When I was 12-years-old, I went to my first writers conference. My middle school English teacher had seen me ignoring all things not my notebook during class and knew I’d gotten the word fever. He gave me the conference info, and I don’t actually recall the process that led to me going, I just remember my mom driving me down to a hotel in Indianapolis in the wee hours of the morning, and being slightly concerned about getting around well enough while there since I’d recently broken my leg and had a cast on up to my hip.

It didn’t occur to me until halfway through the day that this was a Romance Writers of America conference. Boy howdy was I rocking some red cheeks that afternoon.

It was such an oddity at the time, the conference had a news crew come and do a story on this wee tot sitting there with her legal pads and pile of pencils.

Somewhere there exists a VHS tape of that newscast.

Please just assume that if you watch it, the consequences will be similar to those in The Ring.

I didn’t attend another conference until 2012. I only knew about this one because a new friend on Twitter, Dee Romito, had seen me lamenting the lack of resources in Indiana and 30 seconds of Google served her well enough to guide me to the Midwest Writers Workshop.

By then, I was a SaHM of two tiny kiddos, one of whom was still nursing, and a bucket of anxiety. My OCD had gotten the better of me as an adult and I thrived on my schedules and hadn’t been anywhere away from home by myself in…well, quite a long ass time. I’d been writing forever, and really taken it up seriously again a few years leading up to this, and had not been having super great luck with querying my YA fantasy at the time.

It’s worth noting here that I’d had such terrible luck with the YA that I was ready to chuck it all in and delete my Twitter and crawl in a hole somewhere and accept that I didn’t have what it took to be a writer. That I was going to have to deal with letting go of the dream I’d had since I was a tiny Fizz. That someday my children would find out I’d worked so very hard and for so very long on a dream only to fail miserably at it.

A single conversation with the magnanimous Brenda Drake through Twitter DMs stopped that existential crisis. It’s because of her I shelved my YA and reminded myself that the place I was most comfortable, most happy writing, was comedic Women’s Fic. Because of that conversation, I dusted off an old manuscript and got to work polishing the hell out of it so it would be ready to live-pitch to an agent.

As for the conference, therapist and my husband pushed me to do the thing. In the months leading up to it, I both was desperate to go but also periodically had raging panic attacks and begging everyone to not make me go.

My mom even sent me shopping to buy suitable clothing as I was only in possession of yoga pants and nursing bras.

While I was there, I Tweeted to my like, 50 followers that I needed a backpack to carry my laptop in and WHY WERE THERE ONLY BACK TO SCHOOL THINGS because I didn’t want to go to my first conference in 20+ years with a Dora the Explorer bag.

I posted a picture of this brightly colored owl bag and said I was gonna do the thing so GEE I hope that’s professional enough.

I can’t even explain how scared I was. I almost turned the car around half a dozen times on the drive there. I called my mom and sobbed when I got lost and ended up driving amongst cornfields. (Not a rarity in Indiana, tbh.)

When I got to the conference site, I walked in the door, head down and terrified and a very kindly woman welcomed me from behind the registration desk saying she knew who I was because she’d seen me talking about the owl backpack I was carrying on the Twitters.

I didn’t even realize until the third day that she was the conference director, Jama Kehoe Bigger.

When I walked into the main room, I said hi to a woman walking by and asked if it was her first time at the conference, too. She looked at me funny and said she was part of the faculty. I realized I was talking to Jane freaking Friedman and felt like an ass.

Sitting at a table up front, a good hour before anyone else even arrived because I was so afraid of being late I ended up being the first person in the joint, I was eventually joined by a few people at the table as the place filled up. One was a gal I’d been introduced to online by the same lovely lady who had informed me of the conference to begin with.

After the opening ceremony stuff, everyone cleared out for the night, and I looked over and saw this guy standing by the agent table and I recognized him as this newbie agent from Twitter who’d just sold his first book. I told my new pals I was going to go say hi, and omg, you’d have thought I said I was going to go do a naked can-can dance on the main stage.

In that moment, I was all me again. I was confident and happy and wanting to make new friends.

“Guys,” I said and grabbed my new friend by the wrist, pulling her with me, “they are just agents. They are still people.”

That weekend had…amazing results.

It ended with me winning an award for Best Tweet of the Conference and full requests from every agent in attendance.

The first time Dee and I talked on the phone was the last night of MWW when she asked for an update and I couldn’t even feel my fingers enough to explain and had to do a call to explain my SQUEE. I don’t think I took a single breath that entire conversation. I was too excited to breathe.

A few days ago, I sat at a table at the most recent Midwest Writers Workshop. A conference I’m now on the planning committee of. I sat there as people came up to me with early released copies of my debut novel, asking if I’d sign them.

To my right was Jane. Freaking. Friedman. To my left was Dee Romito and Brenda Drake, all part of this year’s faculty. All signing their own books. My editor, my brilliant, magnificent editor, Lauren Smulski, also faculty this year, was standing in front of us, snapping pictures and being a proud editor mama.

There was a very specific moment when I looked up and there stood Brooks Sherman, that wee baby agent I said hi to at MWW in 2012, now holding a copy of this silly little book of mine. I looked down the table at his clients, Becky Albertalli and Angie Thomas, both *incredible* successes and yep, you guessed it, current faculty.

I thought back to the first time I spoke to Brooks. How very brand new we both were. And how he’s quite the big deal now (If he tries to tell you he’s not, just know he’s wrong.) with this incredible list of amazing authors and bestsellers and general badassness.

And I was four days away from the official release of my debut book. A book I’d spent 24 years working to see realized.

A book he held out for me to sign.

Y’all. I cried. I cried a lot.

I am crying right now.

It was this moment, this surreal, impossible moment where everything came full circle and all the people who were involved with getting me to that moment in 2012 were standing right there beside me.

Lauren at one point realized that nearly everyone I gave sobbing love to in my acknowledgments was actually RIGHT THERE at MWW this year and now she had faces for all the names.

I can’t think of this moment, let alone talk about it, without tearing up like a fool. I kind of hope that never stops.

Today is the official launch date of my book, THE AWKWARD PATH TO GETTING LUCKY. That is pretty freaking amazing, I won’t lie.

And sure, I hope the book does well, and that all of you who might read it enjoy it, or at the very least, find yourself laughing once or twice while reading. I hope I get the chance to see many more book babies launched out into the world.

But no matter what, 12-year-old me is sitting here freaking out and squealing with joy and thinking that I’ve done something she would have been proud of.

Hell, 36-year-old me is doing those things. And still lip wibbling over getting to share such an amazing experience with some of her most favorite people at her very most favorite conference.

I’m going to be a weepy ball of gratitude for a WHILE, and I want to take this opportunity to thank every single one of you who has read this blog at one point or another over the last 5-10 years or so. I’ve read every blog comment and private message. I’ve laughed at your hilarious responses and cried when you all came together to support our family in times of horrible need. I’ve felt my heart grow three sizes when you’ve shared your own tales with me on here.

Thank you, dear readers. Thank you for every second of it. You are cherished and valued and I am forever humbled that you’ve ever stopped by this tiny corner of the internet to say hello.

Until next time, my darling loves,

Peace, Love, and ZOMG I HAVE A BOOK OUT TODAYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY

END NOTE: If, by chance, you should feel inclined to purchase said book, I shall casually drop links below and then scurry away sheepishly. okayiloveyoubye.

Amazon

Barnes and Noble

IndieBound

Target

Books-a-Million

Walmart

It’s a fairly well documented fact that while I am feisty af for people I care about, I, myself, am a doormat.

You’d think this would be something I hate about myself. The fact that I am very easy to dupe, and that I often get my feels stomped on.

But I really didn’t hate it. I liked that even though I frequently came across horrible people, I still maintained the ability to see the silver linings, to bounce back and find goodness. I liked being a borderline naive Snow White type person. I waited patiently for floofy forest creatures to help me fold laundry.

2016 changed me as a person.

I know I’m not alone in this.

Partly, I changed because I was struck down by an illness that keeps trying to kill me. (Rude, amirite?)

Mostly, it was the way the election seemed to lift the rock that was covering the people around me, and in their places, I saw the squirming, scurrying, slithering remnants left behind.

I live in a blood red part of a super red state. Indiana has only gone blue a handful of times in presidential elections, but in most counties, Democrats don’t even run. Candidates rarely even put information of their stances in ads, they just have to say, “REPUBLICAN!” and they know they will win.

I know there are people everywhere that take things waaaaay too far. I always sort of assumed they were the exception to the rule of civility.

When I was a kid, my uncle was family-famous for his unadulterated hatred of Democrats. Like, everyone knew you couldn’t even sniff around politics in his presence because he would get so worked up he’d start screaming at anyone in the family he considered to be liberal.

He once sent out an email to the family mailing list, written in the middle of the night as these emails often were, the result of him up alone, working himself into a ferocious lather over the betrayal of liberals. This particular email said that if he ever so much as suspected any of us were Democrats, we were dead to him. We were no longer family.

He died a few years later and my family members stood up at his funeral, recounting his hatred as though it were merely a whimsical anecdote. A charming facet of his personality.

I’ve never claimed a political party. I go where the ideals take me. I vote for what makes sense to me as a person, and what I believe is best for the people I know I share the world with.

That generally tends to fall securely on the liberal side of things.

Ever since I was a kid, I learned the two party system, while AMAZINGLY flawed, is our reality. I always hated the idea that each election, it’s a battle between right and left, blue and red. And one side will win, and the other side will be pissed for four years until the next election.

Little wee Summer had an idea that every presidential candidate should have to choose a VP of the opposing party. If we have a Republican prez, we get a Democrat VP, and vice versa. That way there is a balance to the power. You know that your interests are being represented to a degree no matter who wins. That there will be negotiation because it’s never one party with all the dice.

I honestly still kind of like that idea, ngl.

I was raised to respect differences of opinion. And I genuinely do. I will sit down and have a conversation with anyone about anything. I love to hear perspectives I’ve never considered on my own. To hear stories of lives I’ll never live. That’s how we grow as people. That’s how empathy generates.

That said, there are certain things I hold to be 100% true. Medical decisions should never be legislated. Gender and sexuality and identification should never be a focus of government other than to offer protections from discrimination. Most every religion is convinced theirs is the true religion, therefore, no religion should be used to base laws upon.

For the longest time, I was told, and believed, that it was possible to disagree with people on these and other areas of politics, but still respect the reasoning. And I did. If someone could rationally lay out their basis for something, I didn’t always agree, but I could see their position and respect the careful thought that went into it.

Somewhere along the line, people stopped carefully thinking.

Things became, “You’re wrong and I’m right, and God knows it!” or word for word rantings recycled from talk radio.

Example: At a family get together, my father-in-law, a public school teacher, stated that he would live a better life under Obama. That Obama and the Democrats are clearly better suited to care for educators. That he’d have more job stability and make more money and have more resources to teach.

“I know all that, but I still won’t ever vote for one. Especially one like him.”

I’ll give you three guesses what that him implied.

For the record, I don’t hold this to conservatives alone. I’ve seen some straight up liberal nonsense. Ask me how I feel about The Berners who to this day can’t say his name without masturbating to the sound.

I hold no patience for anyone who is content to live in a bubble and smugly declare their ALL KNOWINGNESS while being completely full of shit.

I, myself, lost my cool on more than one occasion. Apologies were issued. I’d like to blame a few of those instances on being heavily medicated, which, actually is true, but one instance in particular, I was just an asshole. I had never acted that way before, and I damn sure won’t again. I took a whole lot of accumulated rage out on a single person and I hope I never stop carrying the shame of that.

This brings me to people who were stripped raw by the stress of it all and took it out on people in tremendously unfair ways.

I actually get this. I don’t know anyone who wasn’t a hot damn mess by election day. It doesn’t make bad behavior right, but understandable, I suppose. I’d be willing to bet most of us let loose in one way or another that we regret at some point.

The difference is people who were able to take a breath, step back, and return to apologize, and people who doubled down harder.

Genuine apologies I will always accept.

I want to talk for a quick second about this bizarre phenomenon I kept running into during 2016: People, generally on Facebook, but in person as well, irate about Obama or Hillary or some Democrat, and they would rattle off some talking points.

But then I’d look further down on my feed and see someone else making a post with the exact same talking points, and I mean WORD FOR WORD, but every time, it was presented as if the poster had come up with those points on their own.

For months I studied this. When conversations in Facebook comments would devolve, I would see person after person regurgitating the exact same defenses and accusations, nearly always something untrue, and easily proven as such, but none of the people realized they were parroting. Not a single person.

I started showing screen shots to these people. Saying I knew they were getting these points from somewhere, a website, a radio source, Fox News, etc. and that they seemed to have no idea that they were literally just repeating what they had been told.

Several times it happened in the exact same thread. Multiple people saying WORD FOR GODDAMN WORD the exact same, wrong information. And even though the other people would be commenting RIGHT BESIDE THEM, they still didn’t see the overlap.

No amount of evidence ever convinced any of these people that they had been pulled into repeating thoughts that were fed to them, nor that the thoughts were wrong. They stood by them, and their creation of them, 100%.

That, my dear folks, was fucked up. I’ve never seen anything like it. It was like talking to actual zombies and each and every one of them thought they were the first zombie to ever consider brains as a tasty treat.

It’s literally one of the most surreal pnenomeons I’ve ever seen.

So my ability to have differing opinions but respect their reasoning was coming to a rapid end.

I’m not a religious person. I used to be, but that ended when I was 16 and our new minister started quoting Rush Limbaugh from the pulpit and when I refused to denounce all other religions outside of our branch of Wesleyan Christian as bound for Hell, I was asked to leave the church I’d attended since I was an infant.

That said, I’ve had people in my life I look up to, religiously-speaking. I may be confused about God, but these people weren’t. I looked to them with hope. I considered them my spiritual guides. People that I could learn from, and maybe, hopefully, find my way to a peaceful place with religion.

And then 2016 shot that all right to Hell.

A family member who is a popular minister began posting horrifyingly false articles on Facebook. Things like Obama was setting up death camps for Christians all around the US and he was going to overthrow the government so he could stay in office and round up the holy folk to die.

This is a person who has parishioners and people who look up to them for guidance. And they were straight up LYING TO THESE FOLKS. A goddamn preacher. Using his position as a spiritual leader to manipulate his followers into fear.

Another family member, truly the most gentle and kind woman I know, began posting near hourly articles about Obama the Muslim terrorist, Clinton and their pizza sex ring, and, my personal favorite, how Hillary had been in a lesbian love affair with Yoko Ono since the 70’s.

I tried very calmly posting links to facts, and told her I was worried about her spending all day going further and further down these rabbit holes. That it seemed to be making her afraid and paranoid.

She told me she loved me, but she knew the truth.

I left her to her posts.

Then came friends, business associates, neighbors. People that have standing in their communities. People that others look up to. People who are trusted. People I truly loved and respected were constantly spouting genuine nonsense.

And these fools were posting over and over, things like Hillary supported abortions up until the 40 week due date. That Obama had written an executive order to ban all guns. That Hillary and Obama had passed an order to rewrite the constitution to make him King. (?! even.)

Things spiraled horribly. People got more and more upset. The more horrible things that came out about Donald Trump, the more people jumped out to defend him.

I mean, you know. You were there.

The day the “pussy grabbing” video came out? That night, my neighbors decided to put Trump signs in their yards.

They posted on Facebook that this was a direct assault on me, I’d put up a Hillary sign, after all, and I needed to learn my place, LOLOLOLOL.

But like…they saw a video of their candidate bragging about sexual assault and THAT is what moved them to publicly show their support? Enough to scurry around in the dark at like 11pm to find someone with extra signs to put up?

People started reminding me how many guns they had in their homes.

Someone showed up at my house one day. They’d been walking the neighborhood looking for my kids playing to find our house.

I had a horribly uncomfortable conversation with my kids the explaining they weren’t allowed to play in the houses of anyone in our neighborhood anymore without express permission and how they wouldn’t be able to play in the front yard as often.

After a particularly lively week in which one local woman demanded I admit Hillary and Obama had a machine funded by the Rothschilds that made the hurricane before the election to distract voters and steal the election (this was AFTER the election, btw.) and another charming fellow who posted 75 times in 30 minutes on my Facebook wall while I was in the hospital, opining how he delighted in his plan of forcing myself and my liberal friends to drink bleach and die, I’d had enough.

No, I don’t have to respect your opinions. I really don’t. No one does. If you can’t come up with anything but cartoonishly absurd lies to back up your beliefs? You get dick from me.

This is not a difference of opinion. This is not me lacking respect for your “God given right to vote.” (Which, by the fucking by, God didn’t give you shit to vote. That’s not under his job description, jeez.)

Let me say this again for the folks in the back: NO ONE HAS TO RESPECT YOUR BULLSHIT. NO ONE.

I’ve always been a people-pleaser. I’ve been the person who will talk calmly through any situation to keep things from escalating. I’ve been the doormat.

And maybe my mom is right, maybe things were better when everyone kept their opinions to themselves. When no one dared ask about political preferences.

But honestly, I would rather know.

I’d rather know that a business associate uses their position of power to scare people into voting the way they do. That a minister is willing to lie to his flock to support his agenda. That someone is willing to enlist their children to bully my kids to teach me a lesson about being a liberal in a red city. That people are willing to throw friends and family to the political wolves because they read that Hillary Clinton aborts toddlers while selling puppies into sexual slavery while simultaneously running a badass pizzeria and having kinky lesbian sex with Yoko all up on the bar.

I would rather know that people are so goddamn afraid of people who are different than them, that they let themselves be manipulated by fantasy. That someone I know and trust is so fucking afraid of gay folk or people with brown skin or any religion other than Christianity or any of the things that aren’t cishet whiteness, that they will contort reality and their religion to excuse their bigotry.

Maybe my patience ran out when it became an issue of putting energy towards accepting willful ignorance or keeping myself alive. Maybe my ability to turn the other cheek disappeared when I became afraid of being in my wheelchair in public because I didn’t know which of my townsfolk had decided to threaten my life that week and I couldn’t make a speedy getaway.

Maybe it’s because no one should have to look at racism and misogyny and ableism and bigotry and xenophobia and have to laugh uncomfortably and say that, SURE, we respect the difference of opinion and in NO WAY SEE THAT YOU ARE WRONG AND FULL OF HATRED.

Because no matter what happens with this dumpster fire of an administration, I can’t unsee what they’ve done. I can’t put the curtain back and pretend I didn’t see the shriveled, mediocre white dude pulling the levers. I can’t respect the disrespectful.

And that breaks my heart.

I’m angry that those people shape our country. I’m angry that they still think those things are okay. I’m angry that they don’t care who they hurt day in and day out because those people don’t look like they do. I’m angry that empathy has gone the way of the dodo.

I’m angry that there are people who turned pliable human beings into their own shit-flinging flying monkeys to sway votes and make money.

I’m angry that the goddamn monkeys have no clue they are monkeys.

I’m angry that they took one of the last purely innocent parts of my soul and squished it to death under a pile of rancid Breitbart articles.

I’m angry that people I loved turned out to be literal monsters.

I’m angry that I’ve seen myself turn into my own form of monster when trying to provide air support to people I care about.

I’m angry that none of them have any shame.

I’m angry that when I look at these people, that’s all I see. Flashes of red and disappointment that tastes like metal in the back of my throat.

I’d like to say you won’t like me when I’m angry, but alas…

But underneath that hulking green exterior I’ve grown, I do believe that the good guys always win in the end. Or at the very least, the bad guys get their comeuppance.

And I know that I’m not alone in mourning the loss of friends and family to an insidious 24 hour media cycle.

I’ve always considered one of the highlights of my being adopted is I know family isn’t about blood.

Sharing DNA doesn’t make someone a necessity in your life.

And yeah, I am sad about the people that have fallen along the way, but I am too old and too sick and too annoyed to spend a moment more than I need to on people who actively work to hurt others while clutching their pearls and holding their Bibles to their chests.

So, if you’re one of the people who has spent the last six months or more blinking at the relationships of yore and wondering WTF do we do now? Know that we are all here with you. We are out in this together, and we aren’t going anywhere. We won’t always get things right. We will screw up and learn and try harder next time. We will listen to people smarter than us and project the voices of those who need it most. We will adapt and grow and fight.

And we will do it together.

I hope you all are delightful and strong,

Until next time,

Peace, Love, and SMASH.

Welcome to another Fizzy Fangirling post! It’s been an age and a half, amirite?

Today I am thrilled to bring you a chat with one of my absolute most favorite folk in all of publishing, literary agent/author/White Castle enthusiast Eric Smith!

Eric is an agent at P.S. Literary Agency, and author of several books, including the upcoming anthology WELCOME HOME. (As an adopted kid myself, I am so, so unspeakably excited for this book, you guys.)

He is also the human of Auggie, Super Corgie.

In addition to his writing, agenting, pup wrangling, and being one of the most genuinely kind people I know, Eric will also being gracing Indiana with his presence in July as faculty at the Midwest Writers Workshop!

And away we go!

1. First off, how long have you been an agent? What made you want to dive into this wacky business in the first place?

I’ve been at it for two years as of… wow, as of just a week ago or so.

I’d spent a solid few years working at a publishing house in Philadelphia (hi Quirk Books!), and while I adored every single minute of it, I wanted to really work on my own projects. When the opportunity to agent surfaced, with an agency that was on board for me to take on any wild idea and just let me run with it, I jumped at the chance.

It’s definitely a wacky business, but so extremely fulfilling. I love the book community.

2. What genres do you represent? How important is the genre, or will you take on something different just because it gives you the feelings?

I’m a little all over the place? Young Adult across all genres… that’s where my heart is, absolutely. I’ve sold more YA than anything else. But I also really love quirky and hard hitting non-fiction, voice-driven sci-fi and fantasy, and cookbooks.

Genre is pretty important. Some stuff I just don’t quite get, because I don’t read enough of it. For example, I don’t work on Middle Grade books, because I simply haven’t read enough of it to feel confident that I’d know what’s good. Same with say, commercial horror novels.

3. Tell us a little bit about how writers go about snagging a magnificent agent such as yourself?

Aw, you! It’s really all about that query letter? That’s how most of my clients have snagged me. A great query with a solid hook is the best way to get my attention. And show that you’re well read in your genre. If you don’t read YA, don’t query me with a YA novel. I’ll be able to tell.

I also lurk really hard on pitch contests like DVpit and PitMad. I’ve signed an author, and consequently sold her book, thanks to one of those contests. Same with conferences, really. I go to a lot of them, always looking for unique projects and talented writers.

Though remember, even though social media explodes around those digital pitch sessions and conferences attract plenty of agents… you can always nudge someone via email the traditional way. All that public stuff isn’t for everyone.

4. What’s your favorite part of your job? For balance, what makes you cry sad, agenty tears now and then?

I think the feeling of finding something magical in my inbox. That gasp moment, when you’re reading a manuscript you’ve requested, and you just KNOW this is THE NEXT ONE. That feeling is amazing, and then all the stuff that quickly follows. The phone calls and the screaming.

And the sad feelings, ah, those sad feelings. Probably the worst is when a project doesn’t sell. Because as an agent there’s this huge responsibility on your shoulders, you know? It’s not just someone’s book. It’s their dream. And when you can’t make it happen, it hurts.

But, there’s always the next project. And you push on!

5. Do you have any stories that are now, “The one that got away?” If so, did it change the way you looked at submissions from then on?

Oh goodness yes. Just last month I lost out on two projects I really wanted. And now and again, I search for those older projects I didn’t get, to see if they’ve been picked up and sold.

At first it made me feel like I had to get to stuff way faster. But now… well, here’s the thing about the bookish community. It’s a supportive, lovely bunch of people. Sometimes the folks who pitch me end up following me on Twitter, and we talk a bit. And when you see them get picked up by someone else, it’s your job as someone in the book world to do a little shifting.

You, to use a terrible startup buzzword, “pivot” from the business side of things, to the fan side of things.

Didn’t get the book you adored? That’s okay. Become a fan. Support that voice. You loved it for a reason.

6. You’re an author as well as an agent. How do you maintain that balance?

I don’t? Hahah. Honestly, I only focus on my stuff when all my authors are taken care of. If I have a project that hasn’t been quite put out on submission enough, or an R&R to read, or a new manuscript from one of my authors who isn’t currently being pitched… then I can’t work on my own writing. It’s not my turn. It’s as easy as that.

I feel this like, crushing guilt if I try to work on my own projects when I know I have work to do. So that certainly helps.

7. What’s something you’re working on right now that has you all aflutter?

Things are really revving up for the release of Samira Ahmed’s debut, Love, Hate & Other Filters. I saw the cover the other day, and it’ll probably be revealed by the time this post goes up. And this month I get to see her at her first signing at Book Expo America. It’s a real joy, considering we were just pitching that book around a year ago.

8. You’ll be attending the Midwest Writers Workshop this summer as faculty! For those on the fence about attending, woo them with some details on what you’ll be offering up in your panels/sessions/critiques.

It’s true! I’ll be dishing out plenty of advice about querying, listening to pitches from authors, and giving lots of one-on-one tutorials during those little sessions. Also, I’m not a stand-off-ish guy! If you see me wandering the conference and want to pick my brain, come say hi! As long as I’m not in the bathroom, I am up for a brain pick session.

I try to be as encouraging and honest as possible, and even if a project isn’t for me, I share everything with my colleagues at P.S. Literary. So you aren’t just pitching me. You’re talking to the whole agency.

9. You recently announced you will be forgoing any agent fees or honorariums at conferences and instead wish the money to go to funding scholarships for marginalized writers. What motivated you to make this decision, and how do writers go about applying for said scholarships?

It’s true! At least, that’s what I’m trying to do. A lot of these conferences, even the smaller workshop ones, tend to be a bit expensive, and that pushes out people who might not be able to afford them, and could truly benefit from this kind of event. Publishing and all of the advice at these conferences should be accessible.

Growing up, there’s no way I would have been able to afford a lot of these conferences and workshops I currently attend. In college, in graduate school… still no. So I’m trying to do a little bit, for people like me that didn’t have the access.

10. I would like to use this opportunity to share more Auggie with the world. Throw us a pic of puppy cuteness?

Done. ❤

11. As is customary on my blog, it is here I require an embarrassing or hilarious moment. Bonus points if industry related. Double bonus points for accidental nudity.

My wife and I just finished moving to a new city, and right in plain view of my computer right now, is our tandem bike sitting in the yard. I bought it for her as an anniversary present, back when I still worked at that publishing house.

I had it shipped there so she wouldn’t know about it, put it together with one of my friends, and then rode it home to surprise her as I rode by the house.

However… have you ever rode a tandem bike ALONE?

I’ll never forget the stares of people as I pedaled a tandem bike from my old publishing house to my home, alone. They looked at me like “aw… does he know?” as I rode by. As though maybe I wasn’t aware that I was alone.

It was one of the funniest and most embarrassing moments ever, and I think about it every time I see that bike.

Fizzy again. I am dyyyyyying at the mental imagery of this bike, omg.

That’s Mr. Smith, dear loves!

Find Eric on Twitter HERE

Frolic on his website HERE

Check out and buy his awesome books HERE

And most importantly, register to see him live at MWW HERE

As always, if you have any questions or comments, throw them in the comments below!

I hope you all are delightful and grand!

Until next time,

Peace, Love, and That Bike Tho…

Welp. It’s been forever and then some. I’ve wanted to come onto this silly blog of mine so many times to say…anything over the last few months, but no matter what I came up with, it paled in comparison with the active sewage fire that is the world as a whole right now.

I kept thinking I would hop back in once things normalized to a degree. When it felt right to talk about our lives like it’s not a tiny splinter in a termite-infested national home.

There’s something to be said for the acceptance that things are just not going to disappear into that goodnight where we can just shut it all off forever and pretend there’s even such a thing as normal anymore. Or maybe there never was.

But. As my blog is my mental dumping ground for all things confessional, the place I work through life, and the place I keep everyone up to date on life things, here I am, unpacking.

A few Fizzy Family things to note, really.

First up: On October 3rd, I woke up in super not okay pain. Hubs whisked me off to urgent care, I was sent to the ER from there, and I’ve been trapped in bed ever since. I’ve lost 60-ish pounds in about 3 and a half months. I had my gallbladder out. Passed my first ever kidney stone. Was hospitalized for a week, missed my son’s birthday, had to sit out every holiday, and haven’t been able to eat much more than Ensures and soup since that random October 3rd. I’m generally so weak I can’t even sit up in bed to read or write.

I’ve had more doctors appointments and tests than I knew existed, I have had many of them twice. I had a spinal tap. That spinal tap didn’t go well and I spent a few days leaking spinal fluid. I do not recommend this.

Here’s what we know: My gallbladder stopped working. We thought that was the problem. Nah. My stomach is partially paralyzed, a disorder called gastroparesis. We thought that was the problem. Nah. Then we discovered my brain is being squished by spinal fluid. We thought this was the problem. Nah.

This list goes on for a while.

However, they learned those are all symptoms, not the cause.

The cause is a disorder called dysautonomia. Cliff’s Note version is this: It’s neuropathy throughout my whole body, and it’s shutting down basically everything.It is a common disorder in one degree or another. Most of the 70 million people worldwide don’t even know they have it. However, this level is NOT common. I have a very severe case, or “global” dysautonomia. It can, in fact, kill a person.

Whiiiiiiich is right where I’m at. My organs are just sort of…shutting off. My gallbladder was fine, but it just closed up shop one day. My stomach just doesn’t work and I can’t eat. The blood vessels that take away spinal fluid waste from my brain have stopped functioning properly. I keep getting kidney stones. I can’t see well. My memory and concentration are nonexistent. I can’t walk without falling over or blacking out. I ride in a wheelchair now. It’s gotten to my heart and my blood pressure and pulse are borked.

Basically, I’m shades of fucked I didn’t think were possible.

Randomly: All the bizarre health problems I’ve had over the years? They are tracing them back to this disease. They believe it first showed up when I was 12 and started having untreatable migraines. The 60+ migraines I’ve been having the last year and a half? Same. The massive migraine that led to the heart attack? Possibly.

The doctors think my autoimmune disease, psoriatic arthritis, is what kicked this shit into high gear on October 3rd.

There is no cure, but there are treatments, so that’s what we are desperately searching for. The good news is once we find the successful treatment? I should sort of just…snap out of it. Like, I will all of a sudden be able to walk and eat and all of it. I’ll need to be on something for the rest of my life, but, hey, I’ll take it.

So, yeah. I’m actively trying to not die? Now that we know what the problem officially is, we are rooting for a successful treatment. If we can’t find it in the next few weeks, I will be shipped off to the Mayo Clinic and we will kick some ass.

Bottom line is I am quite annoyed and man does this disorder not know who it’s tangling with.

Next up!

Late 2015, my husband was hospitalized when he became suicidal. He was on disability for a good chunk of time while he did outpatient care, and has been in treatment and therapy and so on every since.

Please note I got full permission from him to tell these tales.

The secret here that almost no one knows is this:

He never really got any better. At all.

Some bits improved. Some bits got worse.

He is still suicidal.

There was a lot of confusion. He was doing everything right, sort of. He was going to all the places and taking all the medications and he definitely wanted to feel better, but he wasn’t at all committed to it, if that makes sense.

Many parts of his personality got worse. For a long time I blamed this solely on my health and the extra strain my illness was putting on his recovery.

I can’t imagine it’s been fun for a second to be trying to deal with his own severe illness while your significant other is completely invalid.

I’m going to try to be succinct and plan to come back to this all in a later post because I think it desperately needs to be discussed, but I’ll be very honest there were some very DEAR GOD moments that had me trying to figure out how to keep him alive but also how to get the kids and I out because things had severely deteriorated. (Note in like a, fearing for our lives or danger way, FYI. BPD tends to cause people to be less than considerate to their loved ones. Again, I will do a post all about our group experience soon.)

There was a day, a very bad day, where I ambushed him at his therapy appointment. I cloak and daggered some serious shit from my sickbed over the course of weeks.

We were losing him to a disease that had taken over.

After my months of dealing with doctors trying to treat symptoms, not causes, it hit me.

I was sure, like 100% beyond a doubt COME AT ME BITCHES sure that he had a disorder that is notoriously difficult to ever diagnose, let alone treat.

So. Ambush. I’m not even sorry. I will always do whatever needs to be done to save a life.

The poor lad was diagnosed officially with Borderline Personality Disorder a week later after therapists, doctors, evaluations, DNA tests, etc. weighed in. (The DNA test showed he wasn’t absorbing any of his medication properly. Some of it not absorbing at ALL. Which…is not helpful.)

He’d spent years being treated for anxiety and severe depression. Which were accurate. But they weren’t the dragon to be slayed. It’s like he and his doctors had been fighting the pain an organ failure from cancer without even knowing the cancer was there.

It’s damn near impossible to get better unless you know what you’re fighting.

Yes, we have taken many a-moment to blink wildly at the surreal parallels between our situations.

My body gave out, but my mind was still mostly functioning. His mind was under seige, but his body was working fine.

If you combine us, we are either one super-bionic person, or we are a HOT DAMN MESS.

It has waffled back and forth between those more than a few times, not gonna lie.

Drew is now being treated for the disorder and the symptoms, his medicine has been tailored specifically to the way his body metabolizes various drugs. He will have good days and bad days and some really awesome days and some scrape him of the emotional floor days.

He is trying. He is working hard. He’s got this, and he’s got us for support.

(BTW, he is @quikchaos on Twitter and looking to bond with other people with BPD, so he encourages anyone to reach out to him to talk or just be pals! Also, I am very really stuck in bed, so I am also around for chats.)

Add in an election season that would make Lucifer himself say, “Okay, but dial it down guys, damn.” and things are bananas.

I took all those after-school specials way too literally as a kid and honestly never thought to hide who I am as a person while always being welcoming and respectful of others. (I mean, I certainly try to?)

Yeah. That didn’t fly once mid-October hit.

I put a Hillary sign in our yard. I have been punished for it ever since.

Literally. Local people have formed these like, bizarre mean-girl gangs to taunt and harass me. We’ve had someone threaten to shoot me or burn our house. Parents have had their kids start picking on our kids.

Not that I want pity or anything, but none of these people started acting this way until after I became bedridden, for the record. And every one of them knows exactly what my health situation is.

They are punching waaaaaaaaaay down right now.

But hey, they find it funny and of my own doing for being liberal in a hyper-conservative city, so whatyagonnado, amirite?

In the spirit of full-disclosure, I don’t have the patience I once did. For 8 or so years, I’ve lived here, letting people make mean cracks about me and smiling through it. I’m used to saying “hi” to other moms when I chaperone field trips and having the other moms scowl at me and literally walk away without replying. I’m used to people slamming into me with their carts at the grocery store just because I look different. (Seriously. Thing that happened.)

I can find redeeming qualities in just about anyone, and be friendly even to the most hateful folk. In the past, I’ve always tried to keep the peace and never speak up when they behave in these ways because I didn’t want to have this exact sort of thing happen.

But I am too damn old and too damn sick to allow toxic people to take their doormat stomping desires out on me anymore.

For the official record, not every person here is a monster. (I am shocked to hell at some of the people who turned out to be. Dude.) There are a few people in this town that are goddamn treasures. Honest, good, thoughtful, caring, kind people.

When my air rescue comes, I hope there’s room in the chopper for those folks. I hate the thought of leaving them here, but we all know damn well we can’t stay here anymore.

As you can imagine, this has all been a hoot and a half on the kids. I have them both in counseling to try and stay ahead of things. And for the first few months, things sucked, seriously, but the kids and I are really finding our groove here.

I hate all the suffering they’ve had to feel, and see from us, but man, these kids have developed some nuclear level empathy that will live on in legend.

Silver linings, baby.

And that’s the update. We are in a desperate quest to get the wild holy hell out of here as soon as possible. One so hubs and I can both have access to specialists that can give us the care we need.

Plus, there’s that whole the pitchfork-wielding townsfolk periodically threatening to kill us thing.

*DEEP BREATHS*

Looking at things through the filter of what’s happening in the world right now, our lives don’t seem important in the slightest.

But within the walls of this house, lawd, we are fighting hard to keep swimming.

And we will. We will triumph.

Plus, I need to get healthy because I am very disappointed I haven’t had the opportunity to punch a single nazi.

That’s just wrong.

I still hope you all are well and wonderful, but realistically, I hope you all are finding a way to survive and resist and find flickers of joy wherever you can.

Until next time,

Peace, Love, and Keeeeeeeep Swimming

I don’t blog nearly as much as I used to. I miss you guys.

The reason I’ve been more silent has a lot to do with my general content. I tend to use my blog as a sort of group therapy session. I purge the feelings, and so love to talk with people who are going through, or dealing with, similar situations.

Y’all keep me sane, basically.

The end of last year was a nightmare and a half. And you amazing, wonderful, glorious people saddled up and rode the the rescue of my family. Which we will never, ever forget, nor stop appreciating.

I was so humbled by the absolute flood of support. I still don’t have words for how you all saved the day.

What I wanted to do was come back to blogging and say how great things were going, to show you that your hard work and generosity had fixed all our ills, and I’d be back with stories of shenanigans and hilarity.

Alas, that’s not how the year has played out.

And as much as I wanted to come here and purge, as is my wont, I didn’t want to keep showing this WOE IS MEEEEEEEEEEEE side to everyone. I didn’t want people to see the dumpster fire that is life.

Which makes me feel guilty. I take pride in the honesty I put online. And I love when some bizarre thing I’m dealing with ends up being something a reader is dealing with and we e-hug and squeal and talk each other through the rough stuff.

Those kinds of things mean the world to me.

But the idea of being known as a perpetual train wreck didn’t seem like a fun idea.

So, for the last six months or so, I’ve been isolating myself more and more. I don’t blog. I don’t do live-Tweet movies anymore. I don’t talk to close friends but rarely.

My life for the last year has basically been keeping things fantastic and functional for my kids, keeping my husband alive and assisting his recovery as much as possible, helping out my parents with their own health issues and household necessities, working on my book, and so on.

But, while all that was happening, I also broke my ankle in January and had to wear a god awful boot and use crutches for three months. I couldn’t even drive which was balls.

In March, I was diagnosed with an autoimmune disease, psoriatic arthritis, and started weekly chemo to manage it.

My dad nearly died in April because he’s a stubborn fool of a man and waited until he was circling the drain to tell anyone he felt bad. Turned out his kidneys were infected and he’d gone septic and also had pneumonia because weeeeeeee.

In the last two weeks alone, I had an attack of ovarian cysts, a horrible internal ultrasound to pinpoint those cysts, my daughter broke her arm falling off her scooter, my son had a horrible reaction to a vaccine he needed for school and was sicker than I’ve ever seen either of my kids be, I re-injured the ankle I broke by falling in a bunny hole, our beloved family guinea piggy died, my aunt died, I got switched to chemo injections because the pills weren’t working, and hubs rushed me to Urgent Care where I was promptly transferred to an ER where they discovered I’d recently passed a kidney stone, and have ulcers in my stomach, and they’ve spread to that tube that leads out of the stomach.

I’ve just accepted my life is a comedy of errors and I’m rolling with it.

But today, my therapist put her foot down: I need to slow the fuck down. Like, full stop.

I like taking care of people. It pleases me to do so. It’s kind of what I live for.

And people need the care. My kids. My husband. My parents. My friends.

So, through all the new dramatics, I trudge through, insisting I can totally still handle all my responsibilities, all their responsibilities, and still manage to be sane in the process.

In my mind, I’m spry and capable. I am dedicated and determined.

But now my body is all LOLFUCKNOPE.

My body is not the same as it was a year ago. It just isn’t. Psoriatic arthritis isn’t something I can just positive think my way out of. There are days I can’t drive because my hands hurt too much to grip the steering wheel. Sometimes my joints are so flared up, I can’t walk out of my bedroom.

The chemo makes me so ill I’m out of service for about 24-36 hours every week. My immune system has completely tanked.

But I ignore all of this and keep flouncing on, pretending I am Wonder Woman and twirl my lasso with a sassy wink, all the while I’m in so much pain I may actually puke on whomever I am assisting.

As my therapist put it, ever so delicately, “You’re killing yourself. Literally. If you don’t put yourself first, you are going to die.”

That was soothing.

She’s not wrong.

D’ya know, when they told me I’d passed a kidney stone, I was like, how the hell did I not know?

But when I stopped to think back, I remember exactly when it happened.

I was grocery shopping and got hit with these stabbing, ungodly pains in my abdomen that went straight through to my back. They were so strong I would yelp and double over and it sucked the air right out of my lungs. For two hours straight this pain kept punching me right in the gut.

I told myself it was probably just a cyst, or if it kept up, I’d go to the doc the next day or similar. The pain was at OMG CALL 911 levels, but I kept on keeping on.

Why? Because I was grocery shopping. And if I didn’t get back in time, I wouldn’t be able to get dinner started for the family, and we’d promised the kids a cookout in the backyard. This was a redo of the one we had to postpone when our son got knocked out by the vaccine.

I didn’t want to let them down.

And I look back, thinking of how I kept a death grip on my cart at Target, gasping through the pain, dropping down to the floor to try and catch my breath, and the whole time, I’m telling myself it’s totally probably fine, and if I waste everyone’s time by going to Urgent Care at that moment, it’d be nothing at all and I’d cock up everyone’s day.

Like. Guys. I thought pain that was literally dropping me to the ground WAS PROBABLY FINE.

I am STRESSED THE FUCK OUT OKAY.

I take a rescue remedy kind of medicine for my OCD when needed. Last week, I realized things have been building up more than I’m comfortable with, so I went to my doc to get back on a daily medication as well. Even that was before the ER/ulcer visit.

But even with that help, which I’m thrilled to have, the therapist is right. I need to slow my roll in a big way.

My homework for the week is to put myself first. Even over my kids. (GOD THAT FEELS WRONG GUH)

I have until Thursday to see if my ulcers respond to meds or I have to go in for an endoscope and all the other horrors.

And so, it’s Mom’s Week Off. I’ve been ordered to do nothing but focus on resting, healing, writing if it brings me joy, and more resting.

This is so, so unbelievably hard for me. I’m a lousy patient.

Related segue: I’ve never seen any part of Downton Abbey except for the scene where some dude’s ulcer bursts at the dinner table and starts spraying blood and he dies. It was not a pleasant viewing experience.

And today, when I was running an errand I shouldn’t have been running but I seriously never learn, and trying not to hurl in the dairy section of the supermarket, I kept thinking of that blood-spewing scene.

I don’t wanna die spewing blood, guys. I just really don’t. You have no idea how much this scares me.

So, I’m writing this from bed, watching Parks and Rec, sipping ginger ale, and accepting the fact that life is going to have to carry on around me for a few days. Sometimes the kids may get toast and yogurt and apples for dinner because the hubs has only mastered that and boxed mac and cheese. Which is TOTALLY FINE.

But, like, for real totally fine. Not in the Summer-is-passing-a-kidney-stone-and-has-multiple-ulcers-and-needs-to-get-her-ass-in-check kind of totally fine.

People need time off. We need breaks. Desperately. I see so many people, myself included, preaching how important self-care is, and I see people I love, and my own damn self, completely ignoring that sage advice.

And, as hard as it is to accept, having an autoimmune disease means I’m not going to be able to do all the things I want to do anymore. I have to adjust my life whether I want to or not.

I have to listen to the cues my body is screaming at me, and I need to bloody well act on them.

My apologies in advance for all the balls I’m going to drop this week. My children will definitely not have matched socks. The laundry will pile up. There won’t be a magical shopping trip followed by gourmet dinners. There will be errands forgotten. All social media that doesn’t involve kittens and rainbows will ignored.

It’s not because I don’t care, or I don’t want to participate, or I’m being silent because I suck as a human, because I WANT TO BE IN THE REAL WORLD.

I’m doing it so I can heal the hell up so when I rejoin that real world, I’ll be able to physically withstand it.

Also, as this is not the first or second or even third time I’ve had a serious health crisis that I ignored until Emergency Rooms are involved, FEEL FREE TO YELL AT ME IF YOU SEE ME DOING ANYTHING OTHER THAN FLOATING ON A LILY PAD SIPPING A SOOTHING BEVERAGE.

SERIOUSLY. YELL AT ME A LOT.

But also in a calm way because I’m supposed to be finding my inner mellow so I don’t die or something.

I hope you all are magical and magnificent!

Until next time,

Peace, Love, and Doctor’s Orders

As per my general luck, I’ve had an interesting year, health-wise. I was diagnosed by with a severe autoimmune disease back in March, and things have been a trip since. (That’s a blog post all on its own, but I’ll get to that another day.)

By the way, after the skin cancer scare a few years back, I made damn diggity sure on this diagnosis and went to four specialists to get confirmation. FOUR.

So, the treatment for this disease is taking chemo every week. I do this on Tuesdays at 4pm, and spend the next 24 hours curled up in a little ball of misery.

Every month or so, they adjust the dose of the chemo, going higher and higher until we can find a level that actually stifles the symptoms.

As with many diseases, you can’t really see what’s going on most of the time.

A weird bonus of this particular ailment is it causes rashes on my elbows, head, ankles, knees, etc. that can last six weeks or so. My elbows are the most common breakout spot. That, combined with deep ridges in my nails are a visible sign of the disease, and whether or not treatment is effective.

At my last appointment, I was told that the chemo should be stopping the rash, and they upped the dose to the highest level for the type of chemo I’m taking. The goal was this should stop the symptoms, and I was to watch for another rash outbreak, and should one occur, let the doc know immediately, and we would switch to a different, injectable form of chemo.

So, a month ago, when the rash popped back on my elbows, I knew I needed to call the doc.

But, like, I super very much hate needles and I put it off.

On Monday, I bit the proverbial bullet and ovaried up, calling the doc. They told me to come in first thing on Tuesday to talk about moving to the injectable version.

And that’s what I did.

I’ve had good experiences with my rheumatologist. She can be a little cold and clinical, but she takes things seriously and listens well.

That’s how the beginning of the appointment went. Discussion as usual, exam as per the norm, and so on. She saw the rash on my arms, and seemed disheartened to see it’s spread much farther than before which is a bummer.

One of the symptoms of this fabulous clusterfuck of a disease is depression, so she asked if I’d been feeling anything in the depressive area.

I said that yeah, sometimes, but not to where I’d say I was having regular episodes, or anything out of the norm, and that I dealt more with anxiety than anything else.

She was confused. Anxiety wasn’t a typical symptom.

“Oh, yeah, no. I have severe OCD,” I explained. “I’ve been dealing with anxiety since I was about 8.”

Dude. I swear to god it was like a switch flipped. Her entire demeanor visibly shifted.

“Have you tried meditation?” she asked. “Yoga? Hot baths?”

I remember sort of blinking at her for awhile. Why, yes. In the last 27 years, I had tried all those things and more to wrangle anxiety. And I explained that I have a pretty solid hold on things, but I was just letting her know it was something I dealt with. And was, in fact, a yoga addict, which I’d mentioned to her at every appointment when she discussed how wild my range of motion is.

Yeah. I’m bendy. What’s up.

She stood up, closed her laptop, and told me I needed to get into see a counselor or therapist. I explained I’ve been in and out of therapy since I was a kid. And that I’d actually canceled an appointment that afternoon with my other doc to talk about a medication shift and therapy.

She started to walk out of the room, and I stopped her asking, “Wait, I thought I was called in because we were changing chemos?”

Y’all. She turned around and said in the most condescending voice I’ve ever heard, “I really think you should just get into see someone and do more yoga. We can reevaluate changing chemo later.”

I realized I’d stopped being an autoimmune patient and become just a crazy person.

“Uh,” I said, trying to not lose my shit, “I’ve seen a lot of therapists in my life, and not one of them has ever been able to make psoriasis disappear from my body. OCD did not cause the rash on my arms. It didn’t cause the ridges in my nails. It doesn’t cause the swelling in my joints which you just felt. It doesn’t cause the heightened inflammation results in my blood tests. And I only came in today because you called me in. You said the rash was a bad sign. You said I’d have to switch drugs because it meant the chemo wasn’t working properly. You are the one who rushed me in here. I stay on top of my OCD. I am on medication for anxiety which you have been aware of since the moment I first saw you and gave you my medicine list. You review it with me every single visit.”

You guys.

She laughed.

She literally laughed at me.

Actual laughter.

“Just start meditating, and try to get in to see someone.”

And she left.

She just fucking walked right out the room.

I was supposed to start the new chemo at 4 yesterday afternoon, and she changed her mind after finding out I had OCD.

Like.

What.

The nurse, who had been a good pal the entire time I’ve gone to this doctor, came in and tearfully told me she was being shifted over to the hospital, so I wouldn’t see her at this office anymore. She gave me a big hug goodbye.

When I zombie-walked out to the check out counter, I was informed the doc didn’t want to see me again for four months. I gaped. “I thought I had to be seen every three months to do blood work to make sure the chemo isn’t harming my liver and kidneys…?”

The receptionist looked confused. “You’re right. We do schedule like that. I wonder why she put you down for four?”

So the receptionist assumed it was a mistake, and put me in for one month out since we didn’t do blood work yesterday.

I went to my car and say in total shock. A minute later, the doc’s office number showed up on my phone.

It was her nurse. “The doctor just saw you didn’t schedule four months out. Why didn’t you do that?”

I started to explain what the receptionist had told me, but quickly lost my cool. “I didn’t schedule out because the I’m supposed to get blood tests every three months and since she didn’t take any today, I kept the appointment in a few weeks. And you know what? I came in today because the doctor told me to. Because she said I had to switch chemo meds, and I was scared to death to do that because I hate shots more than is reasonable, but I was told that was what I needed. And suddenly none of that matters because I have OCD? I scheduled a month out because that’s what I was told I needed before the doctor decided a hot bath will cure all my ills.”

The nurse, the same one who had just hugged me and said how much she’d miss me said with a sharp tone, “I’ll leave a note for the doc and get back to you.”

I’m not going to lie, I sat in my car and cried for a bit.

I’d been OCD-shamed.

I’ve been fat-shamed, mommy-shamed, money-shamed, appearance-shamed, religion-shamed, and a million other forms of judgment. These things happen fairly regularly.

I hadn’t been OCD-shamed since I was 12 and got the official diagnosis and the doctor told my parents girls didn’t need treatment for OCD since they were just naturally dramatic.

When the nurse called back a few hours later, when I was already in the middle of my regular chemo, sipping ginger ale and trying not to utilize my weekly puke bucket, and this is exactly what she said to me:

“We called in the new injectable chemo. If that’s what you really want to do, now you can.”

I literally gasped. “Uh, I don’t want to get stabbed full of poison, I only came in today because she’d been telling me for the last three months that this was the next step and that I needed it. The DOCTOR said I needed to change to it. If it’s not the right treatment, I want to know that. I just don’t understand how it was the right treatment at the beginning of the appointment and for the last few months, but as soon as I said OCD, all I needed was to meditate on regular chemo.”

“Well, it’s there now.”

And then she hung up on me.

I don’t have a happy ending here. I don’t have any words of wisdom.

All I can think is that I wish I could go back and take back the honest words of informing her I have OCD. To have lied and pretended to be sane and level so that our doctor/patient relationship could have carried on in peace and productivity as it has for the last 6 months.

And then I cried again because it felt like the only way to get proper medical care was to lie about myself.

I’m not sure what my next step will be. Whether I’ll look for another rheumatologist, or maybe chalk it up to her having a shitty day and taking it out on me in that way and give her another shot, I don’t know.

When I was first diagnosed with this dick of a disease, I remember silently being so happy there were visible symptoms, no matter how small. Sometimes I look at the rash on my elbows or the deep lines on my fingernails and take a deep breath knowing the pain I feel is real. The days where the flare-ups are so strong I can’t walk to the bathroom because my joints are so ravaged, I look at my elbows and nails and remind myself this is real. It’s real.

I’ve spent a lifetime of hearing doctors tell my parents that sure, I have OCD, but it’s no big deal because girls are dramatic. Or that my back pain was all in my head until a decade later, an x-ray was finally done and showed spina bifida. Or that the pain I felt in my knees probably wasn’t really arthritis, it was just because I was fat.

And so I sit here, rubbing my finger over the ridges in my nails, still nauseous from yesterday’s chemo treatment, and the resulting Wednesday migraine that comes with Chemo Tuesdays, trying to push the look on my doctor’s face, the sound of her laughter, out of my head.

I love you all dearly, and I hope you’re all having a fantastic week.

Peace, Love, and It’s real. It’s real. It’s real.

I’ve known for some time I would have to write this post, but it’s not something I’ve been chomping at the bit to do.

The other day, I posted something that was a way to help me process the horror in Orlando, and I was almost instantly called out for my “allyship.” And it was put in quotation marks just like that.

Aside from the fact I didn’t think it was a particularly approriate time to try and pick fights with people who were trying to sort through a fuckton of grief, the lady was super not hip to facts.

See, what happened was this woman had seen a Tweet, and jumped to eleven thousand conclusions based on that single Tweet.

To her, I wasn’t a part of the QUILTBAG+ community, so I had no right to be commenting on anything.

Except I was very clear in an accompanying Tweet, in the same thread, even, that I am, in fact, queer. This isn’t a secret, and hasn’t ever been.

I even reached out to apologize to the woman who went high holy roller on my Tweet, accusing me of fetishizing the QUILTBAG+ community, hoping she would see that there was a lot more accompanying the single Tweet she’d called out, if she’d kept reading.

But she didn’t reply. She kept Tweeting about the bullshit “allyship” but never acknowledged the apology I’m not entirely sure I was due to give, but I saw her point through the eyes of the isolated Tweet and wanted to make amends.

My reality did not match her narrative. She had a point to make, and no amount of pesky facts was going to alter that.

I see this a lot on social media. A LOT.

Over the last two years, it’s become the new hip thing to pounce on literally anything anyone says ever with the sole purpose of being the expert in something to get all the reTweets and fist-pumps of being more outraged than everyone else, and being the person to call all the eyes to the thing over which they should also be outraged.

It’s a bloodsport at this point.

I am 100% here for people calling out problematic things in the world. So very here for it. I hope to hell if I’m ever doing something not okay, someone will call me on it in a way I can learn from my mistakes and damn well never make them again.

And I will make mistakes. I’m not even in the same hemisphere as perfect.

But it’s not about that anymore. It’s about being seen as RIGHT, facts and people who get stomped on in process be damned.

So, that’s where this post is coming from.

I didn’t want to write this post.

When I wrote my last book, I was very open in advance that I suffered from OCD and was more than willing to be as open as possible about it because I wanted to educate and help however I could. I was comfortable with that transparency.

This book, the one that sold, the Vagina Book, well, I didn’t want to do that. Being exposed and vulnerable about my OCD is a lot less scary than telling the world the details of my vagina.

The story is about a woman dealing with a disorder, vaginismus, and I really wanted that to stand on its own.

But, alas, I don’t appear to have that option.

Because what I see happening on social media, and not just my silly little Tweet this weekend, is this: Someone does a thing. Someone calls out this thing. Outrage over the thing reaches a fever pitch. The person who did the thing opens up and explains the outrage is actually not based in fact, and they are forced to open wounds and expose themselves in their defense.

Pitchfork-waving crowd gives no fucks.

No one wants to Tweet out, “Oh, hey, I was wrong. Can we all apologize to the person I just made open up about sexual abuse/religion/divorce/etc.?”

And let’s face it, no one gives a flying fuck in space about a boring old fact. They want the furor. They want the fire. It’s more fun to RT and rally troops around injustice than it is to accept everyone got hella carried away and did a big, bad, wrong thing.

When my book went out, someone in publishing got MAD. And I mean, supes mad. They were offended I had written a book about the subject matter, of which they were familiar, and the book was “funny.”

This was before I was willing to come right out and say, “OH HEY I WROTE THIS BOOK BECAUSE I SUFFERED THIS BROKEN VAGINA DISORDER AND I WANTED TO WRITE SOMETHING I WOULD HAVE WANTED TO READ ABOUT IT.”

I can safely guarantee the reaction would have been 100% different.

To that person, I was an outsider cracking dick jokes in a story about something I had no business cracking jokes around. I was not entitled to see anything around the scenario as funny.

Because I hadn’t led with my vagina.

A desperate call to my agents was made. LET ME TELL YOU HOW FUN THAT WAS.

“Excuse me, two dude agents, but I need to go into great detail about my own vagina so other people don’t get upset about me discussing vaginas in my book.”

I was really, REALLY mad. Super mad. And humiliated. And exposed. And I felt horrible because it hadn’t been my choice to share this part of myself, it had been pulled out of me as a precaution to keep from getting another crazy angry letter. (Seriously, that person hates me more than I can fathom.)

And see, it’s not like I could email her and say, oh, by the by, broken vagina club high-five. No one cares after the fact.

No one cares.

When the book was announced, within an hour or two, a woman popped up to correct us on what the disorder actually meant. Because obvs we didn’t know.

I didn’t put my best vagina forward.

And I see the people on Twitter who are championing #OwnVoices stories and it makes me SO HAPPY. I love everything about #OwnVoices.

Except the people who demand to know, in advance, that any book written about a thing HAS to be an #OwnVoices or they are ready to be burn folks at the stake. And they have to have proof. Lots of proof.

I suppose I could have told the woman who questioned my queerdom about my sexual history and positions used and listed every single time I was beaten up in school or locked in a locker or that time a guy pledged to rape me so I could see what I was missing because I was a lesbian in high school. (So the rumors stated.)

I shouldn’t have to defend my experience. It’s mine, my very own, and I should be allowed to talk about it at a pace which is comfortable to me, not catering to vitriolic masses.

No one should be put in a position to have to show graphs and charts and peer reviewed studies to validate their lives to a mob on social media. But to refuse to do that allows said mob to completely erase who a person is with 140 characters of venom and misinformation.

I don’t stop being queer because some random person Tweets as such. But to all the people who don’t know me outside what that spiel of rage saw, I am *only* what she claimed. My reality was erased by her misguided witch hunt to anyone who read her words and ignored mine.

And I straight up re-fucking-fuse to let someone step in and try to do that with the topic of my own goddamn vagina.

Some people are definitely in the #OwnVoices club but aren’t out about the topic they are writing about. Some people are brave in very different ways. Some people are committing an act of absolute badassery just by writing the story in the first place.

Not all of us have it in us to be balls out to the world about every facet of our personal lives.

For me, I will talk about just about anything, but my broken vagina wasn’t on that list.

Hashtag OwnVagina.

It is now. Not because I wanted it to be, not because I was comfortable with it, but truly, because I do not have the mental strength to hold back the social media mobs should there be a dull day on Twitter, and someone decides to come at me for writing about vaginas when I HAVE NO GODDAMN RIGHT.

I owe them NOTHING. But I do get to take that ember of power away from them. They don’t get to swing blindly at me out of nowhere and dissipate my existence to fit their ranting storyline. This is my tale, and I’ll be good goddamned if I let anyone sully it with malintent.

So, let me be quite clear: I was diagnosed with vaginismus after the birth of our son. I was traumatized by it. A history of sexual abuse did not make the act of amazingly painful sex with my husband a fun topic for me, nor did the eventual complete inability to have sex.

There were doctors and therapists and physical therapists and all manner of surreal, vagina-centric tactics invoked.

And then I learned a woman I knew in real life had dealt with it as well and was equally traumatized.

That inspired me to look up statistics. And when I saw how ridiculously common this disorder, and others like it, is, I decided to write the book I wish had been around for me to read when I had been going through it all.

From this point on, I will gladly, and I do mean GLADLY, discuss this disorder and my experiences with it to anyone who asks. I’ve spent a lot of time prepping myself for this, and I am extremely willing and ready and my heart is in it.

I personally believe there needs to be a thousand times more conversation around disorders like this and women’s sexuality in general, and I am very glad to put my experiences out on display for anyone it might help or educate.

But, let the record always show, this wasn’t my original choice. I felt pushed into this because I knew if a storm ever came, no one would care in the slightest what the facts surrounding my vagina were.

And if I can ask a favor, in the future, if people would maybe take a breath, or dig for information, or maybe even just give people the benefit of the doubt before throwing the flaming bags of poo, I can honestly say it could potentially save people from having to reveal painful, and vulnerable sides of themselves they weren’t prepared to divulge.

No one knows the lives of others. Not for one second. Even with people like me who are generally open books, sometimes we have hard limits, folks.

I will always understand the desire to have all the information, and I get that a trash fire is a lot more fun than boring old reality, but be very aware, this kind of behavior can and does hurt people.

And I’m pretty sure that’s the exact opposite of what it’s supposed to do.

I hope you all are magical and well, my loves.

Until next time,

Peace, Love, and #OwnVagina

Today I bring you an interview I’ve been dying to post for ages with one of my very most favorite people in the world, literary agent, (one of mine, to be specific!) Brent Taylor of TriadaUS Literary Agency!

The first time I worked with Brent, he was a wee intern and was a huge help during the Hook, Line, and Sinker contest back in 2012.

When I signed with Uwe Stender and Brent, at the time, Brent was brand new to agenting. I remember saying to friends, “With Brent, it’s not ever a question of if he will sell. It’s when.” and he certainly didn’t disappoint. He’s been kicking ass for his clients and it’s been a pleasure to watch, and be among them.

Let me step aside and let the sir speak for his own awesome self.

 1. First off, how long have you been an agent? What made you want to dive into this wacky business in the first place?

I’ve been an agent since September 2014. I’m terrible at all math that isn’t “how much money does this publisher owe me,” so I think that’s roughly a year and a half. I’ve known that I wanted to be an agent since my first internship in 2011. There’s something so magical about shepherding books into the world that would’ve changed your life as a reader.

2. What genres do you represent? How important is the genre, or will you take on something different just because it gives you the feelings?

My taste is eclectic, but I tell people that I represent upmarket fiction across all age categories: middle grade, young adult, and adult. I’m also very interested in illustrated fiction and other unique formats (like novels-in-verse). Even if something doesn’t feel like an obvious fit, I’ll always give it the benefit of the doubt, because writing is the most important to me.

I’m not an obvious fit for SFF, but there are two MG/YA SFF projects on my list that I just couldn’t say no to—the writing was phenomenal.

3. Tell us a little bit about how writers go about snagging a magnificent agent such as yourself? Aside from slush, you’ve had some amazing success with online contests as well!

You’re right, I have had success in online contests! I’m a huge fan of Brenda Drake’s Pitch Wars, and I encourage all unpublished writers to keep close tabs on it.

4. What’s your favorite part of your job? For balance, what makes you cry sad, agenty tears now and then?

The best part of the job is making The Life-Changing Call. I have one client who’s amazingly hard-working and has been trying to get a novel published for years, and when I called her with the news that her dream editor and dream publisher were making an offer on her book, she burst into tears. It was one of the best moments.

Sad, agenty tears: I don’t believe in them! Creative industries aren’t a yellow brick road and I just try to put my best foot forward every day.

5. Do you have any stories that are now, “The one that got away?” If so, did it change the way you looked at submissions from then on?

It’s a reality of publishing that you don’t get every project you want—agents and editors alike have to deal with it all the time. But on the other side of this, I have certainly passed on projects that went on to sell in six-figure deals. Sometimes you think to yourself, “wow, what didn’t I see in that?” but ultimately I’m happy for every one of those writers. It’s such a subjective business that we work in, and no one person’s taste is the same.

6. What’s something you’re working on right now that has you all aflutter?

I have an incredible psychological thriller that I’m shopping and a beautiful YA novel-in-verse, and some contemporary middle grade fiction that I’m very excited about.

7. You’ll be attending the Midwest Writers Workshop this summer as faculty! For those on the fence about attending, woo them with some details on what you’ll be offering up in your panels/sessions/critiques.

MWW has a reputation for bringing in a lot of writing talent, so I’m excited to listen to one-on-one pitches. I’ll be on a panel (with you, I believe!) about the agent-author relationship and then teaching a class about the non-MFA ways you can improve your craft (how to find great critique partners and online communities, etc.) for beginning-level writers.

8. As is customary on my blog, it is here I require an embarrassing or hilarious moment. Bonus points if industry related. Double bonus points for accidental nudity.

Oh, I have the perfect one. I misspelled one of my author’s names in the title page of her manuscript, and after I realized, it mortified me. All ended well, because that project sold in a bidding war, despite my typo. I sent the author a customized wine glass with her misspelled name on it as a sorry gift.

Brent Taylor is an associate agent at Triada US, where he works on middle grade, YA, and adult fiction. Some of his recent sales include THE DIMINISHED by Kaitlyn Sage Patterson (Harlequin Teen), FAKE BLOOD by Whitney Gardner (Simon & Schuster Books for Young Readers), CHAOTIC GOOD by Whitney Gardner (Alfred A. Knopf Books for Young Readers), ALAN COLE IS NOT A COWARD by Eric Bell (Katherine Tegen Books), PERFECT TEN by L. Philips (Viking Children’s Books), and THE HEMINGWAY THIEF by Shaun Harris (Seventh Street Books). You can find him online at triadaus.com and on Twitter @NaughtyBrent.

Fizzy, here!

Isn’t he a delight? He is also a delight you should super come see at MWW. There will be shenanigans when Brent, Uwe, and I take the stage for a panel, folks.

Plus, he will be taking pitches and offering boss critiques, so get up on those!

Register for MWW HERE.

As always, leave and questions or comments or general statements of adoration for Brent in the comments below!

Until next time,

Peace, Love, and  NaughtyBrent!

I’ve dreamt for years about writing this post. Or at the least, having the opportunity to write it.

A few years back, the big thrill was writing my “ZOMG I HAVE AN AGENT!” post.

I didn’t write one when I signed with my second set of agents. I super wanted to, it’s a great story, but also, I felt weird about it. Like I was demanding a second baby shower or something.

Which is stupid, honestly. I love, LOVE reading posts about people signing with new agents, no matter how many they’ve had before. Please never stop posting about your wins, folks. They give me life.

Hell, I love going to second/third/infinity baby showers, as well.

But I’m super weird about feeling like I’m flailing my arms begging for some level of attention.

Despite that absurdity, I’m going to share a little of my tale today.

I went to my first writer’s conference when I was 12. It was an RWA con in Indianapolis at a big hotel. My mom drove me and a friend and dropped us off for the day.

It was apparently so odd for someone so young to be there, a freaking news crew came.

Seriously. I was on the Channel 8 news and an agent was all, I AM HERE FOR THIS KID AND HER BOOK. It was very bizarre. My mom still has a VHS recording of this somewhere.

At the time, I also had an offer from an acting agent, and I figured I could always come back to writing, but acting was more time sensitive, so I went with that.

Cut to my long and tortuous path to finding an agent as an adult.

12yo me didn’t realize how swell she’d had it.

I had two books on sub with my first agent. I had some trips to acquisitions, but neither sold for various reasons.

And then all manner of lunacy happened. Had a heart attack, left my first agent, dealt with some mild brain damage that made writing quite difficult, husband was hospitalized, etc, etc, etc.

The second book I had subbed was about a woman with OCD. Which is obvs super important to me with my own OCD. But I got a lot of publisher passes with what I find to be a ridiculous sentence, “We really loved this, but we already have an OCD book on our list.”

Because apparently there is only need for one story on a mental illness. Two would be crazypants.

So I sat down and thought I’d write something that they sure as shit didn’t already have.

The Vagina Book.

I’ll actually go into greater detail about the origin of the story in another blog coming soon!

As I wrote this junk-focused tome, I kept shaking my head thinking this was either going to be the book that gets me there, or it’s going to be a huge ass mistake.

At the same time, I was secretly (and maybe a little bitterly, if I’m being honest) thinking, “Okay, I *dare* you to tell me you already have a broken vagina book.”

It went both ways, not gonna lie. Two or three agents/editors were legit horrified by the premise and made very sure to tell me so.

Another issue is the reality that my genre has essentially been dead for a decade. No one in publishing takes on a lot of funny Women’s Fiction. It sadly went the way of the Dodo after a surge of Devil Wears Prada knock-offs oversaturated the market back in the day.

There’d been an editor that was interested in buying my OCD book but couldn’t for a few reasons. She’d asked to see whatever manuscript came next.

So, when it was time to send this out, she was one of the first my agents prepped for.

Except she was on maternity leave.

So we decided to hold off on sending so she could see it when she came back.

Canadian maternity leave is a full year.

Yay, Canada! (Seriously, YAY for their maternity leave, that’s awesome.)

Wahhh for submission.

The lovely editor then suggested we send to a different editor at her house who she had prepped for the arrival.

And right as the agents were about to send? That editor also went on maternity leave.

It was right about this time I developed a persistent twitch in my eye. And the arch of my right foot.

I’m totally serious. I still take medication for these twitches.

A new editor was suggested, and off we went!

With the genre being as DOA as it is, our first stab at acquisitions didn’t take as well as we’d hoped, and so a revision was in order to make the book as shiny as possible.

I can’t emphasize enough how glorious it was to work with the editor on this revision. It was like I’d met my better half. My literary soulmate. The Yin to my Yang. The gin to my tonic.

I’ve honestly never riffed ideas with someone so well, EVER.

I remember having a conversation with one of my agent fellas and saying I would be bummed if the deal didn’t work out, sure, but I would be *devastated* to lose the opportunity to work with this editor. I was a better writer with her and I couldn’t imagine losing that magical connection.

That’s how I knew this was The Place. The idea of getting a book deal was suddenly a secondary dream to getting to work with the editor I had meshed so impossibly well with. I’ve been at this a very long time, and I never honestly thought that feeling would become paramount, tbh.

At the time, I was trying to play it super cool and totes profesh.

The timing was very odd. I turned in my revision the day before our family left on our second vacation ever, off to Disney World/Wizarding World, and I knew what day the acquisitions meeting was going to be.

I was a nervous wreck on that two day drive, folks.

My husband and I had the conversation many times; if this worked out, it would be the best story ever. I’d have my dream of 22 years realized while I was literally at the “happiest place on Earth” or I would that dream, and a few new ones crushed and have to ugly cry on Chewbacca’s shoulder.

I told *no one* this meeting was happening. Like, my agents, husband, and mom knew. I’ve been at this long enough to know how bad it feels to get friends’ hopes up, and then have that awkward convo of, “Welp. Didn’t happen.”

The day of the acquisitions meeting, we were bouncing around Universal Studios and our poor daughter wasn’t feeling well, so we headed back to our rental condo thingy.

That’s where the call came.

My agents phoned and said an offer had been made.

An offer.

They wanted to buy my book.

THEY WANTED TO BUY MY BOOK.

Look, I can’t even sort of tell you what was said on that call. I was ugly sobbing like I have never ugly sobbed in my entire life. I didn’t realize it, but my hubs had videoed it for posterity’s sake.

No, I will not post it. It was not a flattering look. But I’ll share a pic of the actual sobbing moment.

But that’s not the end of the process, as publishing goes.

There were negotiations, chats, all sorts of things to be done over the next few days.

None of that mattered to me, because THEY WANTED TO BUY MY BOOK. I WOULD GET TO WORK WITH THE MACARONI TO MY CHEESE.

So, here’s the thing: Harry Potter World is my favorite place in the universe. I have never been happier anywhere than I am flitting around the Hogwarts castle and slurping a frozen Butterbeer.

I also cry every single time I walk past the Jurassic Park sign because that movie is one of the reasons I became a writer in the first place.

When the call came in that our counteroffer had been accepted, I was standing in the visitor’s center of Jurassic Park, right beside a giant triceratops. Screaming happened. So much screaming.

I floated through more of the day, riding rides with my kiddos and hubs, my feet never touching the ground, just…wow.

But my absolute favorite thing, the thing that makes me happier than anyone has the right to be, was the moment I heard it had all been made official.

We’d stopped for a late lunch at The Three Broomsticks at Harry Potter World. My daughter was gnawing her way through a giant turkey leg. My son was on his third ear of corn. Hubs was snarfing fish and chips. I was eating these little meat pasties things and sipping pumpkin juice and we were all sharing Gilly waters and Butterbeer ice cream when the message came.

That was my daughter and I, literally two minutes before the message came.

The offer had been accepted. The deal was done. My book was sold. I was an author.

The thing I had worked for over 22 years of my life had happened while I was sitting under levitating broomsticks and carrying an interactive magic wand.

I…can’t. I just cannot.

If you’d asked me to design the most perfect scenario to receive the news of a book deal, even in my wildest dreams I couldn’t have come up with that.

Like, literally the only thing that could have improved upon that moment would have been Benedict Cumberbatch feeding me the Butterbeer ice cream.

Not quite understanding the super secret nature of the events, my daughter ran up to a shop clerk in the Wizarding World animal menagerie shop and squealed her mommy had sold a book. The shop gal gave me this to wear around the park.

I cried a little, not gonna lie.

I’ve been both numb and tingly ever since that day. Life goes on, and things have been a typical level of chaotic as is our standard. My dad was in ICU during our vacation. He landed in the ER the day after we left, natch. The trip was peppered with constant calls and messages from both literary agents and doctors and nurses. It was a hell of a trip.

Since we got home, it’s been constant doctor visits for my mom for her health issues, my dad as we try to get him past the clusterfuck of illness that hit him all at once, and my own set of billions of docs and shiny new autoimmune disease. (Holla at me, chemo.)

And the kids are finishing school so holy gods there have been field trips and school picnics and award ceremonies and GAH.

Through all the madness of reality, there are moments when my brain flashes back to that moment of Zen, when I had a pasty in one hand and a pumpkin juice in the other, and it’s like a punch in the face in the VERY BEST POSSIBLE WAY.

My book, my crazy, absurd book about a woman with a broken vagina, is going to see the light of day. There will be pages, actual paper pages, with words printed on them that I wrote.

Oh my good gosh darn, you guys.

Super huge snergles and love to Uwe and Brent for everything they’ve done. All the hand holding and chin-chucking and support and hard work. It will never stop thrilling me that the Vagina Book was sold by two dudes. Bless.

All the love to my new and magnificent editor, Lauren. You, madam, are the tits. The buttercream to my cupcake.

Very special shout-out to T.S. Ferguson for being absolutely friggin’ amazing in every possible way.

Thank you to absolutely everyone one of you who has stuck around the last four years of this blog, reading and commenting and pushing me to be better and cheering me on when I needed it most. You are truly the most glorious set of readers anyone could possibly wish for.

The Vagina Book, properly known as A PERFECT FIT, will be out around July 2017 with Mira at Harlequin. If you’re so inclined to read it, I hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoy every single one of you.

Until next time,

Peace, Love, and A PERFECT FIT ZOMGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGG

Today, I am very excited to bring you a chat with literary agent, and all around badass, Jim McCarthy of Dystel and Goderich Literary Agency.

Jim is a faboo agent who has had a hand in escorting some genuinely amazing books down the publishing path.

Let’s dive right in, shall we?

1. First off, how long have you been an agent? What made you want to dive into this wacky business in the first place?

I landed at Dystel & Goderich as an intern 17 years ago, the summer after my first year of college. When I graduated, a full time job had just opened up. And I signed my first client way back in 2003. I’d love to say that I chose to work in publishing for noble reasons, but when I started part time, the main reason was that of the 50 resumes I had sent out, the first call, interview, and offer was here. I fell in love with the job, but those early days, I did wonder if I should have held out longer because other people started calling. “I could have been a ticket taker at Radio City,” I complained. But let’s just say it all worked out. And I’m here 17 years later for a host of reasons.

2. What genres do you represent? How important is the genre, or will you take on something different just because it gives you the feelings?

I’m willing to represent just about anything (other than poetry where I’m at a loss. That said, I’m best known for doing YA, fantasy, romance, and mystery. Because those have been my most successful areas, they’re where I’m most comfortable and where I see the most submissions. But I’m always looking to push myself.

3. Tell us a little bit about how writers go about snagging a magnificent agent such as yourself? Aside from slush, you’ve had some amazing success with online contests as well!

I have done well with pitch contests! In the most recent Pitch Wars, I signed Laura Creedle whose debut was pre-empted by Houghton. It’s an exceptional novel, and I’m so lucky not only to have found it but to have been chosen as Laura had several offers. I’m intensely proud of her work. I’ve also signed authors I’ve met at conferences from Willamette Valley to RT. Clients sometimes refer friends to me, and I’ve signed folks that way. But the vast majority of my clients still come right out of the slush pile. I confess that there’s an extra special thrill in finding something in the pack and not having it handed to you on a platter. At least, there is for me.

4. What’s your favorite part of your job? For balance, what makes you cry sad, agenty tears now and then?

The very best moments of my job are when I get to call unpublished authors and tell them there is an offer for their debut novel. Having the chance to tell someone that their dream is coming true is a thrill that really, truly can’t be beat. On the flip side, because the agent/client relationship is such a close one, an author’s difficulties—personal or professional—can weigh on me very heavily. One of the hardest parts of the job is staying available and connected without becoming overly emotional. I’ve cried on behalf of clients. But never with them or while on the phone—it’s about balancing the personal and the professional which is a challenge. Sometimes it’s very hard. But often it’s incredibly rewarding.

5. Do you have any stories that are now, “The one that got away?” If so, did it change the way you looked at submissions from then on?

The ONE?! I wish. I have several that have gotten away. Off the top of my head, I’m thinking of a literary novel where the author was deciding between me and another agent and went with the person who had more experience doing adult literary fiction. I hated losing it, but I know she made a good decision. Do I still think I could have done just as well? Of course. Or there was a recent time when a YA novelist went with the less experienced agent saying that they felt that agent had been more enthusiastic. That one was a real knife in the heart because I adored the book and wanted desperately to represent it which made me think a lot about how I express enthusiasm and whether I was clear enough about my love for the book. There are others, of course. Books that I waffled on that went on to become bestsellers. Books that I flat out rejected because I didn’t like them at all that also became bestsellers. Those are much easier. In those cases, part of me wants to kick myself, yes. But the larger part of me recognizes that I wouldn’t have been the right match for that author. And the success they’re having? That’s at least partially attributable to the excitement and engagement of the agent they did work on.

6. What’s something you’re working on right now that has you all aflutter?

I’m working on a debut fantasy novel that I actually turned down twice. I knew there was greatness there, but I thought it needed editorial work, and I couldn’t pin down what I thought the answer to the book’s problems were. And then on a second revision, the clouds parted and I suddenly knew exactly what I wanted to happen. I assumed the author would tell me I was a lunatic for suggesting she do what I proposed. But we hopped on the phone, and it was this blissfully simpatico moment. I feel like I was able to give the author a key to unlock the true potential of her novel, and it was a tremendous gift. It hasn’t gone on submission yet, but I’m already really honored by her trust in me and her commitment to making the book work.

7. You’ll be attending the Midwest Writers Workshop this summer as faculty! For those on the fence about attending, woo them with some details on what you’ll be offering up in your panels/sessions/critiques.

I’ll be taking pitches, offering query critiques, co-running a querying intensive, and running a class on interviewing agents—how to handle the exciting moment you do get an offer from an agent while making sure you also cover your back and work with the RIGHT agent.

8. As is customary on my blog, it is here I require an embarrassing or hilarious moment. Bonus points if industry related. Double bonus points for accidental nudity.

I have a million. I hope other bookworms can relate to this, but I’m often off in my own world. It’s why I’m such a bad driver (2 years driving, 12 accidents) and have a tendency to bump into things. Just this morning, I went to HarperCollins to meet with two authors and their editor. I was thinking about their book and the process and who we would meet and what I would have for lunch…the usual. Long story short, I found myself on the wrong floor of the building, having gotten someone to let me past the doors you need a keycard to open, waiting for the editor to come get me. When she texted that she couldn’t find me, I started to put things together—this was not at all the right floor of the building. Realizing my mistake, I went to leave, but I was now locked inside the glass doors without a key. I wandered into a sea of cubicles and had to ask a very confused, slightly alarmed stranger to unlock the door and let me out. Except…I didn’t. Because they explained that there was a large button next to the door that said “Push here to exit.” Sorry, stranger. I’m an idiot.

Fizzy again!

My own random thought: I really love how honest Jim is about the “ones that got away.” I think it’s easy to sometimes forget this business can be just brutal to the agents and editors as it is to the authors. I love seeing that side of things and getting that reminder.

Also, definitely still giggling at the wrong floor bit…

A huge thank you to Mr. McCarthy for joining me today, and as always, leave any questions or thoughts in the comments section below!

Find Jim on:

Twitter

Dystel and Goderich Website

Also, register to see him throw down some wisdom at Midwest Writers this July! Register nooooow!

Until next time,

Peace, Love, and Simpatico!