Last night around 6pm my phone rang. I don't usually pick up the phone, especially if I don't recognize the number. It's always a salesperson or charitable organization. If someone really needs to talk to me, he or she will leave a message. However, this time it was the 212 area code (what writer waiting for an agent call doesn't know that one?!) My heart pounded. Could it be?
"Hello," I said.
"Is this Joan Mora?" a distinctly New York-accented voice asked.
"Yes, this is she." (Note the proper grammar.)
Oh my God. It's the one. It's the agent currently reading my full manuscript. SHE WANTS ME, SHE REALLY WANTS ME! (Who doesn't love Sally Field?)
In the space of a second, my life had changed. This was it. I was going to hang up with her and call my husband, my critique partners, my close friends...
"I'm calling about your New York Magazine subscription. It's arriving promptly and you're happy with the service?"
Huh? After I stopped dancing, I told her, yes, the magazine is fine. In fact, better than fine. See, a few weeks ago I went online to cancel the subscription. I couldn't read the magazine anymore because the perfume inserts were so strong, I had to open windows to air the house. Whenever it arrived in the mailbox, I'd toss it right into the trash. But the website offered a box to check: Send me perfume-free copies. Seriously! I checked it and from then on, the issues have been scentless.
This phone call reminded me of an incident which occurred twenty years ago. When trying to buy a Honda, I asked the car salesman to call me if he got in an Accord with the features I was looking for. His response: "If the phone doesn't ring, it'll be me."
And there you have it.