My agent has quit the business. When I emailed her, excited about my new project, I received a brief (blunt) message with the news. It felt like running into a glass wall I thought was a door. I did that once, trying to exit the Levi Strauss store in Somerset Mall. I wasn’t actually running, but I was walking at a fast clip. The entire front of the store was glass, and there wasn’t a display set up in front of one pane. It was perfectly clear. I was stunned. I picked myself up, horribly embarrassed, nose bashed, and looked for the real exit.
I thought my agent and I had a fairly decent relationship. We were in close contact for a long time, starting with the revisions of my novel and then when she pitched it to editors. When it didn’t sell, I started on a new project. She was enthusiastic about it.
My writing slowed to a stop when my eldest son died late in 2011. I couldn’t even sit at my desk, much less concentrate, for a long, long time. My agent understood, and we kept in touch, loosely. She sent me an occasional note of encouragement. I can’t recall when we last emailed. But, just the same, I had no reason to doubt she was no longer my agent.
Ouch! It was quite a blow to my pride. In a second email from the agency, I learned she decided to stay home to raise her baby boy. That’s great for her, and baby, too, but gee, I would have liked a heads up.
Well, my talent garnered an agent once, so I have to believe it can do it again. As one of my writer friends said, this is an opportunity to connect with an agency that will make communicating with me more of a priority.