Today I met with a literary agent. Just for the experience of it. The window was open. Bees tumbled into tulips. The sun shone through. And we sat and talked while, down the hall, Paul Harding was winning the Pulitzer Prize.
She was sweet but jaded. Her face had lines that said Twenty years in the business to sit and be jaded and sift through the shit for gems. She asked me what kind of stuff I wrote and I told her "regional" and "voice-driven" and so on. We both nodded.
"I hate to sound so jaded," she said.
"Not a problem. It's not as though existence isn't filled with suffering," I said, "and some beauty." She laughed. And when she did, her hand covered her mouth.
After our twenty minutes, I walked out into the day, on to find yet another parking ticket. "How'd it go in there?" my buddy Ryan asked. He was up to no good or bad, just chainsmoking & scoping out the coeds.
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