It's been two months, and you still haven't told me if you like my book. Please like it? Please?
I'll beg. I'm not proud. Please ask for a full? I'll accept pity. You can ask for a pity-full.
I'll be the best client you've ever had. Really. I'll always make my submission dates with time to spare. I won't bother you with lots of emails; I haven't even emailed about the partial you've got right now, the one you apparently still haven't read. See? That's proof, right there.
Look, I'm desperate here. I live for affirmation. Tell me I'm smart. Tell me I'm a good writer. Tell me I'm talented and my book could sell really well.
I'm not greedy. I don't need to be the next Jo Rowling or Stephenie Meyer. I just need to make about as much money writing as I do teaching. Then I can stop teaching and write, like I've dreamed of doing for years. Don't you want me to be able to live my dream? All you need to do is take me on, agent-lady.
Look what I've become. I make myself sick. I'm groveling and whining and getting more-than-a-little passive-aggressive. Make it stop. You have the power to make it stop.
