Writer: Mr. Dupane, I am honored to meet you.
Agent: Stop the bullshit. Every writer is dying to get me as their literary agent. You have ten minutes to make your case.
Writer: What I have is unique.
Agent: Sure. Blah Blah. Every writer says the same thing. You all think you’re so special but you’re no different than the rest of us.
Writer: I am not offering you anything.
Agent : I don’t get it. You just barged in here.
Writer: Barged is not a word I would select.
Agent: It is not up to you to select anything. You have nine minutes left.
Writer: You are obsessed with time.
Agent: I have a writer in half an hour worth a million.
Writer: Bingo, I hit the spot. You are run by time. Time according to Albert Einstein does not exist.
Agent: Is this some kind of plug for a novel? You’re wasting my time with this bullshit. I am a famous literary agent. People pay for my opinion. I read work and make accurate professional judgments of the quality of the work. I know which publishers are looking for what work at any given time. I know how to match a book to the needs of the publisher and get the best price.
Writer: So it is all about price?
Agent: Get out of here. You’re an idiot.
Writer: You are flustered and upset because I am not the person you expect me to be. You thought I would walk in here intimidated and humble and begging on my hands and knees for you to be my literary agent. You thought I would be carrying a bundle of paper wrapped in tissue paper and tied with string that was my life’s work.
Agent: (sighs and sits back down at desk, lights cigarette and takes deep breath) Time’s up.
Writer: Your time, not mine.
Agent: You think you are so special.
Writer: Not special, Just different. Books last after you drop dead.
Agent: So you think getting a book in print makes you immortal?
Writer: We have to define immortal.
Agent: Immortal as in the idea of God. God lasts though the earth be dust and the heavens dissolve and all therein etc.
Writer: Very good, A Biblical quote. As I was saying.
Agent: Yeah, you haven’t shut up since you walked through the door. That new receptionist doesn’t know what the hell she’s doing. You walked right past her.
Writer: Don’t blame her. She didn’t see me.
Agent: Of course she did.
Writer: What makes you say that?
Agent: She saw you walk past.
Writer: If we could agree on the definition of immortal.
Agent: So you got this little repartee all planned out and think you can lead me along like a dumb sheep?
Writer: If I believed you were dumb sheep, I would never have walked through the door.
Agent: Who the hell are you anyway?
Writer: Whoever you want me to be.
Agent: Damn it, I am getting another headache. (Call for secretary) I NEED WATER. She rushes in and hands him a tall glass of water with ice. GET ME TWO ADVIL (She goes out and rushes back in with two Advil. He waves her out with annoyance) Writer: The difference between you and me right now is I am writer and you are an agent, and we have reached no agreement.
Agent: That’s for sure.. You’ve been here ten minutes and I haven’t heard you give a pitch for whatever damn thing you wrote.
Writer: Not the point.
Agent: What’s the point for God’s sake?
Writer: Immortality has nothing to do with a God but publishing does. When you write a book and it is in print, it is there after you die. It never goes out of existence.
Agent: Now that’s a laugh. Books are remaindered every day. Writers go out of fashion. So much for your immortality.
Writer: The words, the paragraphs, the chapters are a screen. You present the images and the readers filer them through their own experience and form a vital connection to the real you.
Agent: And who is that?
Writer: We are our thoughts.
Agent: Only a writer could say such a ridiculous thing. We are only our thoughts. If we were only our thoughts, we would al be floating around and not sitting in this office.. There would be n desk and chair no walls no computers no manuscripts. You still have not told me what you are doing here.
Writer: The reason has to fit your expectation for you to accept my presence.
Agent: What are you talking about?
Writer: Unless I adapt the posture and speech of a writer who is searching desperately for an agent, in your mind, I do not exist.
Agent: Where’s the book. I take it you brought a book.
Writer: Not at all. I brought myself. I wanted to know if you could see me. (Writer vanishes)