An agent of change

I'm hoping the man who could be my agent is reading this. He's very good. We've not actually met in person but we do know someone in common, and he's been kind enough to email. I’m hoping the wit or conceptualism of seeing himself in the title and first sentence might help. (This will be the first page.) What I'm really sending is a copy of the first twelve chapters of my novel. It's strange: I’ve never allowed myself the luxury of imagining I deserve an agent before, which is also strange, because I care about writing, and like to think I'm onto something with the novel. Before I get carried away, I must remember I'm not the only person in this blog. I am, after all, The Artist’s Husband. She's busy, by the way. In between writing and discussions with experts on the war-zone, I've been answering questions for her about the figures in the conceptual intricacy of branches, trunks, and leaves on the wall. She'll ask, for example, if one should be darker. She'll know the answer – she's that good – but I can understand the inherent respect in having a final review. Of course all this finalisation stuff is because we are off to the foothills tomorrow. By the time you're reading this, insh'allah, we'll be by a fast-flowing stream or meandering path, peering into the distance at sheep hugging the sides of mountains. Or we'll be crouched on the carpet, enjoying a kind of ankle-height reunion with the little people. The air: I love the air there. The stature of the landscape, the humility of the people. I've mentioned this before but the little people are with their maternal grandparents there in the foothills right now. They've been there four full days. From tomorrow, we'll be there too. The artist will be arting and I'll be hoping the man who could be my agent is not feeling too bombarded.