So, I’ve been having that dream again. You know. The one where you get the package for the literary agent and the package for the farmers’ coop mixed up. You accidentally sent the alpaca* to Manhattan, New York, and the manuscript to Manhattan, Kansas.
Obviously, this is an auto-reject. The alpaca comes back wearing some kind of purple blazer** with Not For Us scribbled under his left ear, and seven thousand, four hundred twenty three dollars and eleven cents due for return postage on an alpaca***.
I still haven’t figured out what the coop does with the manuscript. I always seem to wake up before I get to that point. I’m optimistic they’re still considering it. (Yes, I know Farmers’ Coop doesn’t represent books. I’m probably the exception.)
*Yes, alpacas are being raised on a farm near you. They’re good for the 4-H kids. No, I don’t personally raise alpacas.
**Remember that childhood acquaintance I thought went to art school? Turns out it was fashion school.
***That’s a bargain, compared to the cost of sending an alpaca by bicycle messenger, in the first place.