WINTER'S WILD RIDE

CHAPTER 1 rough draft

 COPYRIGHT FELICA DEVERS 2014- ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

CHAPTER 1

“Take your clothes off.” I told Candidate #6. 

 If he wanted me, if he really wanted to prove to me he was the one I had to have…he had to take his clothes off.  He was the 6th prospective literary agent ( three based in the L.A area and three from the East coast)I had met with in the past 3 days and I was spent. 

My social anxiety was ratcheting off the charts, I was popping low dose Klonopin like skittles and as much as I wanted someone to guide me, represent me and work with me in the publishing world, my innate issues were taking over and now I had become supremely nervous and irritable and when that combo took me over…I became a complete pain in the ass… thus my extremely small; some would say almost invisible social circle. Yikes… I ramble…..a lot…

Candidate #6 was as 95% of the previous interested literary agents had been…..white and male.  Did no top literary agencies employ women and if so, why were they not sending them to woo me?  But hey what did I know about writing books and the publishing world anyway.  I must have missed the memo that went out about wordy personal tomes written by mentally ill ethnic women about their manic inspiring life successes coupled with depressing blowing displays of cringe inducing behavior had become the new 50 SHADES OF GRAY for the publishing world.  Somehow, my funny/sad stories were now considered hot publishing shit and possibly very profitable???  and it had all happened so quickly. After writing almost daily about my current and past bipolar induced shenanigans via an online blog…word of mouth spread and suddenly I had a fan base and people emailing, tweeting, Facebook poking, texting and calling me wanting to help me write a book....thus the reason for my current set up in a nice hotel room in Los Angeles.

      At this point three east coast based literary candidates had flown out to Los Angeles, to my hotel suite for one reason….to win me over and obtain my signature and control of my publishing destiny…And I desperately needed a powerful and qualified literary agent to represent me.

     “So have you found that requiring your prospective candidates to interview in flagrante is the best way to judge a literary agent’s qualifications?” Candidate #6 asked in a tone that sounded as if my request to drop trou was most amusing to him and not in the least bit odd.

“I am laying MY soul bare and exposed to the world with this book, so if you WANT me, you need to show me you are willing to do the same.” I locked eyes with him as I answered his question in a voice barely above a whisper and with as little emotion as I could muster.  He stared down at me still seated on the hotel sofa.  His eyes looked thoughtful, slightly amused and green.  

As he stood there confidently wearing his smart ass East Coast swagger , 6 figure earning, Connecticut residing, commuter train riding, white wife and 2.5 kids having life like a badge of honor,  I sat in the corner of the hotel suit sofa, knees scrunched up to my chin, gran mal levels of anxiety coursing thru my veins and decided.

I would fuck him, not today; but one day.

Candidate #6 was 36 year old, Ivy League, Stephens Jacobi, and he would become my Literary Agent.  Stephens was pleased when I confirmed, while still half huddled in my warm sofa corner spot, that he had become the chosen one.  

Stephens Jacobi sat down beside me on the hotel sofa and suggested that since we still had the lovely sunny L.A. October afternoon lying before us, it would be lovely (his word, occasionally mine) that we could take a drive in his rented convertible something or other to some lovely, calming and neutral place outside to discuss the next steps for he, me and my manuscript. And then he added, that I must always let him know if anything he was doing or not doing would be considered a trigger for me.