These coming paragraphs are short, and pulled from a long memoir manuscript
in need of further shortening/editing before the eyes of a literary agent see
it. Yes, in this changing digital
publication climate, an expanding necessity of literary agents, to me, seems
obvious. Somebody has to go through the
unfathomable proliferating amount of anonymous material. They’ll be kept busy, but at least not
unemployed. Excerpt:
When
I woke up I implored that I didn’t lap dance on his adorable best friend at
last night’s party. Enrico slept while I
luxuriated in his familiar bedding, and thick, shiny black hair. I gently
touched his cheek. He swatted my nose, thinking it was an insect. “Ow!”
I yelled.
Perfect
Enrico looked at the ceiling and said, “We can do two things. I’ll take you to meet my family and we’ll
have brunch with them. Or, we can go
over the border and have a couple of drinks.”
I
perked up, “Whatever you want.” But he
knew what I wanted.
In
Mexico, with Tequila at a nickel a shot, I wrapped my body up and down a
pole. Not only was that the last time I
saw him, after that, he completely abandoned contact.
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