Welcome to My Worlds

Hi Gang, I can do the work of 3 people, but only three. I have 465 submissions, not including the 6 full manuscripts on my desk. I’m only on my Feb 24th proposals, and I have 60 queries to answer.

I don’t want a reader, but I do want an intern. The only way to do the work of 4 people, is to clone myself! So, I’m looking for someone who wants a career as a literary agent. If you know of anyone, please send them my way. E-mail me at the addy below for an application. Thanks!

Mortimer Literary Agency Internship Information

Thanks for your interest in Mortimer Literary Agency’s [ML] internship. If you have any questions I don’t answer here, please e-mail me at kmortimer@mortimerliterary.com

This is an internship position. That means [gasp!] you aren’t paid. Think of it as going to a university without paying for the education. [This is normal. I’m not trying to trick you into slave labor!]

Here are the terms for the training portion:

Note: You don’t need to live in So Cal for this position, and I’m flexible on hours! 

• Your title will be ‘Assistant Agent.’

• I teach. You listen. You ask questions. You learn.

• You’ll have required reading, as you would at any educational facility.

• You’ll answer query letters.

• You’ll read partials.

• You’ll learn everything necessary to become a literary agent, including contracts, negotiating, editing, evaluating prospective clients, etc.

• After week one, we’ll use mostly e-mail during the week, but have a phone conversation every Friday.

• Everyone learns at a different pace, so I can’t tell you when you’ll be ready to move up to the next position. You will have an evaluation after your first four weeks.

When I think you’re ready, I’ll promote you to the position of ‘Associate Agent’ [AA]. As an AA:

• You’ll sign an agreement stating you’ll stay with ML as an active agent for 12 months. After 12 months, you can strike out on your own, or stay.

• If you leave, you can take your clients. You must give your clients the choice of going with you, or staying with ML.

• You’ll present me with info on clients you want to sign. [Convince me.]

• Once you sign clients, you’ll edit their work before I check it. When it’s ready, you’ll send it out.

• You’ll do what agents do, with my help.

• When you sell a book, ML gets the check. Of the 15% earned: you get 10%, ML gets 5%.

• ML receives their percentage of monies derived from any Work you pitched or sent out while you were with ML that sells, even if the deal closes after you leave.

If you stay after your 12 months are up, I’ll promote you to the position of ‘Agent’

• At this time, the percentage split changes: you’ll receive 11%; ML will receive 4%.

I expect a lot from me. I’ll expect a lot from you. Can ya handle the heat?

So, I’m gettin’ tons of writers wantin’ updates on their submissions. No, you aren’t bothering me. I know you only wanna make sure you’re still in the queue. You’re all being so patient, and I appreciate it. Truthfully [I do that a lot], I’m waaay behind. Like, real far. I told my agent-friend I was only on my end-of-February submissions. She said, “Congratulations–I’m on last fall.”

Truth is, we’re all behind. Submissions are up, and we’re fighting to keep our heads above water. Here’s what I did in the two previous weeks:

Been on 10 planes

Sat for hours in 10 airports

Been in 3 time zones

Stayed in 4 hotels

Gave or taught 5 speeches/workshops

Had appointments with nearly 100 writers

Edited 200 pages for my small press’ November release

Contacted at least 60 editors

Read/edited clients’ work

Spent hours on the phone with clients

Answered 200+ query letters

Toured a printing plant

Worked on a book cover and book trailer

Mentored a teen

Got about 8 hours sleep–total [yes, I'm exaggerating ... kinda]

I probably did more, but that’s all I can think of at the moment. That doesn’t include carvin’ out time for my family. I’ve totally neglected my dogs [God, forgive me]. I haven’t been outside in months, which used to be a daily thing for me. So, I’m doin’ all I can for as many of ya as I can, and all agents and editors are. Your understanding is sooo needed. Hang in there. We haven’t forgotten about you. You have my word. [Everyone knows the word of a bipolar Italian is good.]

Welcome to My Worlds

[Written in 2007; update written in 2010]

A mother can only be as happy as her saddest child. When your eldest daughter’s a homeless methamphetamine addict, “happiness” isn’t in the dictionary.

I remember the first time I held The Free Spirit Child, Gina; in my arms; wiggled her tiny fingers; kissed her chubby cheeks. What would she be when she grew up? I wanted her to lead a happy, healthy life—not end up cold, alone, depressed … high. A tweaker, the name for meth or “ice” users.

I should’ve remembered my adolescence and warned her. When my parents divorced, it not only broke up our family, it broke me. Instead of turning to Jesus for comfort, I chose drugs. I did a stint on the streets: a month, although my addiction to cocaine and speed lasted longer.

My transformation came on a wicked [the bad wicked] night. I went on a cocaine binge and snorted so much, my mind and heart raced like I was driving my Mustang at NASCAR. I couldn’t stop shaking. My head pounded; I thought my skull was gonna explode. Every time I closed my eyes, the world spun in a terrifying whirlpool, ready to suck me under.

I prayed for rescue, and God came through. I used His help and my stubborn, bull-headed nature for a positive cause. No rehab, no therapy, no patch, no AA. I remembered my roots and went back to church. Victory in Jesus. Would there be the same for my baby, whom I hadn’t seen in years?

She followed my lead in all the wrong directions. What did I expect? I divorced her dad, starting her on the same Yellow Brick Road I ventured down. I know how she feels: we’re still looking for our, “Over the Rainbow.”

My thoughts stray to a stormy day when I got a call from Gina’s preschool teacher. They’d assembled the children in the auditorium because they couldn’t play out in the rain.

The kids sat in groups on the floor, coloring. Then, the lights went out. Many of the tots wailed in fear, among them, the kids in Gina’s group. To her teacher’s amazement, Gina stood up and said, “Don’t be scared. Jesus is here. He’ll protect us and keep us safe. Let’s hold hands and sing ‘Jesus Loves Me.’” And her voice rang out clear and strong, “Jesus loves me this I know, for the Bible tells me so. Little ones to Him belong. They are weak, but He is strong. Yes, Jesus loves me. Yes, Jesus loves me. Yes, Jesus loves me. The Bible tells me so.”

My eyes misted with joyful tears. The teacher added she’d like Gina to play the part of Mary in the school Christmas pageant. I have a picture tucked away somewhere of Gina dressed in that costume: a blue gown and head covering. I’d hunt for it, but anguished tears would come, and how would I stop them? I blamed myself. Like mother, like daughter.

When had the change occurred? I couldn’t specify a date, but I knew unhappiness was her BFF, and I was too busy trying to cope with my own problems. If my tank showed empty, how could I fill up hers? I still think I should’ve tried harder. [Can ya spell "guilt"?]

When she turned twelve, she asked to move to her dad’s in Texas. He wanted her to come, and I thought mayhap that’s what she needed. I gave my ex-husband and his wife three conditions: they’d keep Gina for at least one school year so he wouldn’t uproot her in the middle of a term; she had to be in some kind of counseling program; and Gina needed to attend church. Then I sent her away with a new wardrobe, clothes in shades of her favorite color: purple.

They shipped The Free Spirit Child home six months later. Her stepmother gave Gina’s father an ultimatum: either Gina left, or she would. She had a young daughter, and said Gina was a bad influence on her. Gina came home wearing all black, Gothic-style clothes. My little girl in lavender changed dramatically. She used to like country music; but grunge rock replaced Garth Brooks. [Actually, I don't have a problem with that.] After playing Nancy Drew, I learned Gina never went to counseling, nor to church. O-for-three. [Thanks, Dad.]

Great. I could blame everything on my ex and the wicked stepmother. But I knew my daughter’s behavioral problems didn’t rest on their shoulders. I’d left her dad for greener pastures. I broke up the family, shattering Gina’s heart in the process. What a selfish thing to do, especially after knowing how I felt when it happened to me. I made some horrible choices, and boy, howdy; did they come back to haunt me.

Gina found a way to forget her tough life, same as me. Drugs are an enticing side dish, like creamy mashed potatoes. They allow the user to forget how miserable they are and travel to a better place. A place where one can’t feel. Having been in the same position, I saw the signs, but didn’t want to face them. Soon, I had no choice….

I arrived home with Gina’s sister, Nicole [Nikki]. What a mess! Furniture broken and overturned, plants ripped up and scattered throughout the house, vandalism at every turn. But the worst?: Nikki’s room. Gina and her gang of “friends” ruined most of Nikki’s things. The place looked like Club Med for Satanists. Twine made into nooses held partially charred, mutilated dolls from the ceiling. Taped to the walls: pictures of Nikki, and in each, they stabbed her eyes out. They made warning signs, one of which read, “We’re going to kill you!”

I squeezed my eyelids closed. I couldn’t be seeing what I thought I saw. Impossible. When I peeked: reality. One daughter apparently lost, and one in danger. I had Gina in counseling, but obviously, it wasn’t working. I couldn’t “fix” my daughter either, so I prayed. I once heard the prayers of mothers for their children are special, and I didn’t stop. Then I made a tough call: to the police. When Gina sauntered in, they arrested her.

Nikki pleaded with me to send Gina away. What a horrid position for a mom to be in. I agreed, and drove Gina to her father’s, as he made a move to Central California.

Then Gina’s dad called with the news of her first pregnancy. I urged her to put her child up for adoption. Gina knew she couldn’t care for a baby, and said yes. But her father talked her out of it stating, “you don’t give away family.” So, Gina and her son bounced from place-to-place. Finally, she simply left the boy with his grandfather, and never went back.

The Free Spirit Child turned up crying on her godmother’s doorstep. She said she wanted her life back, and her son. She begged for help, and my family and friends gave it to her. We pitched in several thousand dollars for a beautiful, private rehab facility. Two weeks later, Gina found out she was pregnant again, and ditched rehab to move in with her boyfriend, another meth addict, but she didn’t stay long. Gina disappeared.

Months later, she called from the hospital. She had a healthy baby girl. [The doctors couldn't assure us the baby wouldn't have learning disabilities]. I begged Gina to give this baby up for adoption. But my daughter inherited my obstinate behavior, and said no. So, I called Child Protective Services and they took my granddaughter, Serenity. I lived six hours away and wasn’t able to drive to the hospital, and Gina took off to roam the streets again.

Then I got the call. “Mrs. Mortimer, we have a Jane Doe in the morgue who fits the description on the missing persons report we have for Gina Esteras.”

I tumbled into a pit of despair. “Yes,” I eeked out, “but in such a large county, you must have other missing girls who fit her description.” I held my breath.

His pause negated the need for words, but I got them anyway. “I’m sorry, we only have one report for a young female matching her characteristics.”

My heart curled into a little ball. “Do you need me to drive up there and I.D. the body?” Then a thought occurred to me. “Wait; just turn her over. Her entire back has a huge tattoo of a butterfly on it.”

Another pause. Now what?

“Actually, it’s been really hot here, and there were a lot of scavenging animals around. We only have bones and hair. But the skeleton measures to her height, and the hair is brown, coarse, and wavy.”

My knees gave way. She inherited the wavy hair from me. I’m not sure how I held onto the phone.

He continued. “We’d appreciate it if you could send dental records.”

I nodded, as if the man could see me. “We’ll overnight them to you. How soon will you know for sure?”

“Once we get the records, it won’t be long—less than a week.”

I mumbled a quick thank you, and hung up. Then I got to work. I called my childhood best friend, who served as Gina and Nikki’s godmother, and she’d take care of the dental records. Next, I put out the word to all my family and friends to pray for strength.

I phoned the coroner again, and again. Each time they had an excuse, telling me to check back the following week. [Note to all: don't get lost in Fresno.] Once they even remarked, “Oh, the anthropologist took the skull, so we can’t check the teeth.” [Don't know if I've ever wanted to commit murder more.][Sorry.] Nearly six excruciating weeks later, the answer came: the skeleton wasn’t The Free Spirit Child’s. I thanked God, relief flooding me.

Still have no idea if Gina is okay. All I can do is trust in the Lord to deliver her, as He delivered me. I heard her voice on Christmas day, 2006 on my message machine. She said, “Merry Christmas, Mimi. I miss you. Tell everyone I love them.” [Sigh. As refreshing as a cool gulp of mountain water on a blistering day.]

I don’t know where Gina is, but each night I pray she remembers I love her more than I can express—and Jesus loves her even more than that.

Update – 2010

Gina is alive and well. Now sober, she’s one of the sweetest and most compassionate people I know. She’s 28, has tons of piercings and tats, has custody of her son, met a man in rehab who looks like a skinhead [and whom I adore], and they have a baby girl. [Dori is the first of my three granddaughters we get to keep.] Gina attends church, and often counsels others on the dangers of abusing drugs, and how the love of Jesus can deliver every lost soul—no matter how far away they are.

And me? I accepted God’s forgiveness, and I’m making sure my youngest, The Genius Child, grows up with two parents who love her, and each other. Sometimes, there is a happy ending.

Welcome to My Worlds.

[Nikki, Gina, Michaela]

On May 12, 2010; the day discussion started on Assembly Bill 1934 – Firearms [or should I say, taking away firearms], I decided to exercise my rights before they disappeared as fast as a dog with a piece of bacon. Before my post on May 11, many didn’t know in the state of California, unless you live on Elm Street and somebody half-dead is tryin’ to kill ya, a concealed carry permit is impossible to acquire. [Well, ya never know. I saw a unicorn the other day….] Buuut, we do have a way to pack heat: in the open.

I haveta give the credit to my gal pal, Susie Mather, for informing me. She lives in Arizona, but she knew about open carry in CA before I did. [Gun-totin' agent now stands in the corner and hangs her head.] Then my hubby [he's such a sweet man] said he knew, and that really made my tinder crackle. How could he know and not tell his pistol-packin’ bride? [Probably because he knew said bride would immediately go to town and strap on the Christmas present he gave her, the new Betty: a Smith & Wesson, scandium-alloy j-frame .357 Magnum M&P 360. [Yeah, I know I already mentioned what my sidearm is in the other post, but it sounds so kewl, I couldn't resist.]

I tried to get someone to follow me around with a video camera, but everyone within shootin’ distance [no pun intended …well, maybe] was busy, so I decided to go it alone. I did my research. You can get a big, fat felony if you open carry in a few select places, like the post office. That’d actually be efficient. They could snap your picture and put in on the wall with no lag-time. I despise lag-time. I avoid it at all costs. [Now, if I could just figure out how to live without sleep…. Yeah, I know; I'm already darn close.] I’m gettin’ off-track again.

Someone recently told me I seem to have ADD. It never occurred to me, but it fits. I’ll go in the bedroom to make the bed and see a hanger. So, I take the hanger toward the back porch, and notice there are three dishes and a pair of scissors on the kitchen counter. I throw the dishes in the dishwasher, and trot into the fabric room to put the scissors back. Shoot! I have four fabrics to put away that I haven’t cataloged. I go to the computer in-between the living room and the kitchen and boy, howdy; my mailbox shows 35 messages came in since I’d gotten up. [Have to answer them.] One is a link to a Web site, so I go there. That reminds me I need to look up something, so I Google it. I get the info, print it, and go to my bedroom to get an envelope. That’s when I realize I never made the bed, the hanger is on the kitchen counter, I never cataloged the fabric, and only answered half the e-mails. And, yes, I plan to get back to the reason I’m blogging.

My hubby [he's such a sweet man] came home early unexpectedly, as his day wasn’t all guns ‘n roses. So I thought, hey, The Genius Child can take the still shots and run the video camera. [Kewl beans.] We picked her up and off we went. First stop, the post office.

That reminds me, I never finished the list of “don’t go there” places for open carry. [I think I do have ADD, as does The Sassy Child.] Other than the post office, you can’t wear a gun in any state building, or a building with state offices, nor at the Governor’s Mansion [I suppose the Terminator will haveta live without the Mominator], the airports, and within 1,000 feet of any K-12 schools.

That school rule can be tricky. I’m about to contribute to a legal defense fund for a guy who got hammered because of that rule. He was on private property in a Laundromat, and someone called in a “man with a gun.” The law officers arrived, questioned the dude, then left. Following that, said man got a nice letter from the District Attorney in the mail telling him they were gonna prosecute as a school was about 700′ away. This guy was doin’ his freakin’ laundry [at a place I'd certainly wanna have a firearm], and has to pay thousands in legal fees to defend himself [too bad he couldn't just use his gun] because wore a handgun in plain view, not loaded, as per the law. My state is so worthless. Honestly! They’re usin’ taxpayer money [Last time I checked, our governor "terminated" all of our funds.] to charge this law-abiding “criminal” and convict him of a felony, so now he can never legally own a gun.

That just chaps my hide. We have a Constitution in this country, and “judges” try to make it a “living document” so they can let people burn the Stars and Stripes, murder unborn babies, and deny us our right to keep and bear arms. [I know, this is a state issue and doesn't involve federal law, but I'm on a roll.] What’s next? No freedom to worship where and what we wanna? I guess we may haveta go back to England for that. [Well, at least I'm a Mortimer.]

I trotted to the computer [no, I didn't catalog the fabrics, but I did answer the e-mails] and found a district map with locations of all the schools. I then figured out the names of the pertinent streets [the words were so faint, not even the Bionic Man could've read 'em] and put a red dot on all the places I wanted to go. I figured out how many miles were in 1,000′ [it's 0.1839], grabbed a ruler, and measured. Looked like I’d be in the clear. I took the map, ruler, a copy of the open carry law [since it seems many officers aren't aware of it—mayhap they missed that day at the academy], tucked my ammo in my custom-designed handbag [take a peek at my designs at www.4galsdesigns.com. Don't forget to type in "designs," or you'll end up at a porn site] whipped out my fuchsia belt, got my gun case and lock, and I was ready. Oh, should mention they can get ya if you drive within 1,000′ of a school and your firearm isn’t empty and locked down. [Nah! They'll never catch me on that kind of technicality.]

I went several places: Wal Mart, Costco, Trader Joes, and the giganto Regal Movie Theater to see Iron Man 2 at 5:00. The Genius Child took some still photos outside of the places for me, and took some video inside. All I can say is, “Dull much?”

I wore a sage green shirt, my belt is pink, and my holster is black. I did everything but jump up-and-down to make people aware of my sidearm. Wal Mart: nothin’. Costco: nothin’ [and I was pickin' up bipolar medication]. Trader Joes: nothin’, although I wanted to get a mention of what I was doin’ on film, so before I left I actually pointed my gun out to the checker and told her why I was wearin’ it. She got nervous for a second, until I told her Betty wasn’t loaded and I was operating within the law.

But the most ridiculous [the bad ridiculous] reaction was at the movie theater. I figured worse case: they’d call the cops, as there’s an escalator into the Promenade Mall a few feet away, and the Temecula Police have a sub-station there. Or, they might make my hubby [he's such a sweet man] take the gun and trudge back to Blue Thunder. [Third in our line of mini-vans. One of these days I'll haveta tell y'all about the demise of The Silver Bullet on Black Friday; and The Green Machine, which went out in a blaze of glory. [So many Lucy Ricardo moments, but no time to write about 'em. Sigh.] So, I braced myself. They let me buy a ticket, but when we opened the glass door and piled in, the man taking the tickets put up his hand. [Here it comes. Finally, some action!] His eyes grew wide. “Stop!” he said. “You can’t come in here with that … video recorder.” [Sigh.]

Welcome to My Worlds.

Not the year, the Ass-embly Bill: AB 1934. And it chaps my hide! For those who don’t know it, I live on the Left Coast where illegal aliens have more rights than I do. That’s right, I said illegal aliens, not “undocumented workers.” They’re here because they broke our laws, and who can prove they all work? Many of them are tuberculosis-carrying murderers, rapists, and pedophiles. [Beastly!] And you can stop prattling behind my back, as I’m NOT a racist. I love all people. But I don’t cotton to criminals. If you’re here illegally, that’s what you are. Period. If I rob a bank, am I a bank robber, or “someone who helps others withdraw their money for my personal use”? Okay, somehow I got off track. [Sorry.]

Tomorrow, May 12, 2010, is discussion day to add yet another restraint on the law-abiding citizens who, by law, have the right to protect themselves.

Most already know getting a concealed carry permit in California is harder than getting a book deal and landing on the NYT best-seller list. But, we can strap on a gun in plain view provided it isn’t loaded, and is transported correctly. This bill will make that illegal. [There's that word again.] The problem is, the criminals DON’T follow these rules. So us regular folks take the beating [often literally.]

Here’s the bill:

AB 1934 (Saldana)
Firearms.

LEGISLATIVE COUNSEL’S DIGEST
AB 1934, as amended, Saldana. Firearms.

Existing law, subject to exceptions, makes it an offense to carry a concealed handgun on the person or in a vehicle, as specified. Existing law provides that firearms carried openly in belt holsters are not concealed within the meaning of those provisions. This bill would delete the exception pertaining to firearms carried openly in belt holsters. The bill would also establish an exemption to the offense for transportation of a firearm by members of specified organizations going directly to or from official parade duty or ceremonial occasions, as specified. [Great, so if anyone tries to mug me while I'm riding a horse during the Rose Parade, I'm safe.

By expanding the scope of an existing offense, this bill would impose a state-mandated local program. [Last time I checked, our governor "terminated" all our funds. How are we gonna pay for this?]

Existing law, subject to exceptions, makes it an offense to carry a loaded firearm in specified public areas. The bill would, subject to exceptions, make it a misdemeanor to openly carry an unloaded handgun on the person in specified public areas.
By creating a new offense, this bill would impose a state-mandated
local program. [Last time I checked, our governor terminated all our funds. How are we gonna pay for this?]

The bill would make conforming and nonsubstantive technical changes.
The California Constitution requires the state to reimburse local agencies and school districts for certain costs mandated by the state. [Oh, good. So the schools don't have to pay for it, which is a relief, as all the illegal alien children have sucked the oxygen outta the classrooms, and the budget.] Statutory provisions establish procedures for making that reimbursement.

This bill would provide that no reimbursement is required by this
act for a specified reason. [Huh?]

***

In protest, tomorrow, on the day they mull this over [That's a joke, it'll be signed faster than I used to run the 100-yard dash.], I’m goin’ to town and strappin’ on my sidearm, a Smith & Wesson scandium-alloy J-frame .357 Magnum M&P 360. Sucker only weighs 13 ounces. [Sigh.] It was a Christmas gift from my hubby [he's such a sweet man]. I can see the headline on the Drudge Report now: Pistol-Packin’ Grandma Arrested While Grocery Shopping for Wearing a Gun in the Produce Aisle…

[I made the above handbag, and used the snake’s rattle as an embellishment.]

I have no idea what’s going to happen, but I simply don’t care. I have a right by law to carry a firearm that’s not loaded and in full view, and I’m exercising that right before they take it away from me. I’m standing up for what I believe in. At least when this bill passes, I’ll know I contacted all my representatives and told them how I felt, and I took a position on the issue, for better or worse.

One of the things I can’t stand is when people whine and complain about things in our government they don’t like, but yet they haven’t voiced their opinions, and often don’t even vote. If you’re one of those: save it and move over for those us who back up our words with actions.

Hey Y’all,

Rec’d an e-mail that Ron, an actor who was on our 168 Film Project Team, couldn’t afford his SAG health insurance premiums. He has a heart condition: John Ritter Disease. His aorta is enlarged, and will burst when it gets to 5 cent. His just ballooned to 4.9. He needs emergency surgery.

Monday, he needed $550 immediately to reinstate the insurance just cancelled. I took care of that. He still needs the $550 for May, plus money so he doesn’t lose his apartment in the months following the surgery, as he won’t be able to work. This surgery, although lifesaving, also has a 30% fatality rate. Talk about stress!

Ron is a good Christian man who needs our help. I’m looking for donations from $5.00 and up. Every dollar counts! You can use my PayPal account by this e-mail addy: kelly@kellymortimer.com

On Monday, Ron told me I literally saved his life. Don’t know about that, but I do know how blessed I was to help him. Never felt better. Feelin’ depressed? Here’s the prescription: help someone in worse shape than you are. It works wonders.

————————————————————

The interview on the blog of Chuck Sambuchino from Writers Digest ran today [although I answered the questions in Dec. ‘09], but had to be edited down. This version is: UNCUT! [They took all the funny stuff out!] Below is the link for the edited version. [Interview by Ricki Schultz]

http://www.guidetoliteraryagents.com/blog

Briefly, how did you become an agent?

I was a writer, and my editing partner kept buggin’ me. She thought I’d make a great agent. Then I got a nudge from The Big Dude Upstairs. Actually, He whomped on my head for 9 months, and I finally said, “If You insist….”

You have described yourself as “the Extreme Agent” and “the un-agent,” and the tagline on your agency Web site is: “Diabolically Diligent. Maniacally Moral. Defiantly Different.” Can you tell us what you mean? What sets you apart from other agents—other than your masterful use of alliteration?J

Alliteration. Ah, yes. Masterful, you say? Did you see the proposal for my nonfiction book, Perils of Publishing: Pithy Pointers to Protect Writers from Pitfalls, Punishment, and Pernicious Plights? [The proposal was hilarious, but Writer’s Digest passed on it. See. Even agents get rejections.]

Back to the question. [Sorry. I’m bipolar, and my mind sometimes shifts into ADD-mode.] I’m Extreme because I’m fearless. Inside, I’m on fire. There’s no one I won’t walk up and talk to, no risk I won’t take if the reward can be great, nothing I see as impossible. I’m the un-agent, as I haven’t forgotten the client hires me and I work for the client; it isn’t the other way around. [I’m really a human; I’m only disguised as an agent.]

My three-sentence tagline explains who I am. By diligent, I mean I answer e-mails and calls right away. When a client sends me work, I edit it and send it out right away. My clients get a monthly report showing them where their work is, and how many times I’ve followed up. When I can’t get to something in a timely fashion, I explain and apologize.

Moral means I not only stick to the letter of the law [BTW, never use that phrase; it’s a cliché.], but what I do has to be moral as well as legal. I’d rather hack off my arm than cheat someone.

Defiantly different means I am what I am, and I do things how I do things. I’m vocal about my views, and my views aren’t always the popular ones. I get slammed all the time; especially in 2009. Still, I don’t plan on changing. I may be different, but different doesn’t haveta be negative.

What makes me different? Many things, I think. One: I only sign pre-published writers [I hate the term “unpublished”], or those not pubbed at a traditional house in the last three years. It’s a dirty job, but someone has to do it. [BTW, never use that phrase; it’s a cliché.] That doesn’t mean I’m looking for newbie writers. I can only mentor so many. I sign writers who are just shy of ready; or are ready, but can’t get a break. Two: I keep a short list of around 15 active clients, whereas my friends rep 40-50. This gives me time to treat my clients the way I wanna treat ’em. Three: I’m not in this for the money. [Not that there’s anything wrong with money. The Bible is often misquoted. Money is not the root of all evil; the love of money is the root of all evil.] When I sign a client, I don’t worry about how soon I can get them published and collect my commission. I make sure their best work goes out, even if it takes longer to make it cleaner. [Uh, not that other agents rush to send out inferior manuscripts….]. Four: being a full-blooded Italian, I see my clients as my extended family, and I stand behind every one of them. [Unless there’s a bullet comin’ at ’em—then I jump in front.] It’s hard for me to be “all business” where my clients are concerned. But, some writers want all business, so I’m not right for everyone. [I know; hard to believe.]

What sets me apart? I don’t take the word “apart” as meaning “better.” I participated on an agent panel once and the moderator asked that question. I was sitting at the end of the row, so I’d be at the bottom of the lineup. As the other agents spoke, I freaked. I heard: “I’ve sold over 800 books.” [I’d only been an agent for a couple of years.] “I was a professor at Harvard.” [I’d never taken a writing class; my degrees are in business.] “I got a law instituted that helps all writers.” [In my foolish youth, I’d broken a lot of laws….] And my fave, “I wrote the correspondence for the Secretary of State.” [For a homework assignment, I wrote a letter to my senator once—in 7^th grade.] So, what could I say to compete with all that? The agent sittin’ next to me was roundin’ the bases, and I was on deck, then … batter up! He handed me the mic, [a mic kinda looks like a bat] and … I hit ’em with the truth: “Every agent at this table is a better agent than I am. They all have more experience, have all dealt with things I haven’t. If I was sittin’ where you writers are right now—and two years ago I was—I’d want one of them as my agent, not me. What I can promise, is that I’ll fight for you with everything I have in me. I won’t desert you. I’m a scrappy gal—the female version of Rocky Balboa, and the human Sea Biscuit. I just don’t have it in me to quit.” [They didn't listen. I got mobbed after that.]

What’s the most recent thing you’ve sold? Title, author, publisher, anything notable?

What’s notable to me might not be notable to everyone else. [This is a subjective business.] The last two books I sold were for a writer who’s been with me since July ’07: Kelly Ann Riley. I told her to keep writing, and I’d keep editing/submitting, and if we hung in there, we’d get published. She won RWA’s Golden Heart Award in 2009, and I later sold that manuscript, entitled Firestorm, to Steeple Hill Love Inspired for their romantic suspense line. I also got her a deal with another publisher, Guideposts, to write for their mystery series. So, now she has contracts with two houses. [Can ya spell “diversification”?] To me, there’s nothing more notable than workin’ side-by-side with someone for years, then making “the call.” Twice. [Sigh.]

I have notable clients, meaning you’ve heard of some of them, but they aren’t more important to me than my other clients. Some proposals I’ll sell in 2010—Paula Jones, who made history by getting a 9-0 vote from the Supreme Court, allowing her to sue a sitting president for sexual harassment [I’m writing the book for her: Paula Jones: Making History]; I’m repping John Ramsey’s next book [Jonbenet Ramsey’s father, who was finally cleared in 2008]; I just signed CBS Sportscaster Eric Sperling, who has an important story to tell; I love famed Los Angeles photographer Rachel Jeraffi’s book, Hope Lies Within; can’t wait to sell Pulitzer Prize nominee Marie Chapian’s fiction offering, An Ordinary Day in Heaven; and former comedian and late-night comedy writer Marc Weingarten, who also owned a comedy club and uses one as a setting for his mystery, Cape Comedy. Just as notable [to me]: Matthew “Whiz” Buckley, L.A. Byrne, Caroline Dunsheath, Robin Haseltine, Cynthia Hickey, Frank Iszak, Susie Mather, Carrie Stuart Parks, Vicki Sabota, and Raz Steel; who write everything from category romance to dark paranormals—fiction and nonfiction—Inspirational and secular. [Even heathen/pagans deserve representation.]

You won American Christian Fiction Writers