First, a short grammar lesson. When used as an adjective, the word micro means “extremely small.” If I use that adjective to describe the noun impact–which is, of course, what adjectives do–I end up with something like this: The extremely small effect or influence of one person, thing, or action on another.
My two-year-old is fussy, clingy, wanting nothing but mommy while mommy is trying to finish dinner. He has inched his way in between the counter I am standing at and my body, demanding I respond to his presence. This moment–the one between my thoughts and my behavior–it’s the choice. Is this an interruption, or an invitation? I’ve chosen wrong so often, but today, I lift him up underneath his arms, and hold him high so that my face is level with his chubby belly. With a giggle and a taunting I’m gonna get you, I nose into his belly button, and blow until the sound dances off his skin. He giggles hysterically and tries to inch his shirt back down to protect himself from the tickles. I put him down and off he runs, no longer demanding anything, just thankful to have been seen.
The agent emails me back a short, courteous, to-the-point response: At this point, I’m going to encourage you to work on building your platform. Get bigger, she is telling me. The other agent, he emails back, too: We don’t believe that stories meet the felt need of the reader. Find a more exciting idea, he says. So if I want to be a real writer, you’re telling me I have to be bigger than I am, and more exciting than my stories?
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