten.
We’ve dated ourselves into the middle of the manuscript, and I’m afraid at how much I love this. After all, the threat of falling apart lurks around every chapter – like it has so many times before. Is this one different? It’s been six months since I signed an author, and out of the hundreds of queries that slip through my fingers, I’ve only requested fulls on six. Some of those broke up with me, others I broke up with them.
Dry spells suck stale Twinkie cream. I’m ready to fall in love again, and this manuscript has me singing in the shower. With every chapter I read, the other part of my brain is working on promotion and advertising. Oh, how the reviewers will love this. And the movie possibiliites on this are ripe, ripe, ripe. It’s like I envision us as a couple, married with a couple kids.
I hate projecting into the future, so this part really bugs me. I’ve had too many great possibilities melt like those Alaskan ice roads (totally hooked on that damn show), so I’m trying my best to shove my excitement under my hat. But it’s not easy. My fingers keep reaching for the phone to offer the author a contract right now, and the beagle is performing double duty at keeping my margarita glass full and using my business phone as a chewie toy.
I’ve considered blowing off the rest of the day to finish my new love and see if all the promises it made to me about fidelity, unending worship, and everlasting loyalty carry through to the last page. If it does, I can’t wait to send out announcements of another impending marriage.
Hmm…that would make me a polygamist, wouldn’t it? I’m good with that provided all my other spouses are happy. Ach, here’s to love!