15,000 pounds.
With a fever in the early hours, a slug in my lung that smells of Legionnaires, I took the phone call with a delirium that felt almost transcendent. I then fell asleep until lunch and slowly, by mid afternoon, pieced it together. An agent- Baxter? Dexter? is offering his services and a publishing deal, all in one happy, brief, handshake.
For The Secret Life Of..? Great Title.
Oh if, if, if.
And yes, anonymous, definitely.
I wasn't going to negotiate money from my duvet, one needs to stride across cemeteries to do that, yet I was well aware his paltry offer won't even replace my car.
I am far too ill, too demented with fever, to even consider the ethical. Right now, I'd sign anything.
I rang Thom and prior to answering, yearned for him aged three, his little red doctor's box, rushing to my side. We made a plan for the weekend. What was it? And why am I making plans.
Helen called. Drop by, shall I?
Tomorrow, my dear. I can only hope I am well enough to show you my entire collection.
Hah.
About Me
- the therapist
- I'm forty eight. I live and work in a coastal resort.
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10 comments:
Congrats!
Seems like the secret won't be a secret for long...
Just one niggling little question.
Where, may I ask, is your number on the website for literary agents on the prowl for hot new 'talent' to find and ring?
Not even an email address. So his initial contact with you was through...telepathy?
Well done, Therapist.
I couldn't wish it on a nicer man.
I had the same 'niggling little question,' but was afraid to break the spell.
It's morning now and I am feeling brave.
'Congrats'....Oh dont waste all that on me (though I note the word did get stuck in your throat, Prozac), it's very unlikely I'll sell my career for 15 thousand pounds. In my part of the world, they sell garages for that. As for the niggle, I was approached in the very same way, my dears, that you approach.
What, as a comment?
Hello therapist, dig your stuff, please give me a ring mate - Your friend, Literary Agent To The Stars.
Oh therapist, you weren't maybe in London knocking on doors, crawling and snivelling and arse-licking for a book deal were you?
(I hope so)
I can't help but wonder, Prozac, if you somehow associate publication, or even transmission of your work, as 'fame'. Well worth unpacking all that.
A more sophisticated Hunter S. Thompson-ish Fear and Loathing in Brighton Beach?
...without the Rolling Stones/Jefferson Airplane sound track of course.
Never heard of that, Switchsky. My tastes rarely stretch further than the modernists. Though a thing is always easier to apprehend, I suppose, when it resembles another thing. I didn't think I was that difficult.
no, not difficult.
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