Been a crazy month at work and without the benefit of exercise–weights, Krav Maga, running–I’ve got a wicked case of cabin fever, despite the great weather. However, the sun is about to shine in more ways than one.

For starters I’ll be training again soon. Second, graduation is next week, which means the students disappear for three months. Third, a note arrived this afternoon:

Thanks for checking in; our apologies for the delay in response. XXXXX is still in the process of reviewing your manuscript. Unfortunately we cannot promise an answer by a definite date, since projects from our clients, which can come in at any time, must take priority. However, XXXXXX will respond as quickly as she can.

There’s really one reason to mention the correspondence and that is this particular agent’s interest in the project is wholly unexpected. For years they lived at the cutting edge of chick lit. Anyone who has read my stuff will attest to one thing: I’m as close to chick lit as Stephen King is to Celtic fairy tales. I could live with being branded as dick lit, wherein my male characters act like and recognize that they have, in fact, a penis. Shocking talk, I know.

And there is another odd point about this development. This agent wound up on my radar screen by mistake.

When compiling the initial “hit” list, there were several criteria. The agent needed substantial and verified sales in the last twelve months. Over the course of their career they needed at least one project that had been optioned for film. And the clincher: they needed to like thrillers. ‘Cause scratch away all the polish and that’s what my book is.

Every entry on the list satisfied the above criteria to various degrees. Occasionally I had trouble finding a recent sale, but uncovered some from prior years and a film option. Or maybe they had no film option but had landed huge bucks for their client, world rights, etc and thus earned an exemption. I was however unmovable about the must like thrillers thing. Someone shopping for a Mercedes does not want to hear a BMW is a viable replacement, so it made sense to work with the grain and their tastes.

That course I plotted before demand for the chick lit segment began waning, and I’m considering revising my criteria. I recently learned despite all the media attention and films based on books in the genre reaching the big screen, the past two years have been a much harder road for the Bridget-has-sex-with-a-shopaholic-in-her-Pradas folk. As is the classic sign of a literary tide shifting, editors are now asking chick lit agents “what else have you got?”

In reviewing the list again when their request arrived, it became clear while they had sales and film deals under their belt, this agent had never indicated any preference for thrillers. Which means they were contacted because of my oversight.

And maybe, just maybe, they responded because they are looking to place something new.

A happy little accident . . .