Well, I still don’t have an agent—not officially, as of yet. But I do have an agent who is willing to take a chance on me.  So that’s good, right?

I mean, she doesn’t want to fully represent me because my book, though “intriguing and involving”, is going to be difficult to place with publishers. The books that young adult publishers are looking for are ones with a fantasy twist to them. I do not write fantasy. My book is just  a plain ol’ character driven story, nothing more.

So even though this particular agent has taken a shine to me, has asked for revisions, and seems to like what I have written, she has said: “The new ending is better -- a touch too long, but it can be edited down.The bigger issue, for me as an agent, is that a YA novel such as this one is difficult to place with a publisher, even with the new ending. If you look at the YA that publishers are buying, whether it's dark or it's frothy light, it's mostly fiction with a fantasy element of some sort. So, here's what I propose. I can't offer you full representation, because I know there are going to be severe limits to where I can submit this. But I'd be willing to try four or five publishers on your behalf. If we get lucky, we can celebrate and I can have you sign the agency paperwork at that time. If I can't find Desert Rice a home after trying four or five publishers, we part company after the initial submissions, and say, at least we tried.”

Once again, it’s not a no, it’s a maybe. I’ll take the maybe, even though it doesn’t sound very promising.

Exciting? Umm, I’m not so sure. Yes, she’s willing to submit to a few publishers for me, which is wonderful and more than some hopeful writers will ever get, but still . . . I don’t have an agent. Four or five publishers really isn’t very many to submit to either.  But four or five publishers is still more than zero, right?

I do know that even IF I had a contract with an agent that it still doesn’t mean I will get published. Lots of things can happen—publishers might not like my book anyway, for one thing. The whole writing world is subjective.

All I know is that it would have been excellent to say, “I have an agent! A real live agent!” But I can’t. Because I don’t.

Now the weird thing—which makes me feel hopeful, though I don’t want to be—is that this agent knew from the very beginning that my novel has NO fantasy elements to it whatsoever. She could have easily rejected me after the initial query, but she didn’t. She could have rejected me after the first 50 pages, but she didn’t. She could have rejected me after reading the whole manuscript, but she didn’t. She could have rejected me after I submitted my revisions, but she didn’t. That has to mean something, right? (Notice my need for some sort of validation?)

I want to be happy, but I can’t. I don’t want to be a downer, but I don’t know how else to be. This wasn’t the news I was hoping for, but it is much better than what could have been (You suck, Angela. Move along)—does that make sense?

So I will tell her, “Yes, please try submitting to publishers on my behalf”—I would be a fool not to.

But I don’t expect much to come from it—I’d be a fool if I did.  

I was doing dishes today and I looked up and low and behold, a pray mantis is clinging to the inside of my kitchen window. What the heck??

My husband said he found it in the garage and decided to bring it INSIDE the house. Left in the garage, my husband explained, the little green creature would die.

“Put it outside,” I said.

“It’s too cold. He’ll die.” (Notice the bug now has a specific gender).

I wag my finger. “Well, bringing the little sucker inside the house isn’t going to up his odds of survival either,” I said. “I can guarantee that!”

At this point, I am thinking there is a toilet bowl with this green bugs name on it.

“Get rid of it,” I said. No more debating. This is ridiculous.

Well, I forgot about it, and low and behold several hours later—the stupid thing is still there, camping out by the tomatoes I have ripening in the window ledge.

But this time he is not alone, there are TWO bugs.  Double crap!

“What do you think you’re doing?” I ask my crazy husband, because obviously he is nuts.

“He’s hungry.”

I tilted my head and eyed my odd husband. “Soooo, you went outside bug hunting? You brought dinner back for the praying mantis?”

“I don’t like the way you make that sound,” he said.

So here we are playing tug-o-war with the life of an innocent creature.  I still have that praying mantis in my kitchen window on this side of the glass—the side I live on and bugs should not. I’m all for sparing the life of bugs (okay, you caught me. That’s not true. I smash them and flush them without much guilt), but still.

Let nature take its course. Put the thing outside. That is my motto.

But gosh darnit, every time I go to my kitchen to get a drink of water or grab a little bite of something to make my sore throat feel better, that pray mantis looks at me—pleadingly. And just for the record, the kids have taken Scott’s side too. They like the little guy (yes, it’s a boy. Everyone knows green pray mantis’ are boys, duh!)

Ay, yi, yi!!

What am I to do?

I don’t want a pet pray mantis, but it looks like the scales are tipping in that direction.

Older, wiser people make me smile. They do.

Over the past couple of weeks, I have seemed to notice old people more. Not sure why, though. I guess it’s because I find myself hanging out in places that older, wiser people tend to frequent.

One thing I have learned this past month is that older, wiser people love Chuck-O-Rama. Boy, do they love it! And really, what’s not to love? Lot’s of food to choose from PLUS sugar-free cookies for the diabetics. Chuck-O-Rama caters to the older crowd, which is fantastic.

The reason I know older, wiser people love Chuck-O-Rama, is that I have been there twice now in the past month with my very own older, wiser, young at heart, parents (once in Ogden and once in Bountiful—both places swarming with older people).

So, number one: Older, wiser people love Chuck-O-Rama. It’s the place where oxygen tanks and wheelchairs are the norm. And young people, get out of their way. Move over and show some respect.

Number two: Older, wiser people love Smith’s Marketplace in Bountiful, early in the day. I haven’t tested out the theory of afternoon and evening older people, but when I went there this morning, it was packed.

Today, while shopping an older, wiser gentleman came wheeling his shopping cart several rows over in the produce section to stop me.

“Ma’am,” he called to me. “Ma’am.”

I stopped and turned to him, unsure if I had done something wrong, or if he needed assistance or what.  So I looked at him, waiting.

“I just had to stop you,” he said. “I noticed your purse matched your shirt, and I must say I feel bad for your husband.”

I gave him an odd look, still unsure where this was going.

“The way I figure, you must be pretty high maintenance to match your clothes and purse to grocery shopping.”

Okay, here’s the funny thing. I own ONE purse. Most of the time it does not match ANYTHING I am wearing. I just like the blue purse. It’s bright and fun. I just so happened to throw on a t-shirt (yes a t-shirt) that was blue and had the Beetles splashed across the front of it. My hair was washed, slightly curled, but not much. I had little makeup on and I wore flip-flops. There was NOTHING high maintenance about my appearance what-so-ever. If anything, I looked pathetic.

All I wanted was groceries. That was all—a nice cartload of groceries.

Instead, I was accosted by an old man while I tried to buy lettuce.

I smiled politely, denied his claims and moved along. Every time I saw him down an aisle, I went a different way. Who knew what else he might say?

Silly. Just plain silly.

I love older, wiser people. They say the darndest things.

And NO, I am not high maintenance. If anything, I should try harder—that old man got me thinking.