Well, I say would-be: this is technically incorrect on two levels as
- a) they are an agent (they have a letterhead and everything)
- b) they wouldn't-be (my agent, that is).
That said, the individual (which of the Name Ampersand Name it is I cannot tell - the signature resembles a collapsing tower and is quite mystical-looking) was implausibly nice while conveying total apathy and/or ambivalence for or in the face of my genius. It almost reminded me of that girl that let me down gently that you'll never hear about unless someone publishes part one of my autobiography because it's in part three. I think her name wasn't Ellen.
Said agent was not only interested while they read my work, but is also "sure" I will "soon" find an agent with the "right amount of enthusiasm" for my work. Suck on that, losers, I thought, although, that could mean I will find an agent in three years who thinks it's shit. I mean, who's to say what's right and wrong? Not me, that's fo' sure.
Agents, I have found out, apologise for the delay in getting back to you even if they get back to you about two months before you expect them to; this teaches us two things:
- 1) they expect to be late
- 2) they are sorry for their lateness.
In bad news this week, I have begun working part time in the presumably-doomed American Apparel in Shoreditch. This is not a joke. This is my life. And it's ending one shift at a time.
Still, I found a fake Snickers in ASDA, so swings and roundabouts, &c.
More on the Stream as the slow-moving stagnant waters begin to shift through the raiséd sluice. I anticipate efluent, as, I imagine, do most agents upon opening my folder of joy.
Later, haters.
J.J.J.
