Holy Bagumba!
Hello and welcome to my first post! I’m right on the brink of sending out my first query letter to an agent. Well, first unsolicited one anyway; I had some back-and-forth with an agent, Nat Sobel, who contacted me after reading my story in The Southeast Review years ago. Now I have a list of agents I’m interested in contacting, and I have a template of my letter crafted, as well as a synopsis if they require one. I’m ecstatic! I’m petrified! I’m petstatic!
Anyway. Want to hear a cool story? I assume if you’re reading this, you’re the writerly/readerly type and thus will find the following at least somewhat thrilling. OK, so my birthday was last week, and most years on my bday I like to get out of our relatively small city and go bookstore hopping in the Minneapolis/St. Paul area. So, on the Sunday before the big day, that’s exactly what my family and I did (masking and respecting COVID policies, obvs). The first place we went is one of my very favorite bookstores, Magers and Quinn. Great selection, used and new, good prices, friendly and helpful staff. There’s everything to love about it. I went first with my daughters to the kids/YA sections to browse with them. Side note: obviously, I love YA, as I wrote a YA book, but I also adore children’s literature. Sadly, my oldest has recently decided she’s too old and cool to be read to (I couldn’t decide between the eyeroll and crying emojis here), but I still read to my eight-year-old most nights. Most recently we finished Flora and Ulysses by Kate DiCamillo. Anyway. We browsed for a while, found a few gems, and then I left the girls with my husband to browse adult fiction. After I had gone through the first aisle of books, I turned the corner to make my way down the second, when I saw two women standing there. It was clear they were about to leave; one of them said she’d found what she was looking for. So while I waited for them to pass by me, my eyes fell on one of them, who looked familiar. She had a mask on, so I couldn’t be absolutely certain, but I was ninety-six percent sure this was someone I’d met once before, seen in many, many pictures, and had even recently spotted doing a cameo in a movie. Before my brain could catch up with my mouth, I blurted, “EXCUSE ME.” In the time it took her to turn toward me, I’d gotten a little anxious. The last time I’d met an author I admired—a very famous short-story writer—they were less than friendly, which sadly soured my feelings toward them. But still, when we locked eyes, I said, “I think I know who you are … Are you Kate DiCamillo?” After she said, “I am,” I don’t know exactly what I said. I remember gushing. I remember saying, “my younger daughter and I just read Flora and Ulysses.” I think I told her I read it with my older daughter too, but I’m not certain. Two years prior, when I met her at a signing at our local Barnes and Noble, I professed my love for The Miraculous Journey of Edward Tulane, and while I didn’t, I wish I’d mentioned it again this time, because OMGTHATBOOK. I wish I’d told her how much my younger daughter adored The Tale of Despereaux, how it’s the only chapter book she’s asked me to read twice. She was so kind and utterly tolerant and when I asked for a picture together, she happily obliged (the aforementioned short-story writer had refused a picture) and her also very kind friend offered to take the pic. As she walked away, she told me to tell my daughters hello, but whoops, I don’t think I ever did that. I just booked it <smirk> to the back of the store and unleashed the story on my family. It brightened my entire day, week, and (so far) month. Maybe it was a birthday present from the Universe, or maybe a reward for finishing my own novel. It was an hour or so later when I realized what I should have said when Kate DiCamillo confirmed her identity in the aisle of the bookstore: “Holy bagumba!”
