Richard and I had settled into a nice rhythm at this point, spending winters in Manhattan and summers in the high country of Colorado. We left for the East Coast shortly after the holidays, feeling like seasoned New Yorkers at this point, and this time, I took with me an exciting bit of news: the young partner of George Garrett’s agent had asked to see some of my work. Actually, every single contact that Garrett had given me asked to see something; most were editors at major houses, but they had passed on the work I had sent. Those were one-shot opportunities, but landing a literary agent, I knew, would provide me with multiple chances to place something.

 

She read one of my novels while I was in New York and called me while I was at work at The Salvation Army Foster Parent Program one day, telling me she thought that in places, the work was “brilliant.” I could barely hear anything else after that, I was hyperventilating so hard. She wanted a rewrite, though, and gave me all the suggestions she thought would make it a better book, and as I scribbled down her notes, I realized just how bright and focused she was. A little intimidating, actually. We arranged to meet in person the next week.

 

Her offices were in a skyscraper in midtown on the other side of the city, and my heart was beating so fast as I rode up to her floor in the elevator, I felt light-headed. She turned out to be an attractive young woman with a piercing gaze. I felt myself being carefully sized up as we had our meeting, during which time, I looked around at the books of famous authors that adorned her shelves. At this time, literary properties were still valuable, midlist authors sought after. This agency, a small boutique agency, represented some major literary heavyweights as well as some that didn’t sell so well but were still highly respected. It was some heady stuff.

 

When I left, I had literary representation. Back at the apartment that night, neither Richard nor I could sleep much, we were so excited.

 

I continued to write cover copy for Bantam and Avon in the evenings while working at the Salvation Army Foster Program during the day. I had developed a wonderful relationship with my superior, Helga, who took Richard and me out to dinner one evening in Germantown with her son. Richard had a regular gig with the accounting department at Condé Nast, and we both thought it was pretty funny that he, with his family background that included ministers, teachers, and social workers, was working in publishing—glossy magazines, no less—while I was working in the social services.

 

It’s interesting the perspective that years can bring; as I write about this, reflecting back on my goals, desires, and preconceptions during this period, I wish I could travel back in time, sit down with my younger self, and have a nice chat.

 

“Sweetheart,” I would say, “don’t entangle your self-image with what you do for a living. And don’t think that achieving any kind of lofty professional goal will bring you lasting happiness. Not only that, you clearly don’t know yourself as well as you think you do or you would have different goals. So relax. Enjoy the ride. Let go of your preconceptions. Do what feels right in your heart and body every minute of every day.”

 

But I’m guessing that, even if I could have had that chat, my younger self wouldn’t have listened—not even to my older, wiser self, who had come to these conclusions from experience. As me.

 

But that’s one of the interesting aspects of being human. Generally speaking, we can learn only from experience. I guess that’s why we have lives in the first place.

 

Fortunately, the romantic lifestyle I imagined for a successful novelist, coupled with the pragmatic need to make room for writing, conspired to bring me the sweeter things that life had to offer, almost in spite of myself. So that decades later, when I came to realize that my dream, my main professional goal in life, was not to be, no matter how hard or diligently I worked, I had the consolation of knowing that I hadn’t wasted my life on a mirage. True, this disappointment was a bitter bill, a devastating admission of failure. But once I was able to work through my grief, I could see that the consolation prize—having lived a rich, interesting life full of exciting, challenging, and varied experiences—was in fact the real prize.

 

 

And then I came down with the horrible flu and spent a week unable to work, lying in bed in feverish, achy discomfort.

 

Luckily, I was well by the time we were due to leave for the West Coast. We drove down to San Diego after our return, to visit with my mom and dad in San Diego, where my brother now lived, teaching at UCSD. They accompanied us back up to Redding where we spent Easter together and I fixed an Easter picnic to eat in the park along the river downtown, which thrilled my dad practically to death. He could be a very stern and austere man much of the time, but a few things brought out the delighted, irrepressible kid in him and a picnic was one. The weather was sunny and fine—Ektachrome blue skies dotted with popcorn-like cumulus, a few sweet breezes, and the fecund, grassy smell of spring in the air. I had no idea how much I was going to treasure that memory later.

 

After they left, Richard and I had plans to travel to Costa Rica. We were missing the culture, missing the tropics, missing our friends, and we had saved up enough money working in NYC to be able to afford the trip. And when a number of our friends found out that we were going, they decided to accompany us. So it was with quite a large entourage that we returned.

 

Unfortunately, bigger is not always better.