The door opened into the dusty reception room. The lady that emerged was equally dishevelled. Mrs Sinha was a petit woman, standing only 5ft 1 inches from floor to the ends of her wispy greying hair. It had been a full five minutes since I had first knocked on the door, waiting patiently for someone to respond. I was waiting to discover what this, unimposing to the eye, yet formidable literary agent thought of my manuscript.
I had been labouring away at it for hours; many, many hours to be precise. If you took these hours and strung them end to end, they’d reach the moon! Oh hang on, that’s not the metaphor I was aiming for. Hopefully you’ll catch my drift. (Slightly better that one). So I was very anxious to know what Mrs Sinha, the renowned agent for bestsellers; “Find me the head of Balthazar Speranza”; “All the worlds an onion”; and “Meatballs - an opus,” would think of my work. I had called it simply, “Labyrinthian tales.”
Fantastically epic in it’s title, I had written a tale of two medieval protagonists. Each vying for the love of a dusty maiden. Lucius Renoy and Horatio Formitude. I painted a very detailed picture for the reader, giving plenty of illustrative descriptions of the castles and landscapes the story is played out against. I had devoured all manner of historical tomes in order to make the story as authentic as possible in its’ fabric.
Mrs Sinha beckoned me through to her office. “Sit down my dear, you look awful.”
“Well I am a little nervous,” I replied “your reputation does go before you.”
“That’s, er,” and then she paused, reinforcing my earlier comment. I knew she was prone to being painfully truthful. “Very interesting, but really I’m a pussy cat.”
“Your story is marvellous.” Relief! “I really think we have something to work with.” She then proceeded to heap praise on my work. We agreed that we would meet again over the next few weeks to formulate some ideas. Just to ‘polish’ some areas of the plot she felt needed a bit more shine.