You don't even have to buy me dinner first

I've been courting agents for months now. But so far, no offers.

I keep waiting for The Call. Like a Disney heroine, I'm stuck in my regular routine of sweeping, cooking, laundry, and other middle-age, middle-class activities as I wait for My Agent-Prince to pull up on that white horse and offer me representation. And then we'd ride off together into the sunset of a three-book deal and a movie option in a carriage pulled by, oh, I don't know, magic moose or something, since I live in New Hampshire.

Except real life is never like a Disney movie. If it were, I'd have trained that flying squirrel that keeps breaking into the woodshed to wash dishes by now. And I wouldn't have gotten that rejection letter yesterday, the one from the agency I don't even remember querying.

Seriously, has something happened to the space-time continuum? People now are rejecting me before I've even sent them a query letter. How much does that suck?

I look at the list of queries I've sent out, and I feel dirty. I'm a query-slut! I'll put out a letter to anyone whose website tells me that they rep YA or fantasy or both. I'll give up my opening pages to anyone with a web browser.

And they never call me in the morning.