What I Learned From Dinner With Kristin Nelson

Hi, my name is M, and I'm an introvert who likes to make things up.

Hi, M, whispers the support team.


Large groups of people make me nervous unless I'm showing off in front of them.  One-on-one conversations with strangers cause so much sweating and conversation-rehearsing that I'm amazed no one notices that my responses sometimes sound crafted (because they are).

So picture this.  An introvert (*coughcough* me) sits with her writer friends at a banquet.  Half of the table is empty, and they have no idea if the seats will be filled with other writers, by editors, or by agents.  The writers joke and laugh and talk about the conference and the workshops they've attended, and then all of a sudden they all talk quieter and look surprised and eager and oh-so-nervous. 

Why?

Kristin Nelson, Sally Harding, and Hannah Bowman.  Grabbing. Chairs. At. Our. Table.

I'm fairly certain that my heartbeat, instead of sticking to the regular thump-thunk thump-thunk, went thunka-thonka-thoinka-plunk.  Because, let's be honest, if you want one of the best and coolest agents of young adult novels to represent you, you want Kristin Nelson.  She is really nice, unfailingly honest, and personable.  Oh, and she sells novels to publishers.  Lots of them.

Of course, I was 100% terrified. I managed to break the silence with a very breathy, high-pitched "Ohofcourseyoucansithere."

Before I go on, perhaps I should mention that Kristin's agency, which is based in Denver, has rejected my manuscript.  Twice.  Currently I am in denial that these rejections ever happened, and I'll probably query them again with my next project.  Anyway... Kristin sat next to me, and the time that followed was fantastic.  Sitting next to Kristian was like having an ex you still have feelings for wink at you from across a crowded room (with the added exception that they have absolutely no idea who you are). 

A few minutes of small talk made the wobbly feelings in my stomach subside, and I actually got to have intelligent conversation with Kristin and Sally (Hannah was a bit too far away to join in).  After an author appeared out of nowhere to hand Kristin his card and join our table, I felt like I joined the agent club.  I viewed the secret aftermath of the author's invasive approach, laughed with them about it, and forgot my nerves so quickly I was able to enjoy the dinner, my friends, and the agents.  Even when the new author ruined my chances to pitch to any of them (it's a simple matter of timing and the secret code of When To Pitch And When To Pretend They Don't Represent Your Genre), I didn't feel like a moment had been wasted. 

Other people might look at the night and think, "Well, she should have at least tried to pitch" or "How could it possibly not have been wasted if she didn't talk business with at least one of them?"  Good question.  The short answer?  I'll take any encouragement I can get.  And when Kristin Nelson tells me that writers are crazy (duh) and I get to hear about her niece, who is 16 and taller than me (I'm 5'10"), I feel encouraged.  I believe that as a crazy person, I have the unique right to try the same thing over and over again, with the electrifying, thrilling confidence that one day I will get a different result. 

I pull magic, heroes, psychopaths, guts, and glory out of my head and hope other people like it.  I spend years working on novels that may never sit on a shelf at Barnes and Noble.  I send letters to agents and editors, trying to find just one who, like me, is in love with the world in my head. Those letters don't just go out once.  They go out over and over and over again.  Just try and tell me that the banquet was a waste, or that I'm crazy.  Because having dinner with Kristin Nelson taught me that if I can get her to laugh, other agents will read my words, get the jokes, and fall in love with them.  And gaining that optimism can't possibly be a waste.

A normal life

Sometimes I like to pretend I live a normal life.  When my neighbor's yappy chihuahua wakes me up in the morning (I've decided against the shotgun approach so far), I close my eyes and pretend that the thing's bark is my alarm.  I imagine getting out of bed, taking a shower, putting on makeup and heels, and running out the door to beat the traffic.

Boots laced.  Hair in a ponytail.

I create this whole office world in my mind–a frustrating boss who yells a lot, co-workers who act like high schoolers.  An air conditioner that doesn't work blasting lukewarm air into my office.   Of course I'd be in an office.  My temperament would not agree with a cubicle. 

Jacket from the kitchen, pear from the fridge.  Shoulder holster?  Check. 

But then, I wouldn't get to shoot people as they run away with someone else's stuff.  I'd never get away with wearing jeans and leather boots in the world of power suits and lattes.  Seriously, those people can't even function without drugging themselves every morning and afternoon. 

"Got the map?"
"Yeah, it's in my pocket."
A revving engine.  The click of seatbelts. 

I would listen to books on tape performed by full casts of actors with voices like James Earl Jones and Julie Andrews.  When people cut me off in traffic, I'd just smile because it might mean four more seconds of someone else living a life of adventure, while I was in the (relative) safety of my car.

Scrrreeeeeee!
"#*$&!  Learn to drive!"
"Geez, Méli.  Calm down."
"Sorry."
The target is in the university library.  Right turn, left turn, left turn.  Wait.  

At work, I would gossip by the water cooler with the other girls.  If there wasn't a water cooler, I would buy one and put it outside my office door so I could listen.  There would be a lot of drama that would make each day feel like the end of the world.

"Don't do anything stupid."  A linked pair of zip ties tucked into the waistband of my jeans.
"You know me, Tiberon.  I'll be fine."  As wicked a grin as possible. 

When I got home after work, I would wind down with a glass of wine.  Maybe scotch.  I'd watch old TV shows and knit hats for my friends.  My cat would curl up next to me and try to bat the knitting needles while I worked, and I'd scratch her ears and smile when she purred.

The whoosh of automatic doors.  Hushed whispers and footsteps.   
Up, up, up to the stacks.   Books.  Books.  Books.
The target.

I would go to bed early, wearing a silky pajama dress.  My dreams would be about waterfalls and rainbows and people at work and things I had read in the books I had stacked by my bed.

A gun clicks.  Zip tie around his wrist before he turns around. "You?!"
Another wicked grin.  "Me.  Let's do this quietly, yes?"
Down, down, down the stairs.  

Saturdays and Sundays would be for sleeping in. I'd have a living garden and green grass.  Clean carpet.  A fridge full of fresh food I bought at the market.

"I'm not getting in that car."
An elbow crunches into a nose.
"I'b gettinb in da ca!"
Squealing tires.  The drop-off. 

My friends wouldn't know what you had to pack to pick up a target hiding out in Sao Paolo or Niamey.  At our get-togethers, we'd talk about their children and PTA meetings and remodeling our houses. 

"Six grand." 
"Sweet, thanks." 
The dog's tail physically can't wave any faster. 
The holster and guns go back in the den.
I toss my jacket on a chair; it slides to the floor. 
Avel is waiting for me in the kitchen.  He grins.  

I think I would hate having a normal life.

A Meet Cute of Sorts

Natalie and I were supposed to be shopping for party supplies, but so far over the course of the day we had only succeeded in purchasing brownie mix, looking at dresses in one of the mall boutiques, eating Chinese food and scarfing two cups' worth of frozen yogurt. 

By the time we got to the store, we had both lost our passion for party supplies.  My sister wrinkled her nose when I showed her a prospective box of blank invitations.  "Lame," Natalie said, then showed me what she had found. 

"Pathetically lame," I said.  I turned to put the invitations back on the shelf, making it one of those smooth movements where you bend over while turning around.  Usually a plan for grace works out for me.  But I never made it to the shelf–my hand and the box hit someone in the leg. 

"Oh!  Sorry," I said.  I tossed the box onto the shelf and straightened.  The guy was grinning at me.  Grinning.  Like I had done him a favor.  Of course I had to mentally check to make sure I hadn't accidentally touched his, well, you know.  And I hadn't.  "Can I help you?"

"You don't work here," he said, giving my entire body a once-over, then grinning at me again. 

I was wearing jeans and a green t-shirt, which was a far-cry from the red and khaki of the store slaves.  "Well, no."  I expected him to go away then, but he didn't.

Natalie stepped between us.  "I'd thank you to stop checking my sister out.  She has a boyfriend already and isn't taking any applications."

The man, who was really a guy just about my age, smiled again.  "Is that so?"  He advanced on me, forcing me to step backwards into the shelves.  Items clattered behind me and fell to the floor, and one of them even broke. 

I started to kneel to clean up the mess, but he took me by the arm and kept me upright.  "Excuse me?" I exclaimed.  "Let go of me!"

"I was hoping I would meet you," he said. 

Natalie grabbed his free arm and tugged.  "Come on, dude.  Time to go!"

I threw off his arm and moved into a ready stance, completely prepared to give him a hockey player's nose and a few other broken parts.  But he just laughed at me. 

"I'm Avel," he said.  Normal people shake your hand when they introduce themselves.  Not Avel, whoever the heck he thought he was.  No, Avel pressed me back into the shelves, his chest on mine, his nose just touching my nose.  His black eyes glittered and I tried to push him away, but for some reason my arms wouldn't move.  I don't mean that I was paralyzed with emotion or anything like that.  My arms really couldn't move–something was holding them down.  Something fuzzy and invisible and intangible, and I felt it all in chills up my spine.

Natalie started yelling for help.  When that didn't work, she screamed.  "Rape! Rape!"

It worked.  Avel winked at me and disappeared around the end-cap of the aisle.  I stumbled forward, pulling random stuff off the shelves as my hands reached for purchase.  Natalie grabbed my elbow and yanked me away from the shelves, making me leave everything scattered on the ground, even though I felt awful not picking it all up. 

On our way to the car, I thought I saw Avel again, but my peripheral vision got fuzzy just when I turned my head to look.  As far as I was concerned, he was gone and I would (thankfully) never see him again.

Funny how life works sometimes.

...but no one looked out the window: Robe Lady

Robe Lady is up every morning at the same time, walking around with her curtains wide open, clad only in a robe.  She watches TV while flipping her head upside down, blow-drying it with fervor.



Chris was supposed to slam his fist into Kate's door any minute, and she was still standing there in her robe, staring through the mirror.  Sopping hair, completely oblivious to everything around her, clothes becoming damp from the water dripping from her 


A month, a week, a day of zoning out.  It's all pretty much the same.  She heard the door slam against the wall, hearing her brother like you'd hear an elephant trampling the streets of New York.  An elephant wouldn't be able to trample quite as well as Chris does, but it'd certainly put on a good show.

"Kate?"  His voice boomed, too, like God wanted to make sure it would match the galumphing and stomping around.

"Here," Kate said from the bathroom.   She opened the door automatically, and Chris stopped in his tracks.

"What the hell?  Why aren't you dressed?"  He looked at his phone, the light temporarily glowing on his cheekbones in the dimness of Kate's apartment.  "We have to be there in twenty minutes."

Kate felt herself nodding, but she didn't move.

Chris sighed and reached past her to grab the hairdryer sitting in the sink.  He pushed the ON button and pointed it in her face.  "Wake up!  Come on!"

She grabbed the hairdryer back and tried to hit him with it.  Chris easily blocked it, squinting when air blew into his eyes.  Kate pushed him out of the bathroom and yanked the door shut, rattling the things on her counter.   She waited, listening for the moment he went into the kitchen and raided her fridge.  There it was.  A thump and clinking.  He was probably drinking the rest of the orange juice, the jerk.

Kate turned the hairdryer on and flipped her head over, absentmindedly and partially aiming at her hair.  When the front was dry she pulled the rest into a knot at the back of her head.  She was standing on top of her clothes, but she picked them up and pulled on the black pants and black sweater.  They were slightly wrinkled and dotted with spots of water, but it didn't matter.  People didn't care what you looked like at funerals.

Chris banged on the bathroom door.  "Come on!  Time to go!"

She opened the door slowly, but she moved even slower.  "I'm ready."  With the speed of jello solidifying on a kitchen counter, she watched the world move around her with  minute shudders reminiscent of a seizure.  An empty stomach reminded her that breakfast was still missing.

Her brother looked at her with his eyebrows askew.  "Seriously?"

Kate shrugged.  "Let's go."  She put on the first pair of shoes she found: purple Toms.

The walk to the funeral home was long and silent.  Ten blocks felt like ten miles, and by the time they got to the front door, Kate's lungs closed up and she felt like she was breathing through a straw stuck in mud.  "Chris.  I can't.  I can't go."  Her eyes were dry, but her lungs were working so hard to try to breathe that she doubled over, right in the middle of the sidewalk.  Her hands on her knees were supposed to help, it was something she had seen runners do after races; but those stupid athletes never said a word about how putting your hands on your knees doesn't help at all.  It made it harder to breathe and even see. 

"Here," Chris said.  He slid his arm around her waist and guided her to a stone retaining wall.  She sat and held her head between her knees.  As they sat there, she could hear passers-by tut-tutting and sighing.

"Poor thing," said one lady as she passed.  Kate watched the woman's scuffed black tennis shoes disappear into the funeral home and just about threw up.  The bile was there, waiting and ready, but all it did was sit in the back of her throat, maliciously patient.  

Chris sat next to her and put his hand on her back.  The warmth was partially comforting.  After all, he was just as sad as her.  At least, she figured he was, but it wasn't his twin laying in the coffin, hands folded nicely and surrounded by flowers.  That's what Kate had ordered the mortician's slaves to do, anyways.  That's what would be there.  She could already see it.

Her throat betrayed her and she did vomit, only there wasn't any food in her stomach, so there was mostly heaving and acid burning her mouth.  Chris held her and rubbed her back, and Kate realized that she was on her knees with her face in the dirt of the funeral home's front bushes.  It smelled like earth worms and plants and every so slightly of the vomit on the sidewalk.  Her brother's warmth disappeared for a minute or two and then he was back, shoving a paper cone of water into her hands.  Kate sipped, swished, spit. 

A few minutes later he coaxed her into the building, and they turned into the room.  A white coffin loomed, and pale, sad faces stared at her.  But she didn't stay.  Kate took one step backwards, then a second.  And then she was out the door, her footsteps following her in the echoes of the buildings on either side.  She ran, and Chris didn't even call after her.