• Barbara Conrey

The Call

Updated: Feb 12, 2019


Miss Molly watching the 'call'...

If you’re a writer you know what call I’m talking about. It’s the one you’ve been waiting for. The one that gives validation to the days and months and years you’ve spent chained to your desk trying to put into words the ideas you are certain – fairly certain – will be the next great work of fiction.


If you’re not a writer, you might not have a clue about this call, but trust me: it’s important.


Now, let me just back up for a minute and mention that this call ‘the call’ should not come as a surprise, and any writer worth her/his salt should have squirreled away tons of documentation on how to handle this call.


I can only speak for myself. I don’t know what you do with your important ‘how to’ information. I tend to store mine either in an email folder labeled ‘Someday I’m Going to Need This’ or in a cute little three ring binder where I keep all my I-really-need-to-read-this-stuff stuff.


Either way, I have everything I need to insure I don’t sound like an idiot when the call comes.


But here’s the thing. Or, at least, for me, here’s the thing: In my head I might not have thought that call was ever going to come. So, instead of learning to ask the right questions, I just kept writing. Because writing’s important. Right?

I bet you already know how this story ends: the call came. Actually it was a voice mail message on my answering machine because I gave my home phone number as a contact instead of my cell phone, which, now that I think about it, was probably the better plan. Imagine hearing your car’s blue tooth announce your caller is so-and-so from so-and-so literary agency or publishing house.

I actually don’t want to imagine that. Not while I’m driving, anyway.


So, my point here, folks, is that I went into this call cold. In fact, at one point I found myself nodding in answer to a question my caller could not possibly have seen. Luckily for me, the woman on the other end of the call had all her ducks in a row and answered every conceivable question I could possibly have thought of. She even told me she liked my title.


SHE LIKED MY TITLE!


Not to belabor the point, but don’t be me, sitting at the kitchen island with a napkin to write on, a pen in one hand, the phone in the other, wishing I had a third hand to hold up my head that was close to exploding from excitement.


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