Last spring a friend’s daughter graduated from middle school, and in response to the tired question, ‘Where do you see yourself in fifteen years,’ she said, ‘I don’t know. I’m only fourteen.’
I thought, ‘good for you!’
I don’t know why people ask that stupid question. Someone suggested that it could come up at a writer’s conference that I plan to attend next week. And I suppose it could since discussions with agents and editors are really mini interviews. God bless the people in that profession, too, since they’ve got all manner of crazies coming at them with book ideas. They’ve got to weed the crowd somehow. But with that question? Sigh. Well, if they do I’ll have to hit them with honesty, saying, ‘I don’t know. I’m only thirty-four.’
Hopefully the editor or agent will then say, ‘Good for you!’ They’ll know that trying to predict the me that will exist at the age of 49 (holy shit) is fairly unproductive. I don’t know who she’ll be. I hope that she’ll still be writing. Can’t promise, though. I hope that she’ll have a mad, crazy work ethic that will have taken her far. Can’t promise that either. Hell, I don’t even know if she’ll still like pizza.
I just know who I am now. I’ll tell the agents and editors that I’m proud of my book, that I’m intimidated by the process of trying to get it published, that I hope that they like me.
And if they don’t, would they please introduce me to a colleague who would?