Monica Bielanko
That's What She Said
Just A Junk Drawer Dream
You can also find Monica's writing here:
« The Cover! | Main | I Hope He Likes Pink »

The Pitch

I feel powerful again, striding confidently through throngs of New Yorkers crowding subway platforms, pounding the pavement to the sonic beats my iPod pumps into my ears. I am a star in my own music video. Although inside I am all jangled nerves and anxious anticipation.

I am on my way to meet with my agent. MY AGENT. The words appear boldly in my brain, all capital letters. I giggle to myself, thrilled there is a woman who works with a renowned Manhattan agency, a brilliant, funny woman who respects my writing enough to represent me in the battle to find a publisher. And what a battlefield it is... an unforgiving landscape littered with the corpses of shattered self-esteem and eroded confidence, all that's left behind of those who can't take the rejection being a writer invites to their doorsteps.

She is on the 18th floor, amazing views of Manhattan with dusk fast approaching. Car lights twinkle in the gloaming, pinball lights in the machine, the game that is New York City. Along with the elevator my heart climbs higher and higher until I'm nearly choking on it. And then we're talking and laughing about my next step with The Girl Who.
Do you write fiction, she wants to know.
As a matter of fact, I do. I bashfully begin to pitch the story that has lived inside my brain and on my computer for nearly ten years. And she loves it! She stops me and runs down the hall to grab the woman who specializes in young adult books. Okay, tell us about your idea. I do. I can't help it, the longer I talk the more excited I get. Which leads to louder talking, more animation, punctuating words with hand gestures and facial expressions.

I am alive. Wired. Livewire. Thousands of watts must be emanating from me. I leave the building on Lexington feeling as if the series of books I want to write for young adults is exploding from my chest, ready to be written in a single all-nighter hunched over a keyboard. But I am patient. I have all the time in the world. The beauty about writing; unlike any athlete whose skill deteriorates with age, the older I get the better writer I become.

This, along with seeing my husband for the first time in more than a month was the highlight of my trip to New York City. New York is lovely, especially Manhattan, but we returned home feeling more certain than ever that our move to Utah was the right decision. On the plane headed for our oasis in the snow-covered mountains of Utah I felt as if I was making The Great Escape. Escaping the stifling pall of desperation and booze-fueled depression that hangs over my old Brooklyn neighborhood. Utah is right, right now.