I wrote a children’s book, and now I’m seeking a literary agent. If you’re an agent, you should call me. I’m pretty sure we’re a match made in heaven.
I wrote it five or so years ago. Other than a single query letter, I didn’t actively seek out an agent at the time. Instead, the story has been sitting in my desk drawer, collecting dust. That’s what I like doing with my writing—let it collect dust.
I genuinely like the story and think it has promise. I could be dead wrong, and if I am, that’s okay. I mean, I had this dream of playing in the NBA when I was a kid and that didn’t pan out.
Note to Magic Johnson: I still have a few years left in the tank if you’re interested. You can contact me here if you need another veteran presence in the locker room to balance out Rondo and Lance’s presence. I’m cool with the vet minimum.
If I get rejected, I’ll keep writing. Ain’t nothing but a thang.
I’m giving myself a year from today to find an agent and publisher. Perhaps I’m jinxing myself. Oh, well. No time like the present. No time to be scared anymore.
It’s do or die.
Well, not really.
It’s do, or do again until someone sees the light and agrees to represent me—or not.
I look at it this way: with my last name alone being so comforting (“Pillow”) it’s, to quote Darth Vader, “my destiny” (to publish a children’s book).
That’s going to be part of my pitch at least — how my last name, Pillow, is comforting to children, and how their parents, without consciously recognizing it, are comforted by an author with the last name Pillow.
Here’s to finding an agent, or not.
We shall see.
Wish me luck.
“Giraffe” photo by Lily on Unsplash