My agent returns....

As the candles burnt down to the last of the wax last night, I was finally satisfied with the writing I had accomplished. It was far more than I have been able to do since moving to my igloo home. Today however, I had the most unfortunate afternoon visitor which quickly brought me down off my ivory-tower-of-writing.

Boyd R. Fritters.

He showed up on my porch with a scowl that I had so eagerly anticipated not seeing for at least another month. Boyd R. Fritters. Even writing the name makes me edgy. He, of course, is my agent.

As a person, he is quite delightful; charming, funny, and sometimes even downright sweet. As an agent, however, he is pushy, and demanding, and without a doubt the most arrogant man I have ever met. He has been my agent for years. My father knew him from University, and as my writing abilities grew through my adolescence, he was eager to be a part of what he felt, was sure to be a thriving and everlasting career as a novelist. I have always felt inclined to keep him as my agent because, well, he gets the job done. And it means so much to my father.

I published my last book five years ago. It did quite well, even made the best-sellers list. I did the whole book tour thing, hating every minute of it. I think that is one of the reasons I have been so resolute on taking as much time with this novel as I can possibly manage. 

Moving away to this new home I have inherited was one way that I thought I would be able to escape from Boyd. I actually did not leave a forwarding address. My father apparently did.

From the moment he walked in my front door, I could tell that Boyd had not changed one bit from our past meeting. He immediately assessed the situation of my dilapidated living room and went about poking at this and that asking over and over again why on earth I was living in such a state. I ignored most of this as I knew perfectly well that he knew why I was here. That was the pleasant part of his visit.

The remainder of his time in my home found him quizzing me on my novel. What stage was I at? Did I really think that that plot had follow-through potential? Why would I ever think that that character would be an important part of the ending? It went on like this for some time until he was satisfied that his appearance had shaken me enough into dedicating my next billion years to completing this novel. As he left he hugged me, looked at me and said 'You look just like your mother'. And with that he was gone. I think he thinks of himself as a father-figure for me because I am so far from home. Maybe not. Either way, I cross my fingers hoping his next visit will be when the snow has melted and the leaves have once again turned green....