I have turned into a giant, slobbering, shedding golden retriever. I'm not even a dog person, but there you have it. I'm morphing. Kafka was right.

I am in the midst of the Agent Search, which really should be a ride at Disneyland. Mostly this involves collecting recommendations from my more-successful author friends, researching said recommendations (never trust a writer; we lie for a living), then assembling sample pages and synopses of my novel and mailing them off.

This, by the way, makes my husband incredulous. When I emerged from my office (otherwise known as the corner of the bedroom) with a stack of manilla envelopes and announced my intention to go to the post office, you'd have thought I was planning to get in my Flintstone's mobile and flag down a carrier pterodactyl.

"Is that, like, actual paper?"

I sensed a trick question. "Nope, it's soup. I better get a move on before the envelopes get soggy."

"You actually have to snail mail them your stuff?"

I'm pretty sure he would've used the word "luddite" if he were the sort of person who used words like "luddite." Instead, he rolled his eyes and plugged himself back into the Matrix, and I hitched a ride with Barney Rubble.

The result of the snail mail process is that I only have to swig directly from the Maalox bottle once a day before the mailman comes. But leave it to those pesky agents to discover the internet. (They're wily like that.) A few have now gone so far as to request queries via e-mail. Now, I stroke out every time the little envelope icon appears on my screen.

"Who is it?! Do they like me?! Do they want me?!"

The merest ding from Outlook, and I'm running around the "office," chasing my tail, barking at squirrels, ready to follow anyone to the ends of the earth for even the mention of a Scooby Snack and a contract.

I have no shame. And I am fully prepared to roll over and flash some tummy fur if it'll help.