Well, SurgeonWatch 2009 has entered into its third exciting day and still no sign of the good doctor. If this keeps up, there will be more "Don't Call Us, We'll Call You" posts than there are "The Land Before Time" sequels. In fact, the only success I had was getting ahold of his secretary who, before I even had time to say my name, chirped, "Hi, Arley. I've given Dr. ___ your message. He'll get back to you shortly. Okay, talk to you later!", which I guess solves the mystery of whether or not the doctor's office has call display and is screening my calls. Access. Denied.
I, however, was not about to sit around sulking and waiting for the phone to ring like a moony teenager in an Archie comic. Instead, I took off downtown were I could do my daily walk without the old ladies of New Westminster peering out of their houses and giving me the side-eye because they suspect that I am casing the joint because I pass by so often. (I don't blame them. With my cat-like agility and speed, I am the perfect candidate for a robber).
The main reason for my downtown visit, however, was to meet my new agent. I'm now being represented by the Carolyn Swayze Literary Agency, which is super exciting because they represent some authors I really like (M.A.C. Farrant, Aislinn Hunter, W.P. Kinsella) and are small enough that they can care about all of their authors. (Also, those of you have witnessed the rather haphazard way I conduct my life can probably see why I'm happy to have someone else handle the important job of finding a publisher for my novel). Yes, even though my recovery has stalled, it's good to know that my writing career is sprouting tiny little wings. (Fly, little writing career! Fly!)
The day involved the usual Arley-esque ridiculousness. I arrived an hour early because the meeting was in the Mt. Pleasant district of Vancouver, which has a number of clothing stores I like. As I walked down the street, a homeless man shouted, "God bless your leg, ma'am! God bless your leg!" God may have blessed my leg, but He apparently forgot to bless my big-ass wheelchair-basketball arms because I very quickly got them jammed tight into a 1940's dress I tried on at a vintage consignment shop. Five minutes later, the dress had only moved a fraction of an inch and I began to believe that I would miss the meeting because I was imprisoned forever in mothball-smelling wool and my entire literary career would be de-railed by the fact that seamstresses in the 1940s put ridiculously small zippers in their dresses...and that I've spent half my life under a bench-press machine making sure my guns were fully loaded.
It took the woman who owned the shop another 5 minutes to free me from my wool prison. From there on, it was smooth sailing. My agent was very nice and smart and had some great ideas for improving the book. Reality TV show producers should all band together and send me a nice fruit basket to woo me back because as of today the TV gets turned off. Saddle up your horses, brain! It's back into editing mode! We've got work to do!