I’d finished elevating the prose in the training materials du jour to “deathless” status when the staccato piano riff of “Hey Bulldog” pulled my eyes phoneward. Incoming call, unknown caller, 212 area code. New York City.
I knew people in New York–online friends, message board pals–but our established channels of communication fulfilled our need to share cat pictures. Phone banks picked cheaper places from which to operate: Nebraska, the Philippines, other spots in the developing world. Occam’s Razor said only one person in NYC had a reason to call me, and I don’t argue with dead people holding blades.
My thumb found the Answer button, and I said hello to the agent reading my “hard-boiled faerie” manuscript. Twenty minutes later, I ended the call and opened the Agency Agreement he emailed me. Two pages, big font. I liked it already.