I place an entire row of question marks after Drusila’s statement. The line requires a name, but whose? Without a name my character remains an orphaned, abandoned soul, and I’m the evil stepmother denying him any chance of familiarity.

            “You need a label, Rumpelstilskin,” I tell my unknown character. “I can’t keep you like this. It won’t work. But I’m out of inspiration.” Shaking my head I decide to read a few pages from my Creative Contemporary Nonfiction text. You never know where I might find my muse.

            I make it a point to retrieve my textbook when the shrill of the phone makes me jump a mile high. There are days when the contraption remains silent gathering dust, (if I actually allowed that to happen), and others when it’s like an operator’s central office.

            “Hello?” I call into the handset.

            “Yes. May I please speak to Miss Erika Seals,” an unfamiliar voice states. It’s a female voice, raspy and wistful at the same time, like a young person with laryngitis.

            “Speaking.”

            “Miss Seals, may I call you Erika?” The hoarseness of her voice makes me wince.

            “Uh…yeah, sure. I guess.”
            “This is P. Swallows, from Real Writers Agency.”

            “Uh…uh…” My shirt sticks to my skin as I break out in a cold sweat.

            “Yes. Last month you submitted a query letter, a synopsis, and a completed manuscript of The Count’s Glorious Legacy.”

            I did what? I submitted a manuscript out of the blue when? To who? Am I crazy! That isn’t standard practice! Especially from a Nobody like me. This lady, this P. Swallows, is calling on behalf of the publishing world to chastise my improper writer etiquette. Is there no end to the tortures I have to suffer today? I’d faint, but I really need to hear the rest of this conversation.

            Yet no cold words or stern tone follows. Instead, to my complete and utter astonishment, she states, “I loved it. I loved it. I couldn’t get enough of Mr. Mafisto.”

            What? What did she say? Who’s Mr. Mafisto? It dawns on me she refers to the Count. The phone slips out of my hand onto the floor. I scramble to pick it up, but luckily she still rambles.

            “… Our offices are located in downtown Manhattan, if you’d like to come in we may discuss this in person, or we can send you a copy of the contract if you’d like, and you could peruse it at your leisure with your lawyer.”

            A contract? Did she say contract? She couldn’t have said the word contract. Perhaps she said contact. What did I miss when I dropped the phone? I don’t want to run the risk of sounding like an idiot, but I have to be certain I’m not hearing things.

            “I’m sorry, Ms. Swallows, did you say you would send me a copy of the contract?” I twist the phone’s cord so tightly around my index finger the tip turns blue; I ignore it for the moment. Binding contractual agreements take precedence at this time.

            “Yes, dear, if you’d prefer it that way. Hartford isn’t too far from Manhattan, but I can understand your reluctance in driving down to New York.”

            New York. Contracts. Driving. None of those are me.

            “Um, yeah, you can send a contract. By mail. Sounds good.” I hit my head a few times with my open palm. I sound so stupid.

            “Great. I’m going to send you an email with all my personal contact information. I know you already have my office extension.”

            “I do?” I think I would remember having this woman’s contact information.

            “Yes. When you looked us up online. All our information is on the website. Mine as well. I understand. News like this is so exciting it causes forgetfulness. I’ll let you go, dear. I so look forward to working with you and representing you.”

            Representing me. Where am I?

            “Oh, and before I forget, just between us, those sex scenes were incredible!” Her giddy laughter floats to my ear and though it sounds more like the whinny of a horse, it’s the most beautiful sound I’ve ever heard.

            The phone remains frozen to my ear, my mouth agape, my breath shallow and my body trembling. I don’t know how long I stand in said fashion, but a voice recording tells me I need to hang up my phone. I slowly place it back on its hook, trying to come to grips with what just happened. It suddenly hits me like lightning, and finding energy I rush to the computer.

            I open the Internet page and type out Real Writers Agency on the search bar. I have to know this is genuine and not a hoax. If it were April first I could understandably see it as some practical joke, though highly cruel, but it isn’t. It’s September first.

            I click the search button and navigate to the first result listed. The page quickly loads and my eyes widen as I see the company on the screen. There’s a list of the agents names and contact links. No pictures though.

            Ok, ok. So they’re a real company. Maybe there’s a warning against this particular business. Maybe they prey on helpless dupes and all they’re interested in is giving me the run around while hitting me with hidden fees. I look them up on a writer’s site and find that not only are they a legitimate agency, they are a reputable and highly desired one to work with. My fingers slide off the keyboard, off the table, and hang limp on my sides. My head spins. I need a drink. But the need to share this with someone - anyone - is greater, and I run back to the phone, stumbling over the leg of the chair.

            With shaking fingers, I dial Elliot’s work number. Thankfully, he picks up on the first ring.

            “Elliot?” I cry into the phone laughingly. Tears of joy and disbelief fill my eyes.

            “Erika, are you all right?” I can hear the apprehension in his voice. He probably thinks I’ve finally flipped out.

            “I’m fine. I’m better than fine. Elliot, I got the call! I got the call!”

            “Did religious people come to the door again?” he calmly asks. There was a time some well-meaning individuals came by with religious literature and invited me to their services. They seemed so nice and gentle; I would’ve left with them if Elliot hadn’t been there.

            “No, Elliot. Not that kind of call. A call from an agency!” My voice grows louder. I can’t conceal my excitement. “A Real Writers Book Agency! Some lady Swallows called me. And get this Elliot! She likes the sex! She likes the sex!”

            “Um, Erika….”

            “Elliot, I write good sex!” I shriek and laugh at the same time.

            “Erika, you’re on speaker phone. Everyone can hear you,” Elliot explains.

            I scream and throw the phone back on its receiver. Only I can make a fool out of myself in what’s supposed to be one of the happiest moments of my life thus far. I get over it quickly and savor the triumph. I’m a step closer to having my book published. Well, I haven’t signed anything yet. But the major obstacle is past me. From this point everything should be smooth sailing.