Wrong Way, Corrigan...

The weather was 100 degrees and rising, the sun relentless, the humidity difficult to breath through. Jon and I had already walked seven miles and it was only three in the afternoon.

To give our tennis shoes a break, we descended into the bowels of the NYC subway system. The platforms were littered with miniature Gucci princesses and Armani princes, cell phones glued to their ears and who knows what other body parts. The system is a perfect example of how someone who eats overly-rich food and too much of it can get blocked up and need to take a serious crap.

"So we need to take the N train south. This dark green line here."

"Where are we trying to get to?" Jon asked.

"Union Square, right off lower broadway."

"We can't get there from here, Kate," he said. He went over to the two-sided plexiglass map in the center of the platform. He traced the route on the map kind of sadly - not unexpected, given my remarkable history of misdirection.

I whipped out my personal map. "But I triple-checked this," I mumbled to myself. Jon pointed to the plexiglass map and showed that I was, indeed, incorrect with my subway directions.

We found the platform that would take us south, and waited for the subway. After a few minutes, a blistering gust of wind blew in ahead of the high-speed rail car. The breeze against my sweat-soaked body was a relief, as was finding the right subway car. I had always hoped my lack of directional sense would be something I'd outgrow, like conspicuously picking my nose.

The subway car itself was blissfully cool with air conditioning, one of the few excesses of NYC that I will not complain about.

After a few moments of rocking back and forth and enjoying the rest break, Jon slowly turns in his seat.

He turns his head back to the wall of the subway car, and whispers in my ear.

"Kate. I think I was looking at the bus map."

Pitch me into the trash

I went to NYC earlier this month with my brother. The incentive for going was a writers' conference that was specifically geared toward thriller writers (commercial fiction books that are full of suspense, some blood, but not gratuitously so). Along with worships given by big-name authors such as R.L. Stine and Lisa Scottoline, there was the opportunity to pitch work to agents.

Let me start with the good parts.

New York is a vibrant city, almost a country in and of itself, with things going on around every corner. More on that later. It was highly enjoyable exploring the city with my brother. We spent more time together than we have in years, and more time just the two of us than I think we ever have. Warning: Cliche ahead: I have a newfound respect for him. It was really good for both of us to relearn that we can always count on each other and we've got each other's backs.

R.L. Stine is a very odd little man. He's this hunched, grizzled man of about 65, like an Italian Woody Allen. He riffed on regretting never learning how to type.

"I still type by hunting for each key. And I don't even use two fingers. I just use this one. I've typed all of my books with this one finger."

"Look how ugly it is."

It was wonderful being in his presence for an hour. I would stick his books in any young readers' hands.

I also had the good fortune of sitting in on a talk by Lisa Scottoline. She writes female John Grisham-type legal thrillers. It's not really fair to call them "female," even though her protagonists are women. They don't employ any gaggy "I am woman, hear me roar" tone. As a teacher, she was exceptional. She had a really thick packet of writing tips for each of us, and within that packet, was...

photocopies of rejection letters addressed to her.

Here's this NY Times #1 Bestselling author sharing the source of what is surely some of the worst feelings she's had in her life. (Any writer who says it's "just another rejection letter" is lying. Each one is like having your boyfriend dump you. So why keep at it? It's like going to a ton of proms, hoping the Prom King will ask you to dance and maybe, just maybe, date you until you are popular enough to stand on your own.)

She was an absolute highlight of my trip. Buoyed by the confidence she instilled in each of the attendees, I approached the pitchfest with the highest of hopes.

We lined up in the hallway of the ballroom, about 200 people churning and teeming with nerves. Today might be the day that changes my life.

Yeah, that's also an attitude that can kill your soul. If you look at any one thing and think, "This is it, I have to achieve this or else I will consider myself a complete waste of oxygen," then you remove excitement from the experience. If you succeed, you're not excited because you preset that expectation for yourself. If you do not succeed, you're upset not just that you didn't get what you were striving for, but you also let yourself down.

(I figure if I tell myself that enough times, I'll embody it. It has yet to happen. I'll keep you posted.)

So the doors open, and we all line up at different tables bearing an agent on display. The agent looks weary at the prospect of listening to three hours of constant pitching.

The bell dings, and we go. I pitch well to my first person, and get a business card offering to read my work. Excellent. On to the next table. Business card. Great. After five business cards, I start to lose my mojo.

I tend to tailor my speaking to the listener's interest. If I think your interest is sagging while I'm talking about the architecture of the Empire State Building, I'll segue into the pushy "elevator men" trying to sell maps at every turn, and how the elevators dumped you out in the gift shop. Lovely coincidence.

I found myself veering off script, tailoring my pitch every time I saw the agent's eye wander. And wander they did. Someone yawned in the middle of my pitch. Agents checked their watches. Sipped their water. Doodled. By the end, I wasn't getting cards, but rather, "Why did you set your book in London? Have you ever lived in London? Don't you think that's a little brazen, setting your book in a place you've never lived?"

And Robert Ludlum lived in eastern Asia before writing The Bourne Supremacy. Thomas Harris really ate people before writing "Silence of the Lambs."

Was it New York? Agents in Portland were far more attentive. Did agents feel more free to maintain their agressive persona being on their home turf?

All in all, it was great incentive to make sure my book is ready for anything before I send it off to the five who expressed interest.

Lord knows I'm not going back for a second try.

The road to Hell is paved with big intentions

Mom was out of town and I offered to take Grandma clothes shopping with me one afternoon. This had two benefits: it helped out Mom by getting Granny out of the old folks' home for an afternoon, and I got to drive Mom's awesome SUV for the day (Grandma's wheelchair doesn't fit in my car. It's weird calling it 'Grandma's Wheelchair', considering it used to be mine. That is one belonging I'm glad to relenquish.)

I pick up Grandma, get her loaded into the chair, and listen to her fret about how I"m ever going to lift such a heavy wheelchair into the back of Mom's car.

"It's okay! I've got it," I said, shooing her back to the passenger's seat. "Sit down, Grandma. You'll fall."

I loaded the chair and got behind the steering wheel.

"Turn off the air conditioning. It's cold in here."

I sighed as I looked out the window at the 95 degree heat beating the landscaping into submission.

At the mall, I unloaded the chair. One must do this quickly, before Grandma decides to "help" and try to meet the chair halfway between the passenger seat and the trunk. This is much less burdensome for the chair driver, you see.

I beat her to it, and plopped her into the chair. We wheeled into Macy's, who had apparently not gotten Grandma's memo that air conditioning has no place in midsummer weather.

As we browsed the racks, Grandma leans back in the chair and asks me, "So, what size of clothing are you looking for?"

Kind of a weird question. As if one goes to the grocery store just to get "food."

"Well, um, I'm looking for nice clothes that I can wear to New York City to pitch my book. Sizes ten, twelve-ish."

"Ten or twelve?" She cranes her neck to try to look at me, but only succeeds in resembling the thing from "The Exorcist."

"HOW'D YOU GET TO BE SO BIG?!"