Melinda Morley

I know I broke the news over on facebook. But, since you are not all on facebook (You could be. You could be my friend, unless you are creepy, then you cannot.), I can give you all of the juicy details about my latest news here.

I am so pleased to announced that I am now officially agented by the amazing Steven Chudney of The Chudney Agency. (Pausing here for applause. Thank you. You are too, too kind. Thank you.)

I was first impressed with Steven last fall when I signed up for a pitch session at an SCBWI Conference in Salt Lake City. It came about as a last minute thing: I thought I wouldn’t be able to attend the conference, but when my schedule opened up, I was able to send Sydney Salter my first ten pages with only minutes to spare. (It really helps to have friends in high places–Sydney, who I am lucky to be in a writing group with, was also in charge of the conference. Moral of this story? Network. And writers are nice people.) She said my writing was good enough to be put in the agent pile (I hoped she wasn’t just doing because she didn’t want to hurt my feelings.) and sent it off to Steven–which I promptly forgot about. Hey, I had A LOT on my plate at the time.

When conference time came I remember two things distinctly: the unreasonable amount of nervousness that nearly paralyzed me and a sinking feeling that he wouldn’t like my book. You see, I had no excuse for the nerves–this was not my first pitch session, but the sinking feeling was a result from sitting in on his presentation that took place just before lunch and my pitch session. He seemed very competent, knowledgeable, and even dreamy as far as agents go, but (and that is a big but) he had no interest in fantasy. And I imagined myself standing in my underwear with a fairytale in my hands. My novel is not high fantasy. It’s a sleeping beauty story with all the fantastical elements of a fairy tale: witches, sleeping potions, and magic–but no dragons. I can’t do dragons. (Why didn’t I do my homework and see what he liked beforehand?!)

“He’s going to HATE it,” I thought. But, I put my chin up, and picked the lunch from my teeth–important for a good first impression. (I met his two other lovely clients, Tess Hilmo and Kristen Landon in the process–in the ladies room no less. They wished me well.) I decided that since my novel was OBVIOUSLY not a good fit, I would take the opportunity to ask him for some good advice, and chalk it all up to experience.

That’s when the Nerves of Unusual Size befriended me–known, also, as NOUS’s–a most unwelcome guest that takes potshots at your knees and stomach and, finally, your vocal chords. Now here is where Steven’s impressiveness took it up a notch. He was kind. I think my nervousness was obvious, because he was very reassuring and friendly. And kind. Did I mention that already? He shook my fish-limp-NOUS-attacked hand and tried to set me at ease.

My ten pages were sitting on the desk in this beside him and the awkwardness returned.

“It’s too fantastical!” I thought. But upon closer observation I saw two words written on the front. Nice Writing.

And the rest is history….

Okay, not really. But, I was hugely relieved! I told him what the rest of my novel was about. I hadn’t sent him a cover letter or synopsis, so he had no idea that it was a fantasy of sortsl. And he liked it. He wanted to see more.He liked my other novel ideas as well–he liked them even BETTER. I left that pitch session feeling a little bit of shock. Okay, it was A LOT of shock. I never dreamed that it would have gone so well. I remember thinking, “He gets it. He gets what my story really is.”

I waited for five months and rewrote it. (I don’t necessarily advise this.) Then I sent him the fifty pages that he had requested. He responded almost immediately and wondered what had taken me so long? He wanted to see the rest! Thankfully, he was understanding and PATIENT, because I put him off for another couple of months to rewrite it again. (I know. I know. But, how can you not send your best work when the stakes are so high?)

So, I FINALLY sent him the entire ms. He requested snail mail. I printed off all those lovely, wonderful, warm laser printed pages. Wrapped them in parchment and string. (Okay, it was only a rubber band and a cardboard box, but I am waxing sentimental here. I can’t help it.) I WAS MAILING A MANUSCRIPT TO NEW YORK. TO AN AGENT IN NEW YORK. Greatest. Day. Of. My. Life. (Childbearing and marriage not included.) I felt this crazy, surreal connection to every childhood author I had read.

And I thought, “even if I get rejected, I won’t care (too much) because this gave me the chance to do what thousands of authors have done before me: Send off a manuscript through the mail with hope and a prayer.” My heart surged with pure joy at this connection. (I am a sap. I am the first to admit it.)

Then I went home and immediately started checking my email, because it wouldn’t get there until Monday or Tuesday, but there is no time like the present to turn neurotic. And I emailed Steven to tell him it was on the way.

He replied, “Great! I’ll try to get back with you within a couple of weeks.”

And I obsessively checked my email every day–to the detriment of even feeding my children. (Meals are so over-rated when your publishing future hangs in the balance and neurosis are in full force!)

And, the rest was lovely. At the first email response that he would like to discuss representation with me. I screamed, frightening my children momentarily, and then I cried. (Sap? That’s me.)

And we had lovely and properly awkward phone conversations. And the contract made everything official.

And now to revise! I love to revise too much, I think. But, now I’m moving forward with direction and purpose. (Like Vector. How many times have YOU seen Despicable Me? I’ll bet I win.)

Moral of this story: It’s sometimes okay not to do your homework. And don’t be afraid to put yourself out there–even at the risk of NOUS’s. It’s worth it.

So, to end this longest post of all blog posts I’ve ever written, I proclaim it all a wonderful blessing for which I am very, very grateful.

And now I must be back to my writing. . . . otherwise, you’ll never be able to read my book!