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.